#katwrites

Look into his angel eyes, you’ll think you’re in paradise

“I am far too impatient for such a procedure.”

Wrench can practically see her own microprocessor with how far back she rolls her eyes. They’re not even involved in this procedure. At all. Not even as the patient.

“May I remind you, Electra, that you insisted on having a security truck. I told you that Joule is perfectly capable of scaring off anyone you don’t want around you. But no. You wanted one of the ‘bougie new ones’.”

“Yeah” they complain, with a characteristic whine to punctuate it. “I did. Plus! Isn’t he cute?”

“He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.”

“That’s not the point!” They squeal.

With a huff, Wrench carries on setting up this ‘bougie’ new truck. She’s working on a tablet, connected to the truck by a short cable that came in the box, and her back is aching from the angle she has to sit at to work on it.

After about nine thousand verifications of names, phone numbers, email addresses and ‘unique codes’, she’s finally got access to his settings. Not much needs to be changed, which almost annoys her.

“Primary language…English. Did I really spend an hour setting this up for that to be it?!”

“Stop complaining! He’s going to be fun to have around!”

When did Joule come in? Whatever. Now she’s got to activate him. She opens the manual next to her that’s 50 pages too long, yet somehow doesn’t have enough words, and tries to follow the instructions given to her like that of a Lego set. After pressing all the buttons and flipping all the switches (which for some reason, is a lot) she begins his startup sequence.

A short, albeit musical, sound comes from somewhere in the truck, like that of a game console being activated, and the gentle whirr of his systems fill the silent room. Then, his fans kick in, and Electra shifts, ever so elegantly, to sit on the end of the bed that he’s resting on.

There’s nothing elegant about this truck. The way his eyes open suddenly and the shutters that mimic irises contract and relax until they’re comfortable with the light in the bedroom. Bracing himself on his forearms, he pushes himself to sit up. The tablet flashes green.

Looking down at it, it reads ‘awaiting imprinting information…’ and Electra knows what to do. They’ve done it three times already, after all.

“Ready?”

They mutter softly, crawling closer to the truck. He doesn’t react. They brush the hair out of their face, to give this truck a full view of their eyes, and then they gently hold his face as they make, and hold, eye contact with him.

They love this part. They love how his big curious eyes search theirs for the information he needs. His irises light up in a sequence, like the loading icon of a video, and a small wave of nausea hits them. Joule stops bouncing, and has to take a minute to sit down, as Wrench gently rests her head in her hands. Volta, on the other hand, is not as bothered. He’s probably been desensitised by those headaches.

The truck, however, who is now fully connected to the frequency, shifts uncomfortably. He blinks a couple times, quite hard, before his brows knit and he settles on closing his eyes. His fans begin to stutter and his arms begin to shake, but Electra reaches out to hold him up.

Then, his muscles tense, and he lurches forward, as surges of energy are discharged via gasps and gags. He lets out a choked sob, everything’s so loud, everything’s too much. He’s feeling for the first time, and he’s feeling everything. It’s hot, and it’s cold, and it’s loud but silent. It’s too bright, even behind the darkness of his eyelids and he feels like he doesn’t weigh anything, as the weight of his body pulls him down to lay on the bed.

Imprinting on Wrench, Joule or Volta wasn’t like this…have they done something wrong? With Wrench, it took perhaps a minute, and left them both a bit dizzy. Joule was the same, though it took a little longer as she had to process the information that came from both them and Wrench. Volta took maybe five minutes…and to be fair, that left him quiet and shaking after taking in the information of three people.

Electra can’t even imagine what this truck must be feeling. Not only is he experiencing everything for the first time, but he’s feeling everything that Electra, Wrench, Joule and Volta are feeling. He’s learning everything they know.

They’re brought out of their thoughts by a whimper and they look down at this poor, poor, thing. He’s crying, he’s shaking, it must be awful. It’s nearing seven minutes now, and he cries out as his body decides to force out another few energy surges.

And then, he stops, and he goes limp. He stops taking short, rapid breaths, to favour his internal respiratory systems instead, and his fans sound like they’re working overtime. He still trembles slightly, and his eyes stay closed.

“Everyone, out.”

