[fic] vf scribbles challenge: Professionals: The Kill
This was another timed challenge, this time 90 minutes. I don't remember much about writing it. Just that some of the images have always been in my head when I think of Feilong. It takes place in his past. It's rated PG. The theme was Professionalism.
Title: The Kill
Theme: Professionals
Rating: PG (language)
Spoilers: None
Time: 80 minutes
Notes: This takes place in Fei's past, before his family is killed.
Feilong checked out the street below, eyes darting to either end. It was finally clear. He pulled out his crossbow and shot it into the wall inside the compound on the other side. The arrow arched over, carrying a heavy line of silk behind it and planted itself firmly into the mortar. He anchored the other end of the line at his feet, then removed his shoes.
He checked the equipment in his pack, making sure he had everything before he crossed into enemy territory. He was heading into the British Government compound. He would only have one chance at this, and it had to be perfect. Yan had been complaining about his lack of professionalism, sniping at him for any little mistake. Nothing was going to go wrong tonight.
He stepped to the edge of the roof, watching for the patrols below and across the street, then seeing it clear for the moment, stepped out onto the taut silk line and held his breath. For a moment it sagged and he feared the worst, but both the line and his balance held, and he slowly walked out over the street some 4 stories below.
He was halfway across when the security gate to the side opened up, a couple coming out. Visitors from some evening meeting or party leaving late and going home. He froze, keeping his balance in the evening breeze, death hanging over the heads of those who went below. He wouldn't hesitate to kill them if they looked up.
Someone glancing casually up wouldn't have believed their eyes, seeing this graceful figure in a black cheongsam, black silk scarf wrapped around his head and face, floating over their heads. An angel of retribution, the last thing they'd be destined to see.
A slight breeze caught the edge of his scarf and tugged at it, the motion sending alarms through him. Though fear at being caught almost made him grab at it, his hand slowly crept up to hold it, trying not to draw the eye. But the people below went by unnoticing. It had caught no one's attention.
The guards around here were very casual. He sneered. They'd learn better tonight.
The couple below drove away in their car, and he slipped the rest of the way across the street, a black bird against a night sky.
The building he had fired into was only 15 feet into the compound. The premium on space in Hong Kong made them careless with security, and they built far too close to the street. Although, he admitted, they were unlikely to be car bombed in Hong Kong. They wouldn't have anticipated a danger like him.
He crossed the final few feet to the British office building where he clung to the wall. The building was old, the walls loaded with cracks that someone like him could easily cling to. He was well practiced at rock climbing, his body honed to the point where he could pull himself over out hanging cliffs with a single arm. He thrilled in the climbs, the danger and freedom, the challenge of man versus rock, taking him to a primal level. This wall was no problem for him. He scrambled to the top and over onto the roof. He had already noted the lack of guards up there. Whoever handled security was lax. British arrogance no doubt. That would change shortly.
He made his way quickly to the opposite side of the building. This was the trickiest part, getting down the side of the building and across to the guest residence without being detected. He pulled another coiled silk line off his shoulder, and tied it off to some ventilation fittings behind him. He eased his weight back, testing the line. It held.
He poked his head over the side. His luck was still good. No guards in sight. He dropped the line to the ground, the merest wisp marking its movement through the air. Then he eased his body over the side of the roof and down, lightly slipping the four stories to the ground. Not a moment too soon. He heard the voices of two guards approaching, chatting about the latest Manchester football match. He melted into the shadows behind a bush until they passed, then darted out, sticking to the dark areas around structures until he reach the building he wanted.
His breathing was still light. This was the merest exercise for him. His eyes skimmed the sides of the residence above him, searching for an opening. There. On the third floor. Not the room he wanted, but close enough. His fingers found holds as he slowly pulled himself up the wall to the window. He lifted his head over the edge to look inside, but there was no motion from within.
He raised himself up and over the side of the sill, and found himself in a child's room. He froze. He was not going to hurt any children. He peered at the bed, difficult to see in the dark, but he could see nothing. His ears strained for a sound, any sound that would tell him where the room's occupant was, and what they were doing.
His head swung to the left. There. The closet. His hearing picked up the faint sounds of crying. Dammit. He felt sorry for the child, but he would feel worse if the child saw him. He knew what it was to cry in the dark, alone. The little one would only be stronger for surviving it.
