My title is Spy, and I am a professional.
The job description I was given was tucked neatly into a manila envelope, approximately five pages long. In these documents was the way I should behave, what I needed to do, and what I was there for. At first, it seemed quite easy, almost too easy. Killing a man of another team, only for them to be reborn as fresh and unscathed as he was before his demise? Like I guessed, it was too easy.
When I first arrived to the mysterious desert by the shoddy locomotive, I second guessed what I had gotten myself into. Once I began to replay my life prior to that point, however, that fleeting moment of doubt left my mind. I could not return to my place of origin, let alone any town or city or region of France—it was far too risky with my… record. This was where I belonged, in a non-stop war filled with backstabbing, slitting throats, torturing a man until their last breath.
My first battle went smoothly; I still remember every detail of my first kill. It was 1:36pm, the sun shone brightly in the sky without any clouds to save the men below, including me, from the nearly unbearable heat. I had stationed myself in the RED Sniper's nest above his base, waiting for approximately 12 minutes until he appeared through the small hatch in the floor. I was cloaked obviously, invisible to my soon-to-be victim.
The butterfly knife assigned to me was already positioned in my hand, not as delicately as it should be. It was held in a vice-like grip with the blade facing down away from my fingers which squeezed at the handle—I was itching to sink it into the boney Australian's back again and again and again, to watch the spurt of blood gush from the spots where my knife would puncture his skin, where I would tear through muscles and hopefully veins if I was lucky. Then, I would hold his forehead back and slit him across the jugular to watch the glorious display of the crimson red liquid spill from his throat like the most beautiful waterfall I would ever have the pleasure to see.
I could no longer bear it. In a puff of smoke and a glint of mirth in my eye, I pounced upon the naïve marksman's back and shoved the small knife in between his hunched shoulders. He made what sounded like a mixture of a grunt and a loud squeal upon impact and it made me emit a high-pitched cackle. Oh merde, did it feel amazing and freeing to be able to choose this man's fate with a single blow. But ah, I was not finished, not nearly finished as I twisted the blade in his back to hear the strangled sounds of him attempting to breathe and struggle, but it was too late. The Australian was a dead man, a dead man indeed.
I smiled the widest I had in months, since the day I had murdered that man in Champagne, or was it Paris? Who cares, all that matters is the blood that stains my skin and the helpless noises that gurgle out of my victim's mouths. It was intoxicating, something that made me feel so alive I couldn't even begin to express anything else that made me feel this absolute vitality, this absolute control.
The enemy Sniper slumped and fell in a heap off his post and at my feet. Just like I had dreamed of moments before, I straddle the man's hips and dragged my blade across his throat, welcoming the immediate spray of warm blood splashing my face and suit. I took in a deep breath and wafted the aroma of the liquid into my nose; my eyes slid closed in the insurmountable bliss welling up inside me. After a few seconds, I lifted my eyelids and stared down at my masterpiece of blood and open wounds. Perfection.
My title is Spy, and if you knew me you would say I'm crazy.
But I am merely a professional.