“Electra, don’t you think I should stay in case-”

“Everyone, out.”

After everyone leaves, Electra moves gently, slowly, to lay next to their new truck. His eyes open slowly, like his eyelids are so heavy, and he turns to look at them. They reach out to gently touch his face, and smile at how his eyes flutter with the touch.

“Hello, darling. It’s nice to finally meet you. You’ve done ever so well.”

They whisper gentle praises to him, gently caressing his cheek, and moving to delicately rub at his shoulder with their thumb.

“It’s done now, darling. You’ve done it. Can you tell me your name?”

They already know it of course. It said it on the box he came in, on the packaging, on the form they had to sign, on the manual and again on the tablet, but they’d love to hear him say it.

He opens his mouth to speak, but seems to struggle, so he hesitates.

“Take your time, dear. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

No, he wasn't an accountant, he had no idea what accountants even did, but he couldn't let anyone hear about his actual job. For one: he didn't even go by Daniel Howell. It was his birthname, the name his parents gave him before they had another kid and pushed him to the sidelines. His 'work' identity - The Crimson Whisper - made people shake, vomit and pass out in terror, often creating an atmosphere you could cut with a knife. It was more than uncontrolled fright people felt at the name, it was an emotion beyond human comprehension. 

Daniel Howell, The Crimson Whisper, was a ruthless killer. The rich employed him to assassinate anyone they wanted, paying horrifically high prices for the deed to be done quickly, and to assure that their names weren't affiliated with the killing. There were a few assassins hanging around the streets, but their work was sloppy and they preferred to let their name be known. Daniel had never given the authorities anything to identify him with, hushed street talk had conjured up The Crimson Whisper because no one ever heard the victims of him cry out. No one heard him either, he was completely and utterly silent apart from when he was discussing work. He had to bite back remarks and laughter when people's eyes rounded at the sound of his assassin name, but over the years it had gotten much easier. The strange thing about him was that no one even suspected that the quietest man among them was up to anything sinister.

It was December when Daniel let his eye off the ball. 

All of the people that required his assistance had to wait under a very precise tree in the small forest land by Daniel's apartment, it was the tallest oak tree and it hid his figure in the shadows. It was back alley talk that gave people the place to find him, no one would dare hand him to the police in fear he'd tell all their secrets. The payment for each person Dan had to take care of was determined by the length of time he had, how long he had to go, and how risky it was, but everyone had to tell him a secret. People would do anything to protect their most dreaded secret. 

Dan was at the top of his game before a man turned up under the tree on December 1st. He was wrapped in a moth-bitten, stained cloth and his body hunched over. It was raining, the wind was making it exceptionally eerie to be so deep in the forest at midnight; everything was perfect in Dan's eyes. The man's face was shadowed over, but the darkness made Dan unable to decipher anything else about him, all he knew was that he wasn't his usual customer. "Excuse me, you're the assassin, correct?" Shockingly, his voice wasn't of an old man, possibly middle aged. Looks really were deceiving. "That would be me." His voice was intentionally guttural, unidentifiable if someone spoke to him during the day. "I've saved up for a year, there's this woman who's... She's just bad." "I'll need a proper reason." "She's a fraud, she dresses up and takes money from people. Her boyfriend has no idea what she does behind his back, but she burgles, cheats, and takes people for granted. She robbed my wife, she's in her 60's and the poor woman was scared to death!" The man's voice was rising as he spoke, the resentment for the girl becoming so out of hand. "What's her name?" "Harriet Turner."

Dan knew her. When he was starting out as an assassin, she was being trained by the same person he was. They'd been sent after the same person and she'd nearly pushed him off the ledge he was standing on, but that was when he bothered hiding his face. She didn't know anything about him, but he'd read about her. She must've hung up the bloodied robes for a civilian life, or maybe not according to the man standing in front of Dan. 

"When do you need me to do it?" "Before Christmas, preferably before 2 weeks have passed. Just get it done." "You know I'll need all the money you saved, it's Christmas after all, and a secret." "My name is Micheal Darker and I used to excessively gamble." And then he threw a pouch of rolled up notes on the floor in front of Dan, then walked away. The quick appointments were always the best, the risks were low and Dan could get back to just being Dan - he didn't have to struggle with the weight of his heavy duty clothing.

