Two Weeks Ago

"Shit," he whispered, fingers steady, as he wiped the surface of the gun.

He could hear the fucking sirens.

"Police," a distant voice cried, "Move away."

"Shit," he repeated, furiously scrubbing at the metal, before tearing at his sleeve, and carelessly dropping the ragged cloth into the pool of rapidly spreading blood.

He had to make this look authentic.

No, he had to make this look like he was a fucking idiot who didn't know how to clean up after himself.

He paused briefly, exhaling harshly.

Why are you doing this? A tiny voice questioned.

Atlas flinched, it was soft, almost tentative, and half as loud as the usual voice, that tells him exactly who to kill.

What's the point? It whispered.

What's the fucking point?

The police would arrest him either way. They'd be idiots not to. After all, Atlas Stone just spent half an hour making it impossible to believe anyone else could have been the murderer, before calling the police from his own phone.

So why did he care enough to leave at least three traceable fingerprints on the murder weapon?

Why was he bothering to make this look realistic?

The dark-haired man shook his head.

No, he thought, questions are fucking dangerous.

Don't think, just do.

Kill the man. Get caught. Escape. Repeat.

Burners might be hard to kill, but they weren't fucking invincible, and Atlas Stone was not ready to die.

Questions lead to searching, and searching lead to more questions, and quite frankly, Atlas was perfectly happy killing people for the shit of it.

He was a Burner, and Burners kill.

Why fucking complicate it?

So, he silenced the dangerous voice in his head, and carried on scrubbing.

The sound of footsteps got louder.

"Okay, Atlas" he muttered lowly, "Time to sell this shit."

Then, he walked away from the corpse, face twisted to mimic an expression of shock, as a heavy body slammed him against a wall.

The officer growled at him, firmly pressing his forearm against Atlas' throat.

Atlas whimpered.

"He's dead," he whispered, "He's fucking dead."

"Did you kill him?" A gruff voice replied.

"No," Atlas gasped, "God, no."

He paused, swallowing, as though trying to think of an excuse.

"I just - fuck, I was walking and I - he - fuck, he was dead." 

The officer nodded slowly, drawing away from him, and Atlas slumped forward, heaving a breath and pointedly angling his gaze towards the small gun that lay haphazardly tucked under the victim's body.

"That yours?" another officer drawled questioningly, raising an eyebrow at him.

Forcing his breathing to pick up, Atlas shook his head furiously.

"No, I swear, it's not, fuck, it's not."

The woman hummed, unconvinced.

Finally, he thought, an officer with a fucking brain.

"Bag it," she muttered to the man who had forced Atlas against the wall. 

Her eyes skimmed the alleyway, pausing to land on the small scrap of once blue material, that lies next to the dead man. Picking it up between her thumb and index finger, she stared meaningfully at Atlas, mentally comparing the colour of his shirt, to the cloth she held pinched between her fingers, before slipping it into a plastic bag.

Peeling off the gloves, she watched Atlas impassively as he shifted his gaze away from her, and coughed lightly, extending a small hand.

"Thank you for your cooperation. We'll be in touch, Mr - "

"Stone," he interrupted, grasping her fingers, "Atlas Stone."

The woman sniffed disdainfully.

"Of course, Mr Stone."

Then, she walked away, leaving him standing in alone, in the abandoned alleyway.

Once he was sure they'd left, Atlas edged closer to the man, nudging his head to the side, with the tip of his boot.

"You, Martin Lopez, are about to get me into a shitload of trouble."

The corpse was silent, and Atlas clucked his tongue.

"You should have known," he muttered, shaking his head, "You should have known you can't run from a fucking Burner."

Kicking the body's arm away, he turned to leave, before pausing at the sound of a metallic clink.

 Atlas leaned in closer, frowning at the black identity code that marked the dead man's wrist, and the bloody tracking device that lay beside his index finger.

"Well," he muttered, scooping up the small metal chip, and tucking it into his pocket. "Shit."