The Assassin of Time

Chapter I: Death at a Theatre

February 13th 1769

People often say that time is fragile, that one could destroy it with a single mistake. I've often thought of it as foolishness or something that is made up by fools seeking attention. It never occurred to me that time is so delicate. Just one mistake could shatter the timeline and cause chaos. To me, it sounded like something out of a book that some nut wrote in his spare time. But when I learned about my family's gift, I didn't know what to say.

My name is Sylvester, Sylvester Solomon Galigandro; but please just call me Sylvester. At first glance, I may seem like just an everyday fellow. Seemingly traveling around the city or town, doing who gives a damn. I may seem like nobody to you, but to my family, I'm a prodigy. I was born with tremendous talent and an amazing IQ. My powers, it's rather simple, Time Control.

To some people, traveling through time isn't as thrill seeking as jumping off a cliff or fighting with a bear in the jungle. But we need it to be safe from our enemy. Unlike my family, another family was born with the same powers. But they wanted to change history, mold it to their image you could say. It's our job to stop them, the rest doesn't matter as long as the timeline stays balanced.

I am currently living in the time: February 13th 1769, a year before the Boston Massacre. I live as a noble clockmaker In Central Boston. But I wasn't born in this era, I'm just living here to get stronger. But don't think I'll say when I was born, that's a secret. What you can know is that I'm 24 years old and I've been manipulating time since I was eight years old. Let me be honest, puberty wasn't fun at all.

I woke up to the sound of many clocks ticking around me. I was taking some time to get a nap in because I was tired. It was getting dark out and I wasn't gonna go to bed yet because I have a job to do. Making clocks all days isn't exactly an easy task. But it gives me gold in my pocket and good food to eat.

I looked around my room and saw the clocks around me. Wooden Cuckoo clocks hung all over the walls. Each with a different style, paint, or engraving on each. Eight beautifully made grandfather clocks stood against the walls. A long desk by a beautifully made window stood next to my bed. The desk was covered in rolls of parchment, new tools, old tools, broken tools, clock parts, pieces of wood, small vials of paint. My quill and ink stood by a small table laid on the other side of my bed.

Sometimes I felt like one day my ink would spill over and muck up my face. Someday my short silver hair would turn black so people wouldn't see me as an old man from behind. My thought's would often revolve around it. Surprisingly it hasn't happened yet, but I'll just let it go for now.

I went over to my wardrobe and got dressed. I put on my black breeches with my white silk stockings and low-heel black leather shoes that had been fitted with silver buckles six days ago. I put on my white long shirt, which I had tucked in to look formal for a play. I reached for my black waistcoat which I had laced with silver threading except for the cuffs which had gold threading.

I looked into the mirror as I thought what I'm supposed to do. I was going to take the carriage to the theatre and meet up with my old mentor, my older brother Zen. From there, I'm supposed to find a Senator name Eric Thatcher and kill him without drawing attention to myself. Then quickly leave without arousing suspicion from the guards.

I tied back my long silver hair, it reached down to my shoulders now. I tied it back with my special black bow and reached for my black cocked hat. Thinking about how I'm gonna do it, I figured a good old stabbing through the back of his chair should do the trick. He's been conspiring with the enemy for fourty years now. Unfortunately for him, he's my target.

I walked outside and was immediately greeted by a light brown carriage. I quickly got in and we went to the theatre.

As we got there, the place was swarming with people. Everyone was dressed up nice to enjoy an evening of fun. Too bad they'll be running out the theatre screaming about a murder. I didn't think twice about it, just the fact that I have a job to do.

I found myself looking for a seat when I noticed a tall burly man with silver hair just as long as mine sitting with his arms crossed in one of the rows on the left side. I figured that was Zen, waiting patiently for me to sit next to him. I made my way to his row, sliding past a few people as I made my way across the row. I sat down to his right side and saw that he was watching me.

"Hello dear brother," said Zen in a deep tone.

"Hello big brother," I said, looking around for my target.

"Have you seen this play before?" Zen asked. He kept his gaze at the curtain, which was still closed.

