"The ending shouldn't determine the meaning of anything, a story or a life. Logically, I don't think it can say something to that effect. That the meaning of all our moments cannot be contingent upon an end-point over which we have no control? That if we are happy right now, that means something, even if we die tomorrow? Narrative integrity is overrated. I don't need to know that the story of my life has a happy ending to enjoy it. A good thing, too, because I hear all the characters die in the end."
― Stevenson Alexa
One More Job
The soldier entered through the double doors of the isolated Buddhist Temple. A place of enlightenment and tranquillity and everything he was not.
"John!" The frantic voice came over his earpiece. "What are you doing here?!"
"I was invited." He stated glibly, or it would have sounded so if his voice wasn't that of steel on stone poured down with single aged malt.
"And I never thought you'd be foolish enough to go! You've heard the stories – you cannot handle this woman."
"Huh, I thought I was here for a nice bit of conversation."
"Yes, regarding your surrender. You're worth just as much alive as dead to her. For god's sake be careful, John."
"It's me. I always am."
John stood in the allocated room, awash with luxuries not typical of Taoists. There were plush red velvet curtains, Persian rugs, ornate furniture, even a solid gold statue of Siddhartha Gautama complete with burning joss sticks of Jade incense. He felt severely out of place.
After exactly five minutes of nearly unbearable waiting, where he was tempted more than once to leave, a set of heavy double doors swung open with easy steadiness; revealing his destiny and his doom.
She was an unusually tall woman, though he still towered over her at least in physical height. On presence alone she outshone him by leaps and bounds. It probably had something to do with the fact that when she walked, hands clasped behind her back; it seemed as if the earth was being pushed down under her feet. Feet that traipsed more lightly than any creature he had ever witnessed. It was a surety, a simple confidence that spoke of extremely efficient ability.
"I have to say, John. I am impressed that you would come here alone, and that you would make it this far – in that outfit." The Hunter spoke in a mélange of both worn huskiness and clearest enunciation. A tone that carried great weight yet sounded as mild as the spring morn. She regarded his plain habit and rustic clothing with a raised brow and a wry smirk, it was a far cry from his usual powered armour.
"I can be very inconspicuous when I wish to be." He said casually, removing his outer robe and placing it on a nearby divan. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt underneath.
"I have no doubt." She replied with utmost civility. John studied her further; she appeared to be in her prime, veins stood out on her rippling forearms past the rolled back sleeves of her stone blue over shirt, she appeared to be slim but John could just discern the powerful, inhuman frame that belied her gymnast's physique; coiled for the slightest sign of sudden violence. Her muscle groups were foreign to him.
"Your AI," the Hunter spoke with a glean of exasperation and tired humour: "she's very thoughtful, trying to hack into my OPSAT network but I mean it when I say I have no intent to harm you."
John cursed inwardly.
"Speak your peace, mercenary."
"I've read your war record. I know how you must feel; about the Federation."
"You really don't..." John nearly snarled, memories of how much the Universe had changed during his cryo sleep; assailing him once more.
"Unfair to say, John. You were an idol of mine during my own short tenure in the military, but I hope you realise that you can't beat us."
"That's not what I've seen for the past few years."
"Blowing up Afloraltite refineries and killing green horns is not the mark of a freedom fighter, John. Plus, those actions that you, forgive me, delude yourself into believing make a difference are doing anything but... John, you m –"
"My name is Codename: S –"
"Not – Anymore. The UNSC was long dead before my pater was a sparkle in my grandfather's eye."
"And you're no longer freelance. You're the Federation's handy woman now."
"We all do what we must to survive. What about you? You're a soldier without a directive. You just follow your final orders and you – carry on."
"It's better than being a nomad; I was trained for one purpose, to kill my enemies."
"As was I. But people – like you and I. We are adaptable creatures, we must face our new reality when it arrives. There is no War. No Nation. No Standard. There are only, and this has always been the sad truth of civilized order; Corporations. Our personal morality cannot supersede society as a whole."
"Your society. That's not a world I want to protect or be any part of."
"... Then we must come to a final agreement."
"My men won't be bought."
"If it was a question of money; do you really think they would have sent me? We already both knew you would not see reason." She stated, presenting her back as she paced.
