07-12-2009, 10:48 PM
Prologue
My name no longer matters, they said. I’ve accepted a higher calling, they said. Now, my only real task was to die for my country if it became necessary. I would think a more beneficial task would be to keep it from becoming necessary, but people don’t think the same way I do on most subjects. I believe an obscure clause of my recruitment prevents me from telling you my real name under pain of military incarceration and disciplinary action. Thus, I will tell you what you already know. My new name is Wraith. I’ve been called that for quite some time now, so I figure my old identity has probably atrophied. It wasn’t worth much anyway.
As “Wraith”, my job description was the management of and specialization in covert maneuvers for a small, newly created unit of troops. Rather monotonous, of course, when you really think about it. A man’s blood can only splatter so many ways before the patterns lose their novelty. Unfortunately, given the fact that “covert maneuvers” essentially just entails me stabbing people in the back before they can do any real damage, I rarely get the variety that would be afforded me if I were to get nice and up front with those that I’m after. Ah, I’m rambling now. That is, I suppose, one of the reasons that I’m here. You say you wish for a chronicle of my time in the unit. This is not surprising. My tenure spanned the majority of the latter part of the war, from the bombing of the capital to the mission to assassinate the Royal government in its entirety. I suppose I should start at the very beginning, when I received my invitation.
Chapter I – In Which a Trite Tweed Jacket Gets the Fate it Deserves
Classified Location, Codenamed: The Mesa.
Royal Counterintelligence Training Facility
Target: Prof. Andre Deveare, PhD
I never really cared about the pressure of the assignments I was given. They were all relatively simple. The problem was always the sweat. It was an unavoidable nuisance. I found that in many instances, the sweat decreased my ability to focus, which was something I didn’t really feel like dealing with at the moment. A long range kill would have been rendered impossible by the
Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. The building itself was the remote training facility of the Royal Corps of Counterintelligence Operatives. It was a four story brownstone building with no windows, a single entrance, and numerous guards. If my data was correct, there were two levels that were underground, as well. Deveare was probably at the level second to the bottom. The guard was comprised of members of the regular Royal Army, making things a bit easier for me. They were situated at the entrance, with two on the roof, probably with at least one sniper among them. Deveare was, after all, a rather important figure. I figured I may as well move in, so I did.
It was a rather awkward thing, to walk up to the facility nonchalantly say hello to the guards, and simply open the door and walk in. Granted, the overcoat I wore over my Kevlar clothing and assortment of small handguns was rather good at concealing my items. Still, the bemused expression I wore as I walked past the two imbecile guards should have alerted them to something abnormal about the guest they were allowing in. But it didn’t, and step after step I simply entered the building.
The entrance area featured a rather baroque coat rack next to the exit of the hallway that led into it. There were a series of miniscule gargoyles that were situated at various heights and locations of the ugly thing, making it seem strange, gaudy, and altogether poorly made. The carpet was shag, and navy blue colored. The walls were an eggshell white, similar to an asylum.
Ironic, that last part, isn’t it?
The receptionist who greeted me was an overweight, middle aged man with dull, cataract filled blue eyes. He stood up, and motioned for me to give my coat to him. I said nothing and simply refused.
“You must be Mr. Sable?” he said, making a rather poor inference.
I said nothing.
The man nodded at this, probably taking my lack of objection as an affirmation of his suspicions. People are always so sure of their inferences.
“Well, sir, let me take you to the class, as I’m sure you’ll like to see our professor in action.”
I nodded, and he led me down over to the right side of the room, where there was an elevator door.
I had sat in the elevator for a few seconds when I realized that I needed to find Deveare on my own. Having the kind receptionist with me would have been nothing but an obstacle. I figured that the most prudent thing to do was to dispatch him, then and there after consideration of various other options, including lying about needing to take a quick restroom break and departing on my own. This would never work, as the man would need to guide me to the lavatories first, and thus would have waited for me to “finish”.
Thus, I decided it would be prudent to kill him.
“Sir, I don’t believe I introduced myself.” he said to me, smiling warmly in an attempt to make his guest comfortable.
