It wasn't that cold. The temperature had held little sway over him since
his mentor's death. Even dressed in a green tank top and black shorts, he
didn't feel the cold. He refused to. In the long run giving in to the
shivers that he new were waiting for him would afford him little. Worse
still, they would present him as an easy victim for any on the streets who
were watching him. A small boy of about ten would seem the perfect target.
No; it was better to not feel the cold. He wasn't - would never allow himself to be a victim. He was a predator. The kind that snuck up on you in the dark and bit at your throat. Go straight for the kill.
Predator. . .
Assassin. . .
Except that he didn't feel much like a predator now. He was alone; without a purpose. Sitting against the side of the dull tan colored building, he could have been any young boy daydreaming. Until you looked into his eyes. A dark stormy blue, they promised death, oblivion; an end to the meaningless existence of so many of the inhabitants living in these hopeless slums on the colony. It was always his eyes that revealed he wasn't a normal boy. They were cold, emotionless, determined and yet - confused.
'Live according to your emotions.'
But how could he live according to his emotions, when he wasn't sure that he felt them? He didn't cry. or smile.or laugh. He didn't do any number of the things that people with emotions were supposed to do. Even Odin had smiled, but he. . . he couldn't.
A stray piece of newspaper blew his way, coming to rest against his legs, which he had pulled up against his body in a defensive manner. He pulled it away, but rather then tossing it back into the street, he absently began to fold it.
Turn it over. Fold down the corner. Now fold it in half. There. Sitting on his hand was a small paper crane. Without even looking at it, he retraced his movements so that it was once again a sheet of newspaper, now slightly creased.
'What am I supposed to do?' he wondered, as he began refolding the page into a paper crane.
There was a dry clatter, and the boy looked up. Across the street, some of the plaster filling in a crack on one of the older buildings had crumbled away. It wouldn't be long now before this sector was completely deserted. Even the buildings looked dead, as though they were halfway through complete decay. Small holes that you could peak through, and large ones that you could crawl through filled the walls.
Fold it in half. Turn it over; in half again. Now fold it down the centre. Another paper crane rested proudly on the palm of his hand. Slowly he pulled at one flap of paper, opening up the fold, and then opening another over and over until it was a crumpled piece of paper. The folds, pressed too firmly into the paper were beginning to take their toll. He began to crease it again.
Every day of the boy's life had held a purpose for as long as he could remember. He had been the 'son' of Odin Lowe. James. . . Steve. . . Akira. . . Odin Jr. . . Kid. What was his name again?
He didn't know. Perhaps, if he had been asked years ago, at a more tender age, before his *job* had hardened him. Perhaps then he would have known. Not anymore though. Now he was Kid. He was Kid, or he was whatever Odin chose to name him for that mission. It was never the same, except when the two were alone. Then. he was Kid.
Another wind blew in his direction, depositing grit in his already messy dark brown hair. He didn't flinch; didn't grimace. It was dirt - nothing was wrong with dirt. If he had still been with Odin he might have cared. You couldn't pretend to be the son of a well off scientist, or businessman, or whatever. you couldn't carry out your mission properly if you attracted attention. People who were dirty when they weren't supposed to be, attracted attention.
But he wasn't with Odin anymore. Odin was dead. Why should he care about a little more dirt, when his face was already streaked with grease and ashes, and his hair nearly black from it? Why should he care? There would be no more missions.
Fold it in half. Crease down the centre; turn it over and fold it again. Pull down the corners, and fold it in half again . . . Paper crane. He began to unfold it.
'What do I do now?' He couldn't sit there forever. Sooner or later he would need to get up - would need to eat, or drink, or sleep. He wasn't perfect, and would never be. He had been useful though. A face that gave away nothing, and was still round without the weight of years on it. No one suspected a child. He was the perfect way to distract any watcher's attention . . . But not perfect himself.
Now he was a just a child with to many years in his eyes. No one to distract; no missions to fulfill, not even the man Odin to tell him what to do and where to go. A young killer with no one to give him orders.
The gun rested heavily in the waistband of his shorts. A bulge from the weapon all but completely hidden by the loose green material of his sleeveless shirt. It was his last possession aside from his clothes. How fitting. He had no mission - just a useless weapon for a useless child.
