Reposting Stryke.
I just realized that I posted the wrong version of Stryke. Whoops. I shall soon post the setting for Stryke, that is, once I'm done with it, cause the universe of Stryke is too cool for you not to read. I shall force-read you. Yes, I shall. If possible.
Prologue
Two Strangers
Him
It was cloudy. The faint, silvery light reflected from the moon was faint, barely strong enough to cast a shadow on the already dark ground. No lightning streamed across the sky, no thunder broke the peaceful calm that lay across the earth like a blanket. Perfect.
Every house on the block bore dimmed lights, if at all. Each house’s respective occupants were lying on their respective beds, couches, or even floor - each one sleeping or unconscious in their own way, be it from drunkenness or exhaustion. Neighborhood pets lay in their pens and assigned sleeping places, keeping a protective arm around their litter. The neighborhood was asleep - and rightfully so.
Except for one person.
He stood beneath a much-beloved oak tree - a standing memory to most of the residents of the neighborhood. It was autumn, and, therefore, the multi-colored leaves - red, brown, gold, and the like - were floating gently down to decorate the ground. Most people would have appreciated that because it represented the gentle beauty of nature. He appreciated it because it covered his tracks.
The oak tree, it turned out, was a strategic place to lay in wait. It cast shadows in all four directions due to its vast size, and it was situated almost directly in front of the house of whomever he was waiting for. A green light gleamed at the corner of his vision, and he glanced down.
It was eleven fifty-five on the dot. It was time.
Swiftly, with the manner of one who had done it many times before, he reached for a strip of white cloth that was wrapped around his waist and tugged it off, looping it around his right hand a few times before twisting it around his thumb and securing it with a knot. The bandage-like cloth now covered the back of his palm as well as his knuckles.
The gentle breeze weaved past his dark, golden-brown hair, ruffling it into a messy, windswept style as he walked forwards, towards the house, silently. His knuckles glinted in the faint moonlight. Keep it clean... he had been instructed. No bullet casings, no trace of you at all. He had complied, and opted for his most effective slip-on weapon - brass knuckles.
It took him less than a minute to gain entrance to his target’s house. As soon as he was in, he closed the door silently behind him, slipping the L-shaped, bracket-like pieces of metal - otherwise known as lockpicks - back into his pocket. He was alive with adrenaline and aware of every single thing around him, welcoming the tingling, somewhat comfortable feeling of instinct as it settled within him. His target would not be asleep, he knew. His target would be wide awake, prepared for the attack he had been warned was approaching.
The stranger almost smiled. He would hate to disappoint his target.
The living room of the house - the room he was in - had a table with an oil lamp and a quill on it, as well as a staircase leading up to second floor. He picked up the quill with his gloved left-hand, careful not to let it touch his right hand’s fingertips, and walked over to situate himself in the shadowy niche between the staircase and the wall of the room. Twirling the quill with his fingers, he raised his hand slightly, aimed, and…
CRASH!
Gary Sullivan spun around, grey eyes wide with fear, his hands sweating and gripping a steel rod. His heart was beating wildly, pumping adrenalin and fear into his nervous system and causing him to panic. He’s here.
Stepping cautiously, so as to not cause the floor to creak or make any noise, he made his way to the stairs, his eyes darting around nervously. Slowly, he crept down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. His assassin was in the living room, he knew. The crash had been caused by a fragile object - most probably an oil lamp. He gripped the steel rod more tightly, his knuckles turning white from the effort, as he stopped halfway down the stairs, his eyes scanning the room for stray shadows. A shadow flitted at the corner of his sight.
‘What was that?’
He spun around, pulse racing. He knew the assassin was here - he could see the broken lamp and the glass shards on the floor - and he knew that the assassin knew he was here. Yet, he remained unseen, invisible.
‘Kimi ni mienai.’ You must not be seen.
Sullivan had no way of knowing that the stranger was analyzing him, watching his every move, and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He took another trembling step down, ready to jump at the slightest movement. His ears strained to catch the sound of another person breathing, or a footfall. Nothing.
‘Kimi ni kikenai.’ You must not be heard.
Out of desperation and sheer reluctance to descend the whole length of the stairs and find himself cornered, Gary Sullivan called out the age-old question, ‘Who’s there?’ When no one replied, he added, ‘I’m armed. Come on out, I’m warning you.’ Still nothing. What did he expect?
‘Zutto shizukana kereba naranai.’ Your silence must not wane.
It happened so fast, nothing but the trained eye would have anticipated it. The sharp pain that followed the impact of metal on flesh hit Gary Sullivan, and he cried out, automatically reaching for the back of his head. Before he could even turn around, brass knuckles collided with the side of his head. Forgetting all common sense, Gary Sullivan released the steel rod and clamped his hand onto his bleeding head.
