Title - Lethal and Loyal

Lethal and Loyal
By MidKnight2501

Ian knew he shouldn't have been eavesdropping on Irons, knew the punishment if caught would be harsh.

The words on the tape were harsher still.

"Ian is the prefect example, both lethal and loyal." Irons had said it with the tone that one uses to talk about pets or inanimate objects. Against his will the assassin felt hurt. That was all he was? Lethal and loyal? It wasn't as if Irons hadn't raised him most of his life, mentoring him and teaching him. Ian felt almost like Irons was his father.

Bitter pain welled up and Ian's hand convulsed, shattering the tape player into shards of brittle plastic. It dug into his hand through his leather glove until he felt his blood flow, but Ian didn't care.

Turning on his heels Ian retreated to the gym to burn his frustration and pain out on something. Ian stripped and changed into a pair of black sweat pants before entering the gym. The last thing he removed were his gloves, wanting to feel the canvas against his skin. He ignored the pain in his hand as the leather was ripped out of his cuts. He knelt a moment, to turn on a boombox, leaving blood on it, and selected a CD.

A hauntingly bitter and sad tune came out seconds later as Ian began to pummel the bag with his fists. It quickly changed to heavy metal, to suit his dark mood. Blood spattered the white surface of the bag, where his cut hand bled.

Hey, I'm feeling tired
My time, is gone today
You flirt with suicide
Sometimes, that's ok

Ian remembered the first time he'd killed. Kenneth had chosen a random person, let Ian stalk him to learn the man's routine before he brutally killed the man. His name had been Richard Carrington, husband to a dedicated wife, and father to two girls.

When he'd seen the newspaper headlines he'd felt nothing; it was a job well done. But the pictures of the two girls, elementary age, sobbing, clutching each other killed him. Ian politely left the breakfast table that morning and went to the bathroom. He pulled his knife and slit his wrists as many times as he could before he passed out from blood loss.

Vaguely he'd heard Kenneth's voice begging for him to live.

Hear what others say
I'm here, standing hollow
Falling away from me
Falling away from me

Ian bitterly laughed. Begging for him to live? Even now, as it had been when he'd done the deed, when he was seventeen, he doubted what he heard. No way could the reproachful and cold Irons care weather he lived or died. Even with all the money he'd spent on training and lessons, Ian was
no more than an inanimate candlestick or a dog in a kennel. His words proved how he felt about the assassin.

He felt hollow, except for the stab of pain in his hand. Pausing in his hard workout Ian surveyed the damaged flesh. Leather strips hung out of the wounds, pinned in by shards of plastic. His hands were delicate and pale, not what you'd expect of a hired killer. The skin rarely saw the
light of day since he wore gloves so often. They covered the scars that marred his wrists.

Ian grinned suicidaly. Here he was, a killer, ashamed of others seeing what he'd tried to kill once. Tears pricked his eyes and Ian cursed loudly. He sat on the floor of the gym and used his teeth and nails to remove the plastic and leather from his palm. By the time he was done blood stained both hands and his lips.

Ignoring the pain, now freshly pulsing, he got to his feet and attacked the bag with renewed vigor.

Day, is here fading
That's when, I would say
I flirt with suicide
Sometimes kill the pain

Darkness slowly streamed in the large windows as Ian proceeded in his workout. He'd broken a light sweat and his hair had long come undone. He ignored everything but the sound of flesh compacting canvas, sometimes his feet in advanced karate moves and sometimes his hands in pure rage and hurt.

With a loud crash and jangle of metal the ceiling gave way where it held the workout bag up. It fell with a sullen thud and Ian began kicking it mercilessly, before he finally looked up at the hole he had caused.

Plaster was gone but the ceiling supports and two by fours were still there, ready to support the weight of the bag again.

Or a human body, if Ian so wished it. He looked over to a rack and surveyed the jump ropes there, the cotton one looking most likely to hold his weight if he tied a noose.

I can always say
'It's gonna be better tomorrow'
Falling away from me
Falling away from me

Ian moved to the rack, pulling the rope from it. He wound it around his hand experimentally, testing it. The rope held. Ian licked his lips in anticipation as he tied the knot and wound the rope on itself, into a noose. Admitably, the wooden handles made it look silly and childish, but it also reflected a message.

Using a child's toy to take his life. Ian saw the irony in it. As a child he'd been taken from an abusive home by Irons, raised and mentored by him. But since that tender age all innocence had been lost in an instant. He'd learned to kill and stalk, to survive and plot.

Beating me down
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground

Ian imaged what Irons would do with his body. He couldn't think of anything. His employer's actions were still that veiled to him, even after all the years.

He imaged what his real family must be like and shuddered. Maybe his brothers and sisters had died early and not lived to the extent of their ruined lives. Drugs he remembered, his parents doing them and mixing it with alcohol. Prostitution.

