He awoke, and there was blood. It coated his hands, his clothes, his face. Like some macabre leaky tap, it dripped onto the stone floor, staining grey with red. Red, red, red – like the star on his shoulder, like the shield of a man he'd long forgotten – dripping and staining and spreading.
The blood was the first thing that he knew as the Machine gave way to the Man. The second was a gurgling rasp; the third, weak hands clutching at his shirt. And then it was like being thrown out of a plane at high speed, because suddenly he knew where he was and who she was and whathe'ddone –
"No," he croaked. His hands grasped at her throat, hoping that it would somehow slow the flood pulsing from the deep gash there. It was a fool's hope – she was deathly white and paling by the second, her pupils blown. "No no no no no no, don't, no, please no, God no…"
There was no response. Her lower lip quivered, and the grip on his shirt slackened.
"Yekaterina," he begged. "Katya, Katya, please, Милая, don't, oh God no, no, no!"
He didn't know how long he sat there pleading, but his arm detecting the slight stiffening of her limbs was what broke him from his stupor. Shifting slightly, he laid her down gently on the stone. Well away from the puddle of blood he was sitting in, she appeared like some porcelain doll, wide-eyed and eggshell-faced, not like the butchered girl she truly was.
The girl that he'd butchered.
When he moved, the blood that drenched his pants squelched. It smelt, too, left a copper tang in the air. Abruptly, the urge to vomit became too much and he emptied his measly stomach contents onto the floor, where it mixed with the blood and made him even dizzier. Flashes of a small man sitting with his head between his knees was offered up as a solution, but the state of his pants nixed that as an option.
The Machine – that cold, calculating part of him that would kill without second thought – forced the Man's gaze away from the blood and vomit and dead body. Searching, searching, sear– ah!
He eyed the Gerber deserted on the floor. Must've dropped it when she fought back, the Man mused, a buzz now ringing in his ears. When she fought back … why did he let her fight back? She should've been dead before she knew it.
When the Machine killed, he was quick. Efficient. Click bang dead. The targets never knew what hit them. Even when it was a longer op, the Machine never took risks that would expose him, he just went in there, did his job and left. The girl shouldn't have known he was in the building, let alone have had the opportunity to fight back.
Did he get distracted?
Rarely. Distraction must be significant: change in target or added variable. Another person. Another person?But the hovel was barely two rooms and the Man could see into her bedroom, there was nothing there but blankets and a cardboard box.
He found himself drawn to the girl's empty gaze, her full face, and the sobs started in his chest again. Nonononononotherplea– No, he'd finished his mission and soon they'd be here. If they knew he was like this after a mission, after this mission–
With a shake of his head, he got to his feet. There was a sink over to the side, one with a leaky tap that dripped and made him question whether he'd imagined the sound blood made against concrete.
Inconsequential, the Machine grunted. Clean up. Ready for extraction.
The Man didn't know what else to do, so he obeyed.
It wasn't until he was washing it out that he realised how much blood there was. There was far too much of it to clean, so he stuck to the hands, scrubbing his fingernails and the creases of his palm with fanaticism. Red, red, red – like the star, like the shield – washing away down the sink.
It wasn't calm, per se, that filled him, but more a stillness. He could feel the Machine settling over him then, coaxing him back into his box. Ever since the last time he escaped, it was harder to fight him for control.
He turned off the tap. It screeched into the still. From the corner of his eye, the cardboard box moved.
And through the haze of the Machine, the Man heard a baby cry.
