Well, here's the finale chapter for this story. And in a week as well, right on scedule. (For those of you who don't follow my other things, I have tried to set a weekly scedule for myself)
Maybe this had to do with the fact that I went on a vacation this week. Wifi was sparse and consistant sources of power were ever rarer, so I couldn't do video games because those drain the power of my computer incredibly fast, so I didn't really have anything else to do.
Anyway, I don't live in Australia so I don't know how people speak there (I met a guy from Australia this week. Does that count?) and I don't own Team Fortress 2. Enjoy the show, since I don't know how to properly transition here, I'll just let you pretend I put something smart and clever here. That sound good?
For whatever reason, little Mundy found himself unable to sleep. As silver strands of moonlight leaked in from the roof and the sound of insect chirping cradled his ears, the boy found himself lying awake, staring up at the ceiling.
Minutes ticked by of doing nothing, and eventually little Mundy began to feel bored. His eyes drifted to the weapon laid out beside him, and his mind went to all he had been learning. With his most recent lesson having ended only a few hours ago, as he tossed and turned, he began to have the urge to put his skills to use one more time.
Gently easing out of bed, the boy picked up his rifle, careful not to make a sound as he did so. He quietly made his way out of the room, his eyes flitting about in paranoia.
When he reached the door, little Mundy found that it was not as willing to cooperate as his floor had been. He slowly pulled it open, only to have a squeak sound off, echoing through the hall. The boy froze, fearful that he had been found. A second went by without another sound. Than another. Finally, the boy regained the courage to move, and he quietly pressed onward.
Small feet stepped against the floorboards, the boy making his way forward one step at a time. Very careful not to make the slightest sound, freezing if he felt the floorboards under him gave way even to the slightest degree, slowly but surely, he eventually made his way to the stairs.
Climbing downward was no easy task. When he reached the bottom step, he gently let himself down, and quickly picked up the pace once more. White streaks painted the floor beneath his feet as he carefully wound around items scattered on the floor. Each minute he spent stalking through felt as if it were stretched to an eternity, but eventually he did reach the door to the outside world.
Stepping outside, the boy's eyes fell on the water tower looming in the distance. He had spent hours there, firing upon targets laid out down below, and decided that it would only make sense put those same targets to use again.
The only sound that accompanied him on his journey was the rustle of the tall dry grass as the wind slipped through. The moon shone down on him as he stalked through the plains stealthily, his footfalls as quiet as that of a mouse thanks to extensive training from the older man.
Little Mundy was only a few feet from his destination, when a sound broke the silence of the night. He stopped, his eyes scanning the landscape. The only thing that caught his attention was a rickety old shed standing on the edge of the area.
Another sound, barely above a whisper, reached his ears. He heard traces of a scream, and a shiver crawled up his spine. Surely that couldn't mean anything good. His eyes hastily swept through the tall grass. All that dared stand above the tall dry grass was the shed lying a good distance away, and the boy quickly concluded that it was the source of the sound. Silently, he crept up to the broken down old shed, his finger lightly brushing the trigger, ready to fire at any given moment.
With the door towering over him, slightly unhinged and leaning to the side, the boy braced himself for whatever horrors lay inside. Slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, his eye staring through the sight of the weapon, he took a deep breath. Then, he kicked it open with a bang, only to find...
Nothing. At least, nothing but a giant crate standing alone in the corner.
Confused, the boy slowly lowered his weapon. He was sure the scream had been coming from the shed, but there was nothing in it. Unless, of course, the shed was haunted, but Mundy didn't believe in the supernatural.
Again, a sound resounded from inside the room, louder and clearer than before. This time, the boy was certain it was a scream, coming from beneath the floor. His eyes went over to the crate sitting in the corner, and a crawling suspicion entered his mind.
He pulled the crate over to the other end of the shed with some effort, and found a set of stairs leading down. Without a moment of hesitation, the boy slipped onto the stairs, and began his trek downward. He never realized he had left his weapon lying on beside the crate, sprawled out on the floor.
As he got closer, little Mundy heard soft voices trace past his ears, like a soft breeze. He went closer still, and the voices began to form words. Words that were quiet and calm, but intimidating at the same time, in a voice he recognized all too well.
"Let me say this again; where. Is. It? I know you're the one who hid it, and you ain't gonna get anywhere by stayin' silent, so why don't ya just spill?"
...
"Nothin? Well then, let me rephrase that sentence one more time."
