CDF's writing thread.

[crocoduck]

So I get sparks of inspiration and write random beginnings to stories, but rarely every follow through with them. I'd like to keep 'em all in one place and hopefully get some comments and critique. Who knows, I might come back to this someday, see a story I like, and pick it up again.

Please comment & critique if possible.

I want to improve my writing as much as possible, so if you're in the mood for it, please make any comments that you think might have made the story better. This even includes pointing out grammatical errors.

Thanks!

[crocoduck]

The Copy Center

SPOILER: Click to show

The sweet tedium of the Copy Corner was unlike anything John had ever encountered before. Although once in a while, there was a break from the drab cycle.

Like any day, it started with the inexplicably obnoxious sound of a broom brushing against the tile floor. Why the housekeeping insisted on using a broom, he never know, but then again, he never knew why they insisted on having housekeeping anyways.

The Copy Corner was very aptly named, being that it was a tiny corner shop that many of the locals still didn't even know existed. The store area couldn't have been larger than 25x25 feet and the back room was less of a room and more of a closet. Most of the space was devoted to the area behind the counter that spanned the width of the room. Even then, the area was packed as tightly as physically possible with computers, scanners, boxes and random merchandise.

The store area itself was the equivalent of a small, uncomfortable hallway. No merchandise was in sight on the other side of the counter except for a tiny stand with a collection of items that had no right being placed together on the same stand. The items ranged from the expected, such as candy bars and gum, to the understandable such as pens and pencils, to the odd, such as compasses and sunglasses to the inexplicable set of binoculars and clown shoes.

Those last two were John's doing. After his first couple of months at working at the Corner, it became quite clear to him that his boss hadn't the faintest clue what went on in her store. She kept a close eye on whether anybody was stealing money and how much money the store was bringing in, of course, but that was the extant of it. This became clear the day John's shift had just ended, and as he was about to leave, he set his cup of coffee on the stand as he tied his shoes and then simply forgot about it and left. He returned two days later for his next shift, and lo and behold, there was his cup. Having absolutely no other source of entertainment in his life, John of course had no choice but to see how long it would remain there.

It took three weeks before cup met its demise. Even then, it was neither at the hands of the owner nor the cleaning crew, but instead of a customer who hated the smell of old coffee. Which revealed the fact that both his manager and the cleaning crew were utterly useless.

Since this discovery, John managed to finally sneak in some entertainment into his drab monotonous life by putting in a new and bizarre item on the stand every month. Once in a while, a customer would grab one of John's items off the stand and, to John's great amusement and his manager's even greater confusion, attempt to buy it. If John was working, he'd simply apologize and say the item didn't belong to the store and that they'd put it in their lost and found. If his manager was working, she'd give a price she found adequate and assume it was just a store item she bought and forgot to price.

Either way, John's items were growing bolder each day. He had started off with little toys, like those plastic green soldier, and had evolved all the way up to binoculars and shoes. Today, John's heart was pumping as he approached his pillar of joy.

As he did every morning, John ducked underneath the counter and shuffled his way to the door. As he did every morning, he turned his key, unlocked the door, and flipped the sign that reliefed the public of it's immense anticipation and informed the world that finally, the grand Copy Center was open. Sadly, the world seemed to be limited to a couple of pigeons on the sidewalk that warily watched the movement beyond the door.

Smiling at the rats-with-wings, John turned and headed back to the counter, as he did every morning. Just as he moved to duck underneath the counter once more, his hand slipped into his back pocket, pulled out an item and placed it clumsily on the bottom shelf of the stand. The thrill of it caused him to lose what little elegance he had, making him rush to cross under the counter, slamming his head as he did so.

Even with the fresh pain coursing through his head, John couldn't contain his grin. He felt so devious that he almost felt like a criminal. He knew there wasn't much logic to the feeling, of course, but he loved feeling it anyways. With a childish grin, John leaned over the counter and peered mischievously at his handy work.

