Interlude: The World's Finest Assassin Contemplates Retirement
afreaknamedpete
Blasphemer
- Location
- Above the Sequences
- Pronouns
- HE/HIM/THEY
[X] Spare honorifics-chan
"T-thank you SV-chan! I never had any doubt you'd make the right choice! Just according to keikaku! We truly are nakama! You are sugoi! Arigato desu!"
AN: Keikaku means plan.
"T-thank you SV-chan! I never had any doubt you'd make the right choice! Just according to keikaku! We truly are nakama! You are sugoi! Arigato desu!"
AN: Keikaku means plan.
The human body is a precise instrument, a tool custom-built to suit its environment and the tasks it must perform. From the moment of conception, a man's body begins to grow and develop, carefully designed and precisely tuned by thousands of years of evolution to survive, adapt, and thrive in this hostile world.
"Long black hair, to the left. Distance, 600. He's moving towards the car."
"Gotcha, boss."
The CheyTac in your partner's hands briefly shudders as its frame absorbs the recoil of its shot. The .408 round slams into the back of its mark's head, tearing through his skull. Blood and fragments explode out of both sides, and his headless body tumbles down into the dirt.
"On target, but too high. Decrease by half MOA."
Once the sound of a high-caliber rifle discharging next to you would shake your body and leave your ears ringing. You've learned it wasn't always practical to wear earmuffs or earplugs while on a mission, but your body's grown more used to it over the years. You no longer even found it loud.
...
Your hearing was the first thing that went. It started with tinnitus, a constant ringing in your ears, which you ignored. Then, the ability to hear at a normal volume began to deteriorate and by the time you realized the truth there was nothing left you could do.
"Exposed target, right side. Distance, 600."
"Copy that, boss."
Your partner works the bolt and plants another bullet dead center into the target. Just over half a kilometer away, and with the element of surprise still intact the first two targets were easy pickings. You concentrate on spotting the next target, trying to ignore the aching in your knees.
Another thing you failed to anticipate. A regular exercise regimen coupled with a tailor-made diet should have kept you in peak combat efficiency. Regimented practice could preserve the strength, speed, and agility of an athlete. But joints? Muscles break and rebuild, stronger than before, but joints only wear. There's no way to preserve those, only slow their deterioration. And your joints have led a hard life.
"On target. The large one with the assault rifle, he's making a run for it. Lead the shot."
There's no response from your partner but the thunk of the bullet's impact as it punches through the target's chest.
It was the little things that added up to a larger problem. The ankle you shattered decades ago when you jumped out a window. The tiny bullet fragments lodged into your shoulder that the doctors couldn't fish out. The way gunsmoke makes you feel hungover. Untreated heavy metal poisoning. Early onset osteoporosis. Macular degeneration. A thousand new words appended to the end of the World's Finest Assassin's rap sheet.
"Directly ahead of the last. He's scrambling to the truck, crouched."
When you checked your sidearm this morning you were hit by a sudden, unshakeable and fundamentally alien fear. The AMT Hardballer was your preferred sidearm, and you were using 1911 pistols for most of your career. You knew every inch of the weapon like the back of your hand. It was your gun. And for the first time in your life, you couldn't remember if it was loaded.
It was heavy in your hand, the weight familiar, and your instincts told you it was fully loaded. After all, it was so heavy, how could it not be? You released the slide, checked the chamber, and you saw... absolutely nothing.
You couldn't even feel the difference between an empty gun and a fully loaded one. You reached for a spare magazine... only to realize you forgot where you left it. As you systematically searched your bags like a grandpa who misplaced his dentures, you finally realized something that should've been obvious to you decades ago.
You were old.
"Wrap it up, one target left. He's making a run for the truck."
"Yeah, yeah."
The crack of a sniper rifle rings out once more. You blink the exhaustion out of your eyes and then refocus on spotting. Shit, one was still left. Your partner missed his shot, the last man standing making a break the hills away from your position.