He carefully walked to the room's door, and opened it a crack. All clear. There would be no patrols inside. It was an easy trip down the hall to the bedroom of the British lord who had been so adamant and vocal about destroying his family and those like them. He stood over the sleeping man.
He retrieved the Beretta 9mm from his pack and screwed on the silencer, when the door opened. He ducked back into the shadows by the window, behind a curtain.
"Daddy?" a little voice sobbed. "Daddy? Sleep with you?"
The figure on the bed stirred. Feilong's heart was beating a quick staccato in his chest. If the man turned on the light he'd be discovered and have to kill them both. The lord lifted his head. "William? Is that you?"
The little one ran to the bed, sobbing. "Daddy, I had bad dreams about Mummy again."
The man picked his son up and cradled him. "I know lad. I have them too. But we'll get through it together, you and I. We have each other to love. Come sleep with me tonight. No more bad dreams. That's a good lad." The two settled down in the bed, making noises as they snuggled together.
Feilong's soul cried out as he waited for quiet. Why did he have to see this? Why did the boy have to come here? And why did the father have to care?
He made himself cold. It didn't matter. It was his job. He crossed to the bed and raised the gun over the sleeping boy's head to point at the father. His finger trembled on the trigger. His hand shook. He tried to clench the finger but he couldn't. He couldn't do this.
His hand fell to his side. He failed. He was failing his family again. But he'd rather fail them then live with the knowledge that he separated this boy from a father who loved him.
He pulled himself out of his own pain to see that the eyes of the Brit were open and watching him, aware of who he was. The man's arms were protectively snug about his son. Feilong spoke softly. "He saved your life tonight. Treasure him, and if you love him, tell him every day."
A flash of understanding passed between the two men, right before Feilong's gun connected with the man's temple, sending him into oblivion. Feilong slipped out of the room's window and down the side of the building, then he slowly made his way back across the compound, trying to figure out how he'd explain this to his father.
He'd be severely beaten, there was no doubt. But it would be worth it, just this once.
**
The following days, there was no mention of any break-in at the compound, which made the Liu family breathe collective sighs of relief. It was noted, however, that the esteemed member of the House of Lords had dropped all mention of the Liu's from his campaign against crime, and that he always kept his son close.
~end~
Title: The Kill
Theme: Professionals
Rating: PG (language)
Spoilers: None
Time: 80 minutes
Notes: This takes place in Fei's past, before his family is killed.
Feilong checked out the street below, eyes darting to either end. It was finally clear. He pulled out his crossbow and shot it into the wall inside the compound on the other side. The arrow arched over, carrying a heavy line of silk behind it and planted itself firmly into the mortar. He anchored the other end of the line at his feet, then removed his shoes.
He checked the equipment in his pack, making sure he had everything before he crossed into enemy territory. He was heading into the British Government compound. He would only have one chance at this, and it had to be perfect. Yan had been complaining about his lack of professionalism, sniping at him for any little mistake. Nothing was going to go wrong tonight.
He stepped to the edge of the roof, watching for the patrols below and across the street, then seeing it clear for the moment, stepped out onto the taut silk line and held his breath. For a moment it sagged and he feared the worst, but both the line and his balance held, and he slowly walked out over the street some 4 stories below.
He was halfway across when the security gate to the side opened up, a couple coming out. Visitors from some evening meeting or party leaving late and going home. He froze, keeping his balance in the evening breeze, death hanging over the heads of those who went below. He wouldn't hesitate to kill them if they looked up.
Someone glancing casually up wouldn't have believed their eyes, seeing this graceful figure in a black cheongsam, black silk scarf wrapped around his head and face, floating over their heads. An angel of retribution, the last thing they'd be destined to see.
A slight breeze caught the edge of his scarf and tugged at it, the motion sending alarms through him. Though fear at being caught almost made him grab at it, his hand slowly crept up to hold it, trying not to draw the eye. But the people below went by unnoticing. It had caught no one's attention.
The guards around here were very casual. He sneered. They'd learn better tonight.
The couple below drove away in their car, and he slipped the rest of the way across the street, a black bird against a night sky.
The building he had fired into was only 15 feet into the compound. The premium on space in Hong Kong made them careless with security, and they built far too close to the street. Although, he admitted, they were unlikely to be car bombed in Hong Kong. They wouldn't have anticipated a danger like him.
