Post by Yunalesca on Oct 13, 2015 15:33:19 GMT -8
Midnight, January 6th, the eve of Russian Christmas.
A young Russian boy was half asleep in his bed, covers pulled up to his ears and his bedroom door cracked a little. He was fifteen, but still was afraid of the door being closed all the way. He was picked on by his older sisters for it, but he didn't care. As a joke they had locked him in the closet once in the middle of the night and had left him there until his parents found out he had been missing most of the day. They got punished for it, but it had already done its damage. He was afraid of being boxed in and always had to have a door open wherever he was, especially at night. The boy stirred as he readjusted his position to get more comfortable. He could hear his parents talking in hushed tones just outside his bedroom door. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying other than whatever was being said was spoken quickly. His dark brown eyes opened a little to see candlelight flickering from the room beyond. He furrowed his brows as he tried to figure out why they were using a candle when they could use electric light. It wasn't like they were in the medieval ages anymore though he knew many people still seemed to think that.
He started to close his eyes again, dismissing the matter until he heard a large bang against the front door of their lavish home. Still not knowing what was going on he sat up and scratched his messy head of dark brown hair. He saw shadows run past his door and heard angry men yelling in Russian outside their home. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as he tried to clear the fog from his mind, thinking he may just be dreaming. He heard his father pull the rifle from the rack above the fireplace and shells slide down the barrel. He heard the metal grind as he jerked the barrel shut. He was sure he was dreaming now since his father never touched the gun. He knew things seemed to be heated around the Gonchorav family, but surely not grounds enough to pull down the rifle from its sacred place.
"Demarcus!" His mother's harsh whisper came to him as she stood in the crack of the door. She looked back to where the shouting was coming from, then opened the door and stepped inside. She was still in her elegant gown from the ball held earlier. The fabric rustled against the floor as she rushed over to her son's bed and placed her cold hands on his shoulders. Her green eyes were wide in terror and she was deathly pale. He started to mumble 'mommy' but she pressed her hand to his mouth and shushed him, her voice shaky. He noticed moisture collecting around her eyes and he suddenly felt afraid. He didn't think he was dreaming anymore. "I want you to climb out your window," she started but was cut off by the sound of splintering wood and men's voices yelling. Both mother and son looked at his cracked door in horror as there was a struggle going on outside it. He heard the gunshot from his fathers rifle then a yell of pain coming from his dad. His mother grabbed his face with both hands as she quieted her sobs. She was shaking terribly and he still didn't know what was going on. "Climb out your window and run, run until you can't anymore then hide. Don't come back for us. We'll find you alright? We'll find you." She whispered in his ear, her voice not staying steady.
Without another word she hoisted him up to the window in his room and helped him jump out. He landed on the ground in a soft thud and looked back to see his mother hanging out the window. "Run, Demarcus, run!" She ordered before he heard the screams of his sisters. His mother disappeared from his window and he looked to his sister's window next to his. He could see men beating the girls, then they stopped and his mother was there, pulling back on their clubs. They struck her down and turned back to his sisters, beating them to death with their thick clubs. Next they went for his mother. He saw a glint of silver of a Russian Guard sword and heard his mother scream 'no' in pleading. He watched the blade hack through his mother and her blood sprayed over the glass window. He stood there shaking as he listened to her screaming cries, knowing his family was dead.
"Wasn't there a young boy? Where is he?" One of the guards questioned and Demarcus felt goose bumps cover his flesh. He grew pale and nearly wretched as he thought of what they had just done to his mother and sisters. What he had just -watched- them do to his mother and sisters. "Search the grounds, he can't have gotten far." One said and Demarcus made himself turn and run. He hopped over the fence surrounding the perimeter of his home and pumped his legs harder. The shadow of the fifteen year old boy ran through the darkness with tears in his eyes.
The young boy who'd once run away from that massacre now stood in the dark outside a elegant Russian home cities away from his nightmare, taking a drag from his cigarette. His medium length brown hair now hung loosely about his shoulders, lying on the tan dress jacket he had over a dark brown button up shirt. He flicked the ashes from the end of the cigarette, eyes locked on the upper level of the home, specifically the window to the far right. He was waiting for the desk lamp to turn on, then he would move from his spot and the plan would be in motion. This one would be quick. He didn't much care for the man in particular, just another on the list.
As he took another drag of what he called 'cancer in paper' he recalled his list. It had grown progressively smaller and Mr. Sidorov would be scratched off tonight with little hassle. Then the upstairs light flicked on and he lowered the cigarette, brown eyes going dark and cold. He dropped the half finished smoke to the pavement and snuffed it out with his black dress shoe. He checked his hip for his weapons, making sure he went in prepared. It wouldn't take much, he'd been stalking the man for long enough to know he was weak and to know he had a routine. He took a deep breath and walked forward, straight up to the front door. He knew the door would be unlocked. He wouldn't think anyone would enter his home uninvited. Too bad for him he was wrong.
