#writingski

Begging not to Die.

The first time it happened was startling. The third outing, Domini and Jaxon as her partners- escorts- handlers. They'd worked well together the first few times.

It was dark, but an alarm was blaring loud enough to make her cringe, ears not used to the volume. Her spear lanced through the engine block of the truck and it went quiet. The driver was dead- he'd been her primary target. The man in the passenger seat looked up at her, perched on the hood, with a slow dawning horror.

He was covered in shards of glass from the shattered windshield, and the airbag had failed to fire to protect either of them. Though the driver didn't matter, her spear had taken out most of his torso. But the passenger, covered in blood. The passenger.

"Please," he said, immediately raising his hands to shield himself. "Please, don't hurt me!"

"What?" Her voice came out as a squeak, expression matching the horrified one he had worn moments ago. No-one had- stopped to ask her that before.

"Please, I don't want to die!" He repeated, and his eyes were closed.

"You-" She was in shock.

He was begging her.

Her hand reached out to touch his face. Gentle. "I won't, You'll be o-"

Thuu-up.

A bullet lodged itself neatly in the man's chest.

Nobody's hand withdrew at lightning speed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Over the radio.

Come on, Nobody. You can't let them distract you.

... Jaxon had shot him dead.

Her hand went to her comm to reply-

"Yeah. I know. Sorry."

But she still felt sick to her stomach.

When you were barely thirteen you were paid twenty-five dollars to rough up a set of kids several years your senior. You came away with only a bruise. Some of them had to have jaws wired shut.

'You will kill for me' they say. You already have.

You were paid fourteen thousand in cash to kill a group of soldiers for the 'other side'. You were barely sixteen, and you dipped your hand into the warm red puddle. It dried into a horrifying mask on your face.

'You will suffer for me' they say. You already have.

Friends of the soldiers you had been killing, and some who were not, pried your mouth open. After a month of torture, they poured acid into your mouth and lungs. They dumped you into a river to die. But you clawed your way past the banks, a mile to a rural hospital. You were compensated a quarter million. It was your seventeenth birthday.

In a side-alley, not far from a place full of people and warmth and light, a man is trying to touch what is not his.

This angers you.

They laughed for a good minute. The merchant’s died off before the man’s did.

The man laughed uncomfortably long. “No, no, not that, either.” He reached towards the faceplate of his helm. As he removed it the merchant jumped back, screaming.

He fell on his ass almost comically.

You are alive, knocked to the earth and head lolled away, blood unspraying but running sleepily from your wound. You scramble to recover it but- Your challenger is already screaming bloody murder, and so is the small crowd come to spectate it. There is mild panic as you place your head back on, terrified of the screams of peasantry.

You messed up.

The fight forgotten, your blade left in the dust, you, instead of attempting to calm the people, as you should, flee. You remove yourself from the situation quickly, sprinting past the humans who scatter at your approach, and hide.

It’s only hours later when she finds you, gently urging you to come out.

“Come now, little lion, you must come home.” You take her hand, grumble about how you’re okay, she doesn’t need to baby you.

“They’re okay. a little spooked, but nobody is still scared of you.” She kisses the helmet you wear. “Don’t leave your sword again, dearest.”

"You should stop saying that," said the hero. "You haven't won in a while. Stop lying to yourself."

"I say it because it's true," said the villian. He stood, faced the hero, and continued. "Would you like to know why?"

The hero made eye contact for a moment. Curious. He took the bait. "Why."

"Because winning the fight is not my goal. It has never been my goal," said the villian, deadpan.

There was silence. Moments ticked by. Their eyes met. Then, the hero moved to speak. As he inhaled, the villian continued. He began pacing. Calmly.

"All I truly want is one thing. Not money. Not power- though they are nice bonuses. No. I want to see you."

"See me-?" There was genuine confusion in the hero's voice.

"Ellict a reaction. Be close to you," whispered the villian. He set a hand on the glass, palm open. With a slight tilt of the head, he asked; "Quite romantic, don't you think?"

This was not, quite at all, how the hero had been expecting this to go. Confusion was made clear on his face. He took a step back. Looked at the villian's hand as though it were some abomination.

"Romantic-? You mean-"

Your name is red; your body is iron and rust. You’re hidden, functioning out-of-sight, only coming out when trouble occurs.

Trouble is occuring. So out of the shadows you slink, crimson and terrifying. You’re skilled, the blade you hold, thin and sharp, rusted like the rest of you. You make others bleed as retaliation.

As retaliation.

You’re retaliating because there was a cry of fear, a blade, a seeping red wound and a man who loved the sweet iron taste of your kind.

He does not notice you, your soft steps upon flagstones, until the woman he’d assaulted, still breathing, gasps at your helm and the carved marks upon it. She knows you. You are ancient.

The man turns, brandishing the pathetic blade he’d been going to strike her once more with, but upon seeing you, he turns white. As though he’d seen a ghost.

You spill his blood.

It’s simple. Your blade, as worn and fragile-looking as it is, simply enters his body at one point, and out the other.

The poor woman is crying. Maybe she’s scared of you. Most people are when they see blood. It’s fine. You pull the blade from the corpse, rolling the body to the side, and kneel beside her.

The wound the corpse had made was not fatal- though you’re sure he would have finished her off. You press the soft leather of a glove to her side, rumbling soft whispers. Her sobs turn into soft hiccups, and she’s shaking.

“You’re going to be fine,” you finally say, feeling the warmth of her blood soak into your glove. You feel tied to it, wholeheartedly, and smile kindly, though she cannot see it. “Do you know who I am?”

She nods, putting one of her hands on yours, atop the wound. Blood to blood; Perhaps this was a covenant, now. Perhaps you were tied to this, until the blood was gone.

But you still open your eyes, your mouth,

And look it dead in the eye, as it writhes in ways that hurt your head,

And say, barely above the sound,