‘Agh!’ he spat out as a shoe slammed into his back, forcing him off his feet, into the air, and back onto the ground with a resonating crash. He had no time to get back onto his feet, or even to cry out, for the next moment, his attacker was on him, delivering blow by blow and displaying absolutely no mercy.
‘Kaze ni motto hayai.’ You must be swifter than the wind.
‘No…please…’ Gary Sullivan moaned when the shower of attacks ceased. He spat out several teeth and tried to get back on his feet, but there was a shoe on his chest that held fast. He stared up helplessly at the hidden face of his attacker, barely making out a gleam of emotionless forest-green eyes. ‘Please…’ he said again, coughing up blood, which trickled down the side of his mouth onto the floor. He reached out with a weak hand and grabbed the cuff of the other man’s pants, clumsily ripping out a piece of the black fabric. He immediately realized that it was a mistake.
‘Oh, f-‘the words barely made their way out of Sullivan’s mouth when the final attack hit him. A clenched fist, enhanced by the cold, impersonal metal of the brass knuckles, slammed into his cheek, and he screamed out with the pain. Immediately following the punch, the attacker brought the offending arm’s elbow down to slam into the target’s throat, crushing his respiratory canal and breaking his neck in the process. He died instantly.
Gazing down at the dead man - a traitor to his brotherhood - the stranger stepped off of him. His green eyes scanned the man, watching for any tell-tale signs that somehow, he still survived. There was no movement from the man on the floor. The stranger took in the man’s grey eyes - still wide and fearful - and the man’s scrawny build, his eyes trailing down to the man’s left hand. His fingers were curled around a piece of torn black fabric. The stranger reached over to pluck it out of the man’s hand.
‘Ashidori wa motto nao.’ You must not leave a single trace behind.
The stranger glanced down at the man. His target’s pleas, like so many others he had killed, had and will always remind him of a tainted childhood memory.
‘No! No, please... please, it - it wasn’t my fault. I - I was set up, it was Cyrus. Please…’ his father’s pleas drifted to him from across the room. He was in the cupboard, hiding, just like he had been told to. He could hear his mother’s sobs as she watched the scene unfold - as she watched her husband negotiate for his family’s lives.
‘Ai suru koto wa zutto dame da.’ You must not fall in love.
‘You’ve had your chance,’ a voice, indifferent and unheeding his pleas, cut across the room. ‘There are no more. Mistakes will not go unpunished. You knew this when you were assigned to the task.’
‘Robert…’ his mother said softly, tearfully.
The stranger left the house after relocking the front door, and headed down the street, blending in with the shadows and walking with the grace and silence of a cat. His dark golden-brown hair was hidden by the hood of his jacket, and rendered him faceless to anyone who - by pure chance - might have spotted him in the neighborhood. Within the next ten minutes, he was gone.
‘Kimi wa daremo nai.’ You are no one.
‘Da…’ a little boy whispered, hidden from the real world…safe in the shelter of his cupboard.
Her
She parked her vehicle carefully, and got out after checking the locks.
Runt.
She made her way up the pretty, cobbled garden path.
Brat.
She started up the front creaky stairs, humming a familiar tune.
Murderer.
She reached the top of the flight stairs, and rummaged for her keys.
He was hitting her, slamming her again and again against the merciless wall.
She found them, all glinting on her key ring. She picked out the right one, and fitted it into the keyhole.
He whipped her and screamed at her, his words burning as much as the thick lashes dripping with blood across her back.
The lock opened easily. She stepped into the brightly-lit house, and closed the door behind her.
Afterwards, when he left for the bar, she stole into his room and searched for it.
She put her handbag on the dining table and shrugged her coat off. A small white envelope lay on the floor. She picked it up.
She unwound it, marveling at its blue-black color, and the sleek feel of the smooth leather.
She pulled a folded letter and a photo out of it, her accustomed eyes scanning the letter for its hidden clues. She glanced at the photo, then threw the envelope, the photo, and letter into the hearth’s blaze.
Quickly, she brought it down with a crack sound. It rebounded and cut her lip.
She went into her bedroom. When she reemerged, her long black jacket and clothes contrasted sharply with the pleated skirt and collared blouse she had been wearing when she entered.
Slowly, after months of practice, she mastered its use. The next time he had tried to use it on her, she turned it on him. It was his turn to whimper and cower against the wall.
She slipped a coiled whip into a jacket pocket, and a gleaming pistol with a silencer into another.
Later, when she reached adulthood, she became what he had always accused her of being.