Shying away from that image he thought of the Witchblade and Sara Pezzini. He wondered how she and the weapon would mark his passing. She'd probably see him as an evil henchman, which he probably was, the lines between good and evil having long since been blurred for him. If she'd
known about his past attempt at suicide she'd probably offer condolences and a shoulder to cry on. Maybe a toss in the sack too. A mercy fuck.

He shied from that image too, not liking the pity he imagined Sara would give him. Now he turned to the Witchblade. Would it miss him? Did it even know he'd existed? With delicate touches and careful hands he'd cleaned it and studied it as a child and youth. For a long time he'd worshiped the artifact.

Screaming so sound
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground

He tossed one of the handles up through the gap in the ceiling, looping it over one of the boards before he tied it in a sturdy knot. He pulled on it, testing the strength of it. It would hold his weight, no doubt.

Ian pulled the noose over his head and tightened it. Still, the length of the cord meant he had to kneel down on the floor to kill himself, and stay in that position regardless of air loss. This would take will power. Ian dropped to his knees, feeling the noose crush his windpipe as his knees hung a bare inch off the ground. His hands found each other behind his back, the wounded and the un-wounded holding each other. He gasped for air, expelling that which was in his lungs and let the darkness come for him.

Falling away from me

Ian felt the first shudders of pain, as muscles began to cramp in denial of air.

Its spinning round and round

His biceps clenched, and he threaded his fingers together behind his back in response.

Falling away from me

The muscles of his thighs began to twitch, trying to propel him to his feet, trying to make him lift the noose. Ian winced, trying to clear the gray spots from his eyes.

It's lost and can't be found

He thought of the cowboy outfit, the one he'd had as a small child. Irons had promised to make him a warrior, and he'd thought it would be for good, like a cowboy or a sheriff.

Falling away from me

Irons had taken his toy gun, and hid it away in a drawer in his desk. Ian would have it back when he was trained. When he was dead. When he was done. Ian's thoughts began to muddle.

Its spinning round and round

Irons stole my gun, he thought. My gun. He promised. He promised I'd get it back. I need it.

Falling away from me

I need it. Irons. Kenneth. I need it. Him. I need him. Need...

So down

Blackness.

Beating me down
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground

There was a sudden popping noise and Ian's body slumped to the floor as the rope was cut. Hands pulled it from his throat and rolled him onto his back. Muted curses never reached his ears, or the begging and pleading for him to live. Fingers at his throat, searching for a pulse, hands on his chest, compressing to force his heart. Lips on his own, wet with tears, forcing air into the lifeless shell.

He never felt the body slumped over his, the arms around him. Never felt them rock him as the figure sobbed. Even knowing the helplessness of it the figure begged and pleaded for Ian to come back, for God to take his life instead of Ian's.

Screaming so sound
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground

Arrangements were made. People came for the body. It was cleaned and dressed and there was a wake. Only two people were there. There was no priest to bless the cold clay of Ian Nottingham.

One sat in a chair by the coffin, looking controlled and composed to the outsider. The other person who came was unsure why she was there. The Witchblade glimmered on her wrist. She looked in the coffin a moment and absently whipped away a tear, before looking at the man beside it.

"So Ian hung himself?" she asked. There was no answer but a twitch around his eyes. She translated it to the man's internal pain. "Was there a reason?" This time he made a choking sound and closed his eyes. Ah, something he blamed himself for. Something he'd done to the dark one in the box had made his death possible. "A black coffin." She said, running her fingers across the lacquered surface. "He would have liked it."

Pressing me, they won't go away
So I pray, go away

She felt the Witchblade on her wrist, felt something from it. Nothing she'd felt before. Almost like sorrow. Strange.

"Ian wore it once, didn't he?" she asked suddenly. There was a slight nod from the man. The feeling suddenly made since when she remembered the only other men to have worn it; one now wore scars on his hand, the other had lost his arm. Ian had come away unscathed. He must have been very strong to do that. "The Witchblade marks his passing." The man looked up, startled.

It's falling away from me

"It...Knows he's dead and it feels sorrow." She explained.

Beating me down
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground

Ian was cremated and his ashes spread on the wind over the city. The man said something bitter about Ian wanting to be part of the city and protect it. She wasn't sure if he said it with that tone because he felt contempt for that wish, or if he was angry with himself for denighing Ian that.

She watched the fine grains peter away in the wind, swirling and falling. A gust blew it back at them and the man turned away, the dust settling on his shoulders like a heavy weight. She breathed in suddenly and tasted ash on her tongue, felt it burn for a second before she swallowed convulsively. The Witchblade blared on her wrist for a moment and then was quiet. She turned to leave.

The man came up to her suddenly, looking her in the eye for the first time since she'd come. He fumbled for something in his pocket, wincing when he touched it, and pulled it out. A tiny, silvery, toy gun. A child's plaything.

"Take it. Please. I can't bear to have it anymore." He pleaded. Pain ringed his eyes and smothered his features. "It was his." He turned away, almost running into the building.

Screaming so sound
Beating me, beating me
Down, down
Into the ground.

END