From a palace to an inn, the size of a grain of sand in comparison, surrounded by blood marked mud boxes for shelter. The blood was never washed, forgotten, a compromise made by those who never bled.
The inn itself is nothing spectacular, even when compared to its surroundings; the walls an earthy brown; the windows framed with rotting wood; the roof built with all the people had to waste. Sao opens the door and enters; Akuma mopes behind him. Sao approaches the owner, receptionist, and chef, a woman of a rather large stature with what the food available would allow, organising a room for the stay; Akuma sulks. The owner, receptionist, and chef offers the key to Sao in return for a bag of coins, rejoicing in her gains; Akuma weeps.
Room number '7', "the finest and grandest" room the inn can provide, in the words of the proud owner, receptionist, and chef, maybe too proud; the room proves itself nothing more than a bed, no more comfortable than a bale of hay, and toilet; at least this room has a toilet.
'One bed? You can have it Akuma,' shouts Sao back down the corridor. 'They can't even afford two beds… or a chair! A chair would've been fine! Ugh, royalty.'
Sao leaves, passing Akuma on the way out, setting up post by the entrance of the inn. Akuma places his head into the leather mattress turned silencer, deadening his cries for twenty consecutive minutes. Feeling vented, Akuma amps himself for his first mission. It hasn't sunk in yet, but it will. He can be just like that hero he saw that day from the rock. Akuma takes his turn to leave, passing Sao at the end of the corridor with his ear resting on room number 3's door.
'What's the matter?' Akuma questions with newfound energy. Sao places his index over his mouth; he signals for Akuma to check the entrance. Akuma obliges silently.
Once at the entrance, Akuma sits by the door, as ordered, and waits for something; he doesn't know what, that wasn't specified; It couldn't be. Instead, Akuma gets lost in his thoughts, his actions, what he has been told, what he hasn't. 'Why couldn't I be involved in the brief? I am a part of the mission. I am, aren't I?' Five minutes have passed. The crashing from a door derails his train of thought.
Sao breaks into the room; its' empty. All that's left are seven coats, each with a different symbol on their backs: one has a chained heart; another has a chained hand; gold appears on one, and a hammer and scythe appear on another; a clock, and a couple in embrace are marked onto another two; The last cloak has a human praying. And then black ringing. The thudding of the floor makes the world mute; blacked-out.
Alerted by the crash, Akuma tries making his way back but a wandering drunk barges in. The booze stench permeates from his breath, and his eyes refused to cooperate. Unsheathing a knife from his tattered tracksuit pocket, the drunk demands money, alcohol and women. Refusing to act, he stands at the entrance, denying anyone their exit or entrance until he is brought his desires.
'I'm… burp… taking my mo-ney, ri… urgh… right now. You worth-nothings don't deserve a pinch.'
From the corridor, a group of six in cloaks surround the man, another – making seven – holding a limp man on his arms, bag over head, continues outside. Each takes out a knife of their own and stab the drunk, one after another. After five stabs each, they retreat out the inn, the shrieks of the citizens nearby masking their steps.
The drunk is dead. His top leaking, his knife isolated on the ground. Akuma watches over, his face turning green.
"So, this is what a dead body is like. I don't know, if… I'm up for this…" thud.