The Objective
I crouch in wait, my body tense, coiled and ready to spring.
I was given one objective; to kill Him. I spent a lifetime of training for this single job. And now, for the fifth time, He is here.
He stands and talks and laughs like the happiest man on earth. Would His countenance change if he knew that in just a few short moments, He will be dead? Perhaps not; he's a narcissistic son of a bachelor with no conscience and no fear. Perhaps that is why the Master wants his dead so badly.
He nods his head to the grinning shark-of-a-man who he calls his friend and sets his champagne flute on the table. He straightens his tie and turns his footsteps towards the mark.
I move silently, like the shadow that I am. I have no name, no history, no purpose except to kill the Man.
The Man moves next to the mark. I wait.
He pauses, I can see a glimmer of a smirk curling his lips upwards.
He straightens his back, slips his tail coat off.
And sidesteps onto the mark.
My body reacts before I realize that He must have been waiting for me. I leap forward, dropping towards him from my perch from the ladder in the window, my body poised to wrap around his so I can get easily into position.
As my body makes contact with His, a searing, read hot pain explodes through my chest, sending me flailing back. I recover quickly, and find Him facing me, an ego-maniacal grin twisting His comely features.
"Old man never gives up, does he?" He laughs.
My fingers wrap around the hilt of my dagger as I lunge forward again. He easily deflects me, laughing as He shoves me forward into a potted plant nearby.
I faceplant into the pottery, sputtering as I hurry to right myself, spitting out mint and dirt as I regain my bearings.
He hasn't attacked me. He stands on his mark, His body ready to defend but He seems far too relaxed for someone who's just been pounced on by an assassin. Perhaps it's the throbbing in my face, or perhaps it's the sudden rise of temperature in the room, but I cannot seem to think clearly enough to figure out what feels so off here.
All I can think of is killing Him.
I circle Him, our eyes lock in a deadly contest of wills. Everything about His body language is daring me to attack; a sign that I most certainly should not attack.
But that goes against my primary directive. I was born, raised, and taught to do nothing else but kill the Man. I am a machine built to instill fear in his cold, black heart before I sink my poisoned dagger through it. But here I am, facing off against Him at last, and he's not only not afraid, He's laughing at me, taunting me, daring me to fight him.
He might kill me. As insane as He looks, it's probable that He will.
But killing Him is the only point to my life.
So I lunge forward again, my heart pounding so hard that my chest aches.
He deflects me, I expect it this time.
I spin around behind him, nearly slicing his elbow with my near-perfect stab, he barely manages to evade, now he looks a little more concerned.
Now he's lunging for me, his fist nearly connects with my head, I jerk to the side, then quickly dart behind him.
My head is starting to spin from the heat in the room, but I cannot let it stop me. I leap towards his exposed back, latching myself firmly onto him as he flails, clutching tightly to my dagger while I gather my bearings again.
Suddenly, I feel him stumble backwards, then my back connects with the wall, sending a searing pain through my chest and into my lungs. Fire shoots through me as the air in my lungs is abruptly and forcefully expelled.
Before I'm able to catch my breath, we collide with the wall again. My body screams at me to drop and catch my breath, but I clung tighter still.
A third crash, my hands give out and my only weapon clatters to the floor. He kicks it away, His hands wrap around my arms, and He wrenches me loose. I hear an unearthly scream rip from my own throat as He shoves me to the floor. Within seconds, I'm debilitated and laying on my back. His knee presses into my throat, nearly cutting off my limited, and badly needed, air supply.
"You would be wise to forget you ever saw me," He growls. Not a single drop of sweat can be seen on his body; the only sign He was even fighting is His slightly askew tie, and the fire in His eyes.
I gurgle in response. My body begins to flail of it's own accord, thanks in part to the lack of life-sustaining air. His knee lifts from my throat, and the sudden flood of sweet, clear air flooding my lungs makes me dizzy.
"You understand, I cannot simply let you walk away from my home," He says it as if He's giving me the most obvious and boring fact on the planet, "I'm so sorry for this. Don't worry, you'll understand better in time."
