Chapter Two: Assassin

Malcolm's assailant loomed over him, their sharpened blade hovering dangerously close to his vitals. He could feel beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead, the erratics of his breathing, and the pulsing of his own heart against its ribcage. Every second that passed was agonising, with his expectancy to have his life closed stabbing him with anticipation, and dread.

Eventually, he found himself opening his tightly-eclipsed eyelids, and saw that he was - for now - still within the cruel clutches of life. His assassin was still poised to strike at him, but he made no action that indicated that he was about to do so.

"Well?" Malcolm spat. "Are you going to do it then?"

When he was finished, an awful silence descended unto the proceedings. The tension was palpable; at this point, Malcolm believed that death might actually be preferable.

Suddenly, the assassin began to laugh. Due to the deep nature of his voice, it sounded like it should have come from a creature much larger and more horrifying than the single figure that stood before him. Then, just when Malcolm could bare it no longer, the assassin spoke.

"Well, you're very keen to die, aren't you?" they boomed, admiring the shaft of their blade whilst keeping an amused eye on Malcolm. "Tell me... did you place this hit upon yourself?"

"No." Malcolm doggedly stood to his feet, a new determination not to die whimpering filling him with willpower he had long forsaken. Not since Rebecca had he felt so isolated. Here he was, at the mercy of a cold-blooded killer, and he was being laughed at for acting upon his fear. No. "But I'll place one on you if your not careful."

The assassin turned their attention from their sword, and turned menacingly toward Malcolm. "I didn't say you could stand."

"No, you didn't." Malcolm wiped his bloodied maw across his sleeve. "But you'll have to kill me if you don't like it."

The assassin froze under Malcolm's steely glare for a few, unnerving moments. "It doesn't matter to me how you die. Standing up; sitting down; on the toilet. At the end of the day, I always get my payroll's worth."

Malcolm's eyes swerved to follow the assassin as he started to walk at an uneasily-casual pace around him. "How would you like to die, hmm? A knife in your heart? A blade against your throat? A quick snap of your spine? I really am giving you the liberty of choice here, Mr. Merlyn."

Malcolm took a long, nervous breath that shook his bones as it escaped from his lips. He was putting on a brave face, and his body was taking the toll for it. "Freedom is nothing but an illusion. I'll end up dead, anyway."

"Yes, but surely death is the only true freedom? Freedom from taxes, from pain, from suffering? Life is a prison; death is the key."

Malcolm resisted the urge to tremble, determined not to give this psychopath anything but his middle finger. "Then release me-"

All pretence of dignity in Malcolm flew out the window when the assassin suddenly whipped his blade around, slashing Malcolm's emaciated tie from his neck, and dropping it to the ground with a soft, velvety thud.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" the assassin accused, lowering his weapon in satisfaction at seeing the fleeting glimpse of anguish in Malcolm's eyes. "Well, I'm not under your payroll, and I'm not giving you what you want. I will, however, offer you a choice."

Malcolm was too shocked to speak, compelled to keep his tongue inside his mouth lest it meet the same fate as his tie.

"The men who attacked you tonight... I've been watching them for days. Real lowlifes... You're not the first person that they robbed tonight. These men don't deserve to live. They are just like the men who murdered your wife, Malcolm."

Acidic guilt and revulsion churned in Malcolm's gut as the memories of Rebecca's heartbreaking phone messages came back to haunt him. "How did you-"

"I can tell about a person. You don't fear death because you want to be enveloped by it yourself. You aren't thinking rationally. You forget about your son, or you try very hard to."

Tommy. "But how-"

"That's not important. Those men will escape justice tonight unless you act. No judiciary can touch them - they're either unwilling, or strictly incapable. Right now they're terrified... vulnerable, but by tomorrow they will have recovered, and your chance will be gone."

"My chance to do what-?"

The assassin tossed a vial toward Malcolm, who barely managed to scrape together the reflexes to catch it.

"Seplock. It's a slow-acting poison, but it does its trick. You can either take it yourself, and end your life, or you can coat it upon this blade..." The assassin dropped its sword onto the ground, and kicked it to Malcolm without a second thought. "... And use it to end theirs..."

"And what if I choose to do neither?" Malcolm demanded angrily.

"Then I retract my offer."

Malcolm glanced at the opal-textured fluid, and then down at the sword, still coated in the blood of the gang's unfortunate leader. When he looked for the assassin again in an attempt to have his instructions clarified, he saw nothing but the night, and the faint, sickly glow of the neon from the main road.

Naturally, Malcolm's first post-traumatic action was to drop to his knees, and unleash a floodgate of vomit onto the pavement. Images of the assassin's blade slicing tenderly across his bare flesh threatened to tide him over, and upon attempting to take a step forward, he fell straight back down. The vial that had been thrusted upon him swirled hypnotically, as if offering a taunt.

Malcolm raised his head uncertainly, expectant that at any moment, the assassin would return to complete his work. But the moment did not come, and eventually, Malcolm found himself peering at the Seplock, imagining the horrors that the substance had caused previously, and would surely - if given the chance - inflict again. His fingers coaxed the seal, brushing over it gently whilst in the thrall of his own indecision. Before he knew what he was doing, the vial was open, and its contents were trickling steadily down his throat.

"Fool."

The voice startled Malcolm so much that he started to choke on the Seplock. He coughed and spluttered, showering the wall with a mixture of saliva and poison. When he turned around, he saw his assassin was with him once more.

"You would throw away the gift of life so easily. Why?"

Malcolm swallowed hard. "I can't. I've tried to forget her, but I just can't. "

"So, you want to join her? You have lost your affinity for life. This can be a strength, but it can also define your weakness."

"Screw you," Malcolm growled, hefting the blade he had been given, and running at the assassin. As he swung, the assassin stepped backwards, and kicked out at Malcolm's hand, causing his grip on the blade to falter, and for it to skid off across the ground.

"Impressive resolve," the assassin grunted, before back-handing Malcolm across the face. They quickly followed it up with a knee to the gut and a kick to the leg. Malcolm toppled like a tower of Jenga, and the assassin stood over him triumphantly, his foot placed upon his neck.

"It's not poison," the assassin said, sounding pretty smug with themselves. "Where I come from, we have a toxin called Seplock, but if that had been what you just ingested, your brains would be pouring from your ears by now!"

Malcolm grunted from his unsavoury position on the floor. "So...? What were you... trying... to prove?"

The assassin did not speak for a moment, but then his hands went to his balaclava, and to Malcolm's surprise, he tore it off. The man beneath was much less intimidating than his exterior bravado. He wore an irritating grin, and a thick black goatee that reminded Malcolm somewhat of barbed wire. His eyes, however, were strikingly piercing, and Malcolm found that he could not tear away from them.

"My name is Al-Owal," the assassin declared. "And I am a member of the League of Assassins."

To Be Continued...