"Miss! Vassago! You amateur, focus! Your shot was so wide I can't even tell where it landed. Reaquire, distance 700!"
"No, I didn't fuckin' miss."
He growls out, swapping out his magazine and rechambering the bolt without waiting for your response.
You should've been the one behind the rifle. You had more experience, more accuracy, more precision. But you were also practical. What good was sniping when you could barely see out the scope? When you couldn't even feel the weight and balance of the gun anymore? When you couldn't trust your eyes and ears?
With one last crack of his rifle, your partner signals the end of the job.
"All clear, boss."
You count the corpses. Four bodies were in open field, another one by the truck and one more by the sedan. A total of... six? You could've sworn there were five targets. When Vassago missed...
"Toldja, I didn't miss. You just can't count."
Your partner is smirking at you as he starts to pack up his rifle, the CheyTac returning to its case after a job well done. He's thin, lanky, and young, with an unkempt appearance. His long dark hair is a scraggly mullet with wisps and strands falling across his face like he can't be bothered to comb it. An absolute amateur, complete with an unnecessarily unique facial tattoo. He was saddled as your temporary partner for this mission, a man infamous within the Syndicate for spending two years hunting a mark from inside a video game.
How ridiculous. They should've assigned the case to you, there were no doubt thousands of ways to kill a man that didn't require diving into «Sword Art Online». Though you doubt you could've executed any of those plans in your current condition...
You glare at Vassago. He's grinning, his smile almost mocking. "What, ya forget your reading glasses?"
You don't dignify his jibe with a response. You watch as he casually slings two bags over his shoulders, both filled to the brim with heavy gear. Six months out of his virtual sabbatical and despite the tremendous loss in muscle mass, he's still leagues stronger than you by weight of youth alone.
"Come on, geezer, let's check the bodies."
This was a simple mission, something to Syndicate threw together to get Vassago back into the action. After last month's disastrous failed assassination attempt against the head of state, the Syndicate decided it was time to clean house. A simple mop operation of the local mafia, to eliminate the last remnants of the organization, so the Syndicate could deny culpability in that fiasco.
It was a fair walk to the bodies, over half a kilometer. The ground is uneven, and the heat is unbearable. You're sweating and huffing and puffing by the time you get there, but Vassago is completely fine.
The scene of the carnage is gruesome, bodies are torn open, blood stains the soil, and there are bits and pieces everywhere. Vassago doesn't bat an eye at the gore, and neither do you. You walk amongst the bodies, verifying identities. It's harder than it seems with all the remains around you. The setup for this mission was simple. You had lured the marks to this location under the pretense of selling them guns, it was expected they would show up in force. But they certainly couldn't have expected you to lure them into a sniper's den.
It was easy. Too easy.
"Vassago, are these really the same targets we were assigned to eliminate?"
Your partner looks up from his own inspection, staring at you blankly.
"Uh, yeah? They look like gangoons to me. What's the problem?"
You point at the corpse he's inspecting.
"He's young. Too young."
He's a teenager. He has the stature, the clothes, and the haircut of a mafia grunt. But he's baby-faced, with barely any hair on his chin, and he couldn't have been more than 18 years old.
"So what? Some guys just look younger than they really are."
"The files stated our targets were members of the upper echelon. The last remaining lieutenants, or perhaps the last surviving capos, after last month's failed raid."
Vassago shrugs. "So? We got the wrong guys, whatever. Just got to keep on killing till we drag out the right ones."
You scowl at him. That's not what this mission was supposed to be about. This was an assassination, not a rampant slaughter. Some collateral could be accepted but... wait... You stand at attention. Something flashes against the edge of your vision and an atrophied feeling deep in your mind screams in alarm.
You squint. In the darkness you can barely make it out. Even now you can't help but wonder if it was just a bird.
But birds don't glint.
"Get to the car! NOW!" You scream, digging out keys from the corpse you were searching through. You'll have to use the mob's vehicle, your own getaway car was almost a full kilometer away.
