" Mm," He hummed, frowning slightly at the compromise he had to settle with. It was fair though. Akira seemed like the type who hated anyone rummaging around through his inventions, for fear that they will be ruined and tarnished. It was the same as he giving a book he wrote to an editor who will turn all the sentences and words around, changing every carefully choses word with another sub-par one. The result will not be his own work, but a bastardised version of his creation. Burn it.
But prototypes it was then, though he would feel a lot more comfortable shooting the weapon if he had studied the completed, perfect version of it. Still, for politeness’ sake, he will not argue with the kid. He didn’t feel like speaking any more any way.
He handed the rifle to him and took two steps back, folded his arms across his chest as he watched Akira position himself and the gun in preparation to shoot. He studied the kid’s posture, the way his back and his neck was straightened as his arms brought the rifle up into his line of sight. He could not see his eyes, now hidden from his view by the scope. He wished he could, to simply see if he could find the same creature he had in Akira.
One shot and Derrek turned his head to peer through the dark and to the targets in the horizon. He couldn’t see where exactly the bullet hit, but one of the targets was now missing a head and a little laugh threatened to escape his lips.
He looked back at Akira, and gave a small nod, his faint smile showing approval.
Good, at least the kid knew how to fire a rifle.
But he hasn’t killed yet.
That’s easily remedied though.
He stepped towards him, ” Enough.. I’ll bring the guns into London in the morning,” He said, his voice quiet as ever, barely above a whisper, ” And I’ll spend the night in your library.. If you don’t mind,”
Akira gave him a blank look, followed by a slight nod at Derrek's affirmation. He briefly turned his head to look once more but there's nothing to be looked at now. Muffled words of his grandfather echoed in his head but alas, he set it aside and glanced back at his companion. "Of course." Again, he nodded slightly, this time, a small smirk forming upon his lips. He wasn't necessarily too keen on garnering an approval of a someone--or a somebody, for that matter--despite the fact that he grew up in an environment which required a person to do any means possible just for an approval.
Then again, he wasn't---he had always been different. But, he did feel some sort of pride; maybe, the similitude between Derrek and his grandfather was merely a fine line, considering that his grandfather was one of those few people Akira felt compelled to impress.
His free hand on his pocket, he turned his back around but not before saying, "Whatever appeases you." Then started walking ahead of his companion (he knew he'd follow anyway--and caught up on him), the rifle just rested casually on his shoulder.
"By the way," he suddenly stopped on his tracks, peering over at his shoulder, "The answer lies in the tragedy of a mad king--underneath. I hope you won't find it uncomfortable, however." In which, he scoffed lightly as he continued his way back home.
A sleep was direly needed after such an exhilarating day, after all.
He hummed in reply to Akira’s comment and pulled the safety on before running a hand over the barrel of the rifle, studying it once again, ” You do know… That it will mean you’re giving me permission to disassemble it,” He looked at the kid, ” I want to know how every piece of it works,” He peered through the darkness again, seeing only the faintest indicator of the line of targets in the distance.
The guns were good, and in the right hands they were perfect, but that skill can only be mastered through years of training and experience. He knew the kindly man would have the needed experience and more, and perhaps even Gabriel, but as for the rest, he cannot say for certain. That was dangerous. So long as there is a weak link, they could easily be compromised, found, and killed.
" Here," He handed the rifle to Akira, " Try it,"
" A thousand meters over there," He said, watching him.
Akira stared at man before him, raising an eyebrow, to see if he was joking or not. Apparently, he wasn't. Derrek and humour seemed to be an odd pairing or quality to be interchanged. "I can provide you the blueprint if you want." He replied, knowing that his companion would insist to do so but it's better to give an alternative. He was just never fond of someone fiddling with his creations; not that they would copy it--as if they could--but rather, it wouldn't be the same anymore..."Also, I still have the prototypes." He added coolly, smirking. "Those, you can definitely disassemble. I wouldn't mind."
He gave Derrek a passing look then back at the rifle. Akira reached out his left hand and took it from Derrek. This was a test, wasn't it? Perhaps, an assurance that he was more than valuable in their what so-called organisation instead of liability. Akira would have laughed at this sentiment but then it wasn't in his character to express such emotion. He then positioned himself, taking a step backward from his companion. He took another glance at the rifle, his fingers tracing the nuzzle, the contours, he felt pride and assurance. He raised the rifle gently, shifting his weight to the left side.