He used his sleeve to turn the brass knob, careful not to leave fingerprints. To the government he didn't exist, he died with his family fourteen years ago they thought, rather that was most governments thought. He worked for a secret society of assassins who had done a good job of wiping him from the map. He didn't care to let the government know they were wrong. It worked out better the way it was. Silently he crept up the stairs to the study where the man would probably be sitting, writing his memoirs. Too bad he was lying, leaving out what he'd done to the Gonchorav family. Tonight he'd be writing his last entry. He stopped just outside the door to the study and peered in the crack, watching the aging man write Russian across a leaf of paper. His jaw locked and he peered at the man through his lashes. He hated him, just like all the others. They were the reason he was a killer. They'd turned him into one of them, though he wished to deny it.
"Sidorov." He said coldly as he pushed the door open and stood in the frame, gun pointed at the man's head, silencer attached. The man turned and a look of horror crossed his face. The bastard had thought wrong. Your day of reckoning has come. He said in his deep voice before pulling the trigger. The man hadn't even a change to say anything. His head flopped on his memoir's, blood spilling from the perfect bullet wound in the middle of his forehead onto the lies he was writing. The assassin stayed there, staring for a few moments more before he reached into his pocket and found his little notebook of names. He scratched off Sidorov with the small pen, and then stuck it back in his pocket. He turned and left the home as it was. He pulled the door closed and walked down the street, into the shadows once more, awaiting to read the headline he'd get in the next paper. He was the unknown warrior fighting against the 'wrong' of the world. Too bad nobody knew who he was or what he was doing the killings for. He was no superhero, contrary to press belief.
The assassin who called himself Marcus, for the time being, stood outside another home, staring down at his list of names. The next name he was to scratch off was well known, practical royalty and he would have to be exceptionally careful with this one. The last thing he needed was to leave a small trace behind and expose the ring of assassins who controlled who lived and died in the royal society. Without them there weren't checks and balances on the rich and everyone knew there had to be one of those. He put out yet another cigarette and stuffed the remains in his vest pocket as his dark eyes fell on the home once more. Only a few more days and it's occupant would breathe his last.
A young Russian boy was half asleep in his bed, covers pulled up to his ears and his bedroom door cracked a little. He was fifteen, but still was afraid of the door being closed all the way. He was picked on by his older sisters for it, but he didn't care. As a joke they had locked him in the closet once in the middle of the night and had left him there until his parents found out he had been missing most of the day. They got punished for it, but it had already done its damage. He was afraid of being boxed in and always had to have a door open wherever he was, especially at night. The boy stirred as he readjusted his position to get more comfortable. He could hear his parents talking in hushed tones just outside his bedroom door. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying other than whatever was being said was spoken quickly. His dark brown eyes opened a little to see candlelight flickering from the room beyond. He furrowed his brows as he tried to figure out why they were using a candle when they could use electric light. It wasn't like they were in the medieval ages anymore though he knew many people still seemed to think that.
He started to close his eyes again, dismissing the matter until he heard a large bang against the front door of their lavish home. Still not knowing what was going on he sat up and scratched his messy head of dark brown hair. He saw shadows run past his door and heard angry men yelling in Russian outside their home. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as he tried to clear the fog from his mind, thinking he may just be dreaming. He heard his father pull the rifle from the rack above the fireplace and shells slide down the barrel. He heard the metal grind as he jerked the barrel shut. He was sure he was dreaming now since his father never touched the gun. He knew things seemed to be heated around the Gonchorav family, but surely not grounds enough to pull down the rifle from its sacred place.
"Demarcus!" His mother's harsh whisper came to him as she stood in the crack of the door. She looked back to where the shouting was coming from, then opened the door and stepped inside. She was still in her elegant gown from the ball held earlier. The fabric rustled against the floor as she rushed over to her son's bed and placed her cold hands on his shoulders. Her green eyes were wide in terror and she was deathly pale. He started to mumble 'mommy' but she pressed her hand to his mouth and shushed him, her voice shaky. He noticed moisture collecting around her eyes and he suddenly felt afraid. He didn't think he was dreaming anymore. "I want you to climb out your window," she started but was cut off by the sound of splintering wood and men's voices yelling. Both mother and son looked at his cracked door in horror as there was a struggle going on outside it. He heard the gunshot from his fathers rifle then a yell of pain coming from his dad. His mother grabbed his face with both hands as she quieted her sobs. She was shaking terribly and he still didn't know what was going on. "Climb out your window and run, run until you can't anymore then hide. Don't come back for us. We'll find you alright? We'll find you." She whispered in his ear, her voice not staying steady.
