Status: A light story to get me out of my writer's block!
Killing Atlas
The Job
The day had finally arrived. The day that I’d been waiting for.
Twelve years ago, dad had given me my first blade. At the time, when I’d opened the small wooden box and unfolded the red velvet, my little heart stopped and pumped in wonder and fear. My mother was none too impressed upon discovering the gift that dad had given me. Of course, she had expected it to happen eventually.
She knew who dad was, or rather, what he was. He’d killed her father, after all, which gave them an intimacy that I was sure no one else had. Still, there was always that small part of her that tried to shut out the truth. Dad was a pilot. That’s what she always said. That was his cover. But deep down, lurking beneath her skin, she accepted what she knew was true. And I was following in his footsteps.
Dad sat behind his desk, pride igniting his eyes behind his businesslike gaze. His cheek was marred, his hair greying slightly over his ears, and between his fingers was my unmarked letter. Receiving the letter only signified the lengths that I’d taken to get to where I was now.
“Your mark is Atlas King,” dad said sternly. “You have ten days.”
I knew who Atlas was. Far more intimately than I was willing to admit. To be honest, I never thought I’d see him again. I’d bid good riddance to his cocky smile and his charming tongue. Maybe it was because I hated that my father had taken another protégé under his wing. Perhaps it was because he bled arrogance like no one’s business, constantly outwitting and outperforming me.
There was no one I hated more in the world than Atlas-fucking-King.
I’d grown since Atlas had left. I was six inches taller, and leaner with muscle from training. I could set a bomb in five seconds. Strike a man dead in one. I’d beaten the records set by my former classmate more times than I could count. I had to admit, if it weren’t for Atlas, I might not have been as determined.
It was about four years now since Atlas had disappeared like the ghost that he was. He was good at staying hidden, melting into the shadows as if he’d been made from it. He was better even, at his job, or would have been if he hadn’t abandoned his mark.
When Atlas King had finally surfaced, my heart tripped over itself in excitement. It was a mixture of convenience and luck, I was sure the heavens were in my favour. His face was splashed across the television screen, his body being loaded into an ambulance only blocks from my apartment.
He’d been in a car accident.
He’d suffered amnesia.
And with his ghost background, they had no idea who he was.
But I did. So did my dad. And dad hadn’t quite forgiven Atlas for betraying him. Despite my disappointment that my hit was half injured, I was glad I’d have a chance to kill the son of a bitch. I wouldn’t need ten days, not if he had amnesia. I’d need ten minutes. Ten minutes I would thoroughly enjoy if it meant becoming what I had spent half my life training for.
My first hit.
Twelve years ago, dad had given me my first blade. At the time, when I’d opened the small wooden box and unfolded the red velvet, my little heart stopped and pumped in wonder and fear. My mother was none too impressed upon discovering the gift that dad had given me. Of course, she had expected it to happen eventually.
She knew who dad was, or rather, what he was. He’d killed her father, after all, which gave them an intimacy that I was sure no one else had. Still, there was always that small part of her that tried to shut out the truth. Dad was a pilot. That’s what she always said. That was his cover. But deep down, lurking beneath her skin, she accepted what she knew was true. And I was following in his footsteps.
Dad sat behind his desk, pride igniting his eyes behind his businesslike gaze. His cheek was marred, his hair greying slightly over his ears, and between his fingers was my unmarked letter. Receiving the letter only signified the lengths that I’d taken to get to where I was now.
“Your mark is Atlas King,” dad said sternly. “You have ten days.”
I knew who Atlas was. Far more intimately than I was willing to admit. To be honest, I never thought I’d see him again. I’d bid good riddance to his cocky smile and his charming tongue. Maybe it was because I hated that my father had taken another protégé under his wing. Perhaps it was because he bled arrogance like no one’s business, constantly outwitting and outperforming me.
There was no one I hated more in the world than Atlas-fucking-King.
I’d grown since Atlas had left. I was six inches taller, and leaner with muscle from training. I could set a bomb in five seconds. Strike a man dead in one. I’d beaten the records set by my former classmate more times than I could count. I had to admit, if it weren’t for Atlas, I might not have been as determined.
It was about four years now since Atlas had disappeared like the ghost that he was. He was good at staying hidden, melting into the shadows as if he’d been made from it. He was better even, at his job, or would have been if he hadn’t abandoned his mark.
When Atlas King had finally surfaced, my heart tripped over itself in excitement. It was a mixture of convenience and luck, I was sure the heavens were in my favour. His face was splashed across the television screen, his body being loaded into an ambulance only blocks from my apartment.
He’d been in a car accident.
He’d suffered amnesia.
And with his ghost background, they had no idea who he was.
But I did. So did my dad. And dad hadn’t quite forgiven Atlas for betraying him. Despite my disappointment that my hit was half injured, I was glad I’d have a chance to kill the son of a bitch. I wouldn’t need ten days, not if he had amnesia. I’d need ten minutes. Ten minutes I would thoroughly enjoy if it meant becoming what I had spent half my life training for.
My first hit.