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[+] Kursha Vidari

Kursha did not move until long after Stryke's receding footsteps had faded; each one had sent a spike of guilt through him. Allowing the rifle to slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground, he went slowly over to the wall. As his fingers brushed the surface, he sank forward. His forehead pressed into the brick beside his curling fist and he placed a second hand on the wall. His body was completely closed off.

For a time he simply focussed on his breathing. There were too many thoughts for him to sort through; too many questions and too many feelings. Addressing them now would only push him over the brink. Already he was already dangerously close to tipping over the edge of losing all self control. Closing his eyes against the burning sensation that filled them, Kursha waited. Some of the tightness in his chest faded. His breathing became more relaxed.

When he was comfortably numb, he dared to open his eyes again. Almost immediately his gaze was drawn to the hole beside his right hand: the cartridge. Lifting his forehead, he went to it, fingers lightly tracing the grooves in the brickwork. He leaned down, so that the hole was close to eye level and studied it. The shell had buried itself at least an inch in. All around the place of entry the clay was cracked and brittle. He picked at a piece and it easily fell away.

Without any thought to what he was doing, he began to dig at the hole with his fingers. Red powder and chunks of brick showered the ground. The hole had grown and he could easily fit his thumb inside. The bullet was still lodged further in however. Gritting his teeth, Kursha picked up his rifle. Promptly he rammed the muzzle against the wall. Shards of clay flew. He drove it again, harder. Then once more after that.

Leaning his rifle against the wall, Kursha reached inside the hole. He winced as he scraped around inside, fingers feeling out the sides of the cartridge. At last he found a grip. With a grunt, he tugged it free. More powder sprayed out. Ignoring the fresh scratches at his fingertips, he gazed down at the object. It rested in the palm of his hand, dirty and beaten. Flecks of red stuck to the surface. Gently, he brushed them away using his thumb. The metal glowed under the moonlight.

Closing a fist around the used cartridge, Kursha stooped to retrieve his rifle. With practised ease he slung it into the holster of his back. A familiar weight settled over his shoulders. Control. He straightened. A long sigh drifted through the air and he turned away from the wall. Then quiet, he disappeared from the alley.