I wondered if he ever smiled that way at his family. This caused me to smile a bit in return, knowing that, yes, he probably did. And they wouldn’t ever see it again. No one could ever tell me that I didn’t make an impact in what I did.
“I honestly couldn’t care less.” I said, rather absentmindedly, as I unsheathed a healthy combat knife from within my overcoat and palmed it.
The man was taken aback, but not by my words.
“You. Your accent…” he trailed off, and suddenly turned a bright red color that is usually reserved either for the very angry or those who know what’s about to happen, and are expecting a negative outcome.
“You have no idea how many people in your exact situation have said that to me.”
That was when my blade moved to connect with his right eye, and went in and out a few times for good measure. Since he was still writhing a bit after the third time (Unbelievable, really. I thought I was a bit more thorough than that.), I simply twisted around a bit and pushed deeper. This was satisfactory in stopping his grotesque movement, and my acquaintance now was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Unfortunately, there was blood. I didn’t think his screams were too bad, as I managed to stop them fairly quickly, but the blood was undeniable. I removed my overcoat, and covered the man’s body. I then proceeded to reach into my back pocket, retrieve a standard-issue matchbook, and went on to light the damn thing on fire as soon as the door to the second to bottom floor of the facility opened. Making them unrecognizable was part of the game, but I had little time for meticulous facial alterations at the moment. I figured I’d cause some chaos and ruin the next few weeks of that unfortunate man’s family at the same time.
As I exited, the fire alarm of the facility went off as expected. It was a matter of minutes until I found the proper hallway, leading to the classroom in which Professor Deveare was giving a lecture. It was empty now except for him, all of the students having left via the fire exit. This went remarkably well, in retrospect. Assassinations rarely went well due to luck.
I entered the room with relative ease and made it to the front row of desks before Dr. Deveare looked up from his desk and greeted me.
“Well, looks like you’re doing well. I figured you Nats’d send someone a bit worse in. You have a reputation for inefficiency in matters like this.”
“One should examine oneself a long time before thinking of condemning others.” I replied in a rather curt manner, my mind on the unsheathing of a rather special blade.
“Oh, good; they sent someone who can quote Moliere before killing me. This has always been my dream.” he didn’t look particularly uneasy. This was rare. “Be honest with me, now. Do I look like I can put up a fight?” He took a step back from me, and extended his arms as though he was letting me get a good look.
Deveare was tall, almost my height. He had at least six feet, and was quite muscular. His eyes were surprisingly warm and inviting for an individual with a reputation like his. He used to be one of the former highest ranking members of the Royal Intelligence Service, and bore the responsibility for quite a few assassinations and National operative deaths. His hair was long, shoulder length almost, but very well kempt. It was like a gray mane, one that I assumed would have been quite soft. It would have burned magnificently with the rest of his body, had the fire still been raging. Unfortunately, the fire alarm having gone off approximately seven minutes ago, the sprinkler system had already gone off and prevented the possibility of Dr. Deveare perishing of burns.
Satisfied that I had had enough time to take in his form, Deveare said once again:
“Do I look like I’ll be of ANY resistance to you?”
Somewhat amused, I figured I’d play along a little bit.
“Well, no.”
“Exactly. What honor is there in killing a defenseless old man? If you let me go, I’ll see to it that you get out safely. There’s even an exit over here.” He motioned for me to follow him, so I did.
Deveare opened a door towards the front of the classroom, to the right of the large white board, and I found a ladder. From what I saw, there was no one guarding it, but I couldn’t be sure. If I had been the guards, I would be sweeping the interior rather than the exterior at this particular moment, so I wagered that it was a safe escape route.
Deveare tapped my shoulder.
“I’d advise you to get going. I knew you were a better person than this. You’d never kill an old man.”
My brow furrowed.
“Statistically speaking, there’s a 100% chance I’ll murder you. It is my job, after all.”
Deveare merely smiled at me as though I was joking.
“Well, it’s good to see that you’re breaking your streak.” He scratched the back of his neck.
I smiled back.