"Wha-? Wait, hold on-" Vassago stares at you, a confused expression on his face. You have no time to explain. It's the one thing that hasn't deteriorated with age. That shiver of fear, that premonition. That split second of instinct that kept you alive long enough to feel your body break down.
"Spy drone, we've been made. We leave, NOW!" You're running before the last word leaves your lips diving into the mafia goons' car, turning the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, Vassago scrambling into the back seat and pulling out an assault rifle right as bullets shred the roof of the car, just barely missing Vassago's head.
"Boss, what the hell is goin' on!? Since when the fuck did the mafia field drones!?"
"They're not mafia!"
Vassago is stunned. "What?! Old man, you finally going senile!? Who the fuck else would be out here!?"
You slam your foot down on the accelerator. The tires kick up a cloud of dirt as the car shoots off, bouncing up and down over the uneven terrain. For all his complaining, Vassago knows better than to ignore a warning. He shoves a magazine into his rifle and throws on his kevlar vest, not that it would do much good against heavy machinegun fire.
"It's the military! They've been searching for the Syndicate ever since the assassination attempt. I've seen this trick before, they gave these goons a long leash just to lure out Syndicate clean-up crews."
Vassago barks a laugh. "You've gotta be shitting me! You're telling me the Syndicate sent us out here, guns a-blazing, and they forgot to tell us the goddamn government was huntin' us!?"
You glance in the rearview mirror, and a single APC, complete with a mounted machine gun. It was lying in wait for the perfect opportunity. It was a trap, and you just blundered right into it. Vassago pops his head and shoulders out the window and begins firing his assault rifle, his weapon rocking back as it discharges. But it's no use, his shots bounce harmlessly off the armor plating of the APC.
"Fuck, they're comin'!"
"Don't waste your bullets. It's pointless using small arms against that."
"Then what the hell are we supposed to do!?"
"The bend up ahead, when I give the signal..." your eyes lock onto the dip in the road, and the copse of trees and shrubs just underneath it, "Jump."
"WHAT?! You insane!?"
"Would you rather die?"
Vassago takes only a split second before slapping his hand against his forehead. "Forgot how much BS there is in the real world..."
You slam the gas pedal down further. The tires squeal and the vehicle bounces violently. A bullet whizzes past and breaks the side-view mirror. You spin the steering wheel sharply to the right, the car screeching as it turns towards the slope.
"Now!"
You and Vassago fly out of the left side of the vehicle, crashing into the brush below. Your getaway car continues on its own momentum, crashing directly into a nearby tree. Not wasting any time the APC proceeds to shred the vehicle apart, but you and your partner are already gone. You've rolled down the slope, tumbling side over side, coming to a stop against a pile of brush nestled into the mud.
Your vision is blurry, your head is spinning, and everything hurts. Your damn ankle is on fire and you can scarcely move it. But the APC has stopped shooting. You have the briefest moment of silence. You're fairly certain your ankle is broken.
...
"Geezer, still alive?" Vassago is crouching down next to you, the young man looking far less worse for wear than you. More concerning is his lack of a rifle, smashed to bits during his sudden roll.
"Somehow. Sidearm?"
"Barrel's warped and I got nothin' on me but a knife. Now get off your ass. We gotta move."
Beyond you hear the faint sound of soldiers barking orders, their voices getting louder by the minute. A flashlight pans over the bush, and Vassago drops down into a near-prone position.
"Too many," you grumble, "They're too close to us, the moment we make a run for it they'll vaporize our backs. And I'm not in running shape."
"Fuck me, two years in SAO and I have to die to chumps like this?"
It takes a moment. One moment longer than you would normally need, one moment longer than what it would take to kill you. But for this single moment, you remain undiscovered. You silently roll onto your knees, pulling out your sidearm. You can't remember if the Hardballer was loaded, but you'll simply have to trust that it was.
"Vassago, I'm going to have to take these guys out. Sneak away once I distract them."