Reluctantly, he peeled his eyes away from the stand to take a look at the source of noise coming from the door. A customer had arrived with a couple of toddlers in tow. Somehow, the children's presence made him feel even more wicked, the thought of the bottle standing there in the stand providing more flame to his feeling of wickedness.

Casting these feelings aside, with a cheerier voice than usual, John greeted the customer.
"Hello there! Welcome to the Copy Corner, how can I help you today?"

The customer proved to be one of the 10% of group 2. John liked to separate his customers into groups and further into percentages. Group 2 were the miserable bastards that usually had to use a Copy Center and knew all the ins and outs and the Jargon required to get the fastest service. These were generally people like secretaries or assistants. The 10% were those that were born with half of their brain in their head and the other half in their rectum. The kind that was not only stupid, but ignorant as well.

Keeping his sighs and his eye rolls hidden, John turned and did as he was commanded (never asked, always commanded). With less than great enthusiasm, he placed paper upon paper into the scanner, watched the light move across them, and pulled out the copied piece at the other end. It was miserable work, no matter how easy it was.

Today, however, he had a little charm to brighten up the day. He could still see it in his minds eye, and he kept imagining this secretary standing right beside it. He wondered what the look on her face would be if she were to disc-

"Lisa? LISA!? LISA!! OH MY GOD"

John's grey world was immediately filled with more colors than he could ever hope or want to see. Noises rose around him too quickly and too loudly for him to understand. Too many things were happening at a speed that John was not even close to accustomed to in the Copy Center.

The stand was crashing against the counter and rolling to the floor, Juan the cleaner was leaping over the counter to the other side, yelling things in spanish that nobody understood. The little boy that had come in had his back pressed tight against the wall and he was wailing louder than John even thought possible for a child that small.

The 2-10 customer was on her knees, screaming frantically towards something on the floor. John was too stunned at first to even wonder what she was screaming at, but he did note the fact that he couldn't see the little girl from before.

Only when he took a third look at where the mother was kneeling did he get an inkling of what was going on. As he inched his head past the counter to take a better look, he remembered the height of the girl that now laid motionless on the floor beside where the stand once stood. She was at eye level with his mischievous gift.

Her mother was beginning to wail almost as loudly as her son as Juan began performing CPR. It occured to John that CPR might not even be relevant, but it was better than nothing. At least Juan was doing something.

All John could do was stare at the now empty bottle of birth control pills rolling across the floor. The cap lay as still within the girls hand as the girl herself laid against the floor.

For some reason, all John could think about was whether his owner would even notice a little girl had died in her store.

[crocoduck]

Yohoho, he ate a drop of gum gum.

SPOILER: Click to show

The beautiful sounds of the ocean ricocheted off the surface of the water and seemed to soar for eternity. The rise and fall of the gentle waves made for a soothing rocking that made even the most obnoxious of bird calls enjoyable. It was absolutely perfect.

Well… almost.
BLAAGGAAGRAG
“OH LORD HAVE ME-“ BLAAAGGAAGRAAGH “MERCY. MERCY. PLEASE LORD PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON MY POOR S-“ BLAAAAAGGRAAAAGH The morning sun hit the ocean just right so that it may illuminate the beautiful painting Jonathan’s stomach was painting on the ocean. If one managed to ignore the disturbing chunks, it was actually quite fun to spot figures in the mess.

“LOOK! LOOK IN THE MIDDLE. IT LOOKS LIKE A FACE.” One exceptionally obnoxious voice cried out with enthusiasm. It brought forth a great deal of laughter and an equally irritating voice in reply “Well don’t get too proud for spotting it. Of course you’d be the first to see it; you see that thing every time you look into a mirror.” The crew roared with laughter, drowning out the sound of sword clashing against sword. The two obnoxious voices were apparently going at it; paying no mind to their audience or the obviously very sick man hanging over the side of the ship.