While the pay was outstanding, the conditions weren't great. He was to burrow into black clothes with a protective layer over his torso in case anyone tried to fight back. No one ever did. Descriptions of him had travelled like wildfire, vague ones that couldn't identify him in the slightest, so a dark figure standing in someone's room at night was a give away. They just gave up. It was almost amusing how many people Dan had immolated that just gave themselves to him; pathetic really. When he was busy it was torture, 3 people to dispatch of overnight meant a mad chase around the city to all the places they'd be, he also had to keep up his standard of work. Any mess that didn't need to be made was an imaginary strike against him. However much the busy nights dragged on, the slow times were even worse - he'd constantly be checking the thousands of pounds he'd saved up in case his services weren't needed anymore. Foolish to think that, he always had a steady flow of customers from all around, sometimes people were too wrapped up in themselves to need him.

Research. That was the first step Dan took. He'd try and get as much information he could about the people he was going after, and social media sites were one of the best advantages. He joined it and added everyone that appeared so it wouldn't look suspicious if he needed it later on, but most people had public profiles. He spent hours researching and taking notes of things that were useful to know. For instance, if someone went out every Friday night he would hang around until they were alone to strike. Most of it was common sense, the skill came with leaving no evidence of him being there. 

Harriet, as he thought, had given up her assassin lifestyle. She had a boyfriend called Philip Lester and was ostracised from the majority of her family. She didn't seem to like Phil that much, her posts were a lot about her being with friends and never with him. They went out to a bar each and every night; her income came from her boyfriend and serving in a restaurant; and she loved to get drunk. Phil was away on a business trip, but that was only for the weekend, and it was Friday - the day he left. Meaning that, if Dan was quick, he'd catch Harriet on the Saturday night, leaving her to whoever found her. That would probably be Phil. He wished there was a picture of the man, it would make his job a lot easier, but he posted sparingly so it wasn't a good chance. 

There were no clients on the Friday night, so Dan was able to collapse into his silk sheets with a glass of wine in his hand. If he had a night to himself he'd take a little self care, and he'd sort things out for himself, the nights would end with a large class of wine and a bar of chocolate, all while he watched one of the latest movies on his flat screen TV. It was all very laid back, but it took his mind off of the goal he had for the next night, and the fact that he probably wouldn't be sleeping.

Nonetheless, it was his job. Like it or not, he made his living doing this and he was the best at it. Other assassins had groups of friends that would sell them in when asked by police, but he never dared trust anyone, assassin or not, he worked alone. It was lonely sometimes, and he had a few acquaintances that he'd go out with, but none that he was close too. It had always been the same so it wasn't as if he missed anything from his past. He didn't have a relationship either, he slept around with girls in school, but other than that he never was bothered with it. He pushed any romantic feelings down, not that they were ever strong, it wouldn't tamper with his work that way. 

It was 1 AM when Dan turned off his TV and settled himself to sleep, drifting off into a land where nothing bad could happen. That night, however, his dreams were full of screaming.

Run. He just had to keep running. He was going after Harriet and they caught him, her dad caught him and everyone was after him. People yelled and threw things as he ran ahead of them, everyone was desperate to get their revenge. His parents were there too. 'This is why we preferred your brother.' His dad muttered, but it made no sense for him to have heard that above the noise of the mob that was after him. He ran to a dead end. No. Stop.

Then he woke up with hands gripping sweat soaked sheets, a pounding heart, and a lack of breath. It wasn't real. The nightmares only got to him if it was the night before a risky task, but he wasn't frightened of getting caught. He could handle it, but the disappointment would be too much. His clients would be found out, they'd be slandered to no end, and his family would hate him even more than they already did. There were 2 consequences of being caught: prison time, or death. Dan would choose death, he wouldn't want to be sent down and have everyone know what he did, who he killed. Other assassins would pick at him because he always stole the limelight. In death there was nothing. It would be the only fair punishment for someone as bad as he was. 

He knew that he should've been productive that day, that maybe he could pry more into Harriet's life to try and track her, it was just hard to do it. Usually he loved the snooping, it was pretty interesting, but other times it was too exhausting. Taking his chances was a huge risk, but he'd never been close to being caught before, so why would it matter now? 