Vassago chuckles. "Damn, old man. Gonna go out like a champ? Don't need to tell me twice, I'm outta here."
You nod your head and watch the young man slip off into the night. As the footsteps draw nearer and the voices grow louder, you realize the flaw in your plan. Your body has been ravaged by time, your ankle was broken, and you could barely even see your targets. But that's fine. You've dealt with harsher conditions.
No more decision paralysis, running wasn't an option for you anymore. So all that's left is the execution.
You take a deep breath and close your eyes. Your hands wrap firmly around the grip of your pistol, laying flat against the bush. The first man steps closer, so close you can smell the sweat of his body.
The adrenaline pumps into your veins, the cold, crisp air chilling your body. Your mind is back in the prime of your life, and your senses are exploding. You note the minute details, the slight rustle of leaves as the soldier shifts his weight, the way his body sags as it dips into the mud. The sound of the safety being pulled off.
Three... no four more. Five men in total. The farthest in the back is lagging behind, heavier weaponry? No. Overweight, a bad leg, slowest to respond. The point man isn't the strongest, nor the smartest, but he is the bravest. It was your policy to take them out first— it was the ones with the strong wills who always caused the most problems.
You lunge forward, feet first, smashing your one good foot into the lead soldier's knee. You ignore the spasm of pain that shoots through your ankle and lurch forward. He grunts, but before he can react you reach him, snaking your hand against the back of his neck and forcing his body downwards. There's a brief struggle but you have all the leverage, and quickly you snap his neck, letting his body crumple limply. His flashlight falls to the side, a beacon to his friends that something has gone wrong. You kick it away and then dive back into the bushes alongside the newly made corpse.
Four left.
Instantly a trio of flashlights shine on your position, the loss of their point man not going unnoticed. They know where you are, in general, but the darkness shrouds the finer details, and it's all they can do to fire uselessly where they think you are.
"Contact, we have contact! I repeat— URGH!"
You manage to find an angle and point the sights straight at head of the second point man. Your hands are still and your sidearm feels feather-light, as does your body. Even the crunch that shakes your ankle with every motion you make can be ignored. You take the shot, and the soldier collapses. The other men scream at his death, their panic causing their aim to waver, the flashlights shaking in the night.
Three left.
"FUCKING FIND HIM! HE CAN'T GET AWAY!"
You take a deep breath and calm yourself, listening carefully to the soldiers. The one furthest back was panicking, his voice shrill and fearful. You can't pinpoint his exact position, but the fact that he's shouting is enough. He's outside the ideal range for your pistol, and you lack the strength to move too far from your position. But the night is dark, and the man is a very large target.
You take aim and fire a round. A loud, panicked scream signals you've hit your mark, but it only dented his body armor. You keep shooting, not expecting pinpoint accuracy at your range, but hoping to scare him. To make him forget that he is the hunter. To make him feel like prey.
He screams again, and rather than dive for cover or use his superior armor to weather the hail of bullets, the fool fires his rifle wildly into the brush. Inevitably, your bullet finds a thin spot in the kevlar, and the man's body hits the ground with a heavy thud.
Two left.
They're buddied up, back to back, and after your last shootout, they knew exactly where you were. You dive towards your first kill, scrambling behind the body and loosely lifting it like a makeshift shield. Immediately you're illuminated by a flashlight, right as you scream out, "Don't Shoot! He's holding me hostage!"
Your shield was dead, but you killed him without firing a bullet. His condition wasn't going to be immediately obvious to his friends. Of course, your voice was wrong, and your accent was spotty at best, but it was enough. Enough for the man to hesitate. Enough for the man to violate his training and take a second to evaluate the situation instead of shredding you to pieces. Enough time for you to put a bullet through his neck.
One left.
His partner spins around, gun already firing at full auto. You see your own death approaching, and raise your firearm for one last desperate shot. There are no more tricks, no more fancy moves, just blind luck and whatever vestiges of skill remain in your withered, decaying frame. But yours was the mind and the hand that toppled empires, and as if guided by providence your sights align to the last man's head with a speed even your old self would've found impressive.
