R83: Twist, and HELP!
Title: Twist
Characters: Assassin, Giovanni
POV: Assassin
Notes: This is a written version of a small comic I drew up. Some of the parts, like the first view of the "little blonde girl" didn't exactly turn out as poigant as it was on the page. Enjoy!
From the computerized depths of his goggles, a line of tiny red lights burst into bloom before his eyes. Target spotted! Target spotted! they scream, pushing at over a decade of conditioned response.
It is nearly midnight. The alley is completely empty and a cold wind scours the walls of the buildings. A few yards away the alley opens into the festival lights of the city at night, lamps arching above like trees and lanterns hanging from any feasible hook- a fairy in a tree, a halo around a fencepost, a small electric sun on the overhanging of a building. Past those few yards roll the glittering, glimmering, sparkling part of the city, a party world fluttering on perfumed wings, ghostly gauzy fabric flickering around every corner, red velvet in the windows, limousines darting around like so many slender fish. Past those few yards every doorway is hung with tasseled banners announcing the name and occasion of the event and butlers quietly unhook velvety red barriers to let invited guests enter the shimmering world behind the door.
He has been waiting in the hooks of the back of the building since three in the afternoon, and to prevent his muscles from seizing up he has been periodically flitting across the tops and bricks and sides of the surrounding walls. But at last the back door, the hidden door for the safety and secrecy of certain guests of certain circumstances, finally opened, his entire body was shot through with waves of electricity. The target was sighted. The target was in plain sight.
He had spent hours staring at a single blurry photo and a few small grainy video sequences. He knew as much of the face by sight as possible given the elusiveness of the target.
And the target did appear, a middle-aged man -perhaps forty-five, perhaps fifty- with closely-cropped black hair. He had studied that confident movement, that tall, broad-shouldered build, that man, for weeks, and there was no mistaking the target. This is a hunt- not a dramatic cinematic chase through car crashes and over the rooftops of the diamond-dusted city but a quick kill, a blur of movement, and that would be the hunt. There is no mistaking the fact that the target was dangerous- no matter. There would be no time for the target to even notice him coming.
He is so absorbed that he almost does not notice a hitch in the plan, or rather, two hitches. Women, he thinks in disgust, not disgust for the women nor the man, but disgust in himself for forgetting the target came with two women. Or rather, a woman and a girl. They are silly things. The girl nearly makes him laugh- a little blonde thing with curly cornsilk locks, just a kid really, with big bunny-eyes and the build of a stick. She is pouting and sulking and bobbing along in the wake of the target, who has the other woman on his arm. It is the girl that suddenly drew a tripwire in his adrenaline. It doesn’t matter, and it is irrelevant to his mission, but the sight of the little sparrow hopping along… Well, he hates killing children. But no matter. No one could report the target’s death.
He raises the long, thing barrel of a rifle. They will hear nothing, only a slight shrill wind, before the target will collapse and his tuxedo stain wet with blood. A head is too risky a shot for his weapon- it is no strong enough to pierce through skull for a guarantee of a kill. He aims for the left side of the chest where he knows a fleshy heart is surely dancing. He pulls the trigger- he never misses.
But the woman on the target’s arm sudden utters a short cry and tumbles down, pulling the target with her- what? This is impossible; he clearly aimed for the target- oh. He sees now, from his high-up vantage point. And he has missed. The woman has tripped on her ridiculous high heels and in falling, drags the target to the pavement with her.
The little girl bares her pretty little teeth in a snarl but stays grumpily silent as the couple laughs and stands back up. He grits his teeth in the same scowl and waits for his silent rifle to recalibrate- hurry! He must hurry! He must hurry and shoot and hit the target before the three head off into whatever fancy transportation! The target must not be allowed to leave the alley.
The target and the two silly things are three-quarters of their way out when the rifle’s Ready patch turns white again. Ready, ready to shoot.
And the damn woman drops her big fur mantle and they both dive down to try catch it before it hits the grungy pavement- he misses again! And there is no time to let the rifle reload. With trained hands and feet he floats nimbly down the wall and pulls out his last resort- low-tech, user-friendly, knives. Ducking into the shadows, even the little blonde angel will not be able to see him.
The target is in range. Silently, like a creature of all sinew and movement, he flits out and holds the knife to strike-
He is laying with his back on the pavement, the air smashed out of his lungs. Disoriented, he reaches for the ground- or is that the sky- strange ideas occur to him, that he might be in an assassin’s worst situation…
“You forget,” a man’s deep voice chuckles, “That I am never without guards.”
He realizes his eyes are closed and slowly opens them. The little blonde girl and the target’s woman are leering down on him with unearthly eyes, and from his point of view they have tattoos and wings and crowns of shadow. He tries to speak but the cute little blonde has his own knife nearly flat along his chest- an assassin’s method for security of blow.
The target comes into view with eerie eyes glinting like double unholy moons. “Thank you ladies, fine work, will you two tie him up please? We’ll see who sent him when we get back to the base.”
He closes his eyes. The cyanide pill is safe within the folds of his shirt. And he will escape, and he and all his information will flee from their clutches, slipping like eels through seaweed.
He is just planning the execution of his voluntary suicide when the woman strips him naked and throws his clothes into a nearby dumpster.
Oops.
Help!
I know you guys know! So help please!
Please look at this image.
Does the man look like Giovanni?
If not, how can I make it look like him? T.T Wahh. Help.