“It’s usually a bad idea to wager against probability this staggering.”
At this my right hand surged upwards, delivering my blade up Deveare’s left nostril. This was a long, thin, and very sharp blade. By the time it was in up to its hilt, Deveare was dead. I proceeded to shave off a few of his facial features with the side of the blade, making him nearly unidentifiable were it not for his clothing and visitor’s badge.
This was the part I enjoyed. I removed his jacket, a rather trite tweed, and his shirt. His chest was bare. He was effete, pathetic.
I then carved three words into his chest, deep in and colored a brilliant crimson, and was on my way.
The three words were “Here it is.”
National [Data Expunged] [Data Expunged]
“[Data Expunged] Unit”
Dr. [Name Expunged]
Profile for [Data Expunged] – Wraith
Role: [Name Expunged] to serve as the primary scout and covert tactics specialist. He will be given the name “Wraith” for his talents in remaining unseen and dealing with enemies of the National [Expunged] in the [Expunged] of the military.
Mental State: [Name Expunged] displays signs of APD. He shown no remorse for his assassinations, citing specifically his reactions to the necessary changes in plan in the assassination of [Name Expunged], which forced him to slit the throat of his target with a piece of office paper after blinding him with a [Data Expunged] and gagging him rather than simply poisoning his morning meal on account of impotent tetrodotoxin. Furthermore, [Name Expunged] frequently views his killings as games of wit between him and his victims. Out of amusement, [Name Expunged] arranged the intestines of [Name Expunged] into a Fibonacci pattern after one assassination, simply for the reaction it would elicit from those who found [Name Expunged]’s body. He later expressed distaste over the fact that they probably wouldn’t even comprehend that that was, indeed, a Fibonacci, because of his belief in the typical IQ of Royal infantry.
Verdict: [Name Expunged] clearly displays psychopathic tendencies and disregard for human life, even that of his fellow troops (See Operation [Data Expunged]). No better candidate could possibly exist.
Official Medical Record
Subject: [Name Expunged]
“The Interviews”
Interview No. 3: [Name Expunged]
“Wraith”
Subject: [Name Expunged]
“The Interviews”
Interview No. 3: [Name Expunged]
“Wraith”
My name no longer matters, they said. I’ve accepted a higher calling, they said. Now, my only real task was to die for my country if it became necessary. I would think a more beneficial task would be to keep it from becoming necessary, but people don’t think the same way I do on most subjects. I believe an obscure clause of my recruitment prevents me from telling you my real name under pain of military incarceration and disciplinary action. Thus, I will tell you what you already know. My new name is Wraith. I’ve been called that for quite some time now, so I figure my old identity has probably atrophied. It wasn’t worth much anyway.
As “Wraith”, my job description was the management of and specialization in covert maneuvers for a small, newly created unit of troops. Rather monotonous, of course, when you really think about it. A man’s blood can only splatter so many ways before the patterns lose their novelty. Unfortunately, given the fact that “covert maneuvers” essentially just entails me stabbing people in the back before they can do any real damage, I rarely get the variety that would be afforded me if I were to get nice and up front with those that I’m after. Ah, I’m rambling now. That is, I suppose, one of the reasons that I’m here. You say you wish for a chronicle of my time in the unit. This is not surprising. My tenure spanned the majority of the latter part of the war, from the bombing of the capital to the mission to assassinate the Royal government in its entirety. I suppose I should start at the very beginning, when I received my invitation.
Chapter I – In Which a Trite Tweed Jacket Gets the Fate it Deserves
Classified Location, Codenamed: The Mesa.
Royal Counterintelligence Training Facility
Target: Prof. Andre Deveare, PhD
I never really cared about the pressure of the assignments I was given. They were all relatively simple. The problem was always the sweat. It was an unavoidable nuisance. I found that in many instances, the sweat decreased my ability to focus, which was something I didn’t really feel like dealing with at the moment. A long range kill would have been rendered impossible by the
Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. The building itself was the remote training facility of the Royal Corps of Counterintelligence Operatives. It was a four story brownstone building with no windows, a single entrance, and numerous guards. If my data was correct, there were two levels that were underground, as well. Deveare was probably at the level second to the bottom. The guard was comprised of members of the regular Royal Army, making things a bit easier for me. They were situated at the entrance, with two on the roof, probably with at least one sniper among them. Deveare was, after all, a rather important figure. I figured I may as well move in, so I did.
