There were times he felt such a hatred for humans, he just wanted to get away from the city. But his life was in the center of it all, the massive, sprawling buildings, the train tracks and streets, the people he had come to hate, who were the people he relied on to make a living. Diego had taken to the topmost floor of an old, useless apartment building that had quite the view of the smaller creations below. But the window was not near him; he had taken to sitting on the floor of the empty room as the golden-bronze glow of the sun filtered through the dusty, still air. He was weary, not quite sleepy, but sick at heart. He had left Andy and William behind, those he could not call friends but were the closest things he had to them, and where they were at that point, Diego hardly cared to find out. His overwhelmed mind had become empty, and for once he was calm.

The air was rather warm, it didn’t call for a jacket. He had taken it off and discarded it, and now watched its brass buttons and attached belt shimmer in the sun. Oftentimes he wondered of his past, what it might be still had some things not happened. Perhaps, he considered, he would be friendlier. He would have more friends, and could call them such. Perhaps he would not be what he is, or where he is. Maybe, maybe, maybe, too many maybes. He silently scolded himself. Maybes won’t get me anywhere. Then again, what will? He sighed noticeably, leaning against the rough wall behind him, plucking at his tan shirt. Everything appeared to him in a veil of pale gold-brown as his hair hid his shockingly yellow-brown eyes. He used to be told to cut his hair, it kept getting in the way, made him a bad shot. But he had shown otherwise many times.

A stray cloud drifted over the falling sun. It cast an eerie, gray shadow in to the room, over the cityscape outside. It filled Diego with a cold feeling, like that of a heavy stone in his stomach. That feeling often accompanied loneliness, but he doubted it was the root of the problem. Always with the doubts, the questionings, the pessimistic outlook on everything. He hated himself for it. But at the same time, would not try to change. A pale, shadowy smile flitted across his sharp face as he stood, went to the window, and looked outside. People, shops, animals, and vehicles of every form crowded the streets. Hung from one squat little building was a large calendar, created of brass and bronze numbers changed daily. It read 8, 12, 3240. August the twelfth, the year 3240.

With a bow of the head, Diego turned his thin frame away from the window and grabbed his duster, slipping it on and taking leave from the room. He had no destination in mind, and no real interest to gravitate near those who so angered him, but to remain in that small, listless room would be the death of him. At least, he told himself, he would find Andy and William.

Scarlette reached up with a fingerless brown leather gloved hand and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was laying under a two ton engine, wrench in hand, cursing the day her boss ever started accepting jobs like this and cursing her boss in general, the cheap bastard. Glancing down at her watch she sighed. She'd missed her break and lunch, again. She rolled the creeper out from under the massive engine and stood, rubbing grease and oil from her clothes in the sense that she was smearing it in permanently. They didn't have uniforms or coveralls at her shop, her boss was too cheap for that.

She wore a tight white tank top with a brown leather underbust gun harness that had gold buckles, and suspenders with gold snaps. She never carried guns in it, not since she started working here, instead she used it for tools, wrenches, hammers, etc. She wore tight brown, equestrian riding style pants topped with knee high brown leather lace-up boots that had gold buckles and a utility belt with various tools, a flashlight and rag hanging from it. The goggles on her head sat atop a blonde mess of dreds, braids and trinket style gears she'd made to hold the hair back from her face.

Scarlette had been under the engine for going on six hours now with only a handful of bathroom and water breaks. She pulled the rag from her belt and wiped it across her face as her boss came down the stairs at the side of the shop yelling at her. "What do you think you're doing, get your ass back to work!" he shouted. Frowning at him with an attitude she shouted back, "Lenny, I'm going home! I've been working for two days, I need sleep and food! I'm not a fucking robot!" she yelled as she threw the rag on the ground and shoved past him, grabbing her bag off of the stool against the wall. The nerve of that guy! As she was headed towards the exit he shouted after her, "You're lucky your uncle is a good friend of mine or you'd have been fired weeks ago you lazy good for nothing-" Scarlette flipped him the bird as she slipped out the shop door and into the street before he could finish yelling at her.

Putting her arm up to sheild her face from the sun, her bright green eyes adjusted to the light. Who the hell is he calling good for nothing!? I'm the only mechanic he has that doesn't take lunch and will work for two days without sleep! He wouldn't fire me if I punched him square in the head! Which she was still contemplating doing. Scarlette was furious, almost shaking as she headed towards her uncle's apartment where she'd been staying since her father died when she was thirteen. She was still frowning, fists clenched, mumbling curse words under her breath as people stared at her when she passed. She really needed to find another way to make money again, but no one would hire her anywhere else. She had dropped out of school for one, and her last job, well it didn't exactly spread a good word about her.