You pull the trigger.
Click.
Of course.
You lost track of your bullets. At least... at least it's here. On the battlefield. You won't go with your eyes closed. The last thing you'll ever see is the barrel of an assault rifle. A fitting end for the World's Finest Assassin.
The rattle of automatic fire fills your ears. Blood splatters across your face.
The soldier's body falls backward into a gurgling pile of blood, the blade of a knife emerging from the front of his neck.
And then there's silence.
"Fuucck... that was harder than I remember..."
Vassago stands before the cooling corpse, covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. He's panting heavily, his knife buried in a dead man's neck, and his hand is trembling, struggling to rip it out of his victim's corpse.
"Damn... damn, fuck... why won't it come out!?" Vassago had stabbed the man with such force the knife was warped, trapped against the bone of the man's spine. He used too much power and wielded his knife like a cleaver or an icepick, a poor habit you'll have to beat out of him one day.
"That's because you're an amateur, Vassago. Now let's get the hell out of here."
<I see. Excellent work as always, Agent Smith. I assure you the idiot responsible for this... lapse in intel has been dealt with most harshly. I assure you it won't happen again.>
The call is short and direct. This is the first time your handler in the Syndicate messed up the intel this poorly. You have half a mind to think she was surprised when you called in your update.
<And Casals? Did he survive?>
An odd thing to ask. "He did. A loose cannon, but a very capable fighter. The years he spent in the coma have not dampened his instincts. He will serve as an effective tool for the Syndicate."
<Very good. Please continue to monitor him, and keep me posted on his status. The psychological consequences of his prolonged dive is of interest to management.>
"Understood."
<And... Mr. Smith, forgive me for being forward. But it has truly been a pleasure working with you, for all these years. The Syndicate thanks you for your continued service. Once you return I look forward to shaking your hand.>
The conversation is finished, and the call ends. It was an unusual goodbye from your long-time handler, but you were retiring to a training position after decades in the field. You'll finally get to meet the faceless person on the phone you've been taking orders from for years now.
It was a strange feeling, to be done with this business. After dropping off Vassago at the Japanese branch you would report to their training facility to serve as its head trainer until the day you died. No more field operations. An assassin for over half a century, and now you would spend the rest of your days teaching young recruits while losing your battle to old age.
You're going to miss it. The fear and the bloodlust. The rush of adrenaline, the euphoria of a clean shot, the terror of a missed kill.
You chuckle, nothing would've been more cliched than dying on your last mission. You might even have preferred a glorious death to rotting away as Allen Smith, the final cover identity you were going to assume for the rest of your life.
You wait in the dingy motel, reminiscing on past glories. Perhaps you would write a book? Posthumously publish a guide on contract killing. Leave a legacy behind.
A tutor...
You could dream. Of course, you of all people knew exactly what your 'retirement' truly was.
You glance over at your pistol. Perhaps on your own terms? No. You have your pride. If they want your blood they'll have to work for it.
Now where was he? Vassago was due back any minute. He was with the local Syndicate contact, obtaining the fake travel documents and tickets for the two of you. In the meantime, you were still disinfecting the numerous cuts and scrapes on your body, and bandaging your wounded ankle. You've managed to apply a splint, but it would be a miracle if you could walk normally ever again.
...
The sound of a door creaking open.
"Vassago?" You call out.
No answer.
A chill runs down your spine. The hair on your arms stands up, and you reach for your sidearm. Something is wrong. You stand up from the chair, limping your way over to the window, your gun clutched tightly in your hand. You can't quite place your finger on what was setting you off, but if you couldn't trust your instincts after decades of work, you might as well lie down and die. You plant your back against the wall closet to the door, so that when it opened you'd be in the blind spot.
And not a second later the door smashes open in a hail of gunfire. You feel the air rush past as a hail of bullets whizz through the room. They had been aiming for the bed, the exact location where you had just been sitting.