The TV made noise for itself as Dan slouched almost lifelessly in the chair. Sleep occasionally took over, but most of the hours passed with him staring into space. With it being winter he could set off to get his work done earlier, and he was best waiting around because he had no clue what time Harriet would inevitably crawl in drunk. It was funny, he never expected her to turn into a party girl, she was always so snobbish and uptight to what he thought. 'While other girls get dressed up, I get suited up.' Is something she'd always say before she killed people, he'd seen it in the papers. She wasn't that great at keeping her identity a secret. 

At 6 PM it had gone dark, it was quite cold out so Dan's heavy torso protection gave some extra warmth. His suit was black and clung to his body so he could move efficiently. He guessed it looked like a gymnasts outfit, or the things that people wore backstage at a play - he was such a theatre nerd in school. He took back alley paths, the only life along them was intoxicated people, or people using heavy drugs, they wouldn't remember him by morning. A hood shielded his face, especially his eyes, so even if someone was aware enough to notice him, they wouldn't get in his way and wouldn't be able to describe him. He was sure he would've gotten caught, but the police didn't dare patrol there, and there were quite a few people dressed similar. 

The stone pavement was freezing, and homeless people were huddled up under cardboard and the occasional sheet. Dan felt slightly sorry for them, he had such an admirable life and they ad next to nothing. If he gave away his money he risked them telling the police that he had extraordinary amounts stashed away. He did ask some of them what they needed if it was during the day, then he'd dash to a store and get them a few things. Every single one of them was grateful for it. Contrary to belief, he was sympathetic to people who deserved it, but he could never let it get in the way of his work.

Harriet's apartment wasn't high up, it was actually on the first floor. It was shocking how many people left their spare keys buried around the place, even more so when that person was an ex-assassin. She'd left her key under a rock under the front window. It really was a bright idea. 

Dan didn't think twice about going in and unlocking the door, the CCTV camera was in shards and no one was around, no one was stupid enough to be outside in this apart from Harriet and her friends. Dan didn't even know if she was out partying that night, all he knew was Harriet wasn't in and he had to wait for her to come back in the darkness. He wished he could play on his phone, or do something, but it was trackable so it had to be left in his apartment. 

It was cold in the apartment, and the only sound was the clicking of the clock that Dan couldn't risk getting up to look at. Seconds went by. Those turned to minutes, Those turned to hours. It was boring.

But it didn't last that long. He'd locked the door on his way in, so the familiar sound of someone's key sliding into the lock made Dan's mind more alert than it had been. He listened hard, there were no voices, a giveaway that Harriet was alone. 

He peered up over the arm of the couch he was sitting by, she was walking all over the place and spluttering with meaningless laughter as she did it. Drunk. She'd be so easy to take out, it was like an early Christmas gift for Dan, but she knew all the tricks of the trade. He just hoped she was too far gone to realise what was happening. She walked into another room, and Dan followed after her, his feet light on the carpet. The bedroom was grand, it was obvious that her boyfriend, Philip, had no say in what it looked like. Her clothes occupied every free surface, there was no sign of him apart from a pair of black converse shoes. It was pitiful, Dan felt sorry for a man he'd never met and never would meet. Harriet had her back to Dan, she was messing in a box that was on the end of her bed. Perfect. Two steps forward was all it took, and she didn't even realise he was there. A knife with no detail was out of its sheath within milliseconds, then Dan took a deep breath in. His one gloved hand wrapped around Harriet and covered her mouth while the other plunged the knife into her back. He knew the exact spots he needed to cut through, but the feeling of the knife sinking through flesh was never pleasant for him to feel. She didn't fight him, but he felt her going weaker in his grasp. He pulled the knife out again, letting the wound bleed out. Harriet became more of a dead weight as the time went by, her white dress staining red as blood trickled out. Her hand did go to the point where it was bleeding in a feeble attempt to stop it, or maybe it was just the realisation. Either way, it didn't work. When Dan brought his arm from around her, she crumpled to the floor. Her chest wasn't rising or falling. It was hard to check her pulse with gloves on, but it was either nonexistent or very faint. She was a goner either way.