"The Federation wanted to show me reason... Maybe they shouldn't have sent a mere assassin."
The Hunter turned. Eyes affixed on him with a glare of such fierce loathing that it nearly made him quail due to the expression's intensity. Her next words were exacting and fell with the precision of hammer blows.
"...I have spilled more gallons of blood than you have lived minutes in your temporal span. Combat may be your profession – but it is my way of life."
"Putting all your cards on the table now, are we?"
"Please... I know you have a warship in deep orbit. That you are tracking this location as we speak with Solaris Warheads. There's just one problem. I removed – " She slipped a gizmo out of her pocket and tossed it at John's face airily. He caught it with a quick snap and examined it.
" – our guidance beacon." He finished quietly.
"Some advice from an old tracker, the next time you want to find someone; use your eyes."
"I had no intention of running from you. See, I never credited the Federation with an overabundance of brains and if you're the best they've got –"
"Petty Officer, I should tell you, so that you don't waste your time; you can't make me angry."
"Try and spend an hour with him." John's AI snarked aloud.
"I wish to discuss this like civilized individuals. I am not threatening your life," she reclined languidly in a nearby armchair: "I'm unarmed –"
"Good." Said John while quick-drawing his piece. A single shot later and the woman and her occupied upholstery were thrown over backwards by the sheer force of the magnum bullet impacting her stolid chest.
The soldier holstered his M6D and turned on his heel, not bothering to check if the SAP-HE round had done its job, for of course it had. She had had no shields and was wearing civies. Overconfident amateur, he mused.
Such thoughts didn't last long in the making.
From behind she loomed like a specter, and, with impossibly fast cat-like tread seized him with both hands.
"I am of course wearing kinetic-reactive body armour, John. I am not an imbecile!"
The former war hero could not respond, mainly because the wet-work's operative had pinched off the nerves in his cervical plexus with her thumb and forefinger while her right hand yanked back on the inside of his cheek for perfect leverage; in order to grind his third and fourth vertebrae together and elicit an instantaneous death via severing of the spinal cord.
With nano seconds to save his own existence, John went limp, hoping his greater weight would off-set her death grapple, the bounty hunter seemed even gladder of this as she adjusted her grip – wrenching his unfeeling upper body around to attack again, her left knee exploded three times into his midriff with terrific force. Though he was sure, through his winded haze, that she had only moved once.
Desperately, John retaliated. He shrugged out of her grapple and aimed a lightning punch at her nasal cavity, only for the Hunter to weave around the possibly lethal blow and hop-knee him under the jaw while clutching his leading arm with vice talons.
The soldier only managed to land two quick breathless blows to her ribs during their second clinch before her second power attack stole more of his strength. The snap-kick stomp caught him under the sternum, staggering him back. With hitched oxygen supply, John's analytical mind was suspended in favour of reflexes that begged him to defend his centre. He did so.
Her heel buffeted his temple.
It was an inwards to outwards crescent kick that tore into the place where he lived, whipping his skull as if he had been in an car-wreck, spinning him across the room to slam his trembling form against the wall; the only thing which now held him upright.
Going for the great equalizer was the only recourse. John fumbled for his side-arm but the Red Death saw the move from a mile away and kicked the piece from his hand with disdainful grace. The blocky handgun rebounded off John's nose, causing him for the first time since basic to cry out like a rookie as his protection sailed away, though it was in frustration more than fear and his heart seethed and roiled with anger and humiliation.
For her part, the woman's expression was awful to behold when subjected to John's endorphin-drunk mind. It was the glazed visage of a believer. Someone with absolute clarity of purpose in their cause and the assurance that came with complete faith in their own moral code. She thought she was doing the Universe a favour by snuffing out his little life.
Though her last attack had stunned him, the next threw him for the loop. She struck him with an open handed slap that rocked and sloshed his brain against the confines of his cranium. But within seconds, John had recovered and thrown his own assault back at her own infuriatingly calm face.
She checked his balled fist at the forearm with a bridge block and sunk the knuckles of her same defending arm into the soft flesh of his elbow curve, numbing the joint if not outright crushing the sinew and cartilage.