"Wha? You sneaky little—"
You pounce, lunging out from your corner and bringing your pistol up to his chest. You weren't surprised to see Vassago, but disappointed that his betrayal was so inelegant. Utterly wasted his surprise shot. You don't bother with pointless threats, your finger already itching towards the trigger. But you were too close.
And he was faster.
Two gunshots ring out in the seedy hotel, your two respective shots going wide as both of you knock each other's weapons off target. He tackles you and you fall back. You raise your free hand to grab the front of his shirt and smash his skull into your knee. But he simply goes with the momentum, jumping forward to slam the top of his head into your nose. The both of you collapse back, clutching bloody messes.
You roll over, trying to recover. Your vision is blurred, your eyes are watering, and your nose is leaking blood. You don't know where your pistol went but at least you've disarmed Vassago.
Or so you thought. With a laugh that sounded like a demon's howl, he lunges for you, knife drawn. Sprawled out and exhausted from the last fight, it's all you can do is hold your hands up to guard.
"Gotcha!" Vassago laughs, plunging his weapon down. Your hands grab his wrists, and it takes all your strength just to stop his strike. Even with atrophied arms, he's pressing down, his body weight is greater than yours, and the tip of his blade is mere centimeters from your eyes.
"Shit man, you are fuckin' tough! I gotta ask, what gave me away?"
"Nothing. You even had the element of surprise. Of course, if you knew the first thing about clearing rooms, I wouldn't have survived. Amateur."
"Ahaha! Guess I've been out of practice!"
You feel your muscles giving out. You're weak. So much weaker than he is. And it shows, his knife is getting closer. You can't win against him in raw strength. Your legs are weak and your ankle is damaged. He has absolute leverage and any useless failing would only hasten your defeat.
But there's a way to flip the situation on its head, a single trick.
You let go.
Vassago stabs down the second you roll to the side. Just like with the last man he killed, Vassago wields his knife like a cleaver and uses entirely too much force. The weapon slams into the wooden floors, the blade buried halfway up the handle. You can hear him desperately pulling, but you're free. Your gun is by the door and you lunge towards the pistol.
Only to be met by Vassago's foot as it slams into your chest, knocking the last vestige of air from your lungs and sending you reeling. You cough and retch, desperately trying to recover as Vassago tears the knife out of the wood.
"God damn it! Shit, you're really committed to dying of old age aren't ya?" Vassago grumbles, walking forward to finish you off.
"W-what the hell..." you hack out blood, struggling to rise. You were out of options, but when dealing with amateurs, you could always buy time by making them talk. "Are you doing Vassago?"
"Well, you see. I got another job offer," He replies with a smile, knife in one hand, and reaching down to recover his gun with the other. "I turned in my... resignation letter at the local office. Figured I'd have to come back and finish the job otherwise, they'd send you to track me."
You're too tired. Your arms are shaking. Your body is weak. You don't even have the strength to raise your hands in defense. "W-who...?" You play up the surprise, anything to keep him distracted. Keep him talking.
"Wha, really that curious? What good's the truth gonna do you in hell?" He laughs, raising his gun. "But hey, I got nothin' to hide. Got headhunted by Glowgen Defense Systems a while ago. I was just waiting for the first away mission the Syndicate would give me to make my escape."
An American PMC, one you distantly remember as being run by one Gabriel Miller. A competitor to the Syndicate at best. Why they'd want to recruit a career criminal who spent two years in a coma is beyond you. Vassago was right, this information was meaningless to you. You've had no dealings with Glowgen and you've never crossed paths. You were going to die because this punk just wanted to burn some bridges.
"Well, I guess that's it, huh?" Vassago cocks the hammer of his pistol. "Any last words?"
What kind of Hollywood cliche was this? If you're going to kill someone, don't waste time talking. That was the first thing you learned as an assassin. You had him blabbing so you could buy yourself time, and he had taken the bait, giving you the chance to recover your energy.
