"AGAMMEMNON"
Written by AssassinForHire
The inspiration for this POV ficlet was Frank Miller's "Elektra: Assassin", particularly Bill Sienkiewicz's art. Her father and sensei weren't touched upon much, even though both seemed to be a huge influence on her upbringing. Wanted to revisit her memory of them as an adult and how they shaped her character.
Disclaimer: Elektra is the property of Marvel.
When the horses slow, it feels like the death of a little part of my world. The end of happiness. Beyond the smell of his cologne and the taste of my ice cream, there is music still. It plays on, continuous. I study the floating parade of lights and sturdy pine hooves, and all the magic contained in a carousel. I am nine years old. I am Poppa's only daughter. He grabs my arm, tells me that it is the end of the ride. Enough. Get off. Too dizzy to walk, so I spill in his arms. The purple spots on my skin are his. I am the prodigal survivor, his only child. The black ones are my sensei's. I am twelve years old. I am his finest student.
Below me, endless pairs of eyes watch as the pinwheel returns to life and starts to spin. The speed is dizzying. I think of what pregnancy must be like. I think of my mother. I sink to my knees and open my eyes. There are only lights now. The three shafts are from mounted flashlights, the red one a laser sight. The dot carves down from my temple, touches my nose. I smell Poppa's cologne. It cleaves through my lips and throat. I swear Mama is in labor. The dot rides down to my chest. I move naught. There is always room for error.
I watch them near closer, their target scopes pressed to their noses. I see no faces in the blackness of the wine cellar, only four pairs of boots, leaving long footprints in the earth as they inch towards me. They miss my presence. One craves to touch my skin. One wants to be anointed. I notice their rough, calloused hands. They are shaking. One waits for the other to breathe, before the last two join in. They want to make sure to count their numbers accurately. They don't want to lose anyone. I feel metal between my hands. It is heavier than usual, not the same ones I am accustomed to. In my hands, it is a grotesquely large baby. Large teeth. Strong jaws. The rivets on the welded handles are an alien texture, not smooth like the vibranium that I am accustomed to. The splinters in my palms tell me I am doing my job well. Sensei smiles, takes a step forward in front of Poppa. This is a good pair of bolt cutters.
The guards stop three feet away. One of them smells like the vat of unbottled chardonnay behind me. Some of them must have been drinking before they found me. The three spotlights converge, touch a spot upon my face, and in that instant I am blinded back to the time when I first heard a man say I love you. In the time it takes for their firecrackers to eat at the darkness, I imagine what it feels like to be truly sightless. My weight explodes forward, my knees trailing after, like a cripple miraculously new. I am back in the darkness, but there are shots ringing out. Bottles break and chardonnay spills. The cobra strikes, uses the bolt cutter in her hands to snap bone and sinew in half. The shin is cracked open like a chestnut. The guard is in shock, his scream fills me with joy. The weapon is retracted. The entire metal rod is stuffed inside the hollow cave of his larger intestine. He is no more.
The firecrackers continue. They remind me of my stays in Coney Island, during Chinese New Year. I tug Poppa's hand. He places a spool of cotton candy in mine. I pull out the bolt cutter. The guard is suddenly missing his entire left kidney. The others shoot blindly. The cave is lit with sparks and gunsmoke. I am thirteen years old. Sensei takes a sharp sword to my left elbow. Blood flows. None of it makes sense. I spin away, in time to have the bullet nick unimportant shoulder flesh. When the cobra faces the other direction, the cutters have been swung and embedded into cheekbone. She lunges, strikes. Spits poison into their faces. Another guard falls. Two left now. Sensei tells me to get up. Poppa stands in the corner, angry with me for sweating before the workout is over. My attention falters as a mouse sneaks past Sensei's feet. Poppa strikes cheekbone. The smile leaves my face. In this cave-cellar in southern France, in the absence of light, I now chase two mice.
Red ribbon uncoils. Weight is taken off my waist as I pull out my mouse traps. One hangs from my right hand, steel gleaming in the low light of their bobbing flashlights. The other is held high, its long tooth but an extension of my arm. I welcome these ancient weapons passively. Two blades. One for each fleeing target.
I think of my shoulder. It bleeds still. I pick one soldier. I go for their manhood. Sensei disapproves, his kick sending me on my back on the dojo mat only this time I hear someone else's left shoulderblade shatter as my foot drives their figure into the cellar wall not my shoulder the soldier's shoulder. This one feels the taste of his own fear choking him underneath his pain as the blade goes between his legs and into him. An arm over his throat from behind, I hug him to me the way Poppa only could. His kevlar chest swallows every bullet from his friend's rifle. The other mousetrap roars, complains of a lack of proper meat in its diet. Trembling to be thrown. Instead, I drop the long dead figure in front of me and face the last guard. He tells himself - he finally, finally has seen it all.
The soldier's death is a flight into madness. He is being trampled by horses. Snakes cover his body and bury him alive. I enter his mind. I feel his apology. The gun departs from his hand. I show no progress with the sai. I am twenty years old. Sensei finds a finer student. He tells me to go home. My pride plummets. Matt leaves my side. I am no longer sightless but forced to see and be on my own. The man curses in Russian. I am suddenly beside him again.
I tell him in his native tongue that his wife just gave birth to a baby girl. The two of them were expecting him back home. One blade enters his heart. The fang is poisoned; his nerves are on fire. I see myself in his thoughts. We are spinning. Together, we are riding on the carousel. I embrace him, rest my head on his shoulder. Blonde hair spills over my dark cheek. I tell him it is the end of the ride. He panics. He ruins the moment like the screaming of impatient mothers all around us. The black hole in his heart is mine. I cover it with steel and more steel, and more until there is only leather and fingernail through it. He opens his eyes. Blue eyes damn me to Hell, and are then lifeless. He dies peacefully in my arms.
The soldier stays dead on his knees, prostrating himself upon my feet. I pull out the blade. Behind us, music resumes. The wheel continues spinning. It is spinning too fast. I want to vomit. He is walking with his hand out towards me. I make myself smaller, so he will disappear. I peel away the threads of cotton candy from the spindle. I force myself to walk away. The stallion's ego plummets. I am thirty one years old. I am alone. I have slain all your phantoms.
Fuck you, Poppa. I am all alone.