You’re an infamous assassin who's done enough killing. But the day you go to retire, a guy with alabaster skin wearing a dark suit turns up inside your home. All this time, you thought you did it for money. Turns out even Death has field agents and he’s not accepting your resignation.
Double Tap to Death
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The room was silent.
Ronan stood, looking at the figure in front of him. He lived alone, this was one of his safe houses, in fact all of his houses were safe houses, not having a permanent residence when he started up his profession.
Now retired, planning on setting up roots somewhere warm, full of beaches to walk along and colourful fruity drink to quench his thirst created by the beaming sun.
No one should have known he was here, he worked alone, and though he had been seen by a number of neighbours, but to them, he was simply a new homeowner who appeared to work a lot that they had not had a chance to get to know yet other than simple smiles, waves and nods, and now, this was either an interesting joke, or Death was truly in his house.
If it were the latter, he always thought at some point he would have to dance with death, but this was not what he had in mind.
Death reached into its robe and pulled out a letter and threw it onto the coffee table, Ronan looking down quickly at the letter, he didn’t need to pick it up, it was his resignation letter he had sent into ‘The Company’.
And now it was on his coffee table, with an unwelcomed guest.
Ronan didn’t say anything, what could he say, what did you say to Death when he was in your house appearing to throw your resignation back at you.
Slow, deep, measured breaths, remain calm, he had not managed to do what he had done, been able to achieve all he could, without remaining calm no matter the situation.
Death stood up, walked past Ronan, “Your resignation has not been accepted, get ready, your next job will be arriving soon,” he spoke in a deep echoey voice, Ronan felt a shiver down his spine, it was as if Death was speaking in surround, as if its voice were coming from all directions of the room.
Death kept on walking, Ronan, seamlessly, quickly, quietly, pulled the gun out from its holster under his armpit, the moon light streaming in through the window catching the smooth extended barrel of the silencer at the end of his pistol.
There were two quick and silent high-pitched breaths of air as Ronan fired two bullets into the back of Deaths head.
Everything was on instinct, instinct to mortal danger, everything in him screaming for Death to fall, for Death to collapse in a heap on the ground as so many others did at his hand.
The visions off all those that had gotten to close to finding out who he was, all those he had had to take out, the ghostly figures falling to their knees, some falling forward, some to the side.
For a moment he thought how interesting it was, how different bodies fell based on the floor and their mechanics.
But Death still stood.
Ronan, suddenly feel a sharp pain in his stomach, his eyes casting down to see Death’s Scythe sicking out from his stomach.
Pain.
Fear.
Confusion.
His thoughts all rushing around at once, his eyes cast up as Death stood right in front of him, taking a hold of his Scythe he pulled it out of him making him convulse.
But as soon as it was removed, all the pain was gone, he felt fine.
His hand slowly moving over the former location of the wound, lifting it, expecting to see it covered in blood, but there was none to be found.
“You’re done when I say you’re done,” said Death once more, the voice coming from everywhere, Ronan looked up and once again, he was alone, no one else in his house.
Ronan collapsed into one of the seats, wondering if it was all a dream, wondering if it was his imagination. But his resignation was on the coffee table, his gun, the faint whiff of the all too familiar smell of a discharged weapon.
He looked at the gun, ‘Death would decide when he was done,’ he contemplated as he stared at his pistol.
