Newspaper Airplanes Prt 2

Dvor is still talking with the older gentleman. They're ironing out details of the exchange, deciding on a place and time for the drop point. He's asking about the technology that will be received as payment for the transaction. Outside, the rumble of diesel engines quakes in the night, echoing with the onslaught of the disturbed reverberations as trucks pass by not even a hundred meters from the meeting place with seacans straddling their frames.

A horn bellows as a cargo ship begins to cast off farther down at a different pier. Crisscrossing slashes of lightbeams cut through the darkness that feels heavy with fumes. Yosef coughs as a flicker of a spark erupts from his lighter and he inhales deeply on the cigarette. His face becomes subsumed in an orange glow a moment before being drowned in a small eruption of smoke.

Dvor is talking, explaining that the technology needs to be handed over, and soon, or there may be repercussions. But the old man isn't paying any mind to the threat, only molesting a dull brass coin in his fingers. That silence extends, awkward, frustrating, perhaps irritable as that man places a reassuring hand upon Dvor's shoulder.

"I'm afraid you misunderstood my intentions," he says. "I said I was going to take it. All of it."

Dvor turns his face to reply, only as his head turns, it crumples beneath a sudden surge of light and noise. Green/black blood, grey bone with grey matter and what looks like computerized parts all smudge together in macabre art painting a scene on the floor as Dvor's arms go slack and his legs give as his dead body collapses in on itself in a heap.

The old mans attention turns. Yosef stands at the doorway, the stub of a cigarette clutched in his hand. His face is set in rage, almost impotent. He shifts, trains, but Yosef is moving. Outside, away. Another display of shock and awe ripples through the muffled night. Only there is no shuffling off of a mortal coil.

"You missed, boss."