The Birdwatcher (The Jackal/Rasmus)
A single black stork takes flight, soaring across the dark blue dusk of the outskirts of Tallinn, Estonia. It had just rained; a typical, dreary Baltic night.
Perched on a nearby rooftop, the Jackal briefly took his binoculars off the shiny, modern venue he had been spying on, and turned to the birdās path of flight.
He followed closely with the binoculars its slender neck and long body, gliding into the distance. The black stork is a rare sighting this far north in Europe, especially close to the city, so he was lucky to have seen one tonight.
But then again, the Jackal thought, it is the start of migration season. So perhaps luck didnāt have much to do with it, he had simply showed up in the right place at the right time.
Locking onto the bird from within the confines of the small round lenses reminded him of a feeling he didnāt particularly enjoy. When a target is able to remain stationary in his scope for this long, what closely follows is usually a swift extinguishing of life.
Almost against his will, his subconsciousness conjured up an image of the large black-and-red bird falling straight down, lifeless, from the sky, wings limp against its body. Or perhaps it would be a spiral?
He watched, like he always did, until the stork became a disappearing black dot in the far-off sky, the occasional flap of the wings so full of life, graceful.
Heād never kill a bird for game, mainly because birdwatching calmed him. Like now, a nice little distraction from the somewhat pressing job he had on hand of assassinating UDC, his most profitable target yet.
The venue itself, from the outside, was nigh impossible to penetrate. A day of reconnaissance made him sure of this: infiltrating from the inside was the only way to go. The Jackal lied prone on the rooftop incredibly still, chewing over this new conclusion.
It was at this moment that his breakthrough, as abrupt and unexpected as the stork, came into the viewfinder. A round baby face with brilliant eyes, dirty blond hair, that younger Estonian man stepped out of The Estonia Kontserdisaal into the cold, crisp night air, having just finished a work shift.
The Jackal watched him pause on the stairs, turn around, wave and loudly talk back to his colleagues, something in Estonian that was indistinguishable from this distance, white puffs of cloud rising and dissipating as he talked. Rasmus, that was his name. Rasmus shivered, stuck both hands in his coat pockets, and began to trek home.
Like a birdwatcher sitting all day under the sun for a glimpse of a rare species, being able to catch sight of Rasmus alone has made the Jackalās day of watching the venue worth its time.
He pocketed his binoculars, slowly let out a long breath heād been holding in, and got up off the ground.
