[center][img]https://s22.postimg.org/qmer2dny9/Precious_Kyle_Lucidius.png[/img]
[h3]Location: Motel
Time: 2:25 A.M.[/h3][/center]
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[center][img]http://blog.fracasnoir.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/dark-room-and-bed.jpg[/img][/center]

[i]Is there a God? I wonder if anyone still believes in that cruel, vile son of a bitch.[/i]

He stared at the end table, eyeing the empty glass. The motel was dark aside from the meager light that shined from a desk lamp that had all but one bulb burnt out. He sat at the edge of that uncomfortable bed, elbows resting on his thighs. The dingy interior of this motel was nothing short of decrepit but on the upside he still hasn't found any roaches. He didn't blink for quite some time, idly rubbing his hands together. He wondered many things throughout his life, but one question kept resurfacing as of late.

[i]The irony of it all.[/i]

He reached between his legs and unscrewed the cap off the bottle. Jameson was his go-to drink. It burned enough to still let him know this wasn't all a dream. Funny as it was, it grounded him. It forced him to accept his fate even tho try as he might to escape it. Pouring himself two-fingers worth in the glass, he returned the bottle back onto the floor. He knew he still had a job to do, the files placed neatly in the brown folder next to him. He sighed, clutching the glass like it was his lifeline. Staring deep into the abyss of the bottom of that glass, he pondered a thought.

[i]I wonder who they will send after me. Reyes? Oscar? That sadistic fuck Benson?[/i]

The prospect of it almost didn't seem real, but that burn definitely was. Taking the glass to his lips, he threw it back into his throat. The next step was the set-up. The preparation was complete. He knew the target. Memorized the face. Oh, the faces. They never went away. They never will, will they? For he is the messenger of God, sent to strike fear into the hearts of those who oppose him. With great fury will the sword strike against the wicked and condemned. The biblical God no longer existed. It didn't need to. The dredges of humanity have definitely taken up the mantle, hiding behind their suits and ties and mahogany desks. For now, though, he was the force behind the sword. He gathered his things for the night ahead. He wore regular street clothes. A t-shirt he found at Spencers of some band he never heard of laid over by a gray zip-up hoodie. His jeans were that retro faded crap he saw people wearing at times. The only thing functional were his boots, which he hid with the hem of his pants. He holstered his pistol at his side and placed a switchblade knife into his pocket. Funny story about that switchblade. Took it off some punk who wanted his wallet a few nights prior. Suppose he should've thanked him as opposed to break his jaw. His traditional Ka-Bar knife was far too conspicuous in this outfit.

He placed the files into a briefcase that sat at the edge of his bed and zipped up his go-bag. One last look around the motel, he headed out the door.

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[center][img]http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2857/11316814974_c025f23e28.jpg[/img]
[h3]Location: City Streets
Time: 2:48 A.M.[/h3][/center]
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The city was quiet tonight. He couldn't hear the yelling bouncing off the old, brick buildings of kids who would surely skip class the next day. Not even the cabs hauling their drunk patrons or spouses from their night of infidelity were out in abundance. There was something in the air tonight, Kyle could feel it. He had grown to have a sense about these things. A preternatural "sixth sense", as it were. He kept his hands in his pocket, tho he had cut a hole open in the right one to allow him to grab his pistol at a moments notice. His hood was pulled up, like any hoodlum roaming the dark streets of this city. His right hand slipped subtly towards the Springfield pistol, gauging the distance and reaction time it would take if shit went sideways. He knew exactly where it was, doing it more for the mental comfort.

His target destination was a park not too far from the motel. It took him exactly twelve minutes to reach it, having walked the path several times before. He wasn't sure why his mark enjoyed the park so late at night especially in the deep city. He figured she could protect herself, being Touched after all, so the danger was negligible to her. She sat at the park bench for what seemed like hours sometimes staring off into space. He knew why, of course. Her dossier told him everything. Her mother was murdered in that park by a group of men looking to get some easy money. A simple robbery took a turn for the worse, though. She was raped and beaten, left to die in some bushes. A tragic tale. He supposed she hoped the same men would come wandering back around and she would present herself as the victim.

When he arrived in the park she wasn't there yet. She arrived around three in the morning. He picked a spot that overlooked the bench and jogging trail and waited.