Peace Keepers I've dropped Ghost Hunter, and... well I couldn't help but post this here, even though it's not Blizzard related! *Covers face and braces for teh flames* This is the short prologue, and I'd defenatley be honored if anyone would review for me Wombat's... Peace Keepers Prologue They are kneeling- facing each other. He looks at her. She looks at him. The barrel is pressed against the crease of her skull; she can feel its circular shape and cold metal. He whispers silently to her, telling her everything will be all right. His face; it is beaten about the eyes and nose; his cloths were torn, as if he got into some kind of shuffle. His left eye seems to be bleeding, and she can not be sure it is still there. But the clear eye, the right one, is shimmering with tears. She can watch the light play off and on his pupils as the fan rotates in a constant circle, passing over them again and againâ€¦ She does not say a word, for the man holding the gun demands her silence, but nods slightly even so. They both know why the gun is behind her head and not his. The gunman thumbs back the trigger. For a moment, the man with the gun hesitates; his finger is resting on the trigger as if considering the action itself. But only for a moment. The murderer pulls the trigger, and the bullet exits the barrel noiselessly; we can not be waking the neighbors, can we? It crawls slowly it seems, tearing through air only several inches from the skull. It makes contact with its target. The man screams. She is smiling, the last smile she ever smiles. A thick mixture of brains and fragments of skull plasters his face and wall. The crying man blinks and spits out blood. The mutilated head drops down into his lap. But before that can occur, the gunman has already left, already made his grand but silent exit into the still and silent night. He moves with less noise than the wind. The two are left together; one dead, one alive. The living rests his head in his hands; he is too shocked for tears. He does not think to call the police; he is too wrapped up in his grief. It would not matter. The assassin is already gone. He wonders why it has happened to him. Death. It seems to come without noise; only a silent shadow that devours all and leaves no hope. He is alive, but that does not mean â€œhopeâ€ to him. He takes his eyes from the corpse to look around. His sweater and jeans are covered with blood. Her dress is a soaking mass of blood; the skull constantly leaks blood onto the purple satin dress. Blood has covered the couch and wall. The lamp on the soft wooden nigh-stand flickers on and off. He looks forlorn, and pushes a lock of dark, black hair aside. He releases his breath, and then tears begin to flow. He begins to weep uncontrollably.