"One time, grandfather brought me. But I was too young to even remember it." My eyes wandered around the theatre. "But I guess I won't be having the liberty to see it again." I looked up at one of the balcony's on the right side of the theatre and saw him. Wearing blue clothing with a white powdered wig. His face looked wrinkled, then again he is sixty-four. He was sitting alone, that'll make it easier. On that side was four other balconies. His balcony was in the corner at the end closest to the stage.

"I guess you found him?" Zen asked in a whisper. I only responded with a nod, I was more distracted by my target.

Suddenly the lights from multiple candles lit up the stage. The curtains pulled back as two actors came out on stage. A man wearing clothes like mine, but his hair was dark brown and his clothes were British red with gold lace. A woman came and stood beside him wearing a baby blue silk dress fitted with lavender lace. She was also a brunette, but hers was darker than his.

I've heard of this play before, a British soldier falls in love with a Patriot woman and he's torn between who he serves and the woman he loves. It's ends horribly with the two of them dying by his fellow soldiers. They hold hands for the last time and meet death without regret. I've heard great things about it. I guess it's supposed to be a romantic play, but I don't have time for that.

I slowly stood up so I wouldn't draw attention to myself. Lucky for me, everybody's attention was fixed on the play. I made my way across the row and found a small platform to the side. I reached the platform and found a door. I opened it and found myself in a three-foot wide hallway. I made my way down and found a latter that would go up to the second row.

I reached the second row and found a door. I put my ear to the door and listened as a few guards were behind it. From what I could tell, it was two guards talking about one of the child actresses in the play.

"I can't believe my little girl is in this play," said one of the guards in a proud tone.

"I know how you feel," said the other guard. "My eldest son is in this play too, he's the main character, James Helrick." I reached inside my coat, pulled a small four-inch black knife out of one of my many coat scabbards. Holding it down to my side, I was prepared to fight if they came in the door.

But I could hear their footsteps starting to walk away. With a sigh of relief, I opened the door slowly. Just enough so I could watch them leave. They went around the hallway and disappeared from my sight. But I was still listening in to anything behind me and the door. But my heart settled when all around me was the muffled sound the actors and actresses. The entire second floor was as silent as a grave. Even though unsettling for some, who live with a sort of noise, I find the silence very enlightening. I've lived in my clock house for a few years now, but I still crave that silence.

The people started applauding, which I could hear easily. I opened the door, slowly closing it behind me as I made my way to the third floor. I'd have to get to the other side of the building to reach my target. I put my knife back in its scabbard and proceeded to my target.

I made my way down the hallway and was instantly greeted by a vast array of paintings by Leonardo Da Vinci, George Jamesone, Edmund Ashfield, William Peake, and even William Segar. To be honest, I'm actually intrigued my their work. But I was hoping that some of Rowland Lockey's paintings would be present. But I didn't take the time to check, I'm running on tight schedule.

Making my way to the other side of the building, I found a small white stone staircase that led up to the third floor. It was only used if there was some kind of emergency so the guards could secure the people up on the balconies. I can get go up them but I'll have to find a different way down. People up in the balconies are usually checked up on every ten minutes. So I'd better not waste time.

I found myself in a large hallway that was also silent too. But the sounds of violins playing echoed throughout the halls. On the walls by the stairs were other paintings that truthfully I didn't care for. On the other wall was about five sets of lavender colored curtains. If I remember correctly, his is at the end.

I made my way up to the curtains but quickly had to hide as one of the theatres butlers came walking out of the curtain. Luckily for me he didn't see me, he just walked away. He was just leaving the balcony that my target is at. As he disappeared, I quickly went through the curtain, hoping that nobody else would randomly appear.

Mr. Thatcher was sitting calmly in a chair drinking a glass of apple wine. Behind him was a single chair, which I proceeded to sit in. My breath was silent, but he could tell that I was behind him. Without hesitating, he calmly sat his glass down on the small cherry-wood table by his left side. His hands were wrinkled from his old age and barely trembled.

"So you've come to kill me?" Mr. Thatcher asked in a whisper so he wouldn't alarm anyone. But I remained silent, hoping that he wouldn't make a scene. "They told me that someone would come sooner or later to kill me." I broke my silence by whispering back.