A thousand metres...
He was walking by the alley, head bowed down--his thoughts lingered on something else. His bodyguard was walking before him, eyes trained to almost every angle, wary of their surroundings. It was quiet and almost dusk. Their footsteps seemed to match the rhythm of a normal heartbeat. Serene...they're almost at the car.
Three: He clicked the trigger...the silence broke; his bodyguard fell to the ground. There were spatters of blood everywhere: his white shirt now crimson, droplets of blood dripping from his glasses, his pale face finally had colour. Akira looked up at the source of the gunshot. No one was there but an open window..
Akira regained his composure, smirking to himself. He rested the rifle in his shoulder and stared at the darkness, awaiting for Derrek's response.
That was a good range, though he wondered how far will he be able to push it. The ache in his fingers were maddening. He wanted an actual target now, a real man, flesh and blood on the other end of his scope. He took a breath to calm the excitement in his stomach, but it only just took the edge off it. He narrowed his eyes again, only seeing the white border of the targets, and he guessed that there were a dozen of them, set at different ranges, and there were two which looked to be further than the 1.4 kilometers that Akira had said was the rifle’s efficient range. Some were hidden by trees, a good obstacle and challenge for him.
He watched the kid step past him to sit on the boulder, pulling out a bar of chocolate as soon as he settled in his place. That looked strange, Akira who was so monotone, so unemotional, who was now eating a bar of expensive chocolate. It made him look like a child, more so than he already is. However, even as he chewed, he showed no pleasure in it, no smile of satisfaction, not even then shadow of one. His face remained flat and empty and Derrek knew that the kid he had met was still there and not transported away by a sweet.
He positioned himself a few feet from Akira and his boulder and judged that the wind was blowing West, which will cause his bullet to veer off its course slightly. Still, his fingers were impatient and he quickly chose a target, some 900 meters away; a good starting point, then the three targets after that, getting further and further away. He released the safety and brought the rifle up, bringing the scope into his line of sight. The night vision on the scope allowed him to see his target clearly, and he aimed for the head, quickly aligning his sight and focusing on the darkened silhouette.
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One.
Two.
Three.
Then, there was silence. Three shots were fired. Three people were dead. Blood pooled the soil, tarnishing it with its scarlet colour. Three bodies fell on the floor: the process of necrosis had already begun--it was a perfect death. Their thoughts were no longer incomprehensible--it was the first to be extinguished. Even in their grave, they were no longer sentient but merely a container--a malfunctioned container.
Akira drew a brief smile in his lips. The chocolate melted quickly in his mouth: sweet--too sweet. His palate was never fond of sweets yet he insisted himself to consume it:
He was sitting by the window sill, book in his hand; the wind caressing his face: serene and relaxing. The door creaked, entered a girl around his age. Her footsteps echoed the room: small yet in a rush. She called his name as she sat beside him. His eyes trained on the book as she spoke: half-listening, half-unaware. Wrapped in crimson and black, a bar of chocolate was blocking his sight all of sudden. He lifted his chin, met her eyes, and finally took the bar from her small hands.
It was their first meeting.
Taking the last bite of his chocolate, he hopped off the boulder and walked towards Derrek. He eyed the three dummies that his visitor had shot: all of them unrecognisable now. He reminded himself to replace them as soon as possible, anticipating the busier days to come rather sooner. Then, his eyes hovered over the closest and most visible of the three.
The shot was precise, accurate, and lethal. It was a sign of remorselessness laced with excitement for spillage of blood. This man, Derrek, was born and honed to be a killer, Akira presumed--he was intrigued further. (He wondered what the skills of his other comrades were...but surely, they must be the most adept in their field,too. The only common ground was that, they all were trained in the art of death...)
"Fascinating," he exclaimed though his voice still monotonous. "It seems that it has found a new wielder." he added, peering at Derrek through his periphery. "You may keep it if you want." he shrugged, hands in his pockets as he turned back to stare at the darkness.
