He disassembled the gun in forty-five seconds. A bit slow, but he wasn't in a battle situation. All the pieces were neatly lined up on the cloth in front of him. He took out the oil to clean each part, moving through them methodically. When each piece was cleaned to the point of newness, he reassembled it, in twenty-five seconds. Better, but he could still do it faster.

He picked up his newly loaded and cleaned gun, and held it out, looking down the sights. He narrowed his eyes.

He pictured someone at the end of the room, and pressed on the trigger, though he still had the safety on. He imagined the path of the bullet, the splatter of blood, and the and the grunt of pain.

Vicious. He was always in Spike's sights.

He put his gun in its holster, and went out to scrap some breakfast together.

Vicious ran his fingers down the flat of the blade. Beautiful. It was beautiful. He picked up the specially oiled cloth, and ran it down the edge in a sweeping, strong motion. He picked up the buffing cloth, and lovingly polished every inch of steel.

The low lighting of the room glistened off its perfect edge. It's deadly edge. His fang. His claw. His strength.

The man at his feet went into his death throes, and Vicious stepped over him and sheathed his gorgeous blade.

It was bad luck to get blood on his shoes after something as simple as a morning execution.