Grandeur Defector

LXVI

Jacks' body lay crumpled in the dirt, a dug makeshift trench his forever grave. He was laying He stared lifelessly into the sky surrounded by zero loved ones as his vision had faded, only greeted by death. His jaw hung open as if he'd tried to say something before his untimely demise, trickles of blood in his mouth as blood dripped off a single tooth and onto the ground. His throat was a singular well-placed slash, directly cutting into his vocal cords. The wound's edges were clean, having no evidence of sudden blunt force.
Truffles, Flippy, Diablo, and Warren stood around the dead man's slack corpse. There were no words and no mourning nor tears to accompany the man's eternal rest.
Nobody would miss him.

The silence was deafeningly loud, and his own heart pounding in his ears made Truffles feel dizzy on his feet. It wasn't that he felt bad, no— how could he? This was a man who hated him and his partner from day one, out to hurt them in every way possible for the sole purpose of spite. What actually bothered him was that there were few culprits, and every possible suspect pointed to someone who hated Jacks. There were only a few who truly, absolutely, did.
Flippy was with me most of the day, and even when he wasn't, Jacks wasn't nearby. If it's one of the tiger soldiers, what would Animalia do to us for this? Why would a tiger soldier kill him if they don't know him?

Warren drew his pistol and pointed it at Diablo with suspicion in his eyes. The assassin had been awoken by Warren rudely and forced to join in the mystery murder, although he treated it like a thrilling escapade. Even with a gun pointed at him, he gave no signs of outward fear of death coming for him next.
"You motherfucker. Killin' one of my fuckin' men?"

Diablo didn't flinch at the words, standing silently in place as he glowered, staring at the gun pointed at him. His barbwire tail sway without any signs of hesitation. He drew his tongue over his teeth and snickered.
"Shoot me," he taunted.

"You son of a bitch—"

"—Wait!"
Flippy tried to grab the gun out of Warren's hands with an outstretched hand of his own, but it was a second too late.

Warren shot.
The bullet flew into Diablo's chest, right where his left lung would be. He wheezed loudly and gasped at the force, taking a step backwards with a short stumble. He grabbed his chest and hunched over, face not visible.
Oh my god.
Truffles ran forward in panic, scanning where Diablo's wound would be. He pressed the vest the assassin wore to check for damage; a bullet— the same bullet he had been shot with— fell off of him with no blood visible. Diablo's huffing turning to chuckling, then into full blown cackling as he laughed manically. It was cut off by raspy coughing, his lungs still not recovered entirely from his sickness. He dusted his vest off and knocked on its exterior.
"Bullet—"

He caught himself by his own broken sentence structure, pointing at Truffles whom stood in a stupor and then to the sky with victory. Warren and Flippy didn't move, their eyes wide with disbelief at what they were witnessing.

"—A bulletproof vest. Haha!"

Warren pointed his gun again, furiously shaking at the assassin's escape from death. He seethed in place, gripping his pistol harder than ever and in the direction of Diablo's skull.
"Lemme test to see if your fuckin' head is bulletproof next!"

"Don't."
Flippy stepped in front of the gun's barrel, blocking him.
"It wasn't him."

"Ursidae, goddamnit! Why are you defendin' that piece of shit?"
The sergeant's ears stood upright with anger. He motioned with his gun, but the bear didn't move.