It was a rather awkward thing, to walk up to the facility nonchalantly say hello to the guards, and simply open the door and walk in. Granted, the overcoat I wore over my Kevlar clothing and assortment of small handguns was rather good at concealing my items. Still, the bemused expression I wore as I walked past the two imbecile guards should have alerted them to something abnormal about the guest they were allowing in. But it didn’t, and step after step I simply entered the building.
The entrance area featured a rather baroque coat rack next to the exit of the hallway that led into it. There were a series of miniscule gargoyles that were situated at various heights and locations of the ugly thing, making it seem strange, gaudy, and altogether poorly made. The carpet was shag, and navy blue colored. The walls were an eggshell white, similar to an asylum.
Ironic, that last part, isn’t it?
The receptionist who greeted me was an overweight, middle aged man with dull, cataract filled blue eyes. He stood up, and motioned for me to give my coat to him. I said nothing and simply refused.
“You must be Mr. Sable?” he said, making a rather poor inference.
I said nothing.
The man nodded at this, probably taking my lack of objection as an affirmation of his suspicions. People are always so sure of their inferences.
“Well, sir, let me take you to the class, as I’m sure you’ll like to see our professor in action.”
I nodded, and he led me down over to the right side of the room, where there was an elevator door.
***
I had sat in the elevator for a few seconds when I realized that I needed to find Deveare on my own. Having the kind receptionist with me would have been nothing but an obstacle. I figured that the most prudent thing to do was to dispatch him, then and there after consideration of various other options, including lying about needing to take a quick restroom break and departing on my own. This would never work, as the man would need to guide me to the lavatories first, and thus would have waited for me to “finish”.
Thus, I decided it would be prudent to kill him.
“Sir, I don’t believe I introduced myself.” he said to me, smiling warmly in an attempt to make his guest comfortable.
I wondered if he ever smiled that way at his family. This caused me to smile a bit in return, knowing that, yes, he probably did. And they wouldn’t ever see it again. No one could ever tell me that I didn’t make an impact in what I did.
“I honestly couldn’t care less.” I said, rather absentmindedly, as I unsheathed a healthy combat knife from within my overcoat and palmed it.
The man was taken aback, but not by my words.
“You. Your accent…” he trailed off, and suddenly turned a bright red color that is usually reserved either for the very angry or those who know what’s about to happen, and are expecting a negative outcome.
“You have no idea how many people in your exact situation have said that to me.”
That was when my blade moved to connect with his right eye, and went in and out a few times for good measure. Since he was still writhing a bit after the third time (Unbelievable, really. I thought I was a bit more thorough than that.), I simply twisted around a bit and pushed deeper. This was satisfactory in stopping his grotesque movement, and my acquaintance now was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Unfortunately, there was blood. I didn’t think his screams were too bad, as I managed to stop them fairly quickly, but the blood was undeniable. I removed my overcoat, and covered the man’s body. I then proceeded to reach into my back pocket, retrieve a standard-issue matchbook, and went on to light the damn thing on fire as soon as the door to the second to bottom floor of the facility opened. Making them unrecognizable was part of the game, but I had little time for meticulous facial alterations at the moment. I figured I’d cause some chaos and ruin the next few weeks of that unfortunate man’s family at the same time.
As I exited, the fire alarm of the facility went off as expected. It was a matter of minutes until I found the proper hallway, leading to the classroom in which Professor Deveare was giving a lecture. It was empty now except for him, all of the students having left via the fire exit. This went remarkably well, in retrospect. Assassinations rarely went well due to luck.
I entered the room with relative ease and made it to the front row of desks before Dr. Deveare looked up from his desk and greeted me.
“Well, looks like you’re doing well. I figured you Nats’d send someone a bit worse in. You have a reputation for inefficiency in matters like this.”