His fingers press into the side of my neck before I can fight back, and the world goes black.
I was given one objective; to kill Him. I spent a lifetime of training for this single job. And now, for the fifth time, He is here.
He stands and talks and laughs like the happiest man on earth. Would His countenance change if he knew that in just a few short moments, He will be dead? Perhaps not; he's a narcissistic son of a bachelor with no conscience and no fear. Perhaps that is why the Master wants his dead so badly.
He nods his head to the grinning shark-of-a-man who he calls his friend and sets his champagne flute on the table. He straightens his tie and turns his footsteps towards the mark.
I move silently, like the shadow that I am. I have no name, no history, no purpose except to kill the Man.
The Man moves next to the mark. I wait.
He pauses, I can see a glimmer of a smirk curling his lips upwards.
He straightens his back, slips his tail coat off.
And sidesteps onto the mark.
My body reacts before I realize that He must have been waiting for me. I leap forward, dropping towards him from my perch from the ladder in the window, my body poised to wrap around his so I can get easily into position.
As my body makes contact with His, a searing, read hot pain explodes through my chest, sending me flailing back. I recover quickly, and find Him facing me, an ego-maniacal grin twisting His comely features.
"Old man never gives up, does he?" He laughs.
My fingers wrap around the hilt of my dagger as I lunge forward again. He easily deflects me, laughing as He shoves me forward into a potted plant nearby.
I faceplant into the pottery, sputtering as I hurry to right myself, spitting out mint and dirt as I regain my bearings.
He hasn't attacked me. He stands on his mark, His body ready to defend but He seems far too relaxed for someone who's just been pounced on by an assassin. Perhaps it's the throbbing in my face, or perhaps it's the sudden rise of temperature in the room, but I cannot seem to think clearly enough to figure out what feels so off here.
All I can think of is killing Him.
I circle Him, our eyes lock in a deadly contest of wills. Everything about His body language is daring me to attack; a sign that I most certainly should not attack.
But that goes against my primary directive. I was born, raised, and taught to do nothing else but kill the Man. I am a machine built to instill fear in his cold, black heart before I sink my poisoned dagger through it. But here I am, facing off against Him at last, and he's not only not afraid, He's laughing at me, taunting me, daring me to fight him.
He might kill me. As insane as He looks, it's probable that He will.
But killing Him is the only point to my life.
So I lunge forward again, my heart pounding so hard that my chest aches.
He deflects me, I expect it this time.
I spin around behind him, nearly slicing his elbow with my near-perfect stab, he barely manages to evade, now he looks a little more concerned.
Now he's lunging for me, his fist nearly connects with my head, I jerk to the side, then quickly dart behind him.
My head is starting to spin from the heat in the room, but I cannot let it stop me. I leap towards his exposed back, latching myself firmly onto him as he flails, clutching tightly to my dagger while I gather my bearings again.
Suddenly, I feel him stumble backwards, then my back connects with the wall, sending a searing pain through my chest and into my lungs. Fire shoots through me as the air in my lungs is abruptly and forcefully expelled.
Before I'm able to catch my breath, we collide with the wall again. My body screams at me to drop and catch my breath, but I clung tighter still.
A third crash, my hands give out and my only weapon clatters to the floor. He kicks it away, His hands wrap around my arms, and He wrenches me loose. I hear an unearthly scream rip from my own throat as He shoves me to the floor. Within seconds, I'm debilitated and laying on my back. His knee presses into my throat, nearly cutting off my limited, and badly needed, air supply.
"You would be wise to forget you ever saw me," He growls. Not a single drop of sweat can be seen on his body; the only sign He was even fighting is His slightly askew tie, and the fire in His eyes.
I gurgle in response. My body begins to flail of it's own accord, thanks in part to the lack of life-sustaining air. His knee lifts from my throat, and the sudden flood of sweet, clear air flooding my lungs makes me dizzy.
"You understand, I cannot simply let you walk away from my home," He says it as if He's giving me the most obvious and boring fact on the planet, "I'm so sorry for this. Don't worry, you'll understand better in time."
His fingers press into the side of my neck before I can fight back, and the world goes black.
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