Anarchy in the City
(I honestly don't know where this came from. Just had to whip something out and hadn't written about Spice in sometime.)
Robert Zane entered his office at exactly 8:42 PM, Tuesday night. Husky, black fur, blue eyes, Russian accent. We sat on the adjacent building, all of us, the statues, watching silently, waiting with blood thirsty fingers and soul hungry jaws. None of us moved. None of us spoke. None of us breathed.
There was no movement to be had. No stiff bones to stretch and no agonized limbs to feed blood. There was nothing but the mission that existed. No pain, no fear, no regret. Just the target. Robert. Zane.
The concrete gargoyles on either side of me smiled with the grim eagerness of awaiting blood. The last lines of reality slipping away from me, sanity at it's breaking point- edging me forward, anticipating the sweet, sexual thrill of murder at it's finest. I was an artist. I was a painter. And Robert's death was going to be my masterpiece.
I don't know when it started raining, or how long it had been pouring down, with fat, clear, cold droplets, but rain it did, masking my movements and gripping my approach with a roar of thunder that cracked the sky like a gunshot. Robert Zane was sipping coffee, looking over a progress report on his computer. I dropped from my perch like a stone.
Maybe I had been on the twenty seventh story of the skyscraper across the street. Maybe the twenty eighth. Time stopped and distance distorted as I fell. I don't remember hitting the ground. I never did. I was too relaxed, lost in my training, kissing the depths of my chi to realize the impossibility of my actions.
Each step was practiced to eternity and back. Each movement was the signature of dedication and obsession. There was no sound to alert the guards at their posts. No heavenly noise to rescue them from the fate of my blades. There was nothing but the beautiful fountain of blood that spurted into the air, and the silent, wet gurgle of a last, crying plea of survival. My kunai were iced with fresh death and hungry. I had no choice but to sate them. A thirst I dared not deny myself. The tension mounted heightening my senses, awakening my mind's eye, feeding me information of every ill-fortuned guard whom might be in the building. Guards were expendable. Robert Zane was relieving himself in the bathroom.
There was no regret. No accurate sensation of mental awareness of my actions. I couldn't afford it. Never wanted it. Emotions had been shut down; stripped away for the vitality of the mission. Torn and sundered form the core of my being, and left me with little more the skill and determination to fulfill my contract. I watched the guard struggle to pull my kunai from his back, stumbling forward and then back, scrabbling, wild, feline paws reaching for a life draining spike they could not touch, only feel. He died moments after, a look of abject horror and shock perched across in a timeless expression of agony and grief. I shivered. Robert Zane was printing out his documents for tomorrow's campaign.
There were no alarms. No heavy footsteps of trampling protections racing to greet me. No evidence of intrusion, save the missing bodies and small minute traces of blood left upon the carpet. There were no shouts for reinforcement. There were no shouts for backup. Just sweet, silent, strangled screams of surprise, and the terror filled eyes of guards as blood sprinkled across the ground and clutching fingers grasped at severed arteries. I had no time to bask in the glory of it all. The terrifying rush of my exploit were lost upon me. Robert Zane was leaving his office, heading for the elevators.
Black hair, steel, cold eyes, firm, muscular stature. Robert Zane worked out. I could tell from the hours I had remained perched outside his office. Five times a week at the exclusive Fitness Gym down the street. Upper body Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Lower Body Tuesday and Thursday. There as no wife. There was no child. There was only the business and the work. Only the endless hours of computer screens and digital kisses of a cooperate take over. The only warmth from the freshly printed ink from the printer. There was no future for Robert Zane. There was no sympathy for Robert Zane. There was no regret for Robert Zane. I twisted my blade to the right, and removed it from his flesh, watching in minuscule amusement as he sputtered and groped at his recently carved opening in his chest. For a second, a cold, dangerous, heart stopping second- I saw him again. The green rabbit in the brown robe. He wasn't there, of course, by my senses told me he was. Observing me. Judging me. Whispering to me. He was always there. He always watched. Always.
My sword was only used for the end. The trembling, merciless kill. The blood spilling, heart stopping, cunt wetting kill that left tingles down my spine and rushed to my head like some imported, intoxicating drug of choice. The mission was done. There were no police. There were no questions. I didn't know what Robert Zane had done to require my services. I knew not to ask. I knew better then to care. The contract had been completed, and closed my eyes. The rush of sensations assault me all at once. The rain, the blood splatters on my gear, the sense of blood and the cries of pain that echo and tingle in my ears. The build is quiet now. The souls departed. The world will miss Robert Zane. One way or another.
I don't question my contracts. I don't judge my contracts. I don't pity my contracts. They are my canvas. My sword is the brush, and I am the artist. I am a maiden mayhem. I am a agent of chaos. I am Anarchy; dancer of the scarlet blade, Kunoichi for hire and daughter Hayato Yo Ming, and my mission is complete.