Special...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
With great power comes...

My attempt at writing a comic book inspired short story.

Submitted: November 15, 2010

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Submitted: November 15, 2010

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SPECIAL

I've been told that I'm special – right now, I don't quite see it.

I'm in a basement of a building filled with dead men. They don't know it yet, but by the time I'm done everyone here will have had a very bad day.

Why the basement you ask? Well, that's where the wall is thinnest of course. I do this job and I'm set up for life. It did occur to me that the reason why the price on this guy's head is so high is because he appears to be untouchable.

Steven Kenson used to work as a research analyst for META-4, the government run Agency that watches over everyone that's classed as a Neo. You've heard of the FBI and the CIA? Well, these guys were above and beyond even them. You've heard of Black Ops? META-4 makes them look positively white in comparison.

Why does someone want Kenson dead? I don't know, and I don't care – all I'm bothered about is the money. Like I said, I do this job and I'm set for life.

The Glock nestles comfortably in the holster on my hip as I wrench out the fuses to the power for the building. Everything goes dark – good job I've got the night vision goggles with me today.

I had a life once – a boyfriend, a cat, an apartment. I was training to be a nurse – I wanted to save lives – now all I do is take them. Funny how things can turn out, isn't it? That was before everything changed. Before Dr Tachyon. He called it the Wild Card process – everyone else knows it as the forerunner to DNAscent; the forced evolution of the human genome. I guess I was one of the lucky ones – they theorised that because I'm a woman I must have pulled an ace from the pack due to my genetic makeup. Fifty percent of people who underwent the process were killed by it.

They were the lucky ones.

Now it's been refined and "mastered", the government uses it to create super-soldiers to fight their precious