He followed Akira, carrying the rifle in his hands, feeling, once again, the weight and balance of the gun. It was light and it was good if he needed to move or change positions. After a moment, he glanced up from the gun to the kid infront of him, and noticed that his steps fell quicker, more excited and he could understand that. The pride of a creator, and he supposed that it was akin to what parents feel about their perfect children, though Derrek wondered if he would feel the same about his children if he ever decided to have any as he felt about his books, and prose, and his skill in killing. He didn’t think so.
They came to a door larger than the one that they had met a few minutes ago, and on the other side, he saw a tunnel. The walls were not as clean cut as the tunels before. He could smell the rust and the dirt and he thought that perhaps this was an older tunnel, less used, more secret. Still, this was not a time for questions and the curiosity in his mind was offset by the ache in his fingers as he felt the cool, sleek metal beneath
them.
They stepped through the door and Derrek had to bend his neck a fraction to avoid the top of his head touching the ceiling. They walked for what felt about a minute until they came to a ladder, rusted but still strong by the looks of it, leading to a trap door Akira opened as he climbed upwards. Derrek shifted the gun to one hand and reached up for Akira to take it from his hand while he climbed. When he pulled himself up from the door, he let his eyes adjust and looked around.
He saw a dark forest bordering a space the breadth of a football field and a length that he guessed was a few miles, perhaps more, and at the end of it, he saw several targets, lined up in a row, while the full moon hovered over the tips of the trees,
It was perfect.
He pulled his legs out and pushed himself up to his feet, and once the rifle was returned to his hands he started to make his way to a position on this end of the field, “Effective range?”
Closing his eyes, Akira let the wind to caress his face: gentle and soothing. It was so ironic how such a serene place would soon be clouded with the fumes of smoke and be disturbed by gunshots but it was necessary. Serenity never lasted that long in reality anyway; often, it always occurred either prior or after life. Akira believed more in the latter though: death was serenity.
The line between death and serenity was a fine line, almost incomprehensible. Once a man would reach the end of their time, they'd be at peace...No more sufferings, nor pains. No pretences to be dealt with and moreover, solace...
"1400 metres but it depends on the weather conditions. The scope has a night vision." he explained, opening his eyes before walking behind Derrek, his hands inside his pocket as he stared at the darkness of the forest. "Also, the effectiveness of the weapon relies on the user; if you are an expert, it won't be an arduous task. If not, then might as well use an ordinary one. It ruins the essence of the weapon." he continued, feeling rather tired after he spoke. He seemed to have spoken too much; hence, he strode closer to the boulders nearest to him and seated himself.
(He remembered the time he spent creating his inventions; the amount of time he researched and the determination he had. From this, he suddenly remembered his time in the armaments department. The department he's in was often dubbed as 'classified'--too dangerous to be released in the public. Akira didn't understand this before but now, he was starting to get the grasp of it. Perhaps, his creations were meant for something greater--a chaotic event.)
Pulling out a bar of chocolate from his pocket, Akira glanced at Derrek's half-illuminated face then at the targets hidden behind the trees. "Wind has a velocity of 30 mph W. Temperature will drop at 13 degrees Celsius." he announced before taking a bite of his chocolate, waiting for Derrek to begin.
The man turned towards the sound of her voice and Leonette felt the corners of her lips pull up slightly wider. It was always nice to be acknowledged, she knew that sometimes people just ignored help or made them run for one outfit or the other. She had been forced to work with such customers before, after all, and now that she was older and much more confident (and less conservative about dropping her name) in herself, she sometimes took the difficult customers, to spare the girls some embarrassment, if anything. He looked like the kind of man her mother would want her to bring home for dinner, the constant suggestion to marry someone ‘within the community’ rang in her ears and she pushed forward, taking a few steps till she could comfortable shake his hand without having to stretch over a rack of clothes.
She didn’t want him to think that she found him unattractive or anything. It was quite the opposite really. He had soft hands, cool to touch and Leonette felt a shiver run down her spine, though she still had her jacket on. “Mr. Radcliffe. My name is Leonette, I hope I can be of assistance.” she said with a nod. Having a bit more experience in this area helped sometimes. He seemed young enough to brush off the use of his last name, and he dressed well enough that Leonette wondered what exactly this Cedrick Radcliffe did. It was not her place to ask though, but she made a note to Google his name up, to see if he was anyone important.