Crease down the centre, fold down the corners, turn it over, and fold it in half again. another paper crane. Less then perfect now; no longer proud. It's wings drooped pathetically from the over folding, and it's tail looked ready to fall apart. Pull open a fold; gently stretch the paper . . .
His brow furrowed as the piece ripped apart, the creases finally reducing the page of newspaper to a crumbling piece that couldn't take the constant pulling. With a snort of disgust, the boy tossed the sad looking paper back into the street, disgusted with himself for wasting so much time.
With a barely audible grunt, he stood up and began to walk away from the building he had been leaning on. A shriek from a few streets away caught his attention, but he ignored the sound in favour of walking. At least the endless repetition of placing one foot in front of the other gave him something to do - something that would take him somewhere, unlike the stupid crane.
"Hey boy."
He looked up, confused for a moment at who would be calling him. In the alleyway next to him, half shadowed, was an old man. His hair was long and grey, but not matted, so he couldn't have been on these streets long. Eyes of an unknown colour were covered by odd looking glasses that extended out from his face, and he was covered from neck to knees in a white coat that looked as though it had come from a lab. It was odd - the coat seemed pristine in comparison to the dull greys and browns of the area.
"I like the look in your eyes." The man told him. "I could use someone like you."
The boy raised an eyebrow in a question. This old man wanted a child? He wanted a boy with no emotions - a killer? He didn't move, waiting for the man to continue. If he could have a purpose again. . .
"I need a pilot - a fighter. Do you want the job?"
He considered. Fighting and killing; it was all that he was good for - all that he had ever done. He didn't need to figure out how to fulfill Odin's message. He didn't need to have emotions.
A piece of paper blew into him and clung to the back of his legs. Without thinking, he picked up the paper and stared at it. His mind didn't really register what was on the page. The boy looked at the old man who was waiting for an answer, and nodded in affirmation.
The man stood up and motioned for him to follow, and the two began walking down the vacant road; the smaller figure to the side, and just slightly behind the taller one. A quick motion with his hand sent the dirty paper to the ground as they continued on.
'Live by your emotions.' The whispering voice of his mentor was all but forgotten, faded into the back of his mind in light of his newfound purpose. There was no talking between the two receding forms.
Behind them, the rejected piece of paper tumbled further away.
~ Owari ~
No; it was better to not feel the cold. He wasn't - would never allow himself to be a victim. He was a predator. The kind that snuck up on you in the dark and bit at your throat. Go straight for the kill.
Predator. . .
Assassin. . .
Except that he didn't feel much like a predator now. He was alone; without a purpose. Sitting against the side of the dull tan colored building, he could have been any young boy daydreaming. Until you looked into his eyes. A dark stormy blue, they promised death, oblivion; an end to the meaningless existence of so many of the inhabitants living in these hopeless slums on the colony. It was always his eyes that revealed he wasn't a normal boy. They were cold, emotionless, determined and yet - confused.
'Live according to your emotions.'
But how could he live according to his emotions, when he wasn't sure that he felt them? He didn't cry. or smile.or laugh. He didn't do any number of the things that people with emotions were supposed to do. Even Odin had smiled, but he. . . he couldn't.
A stray piece of newspaper blew his way, coming to rest against his legs, which he had pulled up against his body in a defensive manner. He pulled it away, but rather then tossing it back into the street, he absently began to fold it.
Turn it over. Fold down the corner. Now fold it in half. There. Sitting on his hand was a small paper crane. Without even looking at it, he retraced his movements so that it was once again a sheet of newspaper, now slightly creased.
'What am I supposed to do?' he wondered, as he began refolding the page into a paper crane.
There was a dry clatter, and the boy looked up. Across the street, some of the plaster filling in a crack on one of the older buildings had crumbled away. It wouldn't be long now before this sector was completely deserted. Even the buildings looked dead, as though they were halfway through complete decay. Small holes that you could peak through, and large ones that you could crawl through filled the walls.
Fold it in half. Turn it over; in half again. Now fold it down the centre. Another paper crane rested proudly on the palm of his hand. Slowly he pulled at one flap of paper, opening up the fold, and then opening another over and over until it was a crumpled piece of paper. The folds, pressed too firmly into the paper were beginning to take their toll. He began to crease it again.