Without another word she hoisted him up to the window in his room and helped him jump out. He landed on the ground in a soft thud and looked back to see his mother hanging out the window. "Run, Demarcus, run!" She ordered before he heard the screams of his sisters. His mother disappeared from his window and he looked to his sister's window next to his. He could see men beating the girls, then they stopped and his mother was there, pulling back on their clubs. They struck her down and turned back to his sisters, beating them to death with their thick clubs. Next they went for his mother. He saw a glint of silver of a Russian Guard sword and heard his mother scream 'no' in pleading. He watched the blade hack through his mother and her blood sprayed over the glass window. He stood there shaking as he listened to her screaming cries, knowing his family was dead.
"Wasn't there a young boy? Where is he?" One of the guards questioned and Demarcus felt goose bumps cover his flesh. He grew pale and nearly wretched as he thought of what they had just done to his mother and sisters. What he had just -watched- them do to his mother and sisters. "Search the grounds, he can't have gotten far." One said and Demarcus made himself turn and run. He hopped over the fence surrounding the perimeter of his home and pumped his legs harder. The shadow of the fifteen year old boy ran through the darkness with tears in his eyes.
The young boy who'd once run away from that massacre now stood in the dark outside a elegant Russian home cities away from his nightmare, taking a drag from his cigarette. His medium length brown hair now hung loosely about his shoulders, lying on the tan dress jacket he had over a dark brown button up shirt. He flicked the ashes from the end of the cigarette, eyes locked on the upper level of the home, specifically the window to the far right. He was waiting for the desk lamp to turn on, then he would move from his spot and the plan would be in motion. This one would be quick. He didn't much care for the man in particular, just another on the list.
As he took another drag of what he called 'cancer in paper' he recalled his list. It had grown progressively smaller and Mr. Sidorov would be scratched off tonight with little hassle. Then the upstairs light flicked on and he lowered the cigarette, brown eyes going dark and cold. He dropped the half finished smoke to the pavement and snuffed it out with his black dress shoe. He checked his hip for his weapons, making sure he went in prepared. It wouldn't take much, he'd been stalking the man for long enough to know he was weak and to know he had a routine. He took a deep breath and walked forward, straight up to the front door. He knew the door would be unlocked. He wouldn't think anyone would enter his home uninvited. Too bad for him he was wrong.
He used his sleeve to turn the brass knob, careful not to leave fingerprints. To the government he didn't exist, he died with his family fourteen years ago they thought, rather that was most governments thought. He worked for a secret society of assassins who had done a good job of wiping him from the map. He didn't care to let the government know they were wrong. It worked out better the way it was. Silently he crept up the stairs to the study where the man would probably be sitting, writing his memoirs. Too bad he was lying, leaving out what he'd done to the Gonchorav family. Tonight he'd be writing his last entry. He stopped just outside the door to the study and peered in the crack, watching the aging man write Russian across a leaf of paper. His jaw locked and he peered at the man through his lashes. He hated him, just like all the others. They were the reason he was a killer. They'd turned him into one of them, though he wished to deny it.
"Sidorov." He said coldly as he pushed the door open and stood in the frame, gun pointed at the man's head, silencer attached. The man turned and a look of horror crossed his face. The bastard had thought wrong. Your day of reckoning has come. He said in his deep voice before pulling the trigger. The man hadn't even a change to say anything. His head flopped on his memoir's, blood spilling from the perfect bullet wound in the middle of his forehead onto the lies he was writing. The assassin stayed there, staring for a few moments more before he reached into his pocket and found his little notebook of names. He scratched off Sidorov with the small pen, and then stuck it back in his pocket. He turned and left the home as it was. He pulled the door closed and walked down the street, into the shadows once more, awaiting to read the headline he'd get in the next paper. He was the unknown warrior fighting against the 'wrong' of the world. Too bad nobody knew who he was or what he was doing the killings for. He was no superhero, contrary to press belief.
The assassin who called himself Marcus, for the time being, stood outside another home, staring down at his list of names. The next name he was to scratch off was well known, practical royalty and he would have to be exceptionally careful with this one. The last thing he needed was to leave a small trace behind and expose the ring of assassins who controlled who lived and died in the royal society. Without them there weren't checks and balances on the rich and everyone knew there had to be one of those. He put out yet another cigarette and stuffed the remains in his vest pocket as his dark eyes fell on the home once more. Only a few more days and it's occupant would breathe his last.