“Well, let’s get started. Is it your first time at Fossoways?” She couldn’t remember seeing him here, but then again, Leonette only visited once a month, sometimes twice but only if her mother was around. “We have a brand new collection of menswear that my…,” Here, she paused. Leonette didn’t want to brag or anything, she wasn’t one to simply say ‘my father’ to get things done a bit quicker. She only used that for emergencies. “-that we’re been promoting.” she adds on quickly, slipping on a smile and hoping that he didn’t catch the momentary pause.
The girl affront him introduced herself as Leonette. Dark hair, petite, and seemingly a Eurasian--her features told him so. Cedrick gave her a warm smile and a curt nod--as what he had learnt from the woman. Her hand felt warm against his, though it was tensed a bit. "A pleasure, Leonette." He retracted his hand gently, putting it inside his pocket.
(He still wasn't used to contact; even a mere handshake could make him uncomfortable. It seemed that he needed more time of getting used to it. Being socially open and embracing the doctrines he never really cared for until now seemed to be quite a feat he needed to adapt on immediately)
"Maybe. Maybe not." he shrugged lightly. "My colleagues told me of the high class standards of your boutique; they told me that whenever they wear your brand it seems as if they stand-out." he smiled charmingly, walking pass by her towards the suit section. "Though, they also mentioned that it's a bit pricey." he smirked, his fingers gently tracing the seam of the suits. "But I don't mind the price so long as it piques my interest." he said unperturbedly, glancing at her over his shoulder to see her reaction.
(Impression: that was important--it had always been. It was one of the things that could assure survival and all classifications of it, he learnt and 'meant' to accomplish from such a young age: an inevitable task he was abound to fulfil, ever since.)
Cedrick noticed the hesitation in her words, making him to quirk a brow. He suddenly reminded himself to be more affable lest that his sudden appearance or approach rendered her anxious or overwhelmed. He wasn't the one to understand body language but he saw it in her eyes. Smiling with reassurance, he nodded, "Might I see this new collection of yours then" he raised his hand, gesturing her to lead the way.
maybe i'm a different breed // leonette & squinter // 23rd september
After all the murders that had happened in the past week, Leonette didn’t feel quite safe being alone for long periods of time. Sunday, being her most uneventful day of the week, lead her to feeling a little bit melancholy for the days when she used to have what little she had of a social life. Working for Garlan had changed that. Somehow she stopped being a good friend and a good daughter in the past three years and her friends stopped calling. There was always the occasional email informing her of yet another daughter that someone wanted her to be godmother of, or an old school reunion, but it wasn’t the daily texting and giggling over cellphones anymore.
(The only people she ever really spoke to on the phone nowadays had to be the Tyrells and some of the staff at TMC)
Perhaps it was that same loneliness that lead her to seek company at her father’s boutique. If anyone asked, it was nearing the end of the month anyway, and her routine visit was due in a day or two. No one could ever accuse her of actually being lonely (or needy) then. Still, her father wasn’t in the women’s section and neither was he in the men’s, and her visit seemed almost pointless if it wasn’t for the few girls that greeted her and tried to strike up a conversation.
In the midst of one about the weather (honestly, to talk about the weather when more interesting things were happening) and her sister who had a bad cold that actually turned out to be something serious, Leonette’s eye caught sight of someone walking into the store and she excused herself politely, crossing over to the men’s section with a ready smile. Hopefully this customer was more interesting. “Hello, welcome to Fossoways. How may I help you?”
Several days had passed after his mission ended. The entire country was still in the midst of panic and confusion. Though, for him, he couldn't care about it; he didn't see any purpose why he should. What's done was done and there's no need for pretensions. Sympathy? Grief? Panic? He never felt those; rather, only a void of apathy and somehow, pride as he finished the mission given upon him.
And as an incentive for his accomplishment, he decided to venture into the high streets of London. It was more of a routine he had been accustomed to--trained to do. At a very young age, his mother had instilled him the refined teaching of the affluent. His manners and of course, his clothing were all taught to him. The classical conditioning of his mother (such an intimate word to use yet render no meaningful implications to him) had found him adapting these doctrines. He had to dress to complement his personality and the usual 'to make an impression'. It was a bad habit but as they said, bad habits were hard to break. Thus, he adapted it, unwillingly, and abound by it until his death.