He crossed the final few feet to the British office building where he clung to the wall. The building was old, the walls loaded with cracks that someone like him could easily cling to. He was well practiced at rock climbing, his body honed to the point where he could pull himself over out hanging cliffs with a single arm. He thrilled in the climbs, the danger and freedom, the challenge of man versus rock, taking him to a primal level. This wall was no problem for him. He scrambled to the top and over onto the roof. He had already noted the lack of guards up there. Whoever handled security was lax. British arrogance no doubt. That would change shortly.
He made his way quickly to the opposite side of the building. This was the trickiest part, getting down the side of the building and across to the guest residence without being detected. He pulled another coiled silk line off his shoulder, and tied it off to some ventilation fittings behind him. He eased his weight back, testing the line. It held.
He poked his head over the side. His luck was still good. No guards in sight. He dropped the line to the ground, the merest wisp marking its movement through the air. Then he eased his body over the side of the roof and down, lightly slipping the four stories to the ground. Not a moment too soon. He heard the voices of two guards approaching, chatting about the latest Manchester football match. He melted into the shadows behind a bush until they passed, then darted out, sticking to the dark areas around structures until he reach the building he wanted.
His breathing was still light. This was the merest exercise for him. His eyes skimmed the sides of the residence above him, searching for an opening. There. On the third floor. Not the room he wanted, but close enough. His fingers found holds as he slowly pulled himself up the wall to the window. He lifted his head over the edge to look inside, but there was no motion from within.
He raised himself up and over the side of the sill, and found himself in a child's room. He froze. He was not going to hurt any children. He peered at the bed, difficult to see in the dark, but he could see nothing. His ears strained for a sound, any sound that would tell him where the room's occupant was, and what they were doing.
His head swung to the left. There. The closet. His hearing picked up the faint sounds of crying. Dammit. He felt sorry for the child, but he would feel worse if the child saw him. He knew what it was to cry in the dark, alone. The little one would only be stronger for surviving it.
He carefully walked to the room's door, and opened it a crack. All clear. There would be no patrols inside. It was an easy trip down the hall to the bedroom of the British lord who had been so adamant and vocal about destroying his family and those like them. He stood over the sleeping man.
He retrieved the Beretta 9mm from his pack and screwed on the silencer, when the door opened. He ducked back into the shadows by the window, behind a curtain.
"Daddy?" a little voice sobbed. "Daddy? Sleep with you?"
The figure on the bed stirred. Feilong's heart was beating a quick staccato in his chest. If the man turned on the light he'd be discovered and have to kill them both. The lord lifted his head. "William? Is that you?"
The little one ran to the bed, sobbing. "Daddy, I had bad dreams about Mummy again."
The man picked his son up and cradled him. "I know lad. I have them too. But we'll get through it together, you and I. We have each other to love. Come sleep with me tonight. No more bad dreams. That's a good lad." The two settled down in the bed, making noises as they snuggled together.
Feilong's soul cried out as he waited for quiet. Why did he have to see this? Why did the boy have to come here? And why did the father have to care?
He made himself cold. It didn't matter. It was his job. He crossed to the bed and raised the gun over the sleeping boy's head to point at the father. His finger trembled on the trigger. His hand shook. He tried to clench the finger but he couldn't. He couldn't do this.
His hand fell to his side. He failed. He was failing his family again. But he'd rather fail them then live with the knowledge that he separated this boy from a father who loved him.
He pulled himself out of his own pain to see that the eyes of the Brit were open and watching him, aware of who he was. The man's arms were protectively snug about his son. Feilong spoke softly. "He saved your life tonight. Treasure him, and if you love him, tell him every day."
A flash of understanding passed between the two men, right before Feilong's gun connected with the man's temple, sending him into oblivion. Feilong slipped out of the room's window and down the side of the building, then he slowly made his way back across the compound, trying to figure out how he'd explain this to his father.
He'd be severely beaten, there was no doubt. But it would be worth it, just this once.
**
The following days, there was no mention of any break-in at the compound, which made the Liu family breathe collective sighs of relief. It was noted, however, that the esteemed member of the House of Lords had dropped all mention of the Liu's from his campaign against crime, and that he always kept his son close.
~end~