He's in range of CQC. Temple strike then disarm.
Accept a bullet to the shoulder. Elbow to solar plexus, snap neck.
Adjacent bedframe. Flip it over, vault through the window. Tuck and roll.
Gun, one meter away. Enemy had knife brandished but gun wasn't raised. Possible to reach gun before he shoots you?
A thousand solutions to this puzzle dance before your eyes. You simply have to execute. You simply have to move...!
...
What the hell were you doing? Your ankle was broken, you're exhausted and you... you don't have it in you anymore. It doesn't matter what your instincts were telling you.
You're too old. Your body can't perform.
So you do the only thing you can do. You laugh. At least you got what you wanted, a death in battle.
"You're an amateur, Vassago. Who taught you to waste time talking during a fight? Now shut up and end me. You'll be doing me a mercy."
Better than being put down like an old draft horse.
...
You stare at the barrel of his gun, waiting for your fated end.
...
It doesn't happen. No gunshot rings out, no bullet tears through your skull. All you hear is the sound of Vassago slumping against the bed, and the rise and fall of your heaving chest. "Fuck me, always having to pick up the strays..."
"Mercy, Vassago? Don't expect me to cover for your betrayal. The Syndicate will hunt you down."
"Blah, blah, whatever. Fuck the Syndicate. Now you? You were a legend." Vassago says, pointing at you with his pistol. "The World's Finest Assassin. You know the kind of shit they say about you?"
You're too tired. You can barely sit up, much less stand.
"They speak about you like the fuckin' boogeyman. The crazy lunatic who'd shoot down a plane just to kill his target. The guy you could drop into a jungle with a utility knife and his underwear, and he'd still get the job done, that's the kind of shit they say about you. Hey, was it true you killed three men in a bar with a motherfuckin'—"
You cough. "Get to the point Vassago. Or do you just like playing with your food?"
"Gotta build my rep, so how better than offin' a legend? Gabe offered me a bonus for taking a few morons out of the picture before I came in. But I figured, why stop there? Why not take down the big fish, huh? The greatest hitman in the Syndicate, the one who's been running ops for fifty goddamn years. Off you and the Syndicate is gonna be scrambling for a long, long time." Vassago heaves, the recent exertion catching up with him.
You can't help but scoff. That was then. Now you can't even win against a punk like Vassago. "That man died a long time ago."
"Yeah, no shit. You can't see, you can't walk and you can't even fuckin' count."
The two of you sit there in silence, the only sound the heavy breathing of two exhausted assassins. Your pistol is about two strides away near the door. You could lunge for it, or perhaps do something unexpected and charge Vassago? No matter how many times you run the scenario in your head it still leads to your death.
"Say... you like what you do?"
You think about it. Do you like it? It was a question you've never asked yourself before. "It's work."
Vassago chuckles and slowly rises to his feet. "Nah, man, I don't buy that. I've met all kinds. Got a buddy of mine who kills just to prove he's alive, and another who's just a creepy bastard who worships death itself. But you? I can understand a man killing for cash, I'd be a hypocrite otherwise, but 50 fuckin years!? Man, unless they payin' you minimum wage there's gotta be something besides the dough that's keeping you here."
"I am an assassin. I'm a tool of the Syndicate."
"What, just company loyalty? Like some Japanese Salaryman? Shit, that's messed up." Vassago reloads his pistol but doesn't bother pointing it at you. "Syndicate don't care about anything but the Syndicate. That so hard to understand?"
You don't reply.
"Well, whatever. Thanks for the fight, hope the rest of your life is a fuckin' snooze-fest." He holsters his weapon. "Killin' you won't be any fun."
This is what you wanted, a death in battle. The World's Finest Assassin going out fighting... not being pitied by some punk like Vassago.
And yet...
"Wait."
Vassago stops, and you're surprised you're the one who asked.
"What?"
"The answer to your question."
He turns, raising an eyebrow.