She opened the front door, and welcomed the blast of wind that stroked her face. She exited, then shut the white-wash door.
A cold blooded murderer.
Prologue
Two Strangers
Him
It was cloudy. The faint, silvery light reflected from the moon was faint, barely strong enough to cast a shadow on the already dark ground. No lightning streamed across the sky, no thunder broke the peaceful calm that lay across the earth like a blanket. Perfect.
Every house on the block bore dimmed lights, if at all. Each house’s respective occupants were lying on their respective beds, couches, or even floor - each one sleeping or unconscious in their own way, be it from drunkenness or exhaustion. Neighborhood pets lay in their pens and assigned sleeping places, keeping a protective arm around their litter. The neighborhood was asleep - and rightfully so.
Except for one person.
He stood beneath a much-beloved oak tree - a standing memory to most of the residents of the neighborhood. It was autumn, and, therefore, the multi-colored leaves - red, brown, gold, and the like - were floating gently down to decorate the ground. Most people would have appreciated that because it represented the gentle beauty of nature. He appreciated it because it covered his tracks.
The oak tree, it turned out, was a strategic place to lay in wait. It cast shadows in all four directions due to its vast size, and it was situated almost directly in front of the house of whomever he was waiting for. A green light gleamed at the corner of his vision, and he glanced down.
It was eleven fifty-five on the dot. It was time.
Swiftly, with the manner of one who had done it many times before, he reached for a strip of white cloth that was wrapped around his waist and tugged it off, looping it around his right hand a few times before twisting it around his thumb and securing it with a knot. The bandage-like cloth now covered the back of his palm as well as his knuckles.
The gentle breeze weaved past his dark, golden-brown hair, ruffling it into a messy, windswept style as he walked forwards, towards the house, silently. His knuckles glinted in the faint moonlight. Keep it clean... he had been instructed. No bullet casings, no trace of you at all. He had complied, and opted for his most effective slip-on weapon - brass knuckles.
It took him less than a minute to gain entrance to his target’s house. As soon as he was in, he closed the door silently behind him, slipping the L-shaped, bracket-like pieces of metal - otherwise known as lockpicks - back into his pocket. He was alive with adrenaline and aware of every single thing around him, welcoming the tingling, somewhat comfortable feeling of instinct as it settled within him. His target would not be asleep, he knew. His target would be wide awake, prepared for the attack he had been warned was approaching.
The stranger almost smiled. He would hate to disappoint his target.
The living room of the house - the room he was in - had a table with an oil lamp and a quill on it, as well as a staircase leading up to second floor. He picked up the quill with his gloved left-hand, careful not to let it touch his right hand’s fingertips, and walked over to situate himself in the shadowy niche between the staircase and the wall of the room. Twirling the quill with his fingers, he raised his hand slightly, aimed, and…
CRASH!
Gary Sullivan spun around, grey eyes wide with fear, his hands sweating and gripping a steel rod. His heart was beating wildly, pumping adrenalin and fear into his nervous system and causing him to panic. He’s here.
Stepping cautiously, so as to not cause the floor to creak or make any noise, he made his way to the stairs, his eyes darting around nervously. Slowly, he crept down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. His assassin was in the living room, he knew. The crash had been caused by a fragile object - most probably an oil lamp. He gripped the steel rod more tightly, his knuckles turning white from the effort, as he stopped halfway down the stairs, his eyes scanning the room for stray shadows. A shadow flitted at the corner of his sight.
‘What was that?’
He spun around, pulse racing. He knew the assassin was here - he could see the broken lamp and the glass shards on the floor - and he knew that the assassin knew he was here. Yet, he remained unseen, invisible.
‘Kimi ni mienai.’ You must not be seen.
Sullivan had no way of knowing that the stranger was analyzing him, watching his every move, and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He took another trembling step down, ready to jump at the slightest movement. His ears strained to catch the sound of another person breathing, or a footfall. Nothing.
‘Kimi ni kikenai.’ You must not be heard.
Out of desperation and sheer reluctance to descend the whole length of the stairs and find himself cornered, Gary Sullivan called out the age-old question, ‘Who’s there?’ When no one replied, he added, ‘I’m armed. Come on out, I’m warning you.’ Still nothing. What did he expect?
‘Zutto shizukana kereba naranai.’ Your silence must not wane.
It happened so fast, nothing but the trained eye would have anticipated it. The sharp pain that followed the impact of metal on flesh hit Gary Sullivan, and he cried out, automatically reaching for the back of his head. Before he could even turn around, brass knuckles collided with the side of his head. Forgetting all common sense, Gary Sullivan released the steel rod and clamped his hand onto his bleeding head.
