Dominik Spires || District 13 {WIP}

"I'll give you a four day headstart."

The gun trembles, clutched tight in his fist, breath rising in ragged twitches. The male curled tight on the floor below his hands rattles and shakes as he inhales, the final breath an exhalation of life wasted, poured upon the bitter embrace of a fancy rug in crimson liquid. The twenty year old shakes in his shining shoes, the clitter-clatter of his watch against solid silver cuff links nearly melodic as he shakes.

A laugh greets the trembling figure, stepping from his place in the door jam. "Dominik- I'm not kidding. I feel... Generous. You can run, if you so choose it. Or, if you'd rather save me the time, you can accept your fate, and let me take care of you now." The light from the fireplace in the otherwise pitch black room flickers on a pristine silver pistol the other man draws, cracked smile splitting his face in half.

"Make your choice, Dominik."

The dark handgun clatters to the ground, muffled by the fancy, soaking wet rug. The entirety of his 6'2 frame gazes down the silver barrel of the majestic gun, as his target's finger rise and gently pull back on the hammer.

"Decision made?" the male questions, dragging the beast from his stupor. The fabric of his perfectly fitted suit whispers against his flesh as he ducks, and sprints towards a darkened window, forcing the thing to shatter open with his left shoulder. He tumbles down as a shot echoes around his ears, the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air to accent the shot. Though the moon hung high and full in the dark night sky, the grounds themselves seemed more like shadows from hell come to life, and the male struggle hurriedly to his feet as the crunch of glass echoes overhead, and he can hear the emptying of a chamber and the insertion of another steely round, he swears to ripred.

Feet pumping, he pushes himself absolutely to his limits, his heart slamming against birdcage ribs. Instead of navigating carefully through the waist-height hedge maze like he did initially, he barrels through and over the massive things, fighting to get at least to the gate.

If the sound of him collapsing to the ground from a shattered window didn't draw the attention of the target's ten nothing but teeth dog pack, then the rustling of bushes sure as hell did. They bay and wail in the moonlight, their pitch ears swiveling and swerving to find his hurried footsteps. They crave blood, and they taste his fear, near tangible from his flesh.

Their paw steps beat his five to one, and though he's in peak physical condition, they fall easily upon him, mere steps from the glorious brick wall, built to keep not only the riff-raff out, but the dogs themselves in.

A fierce cry rends his lips as he forces his arm into the gaping maw of one of the things, and it gags on the soft fabric of his suit. The others fall easily upon his legs, though they are relatively small compared to his muscled frame, and he shakes them off with a few well placed punches right where the jaws connect.

With half of the dogs crying and whimpering in pain, the other members of the pack snarl and back him against the stone wall.

Hands twitching, fingers itching, begging, pleading for freedom, he twists his back and digs for any purchase upon the surface. Toes pry, finding what they need, and propel him over the top. Scrambling like a cat he emerges atop the stone wall, panting, glaring down at the animals below. A curse passes through his lips as his hands rise to a bald head, rubbing at his temples.

A moment, that's all he needs before he regains his composure, and barrels down, lithe as a cat. The street is near abandoned, and as he glances down at his watch, he frowns- he was in there far to long to begin with. A fist grips his heart, and the male- Dominik- doubles over while the adrenaline pumps and flows over his fingers. Still pulsing, pushing through his veins, he twists and turns left and right. Four days- how long was that, exactly?

The bastard wanted a mouse.

The male shiver in the cool night air, and begins to walk at an amplified pace, generally twitchy and frustrated as he carries himself across the scaled street. Fists tightly clenched in balls of muscle, he begins to notice increased activity pouring free from bars in the form of giggling girls and high-class men.

He was thankful to be considered among them tonight, though his grass-stained shoulder and knees reflected the slight altercation earlier. His intimidatingly broad shoulders and high chin allowed him to loose himself in his thoughts without pressure to comply to anyone's pestering questions.

Where had the plan gone awry?


What should have been a simple contract from a relatively high politician sick and damn tired of being blackmailed transformed nearly in the blink of an eye to a life or death situation, with Dominik at the dead center. He should have checked, he should have looked at the picture once again, but dead men are dead and there is nothing more to be done about it than to just run.

The stench of vomit rises around the contracted killer and he hurries, through glimmering streets of marquees and signs, beyond sex and drugs and rock and roll. He doesn't dare hail a cab- too many questions, and he doesn't want his face on any private cameras anyway, though he supposes it doesn't matter right at this moment either way.

It takes a few hours, but his body is strong and can handle the rough trip and his ragged, drawn out breaths. The apartment rests somewhere in the middle of the building, and he begins to climb and climb, forcing his burning calves to take him ever higher.

Dominik nearly forces his house key into the lock, twisting first left, then to the right. Back to the middle, then right again. A series of clicks echoes from within, and he easily steps inside, shutting the oak wood behind him.

His small studio apartment holds cosigned furniture, a bland black square leather couch, and a hardwood floor the only things truly noticeable about the white-walled room. A kitchen somewhere to his left and large floor to ceiling windows on his right emitting the tiniest fractions of light as he collapses onto the large square, allowing the final remnants of adrenaline to shake from his tingling fingers.

He curls atop the leather, gaze pushed against the popcorn ceiling. Four days.

Blue eyes slide closed.

It isn't until roughly noon the next day he wakes, to a rough pounding against his door.

Jumping nearly out of his skin and rumpled suit, the male approaches the peep hole and glares outside- an older woman with swollen face peers back, eyebrows painted above too-teal eyes.

He shivers, and turns away. She can find her flour elsewhere.

His fingers dive, delving into the depths of the cushions of his couch, digging out a few things- a pale tee-shirt and a pair of comfortable looking slacks. Easily he switches out the stained suit for the new clothes, abandoning the former to the depths of the floor.

Large feet carry him to the sliding closet, delving and digging inside. A large black backpack hangs, already packed and ready to go with the necessities; three pairs of boxers, three extra pairs of socks, a pair of thick-soled boots, (To accompany the pair he now wears), a copy of 'Jim Nangrove's Guide to Wilderness Survival for Tributes', matches, duct tape, lighter, rope flashlight, batteries, and lastly, a pistol with a fourteen-bullet clip and a small box of rounds.

After seizing the pack, he moves to the tiny kitchenette, and delves through a drawer. A massive wad of green bills greets his fingers, and he slips them through an open slot between two zippers of his bag. This was it then, the time to lay low.

He offers one final peek through the eye hole, and finding the woman gone to his satisfaction, emerges as though he were going to visit the local university, or arena.