"I... like what I do." You admit to him and yourself, for what feels like the first time. "I... like being an assassin. Being the best." It was your entire life. And for the first time, you're forced to face the fact that you'll have to give it up. You killed not because you needed to or because you enjoyed the pain and suffering.
You've spent your life perfecting one skill. To be the world's best. And here, at the end of the road, you don't want to surrender the crown.
Vassago smiles and in a heartbeat, he's next to you, lips curling into a smile. "See!? From one killer to another, ain't it good getting it off your chest?"
"N-not that it matters." It feels liberating to admit it, but it changed nothing. "I'm old now."
"So what now? Gonna go crawling back to the Syndicate to die of boredom?"
You're silent.
"Cause I could tell you how they're gonna off your ass the moment they get an opportunity. I could tell you about how this op was obviously set up to kill both of us. I could tell you about the documents I found in the Syndicate office confirming this. But fuck, I ain't interested in telling you what you already know."
...You weren't stupid. You knew that behind the 'retirement' offer was nothing but smoke and mirrors for a silent death sentence. No gold watch and a handshake from the boss, the only gift they had for you was a bullet to the brain. The one last service of a tool of the Syndicate past his prime. Your final mercy.
"Gonna have a hell of a time explaining this to Gabe, but you know what? It's a fuckin' shame seeing you like this. So... I got an offer for you."
You stare at Vassago's hand, stretched out towards you. "I won't sell out the Syndicate to Americans. My life isn't worth the secrets I hold."
Vassago grins and grabs you, lifting you up without your permission. "Fuck the Syndicate, fuck their dirty little schemes and secrets. I want you. The World's Finest Assassin! And I want him to go on one last job!"
A... job?
"I lost to a punk like you. Glowgen wouldn't hire an invalid."
He laughs, a full-throated sound that shakes his shoulders. "Who the fuck says we need your crusty old body? You'd think they fuckin' hire me if raw muscle was what they needed? Nah, man, they've got plenty of those. They want what's in here." He points his pistol at your forehead, "You're a washed-up has-been, and you're one bad fall away from pissin' in a bag for the rest of your short life. But where we're going? That shit won't matter. Where we're going, all we'll need is our wits and our brains."
You blink, still unable to process the situation. A place where your broken body doesn't matter?
"I don't want your whatever-genarian ass. I want the mind who killed four soldiers with broken ankle and a sidearm. I want the boogeyman. I want the guy who survived 50 goddamn years as an assassin and still plans to die of old age."
...
You want to react. You want to declare your loyalty to the organization that all but raised you. You want to sink your teeth into Vassago and go out in one last blaze of glory. But you can't ignore that feeling in your breast. It's a burning sensation that fills your body down to the roots. That faint feeling of hope.
"What's in it for me?"
You see victory flash in his eyes. He knows he has you. "I promise it'll be worth your while. Whatever your fee is Gabe'll pay it, but not like you need the money. I'm offering you what you've always wanted. One last fight. One last challenge. One last job. To kill the fuckin' toughest target ever, and a free check to cause as much collateral as you damn well please."
A challenge. A thrill runs down your spine. One last chance to show the world that you were the greatest. To prove that you existed.
"So whaddaya say?" He sheathes his pistol and holds out his hand. "Want to die like a chump or come with me and have the time of your life?"
...
Your name is long forgotten. All that remains is the assassin. It's an offer you can't refuse, a true deal with the devil. After all this, it appears the amateur has truly defeated you. It's a rare feeling...
But you smile. For the first time in what feels like decades. "Who do you want me to kill?"
Vassago returns the smile, grabbing your outstretched hand.
"How about a God?"
Just something I had prewritten for the start of Arc 2.
Still going through editing of the main story, so main updates still on hiatus. But just to motivate me... one more interlude chapter.
Please pick just one.
[ ] The Twilight Witch's Tea Party
[ ] The Blessings of Administrator Upon this Wonderful World!
[ ] Executive Summary: Project ALICIZATION
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