“Please, oh please somebody help me. I can’t take this much longer” Johnathan practically exhaled the sentence. His skin was a deathly pale and his body an eerie bag of bone. It seemed a wonder he even managed to stand on those scrawny things he called legs. Johnathan seemed to agree as well, for he desperately hung onto the side of the ship. He really couldn’t take this much longer. The crew was incredibly surprised he was still alive; much less conscious.

Johnathan had been vomiting for eighteen hours straight. Now the crew members were no physicians, but they were now certain of two things. 1) Johnathan was in trouble. 2) Rusty was going to have to either be thrown overboard or be given a serious surgery right there on the deck to insert the intestines back into his gut. Rusty, being the weaker of the two obnoxious men from earlier, discovered why pirate crews don’t have many comedians.

For the first time in an hour, Johnathan had gone for more than five minutes without vomiting. Then Rusty’s intestine juice got on his foot. BLAAAAAAAAARRRRG the sound of projectile vomit was coupled with a cumulative grunt and the sound of a corpse splashing onto water.

The crew roared again as Johnathan’s vomiting accelerated at the witnessing of Rusty’s fresh corpse bathing in his pool of puke. The crowd of laughter was soon joined by a new laugh; a darker, gruffer chuckle than the rest. It was clearly set apart from the others and was certainly more false than anything. ”Still sick, boy?” The distinct sound of wood slapping against wood rang out with each second; growing louder in Johnathan’s direction each time. “Don’t tell me killing those whiskey peak bastard did this to you. You’d be a real pussy if that was it, Johnathan. You know I don’t like pussies on my crew. At least not that kind of pussy.” The large man gave a sinister grin, jutting out the first few millimeters of his tongue and raising his black, grimy eyebrows back at his crew. The crew laughed on cue the exact moment he did so. It was all fake laughter, for even if they did find the joke funny, this man put them too much on edge for any genuine laughter to be had.

Johnothan felt the same; except worse. This was the second time he had joked about Johhnathan’s sickness being a sign of weakness. It was no longer a joke; it was a warning. “No! Captain, I swear, it’s just a .. it’s just a… oh. Oh god” The “oh god” was preemptive. Johnathan prayed for a safe trip before he even departed. He had no reason to wait to do it. He knew full well the moment he realized he wouldn’t be able to turn in time. He was a dead man.

Vomit encountered pirate captain; who in turn encountered his trusty sword who then promptly encountered Jonathan's adam’s apple. The laughing stopped immediately and it became painstakingly clear that all would pay for Jonathan’s mishap.
“Clean this. Dump him overboard and fetch me a new boy.” The bastard growled the orders with disdain and contained fury. It was the absolute worst moment to exist on that ship. His uncontrolled anger was easy, you just had to take a few hits and live with the damage. It was his contained anger that was truly frightening. He allowed it to stew and grow in potency alongside his wicked thought process. By the end of the brewing process, the two merge into one giant nasty act of horrendous cruelty that almost always lashed out to any and all. Things were not going to be pretty.

Not for the crew, not for the poor young boy sent to the man’s room and certainly not for whatever was waiting for them in this mysterious “Little Garden”

[crocoduck]

Aptos

SPOILER: Click to show

The bed creaked loudly in unison with an equally loud sigh and the sudden appearance of music. The strange mix of electronic with blues featured the cliché female African American voice with piano backing and an unexpected yet smooth addition of bass, drums and a collection of electronic noises that brought the tempo up and down. Whether one liked it or not, the song seemed to have an amazing ability of forcing the tapping of the foot of anyone. Great music to wake up to.

With a yawn, the source of the sigh moved off of the tempting bed, causing even more creaking noises. The bed was really old, as was the rest of the room. The floorboards were an old seemingly rotting wood that cried out painfully with the slightest pressure, making for a loud morning. The ceiling was equally old with beams of wood moving up diagonally towards a peak in the ceiling where they met and closed, indicating that the room was the top floor of the residence.