‘Agh!’ he spat out as a shoe slammed into his back, forcing him off his feet, into the air, and back onto the ground with a resonating crash. He had no time to get back onto his feet, or even to cry out, for the next moment, his attacker was on him, delivering blow by blow and displaying absolutely no mercy.
‘Kaze ni motto hayai.’ You must be swifter than the wind.
‘No…please…’ Gary Sullivan moaned when the shower of attacks ceased. He spat out several teeth and tried to get back on his feet, but there was a shoe on his chest that held fast. He stared up helplessly at the hidden face of his attacker, barely making out a gleam of emotionless forest-green eyes. ‘Please…’ he said again, coughing up blood, which trickled down the side of his mouth onto the floor. He reached out with a weak hand and grabbed the cuff of the other man’s pants, clumsily ripping out a piece of the black fabric. He immediately realized that it was a mistake.
‘Oh, f-‘the words barely made their way out of Sullivan’s mouth when the final attack hit him. A clenched fist, enhanced by the cold, impersonal metal of the brass knuckles, slammed into his cheek, and he screamed out with the pain. Immediately following the punch, the attacker brought the offending arm’s elbow down to slam into the target’s throat, crushing his respiratory canal and breaking his neck in the process. He died instantly.
Gazing down at the dead man - a traitor to his brotherhood - the stranger stepped off of him. His green eyes scanned the man, watching for any tell-tale signs that somehow, he still survived. There was no movement from the man on the floor. The stranger took in the man’s grey eyes - still wide and fearful - and the man’s scrawny build, his eyes trailing down to the man’s left hand. His fingers were curled around a piece of torn black fabric. The stranger reached over to pluck it out of the man’s hand.
‘Ashidori wa motto nao.’ You must not leave a single trace behind.
The stranger glanced down at the man. His target’s pleas, like so many others he had killed, had and will always remind him of a tainted childhood memory.
‘No! No, please... please, it - it wasn’t my fault. I - I was set up, it was Cyrus. Please…’ his father’s pleas drifted to him from across the room. He was in the cupboard, hiding, just like he had been told to. He could hear his mother’s sobs as she watched the scene unfold - as she watched her husband negotiate for his family’s lives.
‘Ai suru koto wa zutto dame da.’ You must not fall in love.
‘You’ve had your chance,’ a voice, indifferent and unheeding his pleas, cut across the room. ‘There are no more. Mistakes will not go unpunished. You knew this when you were assigned to the task.’
‘Robert…’ his mother said softly, tearfully.
The stranger left the house after relocking the front door, and headed down the street, blending in with the shadows and walking with the grace and silence of a cat. His dark golden-brown hair was hidden by the hood of his jacket, and rendered him faceless to anyone who - by pure chance - might have spotted him in the neighborhood. Within the next ten minutes, he was gone.
‘Kimi wa daremo nai.’ You are no one.
‘Da…’ a little boy whispered, hidden from the real world…safe in the shelter of his cupboard.
Her
She parked her vehicle carefully, and got out after checking the locks.
Runt.
She made her way up the pretty, cobbled garden path.
Brat.
She started up the front creaky stairs, humming a familiar tune.
Murderer.
She reached the top of the flight stairs, and rummaged for her keys.
He was hitting her, slamming her again and again against the merciless wall.
She found them, all glinting on her key ring. She picked out the right one, and fitted it into the keyhole.
He whipped her and screamed at her, his words burning as much as the thick lashes dripping with blood across her back.
The lock opened easily. She stepped into the brightly-lit house, and closed the door behind her.
Afterwards, when he left for the bar, she stole into his room and searched for it.
She put her handbag on the dining table and shrugged her coat off. A small white envelope lay on the floor. She picked it up.
She unwound it, marveling at its blue-black color, and the sleek feel of the smooth leather.
She pulled a folded letter and a photo out of it, her accustomed eyes scanning the letter for its hidden clues. She glanced at the photo, then threw the envelope, the photo, and letter into the hearth’s blaze.
Quickly, she brought it down with a crack sound. It rebounded and cut her lip.
She went into her bedroom. When she reemerged, her long black jacket and clothes contrasted sharply with the pleated skirt and collared blouse she had been wearing when she entered.
Slowly, after months of practice, she mastered its use. The next time he had tried to use it on her, she turned it on him. It was his turn to whimper and cower against the wall.
She slipped a coiled whip into a jacket pocket, and a gleaming pistol with a silencer into another.
Later, when she reached adulthood, she became what he had always accused her of being.
She opened the front door, and welcomed the blast of wind that stroked her face. She exited, then shut the white-wash door.
A cold blooded murderer.