Brow raised, he stopped walking and stood yonder in front of a boutique. Fossoways. The woman spoke of their creations endlessly (and she even had a collection of their dresses); so was he and his now dead father, some of their suits were of this designer name. Not too flashy, nor too simplistic, it's exactly how he wanted it. He reached out for the knob and pushed the door ajar.
His eyes lingered about the boutique. Fastidious and elegant infrastructure greeted him. His mother--the woman--had an exquisite taste and he gave her credit for that. As he was about to make his way towards their newly arrived collection, he heard a voice from behind. Female. Turning on his heel, he appraised her nonchalantly. She was of average height, a mixture of Asian descent, dainty yet graceful looking. He extended his hand, a polite smile forming up on his lips. He wasn't Akira Park now; nor Squinter. Identities he needed to keep in secrecy due to self - preservation. Akira Park for his old life and Squinter for the Faceless, but he was facing neither so a new name must be used to hide the enigma: a reminder from his mentor.
"Cedrick Radcliffe. A pleasure." New identity, new personality. A stranger to his reality. "And help will be truly welcome." A very strange change indeed.
The devil is not as black as he is painted | squinter: one - shot | 19th of september
He had always been fond of games.
They said games were merely childish imageries.
Though, they were wrong; they always were.
---------------------------------
18:30 pm
The smell of oil and salt lingered in the air as though oxygen had been replaced. He could feel the heat emanating from the engines surrounding them. It was suffocating as though it filled the lungs with poisonous chemicals: a slow death. He coughed lightly and wrinkled his noise; all actions were done in a rather pretence manner. He looked around once he heard the engines roar in unison almost deafening that he wondered how these workers managed to do their jobs--every day; a white noise it had become, he concluded, the sound of the roaring engines. Like their own breathing, it had become part of their lives: menial.
That’s good, his thoughts added on. Good for them. It was not of sympathy, nor disdain.
Pushing his glasses back to its place, he scrutinised his surroundings once again. People are busy; busy with whatever they are assigned to do. Though, he set aside the thoughts for it was not his business; he could not care less, and so they were to him. Besides, why would they? He was merely an intern and held no vital importance in this oil rig; not to mention, today would be his last day in this hell hole—and he preferred it that way: might as well leave without an impression or a trace.
He glanced at this watch, it was almost time.
The bell rang.
Silence briefly filled the air; the engines stopped and the workers gathered together as they made their way towards the exit.
A job well done for today but for him, he was just starting.
He walked with the crowd, blending in. His head bowed down, trained in the ground. Hands in his pockets, he made sure that everything was ready.
Upon reaching the exit, instead, he diverted his way to a flight of stairs.
Second level. Third. Then, the fourth.
He grabbed the knob and peeked through the empty halls.
No one was around except for one.
He slid his way towards vacant corridor, quickening his pace. He took out a syringe from his pocket, flicked its barrel gently with his fingers.
Training his eyes on his victim, he grabbed the old man’s collar and stabbed him with the syringe, pushed the plunger down, as soon as the man tried to fight back; it was futile, however: the drug was already running in his veins, slowly but assuredly.
------------------
Gylbert Farwynd remained lying on the ground, his eyes dilating and his body convulsing.
Akira smirked, putting back the syringe on his pocket, and pulled out a strange looking coin.
He brought it closer to his eyes, studying the intricacy and the words embedded on it which only meant one thing: death.
Squatting, Akira tilted his head to the side and flipped the coin. Heads or tails, the coin landed in his victim’s unconscious body, the probability remained unknown so was the fate of the perpetrator.
As the body stopped moving, merely breathing, he fixed his latex gloves and grabbed the collar of his prey, dragging the body to a nearby window.
With his free hand, he opened the window and felt the strong wind billowing. He flinched, smirking, and then laid the unconscious body the sill.
“Say your last words now.”
Silence.
He shrugged then kicked the body, letting it fall from the window.
Height, gravity, force, friction, and the biological factors only implied one thing: death.
He took a gander at the defenestrated body. Akira knew that his prey’s head would hit the ground first and his calculations were proven to be right. Blood started to paint the ground crimson, coagulating immediately; the helpless body looked as though it was being drown: oil and blood, such a wonderful component of death.
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