Surprisingly, the man who caused the noise and used the room was neither old nor did he seem to be the type of man for such an environment. In fact, the man seemed completely out of his element as he passed by the nightstand with the primitive radio/digital clock. It was the only digital object in the room and, even then, it seemed it only passed the door because of its ability to play music.

There was no other technology, not even light. The bit of light that kept the room visible entered four miniature glass slits in the ceiling. They were awkwardly positioned and angled with very strange dimensions. The positioning would be found strange to the naked eye, but admired by an expert. It was modeled so as to allow minimal amounts of light in with the exchange of granting practically no visibility of the inside to anyone or anything outside.

Unlike his room, the man looked rather modern and healthy. He stood at an impressive height, around 6’2” or so. He wore a black, seemingly leather, type of trench coat that was left hanging at his ankles. He had equally black pants made of a lighter and more flexible material that exposed no skin from the hip down to his black combat boots. His shirt was much like his pants in that it was black and made of a similar material, only a bit more rigid. The pants were slightly baggy, whereas the shirt was rather tight to a point where it seemed uncomfortable. The tight shirt revealed the well-toned muscles the mysterious man possessed, muscles that were neither bulky nor unnecessary.

The strange thing about the man was that he had actually slept in that clothing, boots and all. His face was incredibly impassive for one who just woke up. A handsome face dominated mostly by a slightly curved nose that pointed towards a thin set of red lips connected to an average sized chin. His cheeks were neither hollow nor convex, a strange straightness to them. His cool blue eyes complimented his blond eyebrows and crew cut hair nicely. He was rather attractive and it only made him more enigmatic.

The man’s movements were robotic, as if rehearsed. He patted himself down without taking his jacket off, feeling the contents of his pockets through his clothing as if to do an inventory. Once he was satisfied, the man did a full 360 degree visual scan of the room, looking at the extremely blank space with unnerving caution. At the deduction that nobody was there, he tilted his head back and gave a long sniff while simultaneously holding his breath and closing his eyes. It seemed to be a minute before the man tilted his head back to its position and started to breathe normally again. He smelled nothing that he hadn’t smelled before he went to sleep, but even with this confirmation he refused to relax his muscles which seemed to be tensed and ready for action.

Again, the man did an inventory of his pockets by patting himself down. This time, however, he reached into his inside pocket on the jacket and pulled something out. A small, completely black nine millimeter handgun. The entire gun was black and it lacked any engravings, decals or designs of the usual guns. The only thing about the gun that wasn’t regular black metal was the handle which had a grip for better traction. That was until the equally plain and black noise suppressor was added to the barrel of the gun.

The man attached the suppressor, but then promptly removed it and placed it on the same stand that his clock/radio was on. With incredibly agility, the man continued to take the gun in his hand apart into several tiny pieces and place them on the stand. When he finished, with no drop in speed, the man picked the pieces back up and put them together; minus the suppressor which he put back into his pocket once he had put the assembled gun back into its pocket as well.

As if nothing had just happened, the man turned to the mirror that was opposite to the bed and stared at it. There was a word scratched onto the glass, a word that had definitely not been there before when he had done his 360 degree sweep. Upon reading it, the man flashed a blood curling smile and walked out of the room without a word.

As he stepped outside, the word on the mirror suddenly just vanished, as if it was never there. He whispered it to himself to hear how it sounded, a chilling and menacing voice.
“Aptos.”
The order that would commence the apocalypse had been sent.

[crocoduck]

Leissa

[/center]

SPOILER: Click to show

Chapter 1: The Problem

A regular person might have cried or obsessed over the high degree of peril. Perhaps they would pray or think back and look at their past, regretting what should or could have been. Not Leissa. All Leissa could think of was the scolding she’d get from her editor if she survived this.

She still wasn’t quite sure what her chances of survival exactly were. Not all of the portions of this particular story had come together yet and she was still puzzling it out. She knew a few things, the first of which being how disgustingly uncomfortable this closet was.