As Scarlette pushed the door open to the tiny single bedroom apartment she threw her bag on the couch, slamming the door behind her. The sun blared through the single large window that was the far wall of their apartment. She looked around the messy apartment at the gadgets, trinkets and parts that were scattered across tables, counters and the floor. Her uncles projects. His pillow and blanket were still on the couch but he didn't appear to be home.

Scarlette needed to shower but she was far too tired. Walking to the fridge she opened it as a wave of cool air swept over her that she thouroughly appreciated. Pulling out some leftovers from a few nights ago she ate them cold, standing in the dark kitchen leaned against the counter in deep thought. Had it not been for her previous boss' death, she would still be bringing in good money. I really need a new life. She threw the empty container in the sink and walked to her room, flopping face down on the bed. I'll take my boots off... in just... a minute... Before she could even think twice about changing or showering, she was lost in a deep sleep.

Diego had not found Andy or William. Not that he had searched very long or with much intent. The boys would turn up eventually, and if not, it was no weight on Diego’s conscious. It never was, which may have been why Diego was so blamed for his original boss’s murder. Of course he had not killed the man, but it didn’t stop others from blaming him. Of course he blamed them, as much as they returned the feeling. Now, he had no boss. His job was undefined, switching from exterminator to assassin to investigator, based on who approached him any given day. Today, he was an assassin. His perch was a building far from his previous shelter, and the sun’s rays were starting to fade to a bronze type of gold, darkening in the coming evening. It still gave a shimmering gleam to the casing of the gun in his hand.

He had put it together himself, from random bits of pipe, brass, bronze, and steel he found around scrap yards and in the alleys, using the metalwork shops just nearby each location to fashion each piece. The barrel, the grip, hammer, the magazine release button worked perfectly, and he had even made the magazines themselves, some years ago. Each bullet was made specially for the gun, and every other gun in his possession, since he had made them all. No other pre-made round would fit or work. Oftentimes the round would get stuck, and set of a small explosion in the barrel, knock back the hammer into the hand of whoever held it. Diego had learned quite a while back not to rely on the bullets and rounds of anyone else, and to take the time to make his own. Many a burn, tiny explosion, and scar on his hands and arms had taught him the lessons the hard way.

Now he crouched with the pistol in his hands, waiting for that moment he heard a door slam. His new client was a young woman angry with her boyfriend, and wanted him dead. As soon as the bastard got into his apartment, Diego would call out to him… Impatiently, he shifted in his crouch, adjusting the belted pockets and holsters on one pant leg and brushing his hair back, putting it under his brown leather-brass-buckled hat.

A slam of a door below him alerted Diego. He waited for a moment, for as long as he felt necessary, until the window four floors below suddenly opened. Getting onto his knees, he bent down. “Liam! Liam, I have something for you!” His voice was loud, not enough to alert anyone on the ground, but enough to where the man’s curiosity was piqued enough to look out, then up, and down the barrel of Diego’s gun. He shot twice, each reinforced brass bullet meeting their target, connecting twice in the forehead with force that sent the middle-aged man tumbling back and out the window, into the alley below. No one would see his body for a while, giving Diego enough time to gather the evidence he needed of a job well done.

The slam of the door to the small apartment woke Scarlette. She rolled onto her back, still laying sideways across the bed as she blinked up at the ceiling allowing her eyes to focus. The room was dark now as the sun had long gone down. She sat up rubbing the sleep from her eyes before stretching, arms stretched out high above her head, white shirt raising high to reveal her toned stomach and gear charmed belly piercing. She slumped forward for a moment before sending a sideways glance at the clock on the bedside table. It was only ten o'clock.

Scarlette stood and made her way to the single bathroom in a sort of living dead style walk, feet slowly dragging, eyes half closed, slightly moaning and groaning. She flipped the light on to the bathroom as she moved to stand in front of the mirror. Tired emerald eyes stared back at her. She grimaced at the reflection as she made her way back out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She poured herself a small mug of the leftover coffee her uncle had made that morning and popped it into the microwave for 30 seconds, rinsing out the pot and setting it back in the coffee maker. When the 30 seconds were up the loud beep echoed through the apartment. Scarlette removed the barely warm mug and sipped at it as she scanned the living room. Her uncle was still no where to be seen, but the pillow and blanket that had been on the couch were now folded and stacked on the arm and some of the projects were rearranged. His leaving must have been what woke her up. She sighed, Another night alone.

