"Darkness my guardian angel, protect me in this trying time until I can see the light again." [???]
The words are rehearsed monotonously as if they had been played from a tape recorder. Two silhouettes are barely visible in the now fading light of the Arabian twilight: a statue with a box strapped on its back and a lump lying on the flat roof. Minutes pass and neither move from the stucco building's box shaped roof. More time passes quietly, the statue moves. A single, measured movement of the head, barely perceptible to the human eye. The lump remains still. Another two excruciating minutes pass. Liquid begins to creep off the stucco building's roof onto the cramped street below.
-Drip, Drip, Drip-
I knew what I had done, I killed again. The slumped man had drowned in his own blood minutes earlier. In fact, warm lifeforce still flows from his body. Without this man, the mission becomes a simple assasination job. A simple job for a simple killer such as myself. A nice, calming, worry-free job that will likely lead to a war before the night is out. As I am thinking such, a crackling sound invades my ear. A few concise words later and the crackling ends. Of course, I respond.
"Reaper 9. Roger." [Reaper 9]
These words left in a whisper as quiet as the rustling wind.
I begin to move again.
The night scenery of the city was stimulating, offering me freedom from the shackles daylight provided. Old adobe buildings characteristic of Mecca's slums flew by under my feet. The hubbub that is only too natural for a city is ever present, relaxing in a way. Comforting. A slightly acrid stench wafts up from the ground, but the smell lessens as I move. Narrow, dirty streets are easily jumped.
'The blood is hidden by the filth and grime on the street.' [Reaper 9]
The random, albeit vital, thought flits through my head. With the help of the grimy streets, dripping blood is less likely to be found by a simple passerby. A necessary detail for people in my line of work.
'The body remains on the roof since the man chose the highest building in the area to scout for me. He must have been recently employed. A novice.' [Reaper 9]
Another two details that are important : one good and one slightly worrying. On one side, a hidden body can buy time for minimal risk of discovery. The dead man's skill as a hired assassin or guard, however, proved disconcerting to me. Why was a small detail like this worrying me? Simply put, I don't quite know.
Soon, the streets became wider, cleaner, and a few people could be seen bustling about or conducting business. Prostitutes, for the most part, were dotted along the roads dressed in skimpy silk gowns and lathered in excessive amounts of makeup. Other figures could be spotted on the bustling streets: merchants, drunks, and simple passersby. Nothing to be worried over and, as I thought, no one noticed the dark dressed shadow of a man glide over them. No one bothered to simply look up.
'Torchlight. 1 kilometer to my 10 o'clock. 6 torches visible. 12 men. Estimated 60 total, both inside and outside. Unaware.' [Reaper 9]
This was the second time I breathed an actual sigh of relief tonight. After all, a guard duty comprised of less than 75 seemingly ignorant men is child's play for someone of my caliber. Considering that each person was allocated a single patrol partner, the mansion needed to be patrolled both inside and outside, and they held their torches in front of their faces, my job was all but finished. All I needed to do was pull a lever and confirm the death of another supposedly corrupt politician.
500 meters.
250 meters.
100 meters.
My pace slows and my body instinctively hunches over.
50 meters.
Arriving at my destination, a thin tower bordering the mansion's compound, I begin to climb. Sweat and grit soon coat my fingers making the holds on the bell tower precarious; however, the 70 meter climb ends swiftly. Arriving at the bell tower's roof, a feeling of uncertainty nags my mind, but I can't get a grasp on what is causing the uncertainty. Ignoring the bad feeling pooling in the pit of my stomach, I instead conduct a search of my immediate surroundings.
'The walls are all equally weathered, dust remains on the floor of the bell tower showing no footsteps, the surrounding buildings are nowhere near high enough for counter snipers to gain a suitable line of sight on me… what else.' [Reaper 9]
The uncomfortable feeling remains fixated in my mind.
"Fuuuh… haah." [Reaper 9]
'Deep breathes. Take your time and check everything. Leave nothing to chance.' [Reaper 9]
The plan was already set for me after all, there should be no reason or cause to panic now. Seamlessly, I proceed with preparations. Primarily, assembling my deconstructed bolt action rifle. Optics and attachments for the mission have already been selected and tuned for the appropriate range. Glancing at the lightly sparkling mansion across the street, I confirm my view of the inner courtyard and the target's quarters.
'What was his name again? Ah well, it doesn't matter. I get the job and I get my pay with no questions asked.' [Reaper 9]
In my mind, this is all I'm good for. Being an emotionless, questionless, cold-blooded killer that can accomplish anything. That is what it means to be a Reaper.
With preparations finished, the rifle is leveled towards the third floor of the mansion. The target's room is the second door from the right. Reaper knows this. He studied the large complex countless times before the mission commenced. He also knew of a maid who, out of desperation, would consistently sneak into the lavish room once per week during the guard switch to pilfer an insignificant trinket. She was most likely attempting to feed her family; however, in the short window of time the room's door was open, a sprawling bed with lace drapes could be seen containing a small lump on top. All Reaper had to do was wait and pull.
The job was simplistic in its own right. Two simple steps and the shot was less than 200 meters with minimal wind resistance. The guards couldn't see far due to their torches and most were lax due to an invisible, ghostly strength of numbers, but, in the end, a ghost remained a ghost: immaterial and nonexistent.
"Maybe numbers are an entity." [Reaper 9]
Fortunately, my nerves had cooled down sufficiently thanks to a trusted feeling of cold metal gracing my gloved hands. To the right, of the target's bedroom door, a young woman in a dress confidently trotted along the aisle. She was the maid I was waiting to see.
'There it is. The scapegoat of the operation.' [Reaper 9]
My mind empties. I breathe deeply, relax my body, train my sights, and fall still. The door glides open. My finger glides smoothly across the trigger. A light appears beneath me.
'Guns don't emit light.' [Reaper 9]
My instincts begin roaring at my mind. It was too late. The strangely blinding light envelops my view. Strangely, I still think calmly in front of the superficial situation.
'Is this where my reign of terror ends? Is this where the Reaper stops? Am I dead?' [Reaper 9]
Tranquil thoughts slowly filter through my mind and then I remember something I had forgotten since I was 10. The two words I had lost since becoming a Reaper. A name. Dmitriy Vellin. The name of the youngest assassin Russia has ever produced. My name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What happened?!" [???]
"Oh, nothing. Nothing you should worry yourself over." [???]
"No, something big definitely happened. Wait… Don't tell me you were messing with space time again." [???]
"Maybe. Hey don't stare at me like th…" [???]
"How many." [???]
"Pardon?" [???]
"How many slipped through." [???]
"One that I know of." [???]
-sigh-
"... They better hope you linked your experiment elsewhere." [???]