Characters: Assassin, Giovanni
POV: Assassin
Notes: This is a written version of a small comic I drew up. Some of the parts, like the first view of the "little blonde girl" didn't exactly turn out as poigant as it was on the page. Enjoy!
From the computerized depths of his goggles, a line of tiny red lights burst into bloom before his eyes. Target spotted! Target spotted! they scream, pushing at over a decade of conditioned response.
It is nearly midnight. The alley is completely empty and a cold wind scours the walls of the buildings. A few yards away the alley opens into the festival lights of the city at night, lamps arching above like trees and lanterns hanging from any feasible hook- a fairy in a tree, a halo around a fencepost, a small electric sun on the overhanging of a building. Past those few yards roll the glittering, glimmering, sparkling part of the city, a party world fluttering on perfumed wings, ghostly gauzy fabric flickering around every corner, red velvet in the windows, limousines darting around like so many slender fish. Past those few yards every doorway is hung with tasseled banners announcing the name and occasion of the event and butlers quietly unhook velvety red barriers to let invited guests enter the shimmering world behind the door.
He has been waiting in the hooks of the back of the building since three in the afternoon, and to prevent his muscles from seizing up he has been periodically flitting across the tops and bricks and sides of the surrounding walls. But at last the back door, the hidden door for the safety and secrecy of certain guests of certain circumstances, finally opened, his entire body was shot through with waves of electricity. The target was sighted. The target was in plain sight.
He had spent hours staring at a single blurry photo and a few small grainy video sequences. He knew as much of the face by sight as possible given the elusiveness of the target.
And the target did appear, a middle-aged man -perhaps forty-five, perhaps fifty- with closely-cropped black hair. He had studied that confident movement, that tall, broad-shouldered build, that man, for weeks, and there was no mistaking the target. This is a hunt- not a dramatic cinematic chase through car crashes and over the rooftops of the diamond-dusted city but a quick kill, a blur of movement, and that would be the hunt. There is no mistaking the fact that the target was dangerous- no matter. There would be no time for the target to even notice him coming.
He is so absorbed that he almost does not notice a hitch in the plan, or rather, two hitches. Women, he thinks in disgust, not disgust for the women nor the man, but disgust in himself for forgetting the target came with two women. Or rather, a woman and a girl. They are silly things. The girl nearly makes him laugh- a little blonde thing with curly cornsilk locks, just a kid really, with big bunny-eyes and the build of a stick. She is pouting and sulking and bobbing along in the wake of the target, who has the other woman on his arm. It is the girl that suddenly drew a tripwire in his adrenaline. It doesn’t matter, and it is irrelevant to his mission, but the sight of the little sparrow hopping along… Well, he hates killing children. But no matter. No one could report the target’s death.
He raises the long, thing barrel of a rifle. They will hear nothing, only a slight shrill wind, before the target will collapse and his tuxedo stain wet with blood. A head is too risky a shot for his weapon- it is no strong enough to pierce through skull for a guarantee of a kill. He aims for the left side of the chest where he knows a fleshy heart is surely dancing. He pulls the trigger- he never misses.
But the woman on the target’s arm sudden utters a short cry and tumbles down, pulling the target with her- what? This is impossible; he clearly aimed for the target- oh. He sees now, from his high-up vantage point. And he has missed. The woman has tripped on her ridiculous high heels and in falling, drags the target to the pavement with her.
The little girl bares her pretty little teeth in a snarl but stays grumpily silent as the couple laughs and stands back up. He grits his teeth in the same scowl and waits for his silent rifle to recalibrate- hurry! He must hurry! He must hurry and shoot and hit the target before the three head off into whatever fancy transportation! The target must not be allowed to leave the alley.
The target and the two silly things are three-quarters of their way out when the rifle’s Ready patch turns white again. Ready, ready to shoot.
And the damn woman drops her big fur mantle and they both dive down to try catch it before it hits the grungy pavement- he misses again! And there is no time to let the rifle reload. With trained hands and feet he floats nimbly down the wall and pulls out his last resort- low-tech, user-friendly, knives. Ducking into the shadows, even the little blonde angel will not be able to see him.
The target is in range. Silently, like a creature of all sinew and movement, he flits out and holds the knife to strike-
He is laying with his back on the pavement, the air smashed out of his lungs. Disoriented, he reaches for the ground- or is that the sky- strange ideas occur to him, that he might be in an assassin’s worst situation…
“You forget,” a man’s deep voice chuckles, “That I am never without guards.”
He realizes his eyes are closed and slowly opens them. The little blonde girl and the target’s woman are leering down on him with unearthly eyes, and from his point of view they have tattoos and wings and crowns of shadow. He tries to speak but the cute little blonde has his own knife nearly flat along his chest- an assassin’s method for security of blow.
The target comes into view with eerie eyes glinting like double unholy moons. “Thank you ladies, fine work, will you two tie him up please? We’ll see who sent him when we get back to the base.”
He closes his eyes. The cyanide pill is safe within the folds of his shirt. And he will escape, and he and all his information will flee from their clutches, slipping like eels through seaweed.
He is just planning the execution of his voluntary suicide when the woman strips him naked and throws his clothes into a nearby dumpster.
Oops.
Help!
I know you guys know! So help please!
Please look at this image.
Does the man look like Giovanni?
If not, how can I make it look like him? T.T Wahh. Help.