"Your regrets will be you death! Do not regret what you have done."
Those words echo in one young man's head as he walks down a darkening, dismal street. You will kill. Have no regrets. He heard those words so long ago-and still, they came back to his head every time he had a mission. It wasn't like it really mattered, anyway. He had done this sort of thing a thousand times by now. Only the first time ever really did matter.
/ This is not a world worth saving.. that night where the streets ran red and my hands were covered in blood... I can still see that blood. That stain of life's blood never washes away. But I have no regrets../
All other memories and thoughts life from his consciousness as his eyes recognize his target. He is crouched, silent, waiting. Every move the target makes is watched by a keen eye that waits for him to come closer . . . . . closer . . . . . . /now./ Like a machine, he registers the marked man in range, and immediately leaps into action, descending to the target's path like a falcon diving to it's prey. He lands, gun in hand, aimed at the other man's head. The man stutters, backs away hastily. He begins to make promises, and begs for his life. A smile plays on the assassin's face. "Too late."
A gunshot pierces the silence of the night, and the man falls, dead.
The killer puts the gun away quickly, and turns to escape the scene. He finds himself instead faced with cold, narrow eyes and a katana pointed at his throat. The sudden attacker thrusts her weapon foreword, and he dances back, barely out of her range. She growls, and lunges at him again. "You don't deserve to live," She hisses, while her katana makes an incision in his arm. In return, his fist jabs into her side, and she stumbles. Looking at him evenly, she continues; "Killing on a whim. People are dead because of your disregard." He rolls his eyes. So, a self- righteous killer. How pathetic.
"And what do you think you are?" he taunts, and punches her hard enough to knock her to the ground. He looms over her with a sadistic smirk. "Look at you, all set to kill me, and yet you think you're justified in deciding I should die. Do you honestly think you're any better then me? A murderer is a murderer. Nothing more."
A smile. /What?/ "And that," she says, getting up, "is the difference between you and me. I /know/ that. You don't know the price of death."
With one thrust, her katana pierces him through.
She is gone in the darkness. He falls over, blood spilling onto the trampled grass. His eyes blur. Suddenly, he is once more on that condemned street, and tears are running freely from his eyes. The pavement and cobblestone run red. The air is thick with blood's coppery smell-his hands are covered in it, his feet walk over it. Blood of everyone he ever knew, and never would know. The price of death . . . . . . /that/ is the price of death.
For the first time in a cold-blooded killer's life, he regrets.
Those words echo in one young man's head as he walks down a darkening, dismal street. You will kill. Have no regrets. He heard those words so long ago-and still, they came back to his head every time he had a mission. It wasn't like it really mattered, anyway. He had done this sort of thing a thousand times by now. Only the first time ever really did matter.
/ This is not a world worth saving.. that night where the streets ran red and my hands were covered in blood... I can still see that blood. That stain of life's blood never washes away. But I have no regrets../
All other memories and thoughts life from his consciousness as his eyes recognize his target. He is crouched, silent, waiting. Every move the target makes is watched by a keen eye that waits for him to come closer . . . . . closer . . . . . . /now./ Like a machine, he registers the marked man in range, and immediately leaps into action, descending to the target's path like a falcon diving to it's prey. He lands, gun in hand, aimed at the other man's head. The man stutters, backs away hastily. He begins to make promises, and begs for his life. A smile plays on the assassin's face. "Too late."
A gunshot pierces the silence of the night, and the man falls, dead.
The killer puts the gun away quickly, and turns to escape the scene. He finds himself instead faced with cold, narrow eyes and a katana pointed at his throat. The sudden attacker thrusts her weapon foreword, and he dances back, barely out of her range. She growls, and lunges at him again. "You don't deserve to live," She hisses, while her katana makes an incision in his arm. In return, his fist jabs into her side, and she stumbles. Looking at him evenly, she continues; "Killing on a whim. People are dead because of your disregard." He rolls his eyes. So, a self- righteous killer. How pathetic.
"And what do you think you are?" he taunts, and punches her hard enough to knock her to the ground. He looms over her with a sadistic smirk. "Look at you, all set to kill me, and yet you think you're justified in deciding I should die. Do you honestly think you're any better then me? A murderer is a murderer. Nothing more."
A smile. /What?/ "And that," she says, getting up, "is the difference between you and me. I /know/ that. You don't know the price of death."
With one thrust, her katana pierces him through.
She is gone in the darkness. He falls over, blood spilling onto the trampled grass. His eyes blur. Suddenly, he is once more on that condemned street, and tears are running freely from his eyes. The pavement and cobblestone run red. The air is thick with blood's coppery smell-his hands are covered in it, his feet walk over it. Blood of everyone he ever knew, and never would know. The price of death . . . . . . /that/ is the price of death.
For the first time in a cold-blooded killer's life, he regrets.