Another scream sounded out. Little Mundy took one last step down the stairs, hoping that his assumption was wrong. As soon as he stepped into sight, the first thing that caught his eye was a man, his bare chest covered with all kind of wounds and cuts, strapped to a chair. A strange, bulky rectangular machine stood behind, connected to an alarming quantity of needles sticking out of his arms, each filled to the brim with a golden yellow liquid, shining in the dim light, and standing above him was the older assassin who little Mundy had been living with for all this time, holding a large knife in his hand that gleamed wickedly in the light, with his lengthy beard, and his calm, unnerved eyes. Only now, the little boy saw something in them his eyes he didn't notice before; a icy coldness that chilled him to the bone.
The boy could only watch as the assassin slashed at the poor man strapped to the chair, eliciting another cry of pain. He found himself unable to pry his eyes from the torture session, frozen in fear. Then, he caught sight of the man's dazed eyes on him, and he knew he had to leave before the assassin caught on.
"Kid."
At once, the boy stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around, and his eyes met the icy, focused gaze of his mentor.
"You're gonna call the cops on me, aren't ya?" the assassin growled.
"What else am I supposed to do?" little Mundy shot back. "You're not an assassin, you're a bloody sadist. I know every trick up your sleeve, so there's no way you'd be able to stop me."
The older man chuckled. "Actually..." Slowly, he pulled out a small machine from his jacket, a small button decorating the top.
"We've been at this for... how long exactly? A few months? Two months?" the man said, his voice dangerously low. "On your first lesson, I told you three of the standards I've kept as an assassin. I've only taught you two so far. Now, it's time I taught you the third."
"What is that you're holding?" the boy asked, pointing to the object the older man held in his hand.
"A detonator," he replied, his tone remaining even. "On the first day I stayed at your house, I planted a bomb underneath. Since I was spending the most time with your follks, I figured they'd be the most likely to discover my actions, so I came prepared."
"You..."
"As an assassin, you should always be prepared for anything, be it getting mauled by a bear, stranded on an island, or even being found out by the ones who trust you the most," the assassin said, his gaze never leaving the boy.
Stunned silence was all that followed. The boy just stood in place, completely shocked. It only lasted for a second, but that second felt like the longest moment of his life.
"So," the man said, his voice laced with silent threats, "here's the deal. You'll walk out of here, forget this whole exchange ever happened, and I'll make myself disappear. You'll still have your family, and you'll never have to see me ever again. Does that sound good?"
Conflict swirled beneath the child's eyes as he struggled to find make the right choice. He opened his mouth to say something back, but his confidence crumbled before a word escaped his lips, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I'd knew you'd make the better choice," the older man said. "Now get out of here. You don't have any business in staying around."
With one last glance back at the older man, the boy couldn't help but to feel betrayed by the man he thought of as his mentor. He scrambled back up the stairs, and only when he had reached the top did he really feel spiteful at the older man. His eyes fell to the weapon lying on the floor, and in a moment of anger he kicked it, causing the sniper rifle to crash into a wall. Even after he left the shed, his mind lingered on the choice he had made and the final lesson he had learned down there for a long time after.
"Come in."
The assassin paused, his hand frozen over the wooden door. He knew this was something to expect with all his dealings with her; it's just that even after countless contracts, it still irked him how she had to shove in his face how she could detect his presence before he had the chance to announce it himself.
With an annoyed sigh, he pushed open the door without a sound. In the room, he was greeted to the sight of a chair facing away from the door, and a desk laid out before it. The assassin strolled over to the desk and placed a briefcase on top with a thud.
"Three pounds of australium, just like you asked," the man said. "Only two witnesses, both of which were dealt with swiftly."
"Excelent work," the Adminastrator replied, a small trail of smoke wafting into the air. "I've called for my assistant to meet you on the way out to hand you your reward."
"Alright," the man said, slowly readjusting his coat. He turned to leave, when the Administrator called out to him again.
"One minute."
"What?" the assassin asked, turning to look over his shoulder. The tall chair swirled around, revealing the Administrator to the light.
Aged fingers snatched a photo of a boy out from underneath the desk, before placing it on top. "You wouldn't happen to know this boy, would you?" she asked.
"I don't believe I do," the assassin replied. "Why does it matter to you?"
"I believe this boy is from the lost country of New Zealand," the Administrator said. "I also belive that there is a hidden stache of australium located in New Zealand, and if we can get to the boy, we might be able to extract its location from him."
The assassin paused. "I'm sorry," he said finally, "I can't recall ever seeing someone like that."
"Well let me know if it comes up," the elderly woman replied, handing the photo over to the assassin. He recived the photo wordlessly, before he turned around and left. As he closed the door, leaving the office behind him, he stole another glance at the photo. Out of the other eight mercenaries he had worked with, he had walked this hall the most, and had memorized the layout of the swarm of cameras that littered the walls. Just as he stepped out of sight of every camera trained on the barren hall, he crumpled the picture into a ball, and dropped it into the trash can beside him.
Perhaps he would be better if he just forgot all that had happened in his mission to the land down under.
