<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #0080BF">Looking wide-eyed at an antique clock with its mechanism exposed, I marvel at the complexity and flawlessness of its excecution, a massive machinery of quartz, cogs, conductors and pendulums used to make a time-telling machine that's as accurate as the most high-end modern watches. Its old oaken shell restored several times over, the clockwork itself was all original parts, excellently maintained. I didn't have time for gawking at the splendid machine, though. I had flown all the way from the other side of the world to meet my mother and father on a very special day. My father's sixtieth birthday, to be pointed by my own unexpected arrival. I thus reluctantly leave the clockbehind, promising myself to take a closer look later. I head down to the retaurant where my mother has taken my father, a fancy place catering to my father's posh tastes. I see a small gathering of women clad in black, looking agitated. Some even looked afraid. I consider the possibility that they're worried about supernaturals. I chuckle to myself, when I consider how close I, a supernatural, am to them, with no intention of doing anything than surprise my father and admire an old clock. The women begin to move behind me, whispering among themselves. It looks like they were headed for the restaurant. It was already packed, but I'm expected. I greet the man in the door, and look for my parents. Then I hear a chant behind me, and as I turn around, there's a flash.<br/><br/>When I come to, the women are gone. All around me, there's chaos. Chaos, and blood. So much -</span> </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #BF40BF">"Blood!"</span>Maruice snapped out of his daydream, the sight of the room around him having reminded him just why he was here. The room was full of all manner of arcane symbols, books, and apparatus. It was also soaked red. On the floor lay the crumpled bodies of three witches, with the fourth on her knees in front of him, looking at the pool of red and screaming.<br/><span style="color: #BF40BF">"Blood! Blood!"</span>Maurice saw tears forming in the woman's eyes. At the loss of her friends and mentors, the youngest of the witches seemed to have lost it. He had caught them off guard, as they were preparing for a very specific ritual in this soundproofed apartment. He had just picked the lock, walked right in, and shot the three eldest. Then his gun had jammed briefly, meaning the fourth wasn't expedited as quickly as the rest.<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #0080BF">No matter,</span></span>he thought. He pulled out his other gun.<br/>For a moment, Maurice admired it. Small, compact, precise, the work of a skilled and steady hand. He did not indulge in admiration for long, however.<br/>Looking at the witch, he noticed the full spectrum of negative emotions - anger, grief, and above all, terror. Maurice leveled the gun, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. He disengaged the safety, and looked into the young witch's eyes.<span style="color: #0080BF">"Ironic, no? Such a small machine, capable of erasing a life by the simple expedient of contracting a few muscles in the index finger."</span>The witch looked at him, the fear of death draining all colour from her face.<span style="color: #0080BF">"Afraid, hm? Murder is not so easy to justify when you're on the recieving end, is it?"</span>Even as he spoke, the doubt gnawed at his guts. Maurice was murdering these people, not sure if he was protecting the future victims of the radicals or simply indulging in his own hatred, the same hatred that drove these witches to mass homicide. He hesitated.<span style="color: #0080BF">"Sounds easy, doesn't it? But it's not. You know it's not, I think."</span>Another second where he didn't pull the trigger. The witch looked up at him, a glimmer of desperate hope to be discerned in her eyes.<span style="color: #0080BF">"... If I kill you now, I'll never forget your face. Never forget your crying."</span>The woman looked up at him, the desperate will to live and the burning hope that Maurice wouldn't finish the job giving pause to her despair. Maurice wated for one more second.<br/><span style="color: #0080BF">"But I'll get over it."</span><br/>The renewed horror didn't have time to register on the witch's face before the bullet pierced her skull.