Unfortunately, it was a regular closet door, meaning there were no form of blinders or grates for her to look through. This meant that there was also no source of light, which, in turn, meant she was in pitch darkness. This lack of light coupled well with the atrocious smell and disgusting feeling to practically everything her body came into contact with. If the situation wasn’t so dangerous, she’d flip out her phone to check what she was sitting on. The disgusting sound and even more disgusting stench that intensified when she moved led her to believe it was vomit.

Wonderful.

Her notepad was somewhere in the closet, but out of sight. Her pen was attached to her bracelet, fashionably of course, as always. Best $35 she ever invested in her life, but it wasn’t being of much use to her now. If anything happened while she was in here, she’d have nothing to write it down on.

Although… then again…

“Yo, Chief, What’s good?” Leissa pressed her ear to the door gently, listening to the poorly disguised desperation in the junkie’s voice. He was hands down one of the worst actors she had ever met, which made him a great target to interview.

“Look, I know I’m runnin’ a little late with the money. I got my boys tying up a few loose knots and then we’ll be aight.” Leissa could see the poor kid now. His scrawny legs trembling as his eyes darted to each corner of the room, both because of his nerves and a long lived symptom of drug abuse.

It wasn’t him she was interested in, however. It was the other one, the one that he was talking to. The one that scared him so badly that he pushed her into a closet and nearly squealed at the sound of a powerful knock at the door.

Now, she understood the fear. Without so much as a verbal warning, the loud and familiar pop of a gunshot rang through the room. She couldn’t help but jump at the sound, it scared her to such a degree that she barely remembered she was flinching in a pool of probable vomit. She knew then that JJ was dead. He wasn’t the brightest or the best of kids, but he was a kid nonetheless. Couldn’t have been older than 19, and now he was dead.

Her intense hatred for the assailant and her sadness for the death were all overcome by fear and curiosity. Her head unconsciously pressed harder against the door in an attempt to hear what was happening now. She heard footsteps, lots of footsteps, definitely multiple people. Nobody was talking for a while however.

It was a gruff voice that was first to speak. It reeked of confidence and authority.
“Clean up the footsteps. Use gloves, leave the body and find the stash. Get me out of this fucking dump as fast as possible. We’ll call this in once we’re outside.”

There was no response other than the further shuffling of feet. Leissa’s heart was pounding against her chest so hard that she was afraid it was interfering with her hearing. For sure, it was, she almost missed the second voice.

“We found some party favors, don’t seem to be a lot.” This was a much more normal voice, not too high or low pitched. She couldn’t make out anything particularly characteristic about it other than the fact that it was clearly somebody speaking to their boss.

“Keep looking, take anything else valuable you see. This should look like a robbery anyways. Check the cabinets and the closet.” The apparent boss replied and nearly gave Leissa a heart attack as he did so. She was in the closet.

Doing what Leissa did best, she thought on her feet. Or.. well.. she thought on her bile coated ass. She was in a drug dealer’s closet, and the entire house was littered with syringes and drug paraphanelia on the floor; the closet had to have some as well, right? She’d count on it.

Doing her best to not make noise, Leissa reached back and removed the band that kept her ponytail together, letting the hair drop freely around her head. Too perfect, she knew how her hair always looked. Spitting on her hands, she stuck some of the strands to her forehead and rubbed the rest of her head as frantically as she could without making noise.

Undoing her belt was probably the hardest part, considering the metal clanging on metal. Luckily, she had deft fingers and it went mostly without a hitch. There was a slight clink as she wrapped and pulled the belt tightly around her arm, but it seemed to have gone unnoticed.

Then came the delightful part. With a wince, she pushed her bracelet pen into the inside of her elbow, pushing hard and biting down on her lip as she did so. The pain was intense, but her desire to survive was even more-so. Once the fine tip broke the skin, she lightly lobbed the pen into the clutter of the closet, along with her wallet and her ID card hanging from her neck.