"So you're aware of your crimes," I said, slowly pulling the same knife out of my coat. I held it in my left hand, which I kept on my lap. "Then you're aware of what come next." Mr. Thatcher took a huge gulp and proceeded to whisper.

"To be honest, I'm glad you're here," said Mr. Thatcher. "I've grown tired of this life. I'm tired of being afraid of people trying to kill me. Working for those bastards all these years as taken its toll on me. My family hates me and my granddaughter can't stand to look at me." He mood seemed to lighten up as he started talking some more. "But in all fairness, I guess I just wanted the right person to kill me. I can't look upon their faces anymore, seeing their hate has broken my heart." With my right hand, I reached inside my coat and pulled out a small brown rag. I laid my hand gently on his shoulder to make him aware that it'll happen soon.

"If it's any consolation, I'm sorry." In a split second, my right hand moved over his mouth, the rag covered his mouth so tightly that he couldn't scream.

I thrusted the knife into the back of the chair where his heart would be. For a few seconds, he was trying to scream in agony but the rag in my hand muffled his voice. He didn't kick though, just tried to scream. But I could hear him cry as a few tears fell down onto my hand. His body went limp and his voice faded away, he was dead.

I couldn't help but feel bad about doing this, but he's been helping THEM corrupt the timeline. And that to us is unforgivable.

"Rest in Peace Mr. Thatcher," I said, slowly pulling the knife out of his heart.

After wiping it clean on the bottom of his coat, I pulled the ragged away and looked at his face to close his eyes. He wasn't frowning or showing any pain, just a joyful smile printed plainly on his face. After closing his eyes, I could help but think. Is it wrong to kill a man who already wants to die? To be just some stranger asking you to kill him? I often find myself thinking about it every night before I go to sleep. But right before I'm asleep I think of my answer; "Only if they have nothing left to live for and wish for it, then I should grant them a quick death to erase their sorrows and pain."

Casually walking out of the curtain, I made my way through the same staircase I came up. Because I made such good time, no one will know for another six minutes. By that time, I'd be on the first floor about to leave. Without a moment to lose, I'd be out of the building and into my carriage before anyone even notices me.

The sounds of screams roared out of the theatre as one of the butlers discovered the body as I made my way down the main staircase. People started flying out in a mass panic as others tried but were jammed up by the other people. All of whom kept screaming about the dead body on the balcony. My calculations were right, as usual.

The Main Hall became flustered with people as I made my way to the Main Entrance. People were running outside as I blended in with them. Quietly avoiding suspicion, I made my way outside to find my brother waiting for me in his carriage. His face was somewhat muscular with a brawny flat jaw and sort of stuck out chin with a cleft in the center. His nose was somewhat arched and his lips were somewhat flat at the top and bottom to compensate his features. His eyes were a beautiful velvet color with silver lashes.

"That was quick," said Zen, inviting me in. I stepped inside and we immediately departed. He offered me a glass of wine but I kindly said no. I'd prefer not to get drunk so I can always stay focused. "So now we won't be bothered for a while. You made it out okay, no problems?"

"No, just a simple job."

"You've done our family proud," said Zen, patting me on the shoulder. "Because of you, the timeline is safe for now. But it won't be another time." He pulled his hand away and starred at me. "We do what must be done for the sake of balance and peace." Without thinking, I just nodded my head and spoke a few works.

"You're right!" Zen smiled and looked out the window.

As we rode home, I thought about reading a nice book before going to bed. But I'll enjoy a nice dinner of fresh herring roasted on the fire with lemon sauce and some bread with strawberry jam. Thinking about Mr. Thatcher doesn't really affect me as much has it would a normal person. I've been doing this since I was fifteen and I could swing a sword. I'm no ordinary clockmaker as you can see, I'm an Assassin of Time.

Find out what happens next in Chapter II: A Family Treasure

Sylvester: Hello everyone, Sylvester Galigandro here. This entry of my journal has been allowed to be shown. I may be long gone from this world, using other names to disquise myself. But my true name is Slyvester Galigandro. What I offer is truth to those who read my journal. Time if fragile, it must never be broken. Else you'd desire the world to crumble within Chaos. As I grow older, my mind grows sharper and more unique. I'm not just a Time Traveler, I'm an Assassin of Time.