Every day of the boy's life had held a purpose for as long as he could remember. He had been the 'son' of Odin Lowe. James. . . Steve. . . Akira. . . Odin Jr. . . Kid. What was his name again?
He didn't know. Perhaps, if he had been asked years ago, at a more tender age, before his *job* had hardened him. Perhaps then he would have known. Not anymore though. Now he was Kid. He was Kid, or he was whatever Odin chose to name him for that mission. It was never the same, except when the two were alone. Then. he was Kid.
Another wind blew in his direction, depositing grit in his already messy dark brown hair. He didn't flinch; didn't grimace. It was dirt - nothing was wrong with dirt. If he had still been with Odin he might have cared. You couldn't pretend to be the son of a well off scientist, or businessman, or whatever. you couldn't carry out your mission properly if you attracted attention. People who were dirty when they weren't supposed to be, attracted attention.
But he wasn't with Odin anymore. Odin was dead. Why should he care about a little more dirt, when his face was already streaked with grease and ashes, and his hair nearly black from it? Why should he care? There would be no more missions.
Fold it in half. Crease down the centre; turn it over and fold it again. Pull down the corners, and fold it in half again . . . Paper crane. He began to unfold it.
'What do I do now?' He couldn't sit there forever. Sooner or later he would need to get up - would need to eat, or drink, or sleep. He wasn't perfect, and would never be. He had been useful though. A face that gave away nothing, and was still round without the weight of years on it. No one suspected a child. He was the perfect way to distract any watcher's attention . . . But not perfect himself.
Now he was a just a child with to many years in his eyes. No one to distract; no missions to fulfill, not even the man Odin to tell him what to do and where to go. A young killer with no one to give him orders.
The gun rested heavily in the waistband of his shorts. A bulge from the weapon all but completely hidden by the loose green material of his sleeveless shirt. It was his last possession aside from his clothes. How fitting. He had no mission - just a useless weapon for a useless child.
Crease down the centre, fold down the corners, turn it over, and fold it in half again. another paper crane. Less then perfect now; no longer proud. It's wings drooped pathetically from the over folding, and it's tail looked ready to fall apart. Pull open a fold; gently stretch the paper . . .
His brow furrowed as the piece ripped apart, the creases finally reducing the page of newspaper to a crumbling piece that couldn't take the constant pulling. With a snort of disgust, the boy tossed the sad looking paper back into the street, disgusted with himself for wasting so much time.
With a barely audible grunt, he stood up and began to walk away from the building he had been leaning on. A shriek from a few streets away caught his attention, but he ignored the sound in favour of walking. At least the endless repetition of placing one foot in front of the other gave him something to do - something that would take him somewhere, unlike the stupid crane.
"Hey boy."
He looked up, confused for a moment at who would be calling him. In the alleyway next to him, half shadowed, was an old man. His hair was long and grey, but not matted, so he couldn't have been on these streets long. Eyes of an unknown colour were covered by odd looking glasses that extended out from his face, and he was covered from neck to knees in a white coat that looked as though it had come from a lab. It was odd - the coat seemed pristine in comparison to the dull greys and browns of the area.
"I like the look in your eyes." The man told him. "I could use someone like you."
The boy raised an eyebrow in a question. This old man wanted a child? He wanted a boy with no emotions - a killer? He didn't move, waiting for the man to continue. If he could have a purpose again. . .
"I need a pilot - a fighter. Do you want the job?"
He considered. Fighting and killing; it was all that he was good for - all that he had ever done. He didn't need to figure out how to fulfill Odin's message. He didn't need to have emotions.
A piece of paper blew into him and clung to the back of his legs. Without thinking, he picked up the paper and stared at it. His mind didn't really register what was on the page. The boy looked at the old man who was waiting for an answer, and nodded in affirmation.
The man stood up and motioned for him to follow, and the two began walking down the vacant road; the smaller figure to the side, and just slightly behind the taller one. A quick motion with his hand sent the dirty paper to the ground as they continued on.
'Live by your emotions.' The whispering voice of his mentor was all but forgotten, faded into the back of his mind in light of his newfound purpose. There was no talking between the two receding forms.
Behind them, the rejected piece of paper tumbled further away.
~ Owari ~