Determining that sitting in the small apartment alone would only depress her, she quickly finished off the mug of black coffee and headed back to the bathroom where she brushed the sleep and coffee breath away. She applied a dab of concealer on the bags under her eyes, easily covering them. She then got busy painting the rest of her face on, mascara to enhance her already long eyelashes, eyeliner and a dark shadow for a mysterious and dramatic evening effect, a dark lipstick and powder. Staring at her reflection as she pouted her lips she smiled, she certainly did clean up well. She sat on the edge of the bath tub and unlaced her tall leather boots kicking them off lazily into the middle of the bathroom floor. Standing, she kicked them to the wall before making her way back into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind her. Suspenders, gun holster, socks, utility belt, pants, gloves and small white shirt followed her into the tiny walk-in closet. One half of the closet held her uncles clothes, and the other half held hers, much more tightly packed in. She wriggled into a tight light brown leather corset with leather strings and brass fastenings up the front that pushed her breasts up to look at least two sizes bigger and perkier. She then pulled on red thigh high stockings that were made to looked ripped up the sides, and a garter belt with brass fastenings to hold the stockings up. She pulled out a pair of tiny short brown leather shorts before tossing them aside and reaching for a short brown three layered skirt that still left plenty of room to see the where her stockings ended and attatched to her garter. Around her waist she draped a thick leather belt with a brass buckle. Exiting the closet she followed her clothing trail back to the bathroom, picking up her fingerless gloves along the way and pulling them on.

In the bathroom, on the counter sat a small music box. Scarlette opened the box as a quiet melody drifted out and filled the bathroom, reminding her of her father. He had given her the music box on her thirteenth birthday, only weeks before he was killed. The box was hand crafted with carved wood and bass decorations. On the inside was a thin layer of glass separating the gears and strings from a small space big enough to put her small charm necklace, a pair of golden hoop earrings, a couple pairs of small studded and hoop earrings and various facial rings. Scarlette couldn't wear jewelry at her current job, but going out was a different story. She put in her small brass studded nose ring, then her earrings, one hoop in the cartilage of her right ear with two small studs trailing down to the slightler bigger gear shaped stud in each lobe. She quickly pulled her boots on and laced them up the front before grabbing her identification and a small roll of money that she shoved down into her boot, and heading out the door.

The night air had called for at least a sweater, but Scarlette hadn't planned on being outside for long as she pushed the door open to a small bar that she'd never been to before. A sign hung above the door labeled "Black Jack's Saloon". Unfortunately since her last boss' death, she wasn't welcome in any of the places she used to hang out in. She sighed. The saloon was dimly lit, the bar tall, most of the fixtures wooden giving it an old west feel. Behind the bar was a wall of liquors and two employees. Scarlette made her way to a stool as she ordered a drink that was quickly placed before her in a small half glass, clear brown liquid swirling around three ice cubes. She sent a sideways glance down the bar, of course, she was the only female in this place full of men who looked like ex convicts, murderers, men on the run and just plain questionable characters. The small tv was tuned to the local news, something about a man being found in an alley shot in the head, Liam something or other. What was new? She threw back her glass and downed the entire drink, slamming it back down on the counter without so much as a wince. She stared blankly down at the bar lost deep in thought, wallowing in her own pity, shaking her head slightly to herself.

Most others would leave the scene of a crime after being committed. Diego often did, but sometimes he found a desire to stay around a bit. Liam’s death was quick, the pops of his gun falling away as the middle-aged man did. He had decided to muss up the alley’s trash and garbage cans as though a struggle had taken place, stealing Liam’s keys and a gold pocket watch given to him by the woman he was having an affair with. It would be evidence enough for the annoyed girlfriend Liam had snubbed, but Diego had no interest in returning so quickly. Leaving the alley, he went to Liam’s apartment, closed the window, and sat in the slightly-overstuffed chair in the living room. He sat there for a long time, twirling the watch in his hand, watching the sky darken. The entire place smelled slightly musty, filled with the stench of old food and dirty clothes. He got used to it quickly, though, but doubted Liam brought either girl to his place often.

When the sky turned the color of a navy-blue, mixing with the pale gray and dark smears of cloud, the lamp on the table beside him flickered on. Not long ago the sound of police vehicles had assaulted the alleyway and street, and since then he had considered the urge to leave. He had none, really, despite the police, investigators and coroners milling about, and had even made himself at home. With a sigh he pushed himself up, moving through the carpeted living room, past the small, dirty kitchen, and into the hall. Past the bathroom was a closet door and bedroom door, which he went through. The bed was pushed up against the farthest wall, its blankets crumpled and somewhat stained, the brass headboard leaning slightly to the left. The musty smell seemed to originate from the bedroom, when Diego thought about it, because the nose-wrinkling scent of stale sweat, foot odor, and grease and oil seemed to emanate from the piles of socks, pants, and old shirts. It reminded him of his younger years, before he escaped the confines of his mother and father’s prison of a home.

With a shake, he turned his gaze to the walls. Dirty, peeling paint, stained with cigarette smoke. Old magazine and book pages taped or nailed to the wall. The window was covered in newspaper. Diego grimaced as his eyes fell on a mirror in the corner. For a moment he struggled with an urge to look into it, but his feet moved forward without consent, and placed his body in front of the lopsided floor mirror.