“One should examine oneself a long time before thinking of condemning others.” I replied in a rather curt manner, my mind on the unsheathing of a rather special blade.
“Oh, good; they sent someone who can quote Moliere before killing me. This has always been my dream.” he didn’t look particularly uneasy. This was rare. “Be honest with me, now. Do I look like I can put up a fight?” He took a step back from me, and extended his arms as though he was letting me get a good look.
Deveare was tall, almost my height. He had at least six feet, and was quite muscular. His eyes were surprisingly warm and inviting for an individual with a reputation like his. He used to be one of the former highest ranking members of the Royal Intelligence Service, and bore the responsibility for quite a few assassinations and National operative deaths. His hair was long, shoulder length almost, but very well kempt. It was like a gray mane, one that I assumed would have been quite soft. It would have burned magnificently with the rest of his body, had the fire still been raging. Unfortunately, the fire alarm having gone off approximately seven minutes ago, the sprinkler system had already gone off and prevented the possibility of Dr. Deveare perishing of burns.
Satisfied that I had had enough time to take in his form, Deveare said once again:
“Do I look like I’ll be of ANY resistance to you?”
Somewhat amused, I figured I’d play along a little bit.
“Well, no.”
“Exactly. What honor is there in killing a defenseless old man? If you let me go, I’ll see to it that you get out safely. There’s even an exit over here.” He motioned for me to follow him, so I did.
Deveare opened a door towards the front of the classroom, to the right of the large white board, and I found a ladder. From what I saw, there was no one guarding it, but I couldn’t be sure. If I had been the guards, I would be sweeping the interior rather than the exterior at this particular moment, so I wagered that it was a safe escape route.
Deveare tapped my shoulder.
“I’d advise you to get going. I knew you were a better person than this. You’d never kill an old man.”
My brow furrowed.
“Statistically speaking, there’s a 100% chance I’ll murder you. It is my job, after all.”
Deveare merely smiled at me as though I was joking.
“Well, it’s good to see that you’re breaking your streak.” He scratched the back of his neck.
I smiled back.
“It’s usually a bad idea to wager against probability this staggering.”
At this my right hand surged upwards, delivering my blade up Deveare’s left nostril. This was a long, thin, and very sharp blade. By the time it was in up to its hilt, Deveare was dead. I proceeded to shave off a few of his facial features with the side of the blade, making him nearly unidentifiable were it not for his clothing and visitor’s badge.
This was the part I enjoyed. I removed his jacket, a rather trite tweed, and his shirt. His chest was bare. He was effete, pathetic.
I then carved three words into his chest, deep in and colored a brilliant crimson, and was on my way.
The three words were “Here it is.”
***
National [Data Expunged] [Data Expunged]
“[Data Expunged] Unit”
Dr. [Name Expunged]
Profile for [Data Expunged] – Wraith
Role: [Name Expunged] to serve as the primary scout and covert tactics specialist. He will be given the name “Wraith” for his talents in remaining unseen and dealing with enemies of the National [Expunged] in the [Expunged] of the military.
Mental State: [Name Expunged] displays signs of APD. He shown no remorse for his assassinations, citing specifically his reactions to the necessary changes in plan in the assassination of [Name Expunged], which forced him to slit the throat of his target with a piece of office paper after blinding him with a [Data Expunged] and gagging him rather than simply poisoning his morning meal on account of impotent tetrodotoxin. Furthermore, [Name Expunged] frequently views his killings as games of wit between him and his victims. Out of amusement, [Name Expunged] arranged the intestines of [Name Expunged] into a Fibonacci pattern after one assassination, simply for the reaction it would elicit from those who found [Name Expunged]’s body. He later expressed distaste over the fact that they probably wouldn’t even comprehend that that was, indeed, a Fibonacci, because of his belief in the typical IQ of Royal infantry.
Verdict: [Name Expunged] clearly displays psychopathic tendencies and disregard for human life, even that of his fellow troops (See Operation [Data Expunged]). No better candidate could possibly exist.
