He slunk as he made his slow crawl up the stairs, making sure to avoid every light up, like a burglar. He was not quiet. Not like Jezebel when she descended (he couldn’t even hear her through the audio feed in the security room). No, he was not quiet. It was a surprise even to him he was not caught yet.

But he was patient, and careful at least as he rode up the stairs and walked around the wreckage of his work.

A floor; wholly destroyed. He took one glance through the glass window on the door to see the residual mess the Vicars had left. He didn’t want to enter. It was hell.

The fires were only beginning to wear out, the water was still running down the pipeline and emergency faucets. He couldn’t help but smile at the destruction.

For Turnus, it was a job well done. And all he had done was kill a guard. Still, a kill was a kill. His left arm hurt, there were flecks of flesh beneath his fingernails, and his rings were pressed hard against his fingers. They made small red marks where he had strangled the guard.

His right hand was worn, hot and touching the brick walls as he rode the stairs up, he left streaks and marks of disintegrated stone. He didn’t know how to turn it off. His glove had been melted away a while back. His hand was a burning red, though not hot. He was just reducing things, that’s all he understood at least.

He made it to the elevator to take him up to his suite. Pressing the button, the glass panel, he saw it turn to fine sand in small circles where his fingertip had landed.

He sighed. More stairs. Touching the doorknob leading to the stairs disintegrated it into fine metal granules. Black powder.

He had to keep his hand away from the guard rail, from the walls, from everything as he patiently made his way up. His legs shook, not out of tiredness, but of some thrill.

One hand gloved and bloody, the other dry to the touch, red like a warning. His single glove, wet and heavy, made him lower his guard. It felt like a layer of paint that tainted him. Taking it off did not help him. Rising to the top of the stairs, to his room and to the double doors leading to the psuedo-night club and the sleek bedroom behind curtains did not help clear the weight from his hands. He pushed aside a set of curtains, opened the door and scoped it out. A body lay in his bed, it eased his heart only for a moment. With his teeth, he worked every finger of the glove until it was off and in a bundle in his hand.

He tasted iron.

In front of him, on the king sized bed, the low snore of his lover. Behind the lover, a walk in closet and the shower. He struck the dresser with his shoes as he crept.

The dresser closed, shut, and the soothing sound of snoring and of light breaths of those throes of sleep were disrupted. He ran now to the closet. And inside of it, a set of eight pairs of lights turned on. He closed the door behind him. His shadow worked underneath the door frame, he couldn’t hear sleeping anymore only disgruntled movements. Coils and bed sheets turning.

Inside, he worked the dressers. He opened them one by one with angst, nearly tearing them from their posts on the cabinets. He stripped himself. He fixed new clothes, hid the old ones. He turned on the shower (should have done that first) and let the heavy sound of the water sprouts mute him. It was calming, like rain, and stepping into the shower, he was first hit with the blast of cold. It caved to warmth almost immediately, and the open pores of his shaking body relaxed.

The shower was large, and within, he seemed to be inside a prison of glass. Steam rose and made his surrounding foggy. He tried to clear it with his good hand, his un-cursed hand. The fog returned before he could see his reflection.

Though he swore, he noticed a frown. Maybe even a tear. Thank god he was showering, he could pretend he wasn’t tearing up.

He massaged his face. Paced back and forth, eyes closed. The wrinkles around his mouth were straining, he wasn’t used to having much of any emotion for too long. For Turnus was always used to being abject, to giving slight smiles, to being brief with his explosive rage, to be knee-deep in a drunken stupor. But being emotional? This deep? This long? That was strange.

But the dimples on him were beginning to ache. He had never been this sad this long, this mad and frustrated and worried.

And why? All he had done was kill a guard.

And my sister.

He slipped. On his ass, he felt his shoulder hit the wall too, but made no effort to move. He sat there, arms crossed against his chest and nude, hot body. The dried blood of his victim still on him, on his neck and his wrists. It came off, moving like the tail end of a small red snake, down the faucet drain.

All my talk about being tough. Hah. As if killing a man could ever be easy. He rubbed his forehead. You can shit-talk all you want, practice in your head. But it doesn’t ready you. Sure as hell didn’t ready me to see Jezzy. God damn…

He sighed.

Her head looked like a fucking screw.

He felt the septic acid and throw-up rise to his mouth. He swallowed.

Like a screw top. He cackled.

They killed her. A smirk.

The laughter seemed to rise through him like vomit. And as all things uncontrollable, all things that do not abide by the strength of will, he was uncomfortable. He tried to slap his face. He felt the pain, but the laughter continued. Slow, cackling almost, like an old man. It resonated within the enclosed space, coming back to him with reverb. It sounded like an orchestra of laughter. Then crying. Then laughter again.

She's really dead, ain't she?

He covered his mouth and bit down on the palm. It drew blood, the pain was light though. Balancing his body with his other hand seemed futile, his hand made dust of the marble floor.

I seen her. I seen her head go round and round in circle. Spinning like she was playing on the tea cup ride. Spinning like she had no idea who’d done it. Her. Them. Me. All of us. Why, she was playing musical chairs with blame, wasn’t she? Just spinning. Head. Spinning.

The image of the fountain of blood was too much. But closing his eyes only materialized it with richer detail. The fountain of blood. The black suited men. Aenea. And him looking from the second story, with the blood still on his gloves weighing him down and the rapid palpitations of his heart telling him to move on.

He could feel it all. Again.

His hand sunk through the floor and he looked down.

His hand was still decomposing things. Still, reducing marble to sand and clay and pebbles of rock.

He raised his tattooed arm. Touching the water turned it into steam. A strange scent it carried. It seemed nauseating, breathing in the water.

I’ve separated even the water, haven’t I?

Oxygen, Hydrogen, reduced and split.

Why, Moses would be proud.

The print of his hand was left and within the gap, a sand and clay and water mixture. A slurry, almost wet-concrete-like.

He stood up.

Can’t bitch too much about it. This is what I wanted, right? And man’s gotta stick to his ideals. It’s what separates us from the animals.

He wiped the mirror with his still marked, still working, hand. That cursed hand. That destroyers hand. He went across, in a sweeping motion, against the glass. It turned to sand in the streak he touched it by. And in this gap, he could see his reflection at the end of the room clearly.

He was smiling.