He looked worse than he anticipated. His off-white undershirt was wrinkled, the sleeves he rolled up to his elbows, and his vest he had unbuttoned slightly, so that his dark brown tie would not cut into his neck anymore. Reaching up to his right side, something was digging into him between the ribs, and with a grimace, he pulled it out of his vest pocket. His own watch, attached to his vest, had been lying wrong. Its face was cracked. With a sigh Diego returned it to his pocket, and found a few new stains on his pants. An annoyed growl followed his gloved hand as it brushed away the dirt and rearranged the knife and gun holsters, tightened the several leather belts on his waist a bit more, made sure his shirt was tucked well so he didn’t look as ragged and worn down as he felt. He stepped closer, looking a little harder, taking off the hat that shadowed his face. His brown-gold gaze was tired, halfway interested in what they saw. His hair was completely wild, as though a whirlwind had assaulted him and he had not done anything about it. Sticking up randomly and falling slightly over his shoulders, getting into his eyes, it seemed to have never met a comb. Instead of bothering with it, Diego simply pulled his hat back over the mess and left the room.

Grabbing his duster, he left the small, smelly apartment. His gloves would not leave prints, and even if they did, the police would not care. Diego had been completely reckless in many situations, and still had not been caught or found. He passed no one in the halls, and left the apartment quickly, passing the investigation without a second glance. The apartment was in a bad town, and a string of bars was nearby. He wanted quiet, but also to keep his mind clear. Most of the places he had once been welcome in had banned him, and threatened to kill him if he ever returned, after the death of his boss.

His wishes were destroyed when he found every hole-in-the-wall bar had a fight or seemed to be holding a carnival. Passing the open doors of brightly-lit bars, casinos, lounges, and so on, he found interest in a Western-based bar he had heard of, but never particularly found an interest in: Black Jack’s Saloon. He pushed through the door and sat with a defeated huff in the corner that had the least activity, in a small booth. No one saw him enter, or paid much attention when they noticed, and he was thankful for that. In the light and low rumble of voices, glasses, and the television nearby, he could let his mind rest a bit.

The bartender refilled Scarlette's glass as the door opened to the small bar. She didn't look to see who had entered, she didn't care. She was staring up at the television now watching the news. It was depressing, it always was. The door opening to the small hole in the wall was slowly becoming a steady noise as the bar began to fill.

A long hour had passed now and Scarlette had finished off two and half drinks, shooed away three digusting old men, and was now sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke that made the bar seem a lot more foggy than she had remembered upon entering.

Scarlette flagged the bartender as she finished off her liquor. She ordered a beer and slowly made her way, beer in hand, to one of the two pool tables against the wall. Placing her beer on the side of the table, she grabbed the rack and began to organize the balls inside carefully. She didn't have a partner as of yet, but assumed an egotistical male would approach her at any moment and place a bet against her to win. She smiled to herself thinking how horribly he'd be beaten by her, all the while an innocent look on her face while she played the 'beginners luck' card.

When she had completed the set up, balls in place, cue stick in hand, she bent forward to break. A man came up behind her placing one hand on top of hers, and his other on the pool stick as he leaned into the back of her with a, "Why don't you let a man show you how it's done sweet cheeks?"

Scarlette's eyebrow twitched, an annoyed smile on her face. With a slight side step and a quick jab, she nailed the pervert in his man parts with the butt of the pool stick. He fell to the floor clutching his manhood as he choked, "You bitch," moments before she was surrounded by what seemed to be his posse. Turning the pool stick to hold the lighter end towards the ground she took a stance as if to say 'bring it on.'

The first man lunged at her as she side stepped, bringing her knee up into his stomach and her elbow down onto the back of his neck, turning quickly to shove him into the next man who had come at her. She heard the sound of a glass breaking as she turned to see a third man bust his beer on the table and take a step towards her. She swung her pool stick at his head but he ducked, causing her to slam the stick into the back of a man not in the posse. Quickly dropping the weapon as the man turned around she pointed to the guy with the broken beer bottle in his hand.

Within seconds the whole bar was in an all out brawl. Bar stools were flying, fists were swinging, glass was breaking, Scarlette needed to get out of there. She was making her way towards the exit dodging punches, kicks and the occasional man flying overhead when the man she had jabbed in the first place stepped in front of her. He smiled down at her with an angry grin as she reared back to clock him in the face. He caught her hand in his and with no sympothy that she was a woman, punched her square in the chest, just below her neck.

All of Scarlette's air left her as her eyes closed and she was launched backwards onto a table in the corner of the bar. She slid a few inches on her back before she opened her eyes again with a large gasp. Her chest was throbbing as her eyes tried to focus upside down on the man sitting at the table, when she recognized him as Diego. "You!" she exclaimed with a scowl. Now would be the perfect chance to land a few punches in on Diego while no one would even notice. But before she knew it, someone had grabbed ahold of her boot and was yanking her back into the madness.