Just in time, she positioned herself so that her back was against the door and her entire body was angled slightly on top but mostly beside the pile of bile. She nearly smiled as she realized she was actually hoping it was vomit now.

Any remnant of a smile was immediately wiped away as she felt the door behind her give way. Her eyes shut immediately and she allowed her body to crash painfully against the floor. Years of pretending to be asleep so as to avoid doing house chores had taught Leissa the fine art of closing her eyes gently enough so that her eyes did not look like they were forced close, but at the same time making sure not to be even slightly open.

It was certainly hard to do, however, when she felt the pain of her head making contact with the ground, or the sound of guns cocking in, she was sure, was her direction.

“Jesus fucking Christ, who the fuck is that?” A new voice, much younger and much frailer than the other two.
“Look at her, moron. Another junky. Do we kill her?” The second voice from before asked eagerly. She certainly hoped it wasn’t eagerness she was detecting, that wouldn’t bode to well for her already diminishing chances of survival.

Luckily, the boss wasn’t so eager.

“Leave her. A burglar wouldn’t kill an unconscious junky. Check the closet and let’s get the fuck out of her, this place smells like Harry’s cooking.” Leissa released a very slight sigh of relief and immediately regretted doing so. Luckily for her, the group laughter seemed to have disguised the sound, for they all continued about their business.

She heard footsteps around her, heard a new voice yell out “Nothing here” from above her and then the continuing of footsteps around the room. There was the occasional crash of an item hitting the floor, but that was it.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here. We still need to hurry up, get back in our cars and be two blocks from here at most, when we get the alert.” The authorative voice sounded bored, but more importantly, he sounded more distant. He was walking away, and all the footsteps were following him.

Confident all of them were making their way out the door, Leissa slightly opened her eyes in an attempt to see the group. She, once again, almost immediately regretted doing so. They were all wearing uniforms.

They were police officers.

[crocoduck]

