Notes: Hmm... eventually I am going to have to get around to getting something more Veld centric than this. But... Meh (shrugs). It's an update. It'll do.

Characters: Mostly Veld

Rating: K+? Slight mentioning of blood

Theme: Work

Danger Zone

Turks have a dangerous line of work. Everyone knows it. But Veld's particular practice is especially dangerous. Unlike his brazen partner, though he'd never call him incapable, Veld preferred subtility. He'd been trained too long in memorizing, tracking, never leaving a trace of himself behind. To investigate everything thoroughly, but wash away everything. Long, long ago he'd learned ways to be diliberate, undetectable, unreachable. No, twenty-four years of age, and everything has become habit. Deep ingrained habits.

Never touch the surface of anything with your fingertips. Ever. That's the first rule. Never leave gloves behind. Ever. Fingerprints can be found from the inside. That's the second rule. And the list goes on...

Veld examined the room for a moment, commiting every little nook and crany to memory. It's his job to look, to watch, to wait.

"So?" Vincent asks, cocking his head to one side a little.

"This one will be a little tricky," Veld answered with a thin-lipped expression. "But we've left nothing."

"Hm," the other makes a sort of noncommital grunt and takes a step into the room.

But if there's anything he knows, he's probably not the only one who pays maticulous attention to detail. If it's his job to watch and wait, then it's Vincent's job to move and do. He always did like motion more. Veld followed not far behind, even as Vincent was twisting a silencer to his gun, letting the brunette wrap the sides of his knuckles around the door knob-- better than leaving a fingerprint, and simply emoving the skin right there, no, that would desensative the nerves. And he presses the back of his fingerlessly gloved hand to silently push the door open.

He motions, and Vincent is already moving. The gun is a precaution. Veld doesn't like them much. He prefers knives over anything. It's odd, but he considers it a lot more personal. He can feel the target dying, rather than risking that one shot to the chest that the target could have maybe survived. For all Veld's impresonal air, he likes to be up close. And he doesn't understand how his partner can prefer to be so far away.

It's a job, though.

When it's done, the only evidence of their passing is the blood and the bodies.

Nothing more, nothing less.