[color=slategray]Worn knuckles at ten and two. Fresh panels of drywall and screws secured in the back. Bright lights penetrate through the intermittent rain, too light to pool in the curbs or lead to the erection of umbrellas on the crowded streets. Qing Yuan rubs the base of his palm with the fingertips of the same hand. As traffic draws the car to a halt, he looks at the afflicted area. No divot. The only sign of what happened, scorchmarks from the muzzle flare. [color=yellow]"I don't like that look you're giving me, Ching."[/color] [i]Breathe in.[/i] The pressure of the gun surging into his core. [color=yellow]"Which is a shame, since I just learned how to say your name, and where you live. We coulda been best buds."[/color] [i]Breathe out.[/i] Hands push down, that which is life swirls and surges, instinctually pushed to where he knows will need the energy. [color=yellow]"But I think I've got a better way to make sure you don't go cancelling those cards early..."[/color] They find the threat. One moment. Death calls for him. Life stands in the breach. He'd never done that before. Never used it in that way. Fingertips run at the scorchmarks on his palm. The heat of the moment was all that remained. And with the last of the dwindling embers of the life giving chi which he'd taken from his mother's killer dissipating as it effervesced in its finality. The heat of the moment was all that remained. [i]I wanted to kill him...[/i] To replace that which he lost. Even if only for a moment. The urge was there. Worn knuckles return to ten and two. And a forehead falls to twelve. [color=tomato]"Such a fuckup..."[/color] [hr] [CENTER][sup][h1][center][img]Banner[/img][/center][b][center][color=black] F L O W S T A T E[/color] [color=tomato]F L O W S T A T E[/color][/center] [/b][/h1][/sup][/center] [hr] The couple moved swiftly, not so much due to the current sprinkling, but the threat of a further downpour to come. The irony of the most minor of inconveniences, which led them to the most life-changing of risks. This corner, that back alley. They were so close to home. But of course they were. That is why they saw the steel gleam. The blade in the moonlight. The husband stood in front of the wife to protect her. But that only decided the order in which they would fall. The Muramasa blade drank well that night. They had not been the first course for the evening. They would not be the last. [hr] It ended with a hand on his shoulder. Pulled back to reality as if his actions were all from a dream. There were no martial arts present. He'd thrown all of his learning aside for raw brutality. And it might be why the mashed pulp of a man in front of him right now was still breathing. [color=white]"Qing... Qing, the police are coming. I've called them."[/color] The gun was slid across the floor by the entrance. The clip and loose bullet, in the other direction under shelving. Floating, as if outside of his own body. He got back to his feet and dropped the remains of the man on the shop floor. [color=white]"Go get some fresh drywall and I-I'll ring you up. Y-You don't need to pay for that broken stuff. We'll write it off as damaged in the attempt. Just come over here and clean your hands up first."[/color] The cashier pulled sanitizer and wet wipes from a corner of the counter. Qing Yuan cleaned the blood from his hands, using multiple wipes and dried them on the back of his clothes once the red was gone. He floated back to the drywall and returned with new panelling, paid and left without remembering saying another word. Although he was certain the cashier never stopped filling the air with words, he couldn't rightly remember any of what he'd been saying. He just felt the absence. It was practically all but gone. That which he took from his mother's killer, mere motes floating in a shallow pool of his own chi. And as he'd doubtless replenish his own chi in the future, they'd doubtless only be further diluted in the future. That was the thing, that which he took from others was always only a finite amount. But his own could always be harnessed, further cultivated, replenished and added to with time and effort in the principles of qigong. He'd never done anything like it before. And now, what remained of it was almost completely gone... and after today, would probably barely be felt again. Before he left, he looked down at the beaten man, all that remained in him was life's breath. He could take that too. [i]He could.[/i] The bell rang as Qing drifted away with his drywall and screws. [hr] The masked white figure moved behind the airtight glass. The specially sourced manuka flowers bloom bright in their glass prison, obscured intermittently by winged workers. Sterling Silver sat behind the display with a glass of scotch and dwindling ice, watching the display. The worker in white took the top off of the box and a plume of angry life erupted in his face. Silver scowled and got to his feet. Swirled his glass, to attract his worker's attention with the movement. The man looked up and saw his expression, a look of horror for disappointing his employer obscured only by the screen of his mask. [color=silver]"After expenses, I paid over $10,000 dollars for that Ligurian queen... You hit the smoke before you open the box."[/color] He never raised his voice, it would have made no difference with the multiplex airtight glass, but his point found it's way to the masked man nonetheless, who nodded nervously and hit a button on the wall. Smoke descended from vents in the apiary. The anger left the life, and the bees were quelled, the masked figure carefully raised a frame of perfectly constructed honeycomb from the box, holding it aloft in display. Silver sat back in his chair, drank and watched whilst the honey was extracted. His phone vibrated with a white screen. He answered soundlessly. [color=white]"With the latest purchases, we should have 87% of the property for the new development under control by the end of the week."[/color] [color=silver]"Understood."[/color] He hung up. There was no thanks. No sign of appreciation. This was another worker performing his function for the man as to be expected. He finished his drink. The carrot had worked well. And the stick had encouraged many more to bite at the carrot. Silver got to his feet and walked back to prepare a second. He removed the ice from the freezer of the mini-bar fridge. It had almost worked too well. He reached up above the shelf of select antiquities, with the noteably missing katana, to the liquor cabinet and the 30 year old Glenfiddich bottle that awaited another pour. There was a 50 year Glenfaracas that was awaiting him in celebration for once the new development was complete. But until that day, it's not done until its done. He glanced at the empty blocks where the blade had once been. It was remarkable how effective a gift in the right hands could be. Of course, for appearances, he'd had it reported stolen. It wouldn't do him well to be connected with the works of that specific sword. He'd found one more willing worker and the Muramasa blade had done the rest. Made him... even more willing still. And the police report should put a nice neat bow on things when the work was done and it was time to draw things to a close. The masked figure drew another frame from the beehive. Silver swirled his scotch and raised it once more to his lips. Always wonderful, the fruits of workers put to best use. [/color]