Adrenaline overwhelmed agony. John threw a left hook, the Hunter recycled the motion, immobilized his joint, massaged the crook as she'd done the opposite, this time with a hammer blow, back-handed him over the mouth and cheek with the power of a freight train; to then cast him across the room in a hip throw that saw him smash a coffee table into splinters and glass shards underneath him. Only his enhancements had saved him from being reduced to a pulp. Groaning past his bloodied teeth, collected bruises and torn eyelid, that even now was swelling into a mass of puffy flesh. John shambled upright, searching for a semblance of balance. His prospective (and at ease) murderer didn't have a hair out of place despite the shocking suddenness of the violence that had just occurred. Though her eyes gleamed as he stood and shook the daze from his body; to then raise his fists in a renewed martial arts stance.
"Petty Officer... What exactly do you think is going to happen here?" She asked with evident mirth, hands clasped once more behind her back.
Upon realising his one and only chance was to get in close, John shook his head again to clear his dizziness, dropped his hands to his side and marched forward.
The Hunter walked to meet him at her leisure; smiling faintly.
John lashed out with a surprise straight.
Only for it to pass over her shoulder as the assassin slipped behind him with a flash step and caught him with one appendage pinning his armpit high up, her second wrapped around his neck to catch him in a pinioned constricting blood choke.
But John had planned for this outcome, her earlier slap had been designed to ruin his depth perception, he needed to remain on the inside if he wanted to survive this day.
Like a python, she was crushing his carotid arteries, cutting off the blood-flow to his brain. John's thick column of supporting muscles just stopped her from snapping his neck at a whim. But that would soon change unless...
He reversed the grapple, size working to his advantage, funny bone meeting her gut, but whether her own connective tissue was even stronger than his own, (for it felt like elbowing three jagged bricks), or the damage done to his arm crook had rendered his moves obsolete. He had only scored a temporary victory; for he had not disrupted her scarily calm breathing flow, despite squeezing with all his strength and was now in deep trouble.
The Hunter kicked off on a nearby divan, sending them both bashing into the wall behind and causing John to absorb the full brunt of the forceful jolt.
She repeated the manoeuvre, driving him back into the marble until it cracked. John felt one of his reinforced ribs sunder. He held on. The assassin growled, bringing her own elbow into his kidneys with piston precision, breaking the floating bones there.
Trying a different tact, John charged forward, trying to brain her against a sharp corner. Undaunted by the danger she was in, the Hunter contorted and managed to flexibly raise her back leg past John, up and over in a scorpion kick, colliding with the edge just in time to avoid her head striking first. The momentum worked both ways, allowing her to swing both thighs up and into John's cranium from the other side. Above her own head. Stunned, he was left vulnerable to her sliding back and down between his legs while flipping her mark over her shoulders. By some miracle, John's hold hadn't loosened as they lay there. One on their front, the other on his back.
Roaring, John writhed and managed to make it back to his feet while maintaining his submission hold. He turned the choke into a reverse guillotine grapple and body-slammed her over his Acromioclavicular joint. Intending for her skull to shatter against the unyielding rock.
But with that same pantherish mien, the Hunter's feet somehow met the surface first, bracing and then launching herself back in an incredible display of gymnastic skill. Her spiral kick caught him in the face with the ball of her left foot, while in mid-jump. The sheer explosive force behind the attack dislocated his jaw and whipped him around, to be taken and clothes-lined by her revolving right leg. He spun, crashed onto his stomach, tried to rise, then collapsed.
The Hunter straightened her ruffled collar with evident annoyance, while John tried in vain to regain some measure of equilibrium.
"Nothing here is what it seems, boy." She guttered harshly, rubbing her throat as she moved out of his limited field of view.
"You aren't the heroic underdog. The Federation is not the Evil Empire. This is not a fitting send-off for a man such as you."
She'd returned, and John could just make out the glint of the thin straight short sword she was weaving idly through the air. Whoosh... Whoosh...
"But there is no shame in this. In a man's death, a man who has done – fine works."
John was too winded and enured to scream when she broke both one arm, then the other with twin shoulder lock levers, braced with her knees into his shoulder blades. And the pain was certainly no worse than what he'd experienced in basic really... He could only groan, disbelieving, wondering where all the good he had done in his life had disappeared to, like fog on a sunny winter's day.
The Devil knelt into the small of his back, pressed the blade almost tenderly into the base of his skull. And pushed true and hard.
A demon expired.