Every second, every minute, every death.

The price was being paid.

Slowly.

But it was.

Flashes flood the darkness.

A past tense. A past darkness.

A welcomed one.

Voices speak, whisper and scream.

"The enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy. No more. No less."

A vision of war.

California Minor. Asgard Warriors. BSG. Southern Alliance.

Headcounts. Death tolls. Money earned.

Battle lust calling for feelings that the void had claimed.

The taste of a well timed trap runs deep. Success.

"When the going gets tough, the tough calls for support."

The moth like taste of death fills the senses.

Decomposing bodies of soldiers, civilians and debris bumped against the hull of the once proud cruiser of his.

The Reaver.

How messy contracts could be.

"If violence wasn’t your last resort, you failed to resort to enough of it."

The darkness brings memory.
Memory brings life.
Life brings death.

The voices of a whimpering client as it begs for mercy after failing payment.

That...

..brings a smile to ones lips.

"Just because it's easy for you doesn't mean it can't be hard on your clients."