857: Bólnautr Skoftason
Strangely Alfarin chose to charge forward with his shield. Bólnautr stopped the blow with his own shield, the two plates of wood clashed loudly. Next came a swing of Alfarin's axe, which Bólnautr managed to block as it swung down by hooking it with his own axe.

The two men stood unmovable for a while as they threw all their weight onto their shields, pushing and shoving each other with all their might. The hooked axes jangled up in the air, but neither man managed to move his weapon. Bólnautr could feel the gravel shifting beneath him, his feet sinking.

Then, suddenly, Alfarin jumped aside, throwing Bólnautr forward. Bólnautr only barely managed to keep his balance, but being thrown forward had cost him his axe. Just as he swivelled round to face Alfarin again, his opponent threw his shield at Bólnautr, like a huge frisbee.

1279: Taira Itagaki, Lt. General Mikhail Ratkunin
Ratkunin suddenly stopped talking. There was something wrong. Something... familiar.

"Oh ****"

He jumped down instinctively. Seconds later, there was nothing elft of the room. Just smoke and rubble, and a huge hole in the wall where the projectile had come in through. The almost inaudible whistling of the projectile had set off the commander's finetuned military instincts. Itagaki had been less prepared. She had been blown into the hallway and into a wall. Her body hurt all over and blood was seeping down her face.

Ratkunin crawled up from the rubble that covered him and looked straight at the man who had disturbed the peace and quiet so abrubtly. He was wearing a leather trenchcoat and a matching broad rimmed hat. In the corner of his mouth was the stub of a cigar, emitting thick, black puffs of smoke. He was grinning, broadly, with that scarred mouth of his. He reloaded the gigantic gun he was holding. The thing looked a lot like a mortar and the bullet was as large as a fist. Strangely though, the man hadn't been blown away when he'd fired the first time. He spit out the stub into the grass and squeezed the trigger.

1948: Jarvis McArthur
Jarvis flipped the bed and ducked behind it. A spray of blood splattered the wall above him. No time for sentimentality. He tossed the nightlamp over the bed, desperately hoping to distract the assassin, and then ran as fast as he could towards the killer in an arch. He was only catching flashes of what was happening by now, and the shotgunblast had pretty much deafened him for a while. He saw a flash of the killer's head. There were shards of the lamp stuck in his face, but he hadn't even flinched. What really scared Jarvis though were his eyes. In that flash he'd caught the vaguest glimpse of them, peaking from beneath the rim of the hat. They were golden, and merciless.

In the next flash Jarvis was suspended in mid-air. He literally jumped the assassin, the scissors gleaming in the neon lights. There was that, and the shotgunshell that was about to hit the floor. He'd fired. A flash, just lights this time. Jarvis could feel it tearing through his flesh. He wasn't sure where. His hands cramped up so much he could feel the scissors imprinting themselves in his hand.

A thud. He was on the floor now. He hadn't felt the fall, but who would notice such a triviality after being shot at point blanc range by a shotgun? Jarvis opened his eyes. He was sitting on top of the assasin. Blood was spread over the both of them. The scissors had been plunged into the killer's neck, and a fountain of blood was spraying up onto the hallway's ceiling, and thend ripping down again. The shotgun had rolled down the hallway and a nurse was staring at it like a bunny at a car's headlights.

They were covered in blood. And that bastard was still smiling.

2009: Jonathan Morris, Anna Rachel Wilder
They exited the room, perhaps a bit too loudly.

The hallways were a mess. Walls had been blown out and there was blood all over the place. Scorchmarks too. Whatever had passed through hadn't done so unnoticed.

They went down a floor. One of the appartment's doors was missing. The entrance was covered in debris and bits of leftover wood from what had been a closet. Rachel collapsed to her knees and started crying. That had been her sister's appartment.

Jonathan was getting nervous. Not only was this place getting to him, his companion was being too loud as well. There were footsteps on the floor below. Luckily the stairs between the fourth and third floor had been destroyed. They had been inconveniently replaced by a metal ladder which had been fastened with some screws in the concrete.

"Is anybody up there?" a voice called from below, accompanied by a shaft of light, scanning the stairhall.