Brazilian Assasin's Creed

SPOILER: Click to show

It was rare to find an activity so smooth and elegant, yet as stressful and both physically & mentally demanding as assassinating. There was such grace and fluidity to each movement as the young assassin assessed his surroundings before expertly darting to the next shadow on the roof.
His technique was marvelous, to such a point that not even the pigeons a few feet away were disturbed. It wasn’t the pigeons he was worried about, however. His target had broken the line of sight and he only had a few seconds to find him again, but he had to make sure to not be careless.
“Anybody have eyes on him?” He reluctantly whispered into his earpiece, regretting deeply having to do so. He was going to get so much crap for it later when he got back; he had to make sure to get a really sweet kill to shut them up.
“You lost him? God damn it, Thiago.” He always felt like they could harness her voice and create an instrument that directed sound at long range. It would kill all of their enemies instantly; it was definitely killing him now.
“Just shut up and tell me if anybody sees hi-”
“Got ‘im! Move quick, he’s jogging southwest from your exact position towards the beach. He’s already reached Barata Ribeira, not exactly a lot of places for you to hi-”
“Yea, yea. I know. I’m on it.” It was his turn to cut her off. How dare she tell him how to do his job, anyways? He was the best there was. Sort of. So what if he had to ask for help? It rarely ever happened, and he was about to make up for it.
He had no time for that now. The closer his target made it to the beach, the harder this became. This wasn’t supposed to be an overly public assassination. There was no message, just a target that had to be taken care of.
So he ran. It was a bit exposing, but if target was already at Ribeira, then he wouldn’t be in risk of being spotted for a while. For now, he just had to focus on getting there. It got easier with each run, of course, but he doubted it would ever truly be easy.
It took an immense amount of physical ability to make these rooftop jumps. More than physical ability, however, it took mental acuity and raw talent. To be able to gauge a distance immediately, while instantly altering the force of a jump and the position while in their air and adjusting when right about to land. It was incredibly difficult work and broken bones had become a close friend of his.
Today was exceptionally difficult considering the open area they were in. This is why he preferred the favelas. The buildings here had an obnoxious lack of symmetry, they varied too greatly in their heights and it made roof jumping extremely difficult. He had to get to street level.
He could see the path now, and more importantly, he saw how to take it. His body rocketed from the edge of the rooftop, like a coiled spring being finally released. He timed it perfectly, landing on the balls of his feet, letting his body wave in segments, letting the impact travel through him like a wave while he himself mimicked that same motion. His knees bent, his body went with it and he was instantly rolling on the ground he just made contact with.
Without so much as a moment’s transition, he leaped at the end of his roll, jumping right off of the edge of the new roof. His body twisted sharply, grabbing out and latching at that same edge, bringing his body back against the building, his feet hitting the wall first before he allowed the rest of his body to do so.
His grip quickly released before tightening again, this time against a window ledge. His squirrely eyes darted all around, spotting the best spots for his body to shoot to next. It was in this manner that he hopped from window ledge to air conditioner to window ledge again, finally hopping off the wall entirely and landing in the street.
He never got sick of that.
“Where?” He swallowed his pride now. He may have been quick, but that was still all time consuming, his target could be approaching the beach by now.
“You’re on the same street, he’s just three blocks ahead of you. He seems to be walking now, he stopped jogging.” Nodding quietly, not sure if she was watching him right now, Thiago jogged forwards. This was actually the second hardest of it all. Hiding in plain sight.
It came more easily to him than others, thanks to his past. Although he had to resist the temptation achieved through habit, his hand almost instinctively shot into the pockets of those around him. He contained himself and focused for now, this wasn’t a simple wading through crowds. Thiago had to manage to move quickly without attracting attention, and in such a congested area, that was not at all easy.
It was done in smooth spurts of energy. Whenever the slightest space was available, he’d hop forward, shaving off seconds and half seconds from his estimated time of arrival. When there was no space available, he darted, skirted and juked. None of it could be done with too great an acceleration or it would be too obvious.
Still, there were occasional murmurs and complaints as he slipped past the hordes of pedestrians. They wouldn’t have even known he existed were it not for his desperate pace. He hated this. He felt so naked, their eyes peering at him with wonder, confusion and anger.
“You can slow down, he’s stopped for a pastel.” Perfect. He was less than two blocks away now, he couldn’t afford attracting attention to himself. He lucked out, and anybody listening/watching would know it. He was going to catch hell for this one.
At least he had made the right move in attire. A few of his brethren liked the old school approach of robes and ominous clothing; completely missing the point of being an assassin in the first place. Thiago was much more logical, taking care to dress himself as exactly what he used to be. A street urchin. He wore a dirty white t-shirt that was a size too small and similarly sized tan shorts. The only thing about him that didn’t quite fit with a street urchin were his running shoes. Even then, they were made to look old and worn out, despite the fact that they were actually brand new and of impressive quality.
It was one of the very few advantages to being so young in the brotherhood. Nobody questioned his appearance in public and nobody bothered to carve his face into their memory. He was a kid, a dirty one. Most people couldn’t even stomach looking at him, much less remember him.
Thanks to his appearance and his agility, Thiago was weaving through the crowd almost as quick as if he could walk straight through them all. Any that did notice him tended to steer clear in fear of being pickpocketed, not that they’d ever see him coming if that was his true intention. So it was with a matter of moments that he spotted his target.
This was hands down the hardest part of his training. Controlling his thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t help but feel raw hatred and fury coursing through his body as he watched the target. The bastard’s several necks shook jovially as they devoured the pastry in his hands. A carefree gluttony was present on his face, a face that showed only contentment with life and the food he was currently eating. It held no mention of the dozens of children he had marked for execution.
Wealthy shop owners like this one were in a constant battle with the real street urchins. The children were always stealing from them, never any large merchandise, but whatever they could put their desperate hands on. Understandbly, many merchants hated them. Not so understandably, however, many merchants had taken a penchant for ordering the murder of them. This man in particular was known for paying 100 real per urchin head. That’s all they were worth to him, 100 real, and that was including materials and labor.
It took great control to not leap on that mountain of fat and slit all 3 of his necks in one fell swoop. He had to make it artistic, however. Perfect. Hidden. This wasn’t a public assassination, it wasn’t ours. It just had to be done. Never attract attention to our actions, unless attracting attention is our goal.
So quietly, he stalked. With the man now in sight, he could stop and watch. Blending in while standing still was even easier than when moving, especially in this attire. All it took was standing against the wall, hands cupped out into the air. Not surprisingly, he failed to feel a single cent of pity drop into his hands from the throngs of people that passed by.
He wasn’t interested in them, however. The moment the target finished his pastry and started moving, Thiago did as well. Always at least 3 people behind, watching carefully from a distance. Having such a fat target was an advantage, much harder to lose. He didn’t have to rush it, just wait for it. Watch and wait. Patience was key. Patience.
His eyes darted all around, using the target as a center before poking to one side and then returning to the center. Always vigilant of his surroundings, always aware and always thinking. He had a plan, but it’d have to be the perfe-
There it was.
Picking up the pace, Thiago shortened the distance to exactly 3 people behind. 2 people. 1 person. ….
“FILHO DA PUTA! GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT.” He couldn’t help but smirk at the fast bastard giving chase. They had just started and Thiago could already hear him panting and wheezing. It was much harder to not just disappear than it was to steal the wallet in the first place.
He had to move painfully slowly to give the fatman the hope of catching him. He even tripped and bumped against people, ensuring his target had time to catch up. Every time he got within arms reach, Thiago suddenly burst forward and increased the distance again.
By the end of it, the target found himself in an alley, completely surrounded by nobody. Just two walls and outlets into the parallel streets. This was the moment.
“You… LITTLE…. FUCKE-” The insults were gasped out frantically as the target attempted to catch his breath while yelling out at the same time. It was made especially worse when he could do neither, due to the hand that found itself tightly against his esophagus.
Thiago had lashed out the moment the target got within reach. He thought he was the predator, a smug looking steadily replaced the anger on his child murdering face as he thought he was about to catch another little punk. Only to find that the moment he tried, that same little punk held his voice.
Neither of them moved for a slight moment. The target was in pure shock, a very large deer caught in some very small headlights. Thiago was just seething with anger. He saw no remorse in the man’s face. He stared deep into his eyes, measured each of his facial expressions and his body language. There was no sign of torment, anguish or guilt. He was content, despite the numerous death sentences he had doled out. So now it was time for his.
“Vai com Deus. (Go with God),” Was all the boy said before he tightened his grip suddenly. With deceptive strength for a 14 year old, Thiago crushed the esophagus within his grip before pulling back his hand, rotating his entire body and jutting out his right foot as he did so. A glint of metal appearing in front of the foot as the shoe’s mechanism responded to the specific toe movement. The blade cut perfectly in the same spot he had just struck, completely slicing the esophagus, the trachea and any chances of survival the target once had. He lay gasping for air, frantically clawing at his mouth with one hand and the bleeding gash with his other as his gelatinous body sank to the floor in desperation. Never torture the dead, for their judgment is yet to come.
In one final act of mercy towards the undeserving, Thiago brought up a foot and dropped his heal against the man’s throat, snapping the spine along with any other bone present.
Without so much as a look back, Thiago walked back into the crowd, whispering silently into the nearly invisible earpiece.
“Target Eliminated. Returning home now, be there in 20.”
“Better make it 10, mestre says there’s a raid, and he asked for you specifically.”
Despite the sweat pouring down his face and the copious amount of blood on his shoes, he couldn’t help but grin.
Today was a good day.

^i'd really like feedback on that one. It's recent.