Three digit
By Tranquil Forest
One hundred
It's the numeral following directly after ninety-nine. It's nice and even. If it where to take any shape it would be a circle; round and perfect with no loose ends. It represents the power of a whole.
It is the amount of lives he has taken.
Yesterday the pitcher was nearly filled to the brim. Today it is dangerously close to overflowing. One more drop and the delicate surface will burst.
Rinoa wasn't there when the once white ceramic basin was painted crimson with the blood of another. She never is on those nights.
For that he is grateful. He doesn't want her to see him when he so casually cleanses his body from the guilt.
He's living a double life, he knows that. The protector versus the assassin. Who will prevail in the end? Will he continuously slay on demand, cold and emotionless? Or will he leave it all for the wind. And if he does, will he miss it?
Is it already too late for him to throw that part of him away? At first it was simply his job. Now he fears it has become an instinct, something he can't dispose of. No matter how hard he tries.
The sights and the smells no longer affect him like they used to. Sometimes he wishes they would. At least it would be a sign that compassion still ran through his veins.
No that's not true. He can still fell sympathy and regret. Garden just taught him to suppress it. And taught him well they did.
One hundred
Rinoa would probably turn away in disgust if she knew he had been counting. It's a sick and twisted game he hadn't known he had been playing until last night. The moment when his enemy's heart beat for the one and final time.
The man didn't suffer, he made sure of that; just a swift stab to the chest, nothing more. He didn't retrieve the gunblade from the limp form until the body was to be taken away and disposed of by his awaiting teammates; the less blood flowing to taint the pavement the better. For him it is anyway. Death seems much less real when graphics were kept to a minimum.
He never permits himself to think about the past life of his targets. Placing them in scenes of an ordinary existence with family and friends only makes the pain increase. He's simply better off not caring.
Would it be inhumane to celebrate? After all, every battle won makes him the survivor.
He shudders and curses Hyne for even making him consider a thought like that. He gazes down at his clenched fists. At the moment they are the hands of a killer. Tomorrow they will be affectionately cradling the body of the one he cherishes most.
Does Rinoa ever think about the invisible bloodstains that scorch his calloused fingers that caress her when they make love? If so, is it her empathy for him that sees past those facts and still allows him to touch her? Will there be a day when her understanding runs out?
These are the questions that continuously haunt his mind, but he never seems to gain the answers to. Most likely they will come to him just a moment too late.
He catches his somber reflection in the cheap hotel mirror. And he wonders when he will become someone else's number one hundred.
Fin