Two chapters in four days? That's fast. Funny story; the last chapter was supposed to go up last week, but due to some writing issues, I couldn't get it up.
Anyway, this chapter is shorter than I would have liked, but I didn't want to wait another two whole weeks for ideas for a longer chapter to come to me, and I also write pretty friggin slow.
(but what about your other stories? you got chapters with about 5,000 words in one week, you call that slow?)
[Oh. Uhhhhhhhhhhh...]
Anyway, I don't live in Australia, I don't own TFC in any way possible, etc, etc, on with the show.
"For you see, I planted a bomb in the building linked to your the sound of your heart. The minute that train runs across the rope I've set across the tracks, the wall will fall to the ground and crush you underneath, causing the bomb to go off, destroying the bank and allowing me to steal all the money!"
"You fool! You won't just kill countless people, you'll be blowing up the money as well."
"Crikey, I forgot about that. No matter, all I care about is taking your bloody wife down with it."
"Why couldn't he have just detonated the bomb directly?" the man grumbled from his seat in the corner, idly fiddling with the sniper rifle he held in his hands. "It just leaves more options for failure."
"I'm guessing you think the stuff you Americans have on the radio is much better than this," Mundy replied, keeping his eyes on the radio.
"Back home we have something called television, which is miles better than this radio stuff here," the older assassin said back, "but that's beside the point. My point is the more things you add on to your plans, the more things there'll be to fail, and the less likely your plan is to succeed."
"Well, the hero is supposed to be given a chance to win," the boy said. "It wouldn't make for a good story if the evil genius kills everyone in the end."
"Yeah," the assassin said, nodding in agreement, "but there are ways to give the hero a chance without making the bad guy look like a fool. If he was more efficient, I'd probably like this a bit more."
"Is that another one of your standards?" little Mundy asked.
"It is."
The two had been left alone at home. Both Mrs. and Mr. Mundy had gone out for an errand, so the pair had no fear about bringing weapons out in the open, or discussing assassin related topics, as they were doing right now.
"Really?" the boy turned to the man in surprise. The older man nodded.
"If given the option to shoot something down to get to your target or wait a few extra seconds to shoot him, you go for the second option," he said. "Fewer shots gives less of a chance for you to be detected."
"I'm guessing monologuing wouldn't pass either," little Mundy said jokingly.
"Nope."
"What if you miss your shot?" the boy asked.
"Same principle applies there," the assassin replied gruffly. "Every time you pull the trigger, someone should drop dead. If you get two or three, even better. The fewer shots you take, the less noise it'll make, and the less time you'll waste trying to kill your target."
"And why is wasting time so bad?" little Mundy asked. "A few seconds won't kill you, right?"
"You won't believe how many times I've died from mistakes that only took a few seconds to make," was the response. "Every second is another second someone could be using to hunt you down, each moment not spent on the move will be a moment someone could be using to track you down and kill you."
"That sounds nice," the boy said sarcastically.
"Never said it was a cakewalk, kid."
The pair fell silent. The static-y sound of the radio overtook the air once again.
"The life of an assassin," the older man said, "is often filled with uncertainties; Untamed, danger at every corner."
"Sounds like my kind of life," little Mundy replied, a childish grin breaking out on his face.
The assassin gave the boy a light pat on the back. "It's one to be proud of," he said back.
"Y'know," the boy said, turning off the radio with the push of a button, "We've been doing a lot of lessons all centered around mindsets, but I was wondering when we were going to start lessons on the actual assassin stuff."
At this, the older man stopped fiddling with the weapon in his hands. "Learning about the virtues of a professional killer is actual assassin stuff."
"I mean, something a bit more physical, like learning how to kill stuff."
"Ya mean like learning how to shoot this thing?" he asked, holding up the sniper rifle.
"Exactly," the little boy replied.
The older man chuckled. With a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet, weapon still in hand. "Funny you should ask that," he said as he made his way over to the boy, "as I was just getting ready to give this to you."
The boy's eyes widened as the man then handed him the sniper rifle. Tentatively, he reached out, and took it, his eyes tracing down its slim figure, inspecting it down to the finest detail. When he finally spoke, all he could say was, "Wow."
"Meet me by the water tower down the street at noon," the older assassin said, his voice unusually commanding. "Older assassins are never late, so I'd expect you to do the same, kid."
"I won't disappoint you!" little Mundy replied enthusiastically, his eyes overflowing with pride, having reached the next milestone in his goal.
A light grin made itself present on the man's lips, and he gave the boy a pat on the head, before he added, "Now hide that thing before your parents get home. Wouldn't want your folks to find out, now would we?"
The boy gave him a hasty nod, before he dashed off to his room, sniper rifle dragging behind. Watching the child disappear up the stairs, the man stole a glance at his own weapon, propped up against the corner. Quietly, he stepped over to it, carefully tracing his eyes along the rifle, from the bottom to the end of the barrel. He took it off the wall, and slipped it into the lengthy bag lying beside it.
As he closed it, his eyes lingered on a glimpse of metal stuffed inside the bag. A moment later, the bag was sealed again. A satisfied huff escaped his lips, and he leaned back against the wall, a low creak sounding off behind him as it bent under his weight. His shoulders relaxed, and a hand reached up to the brim of his hat, pulling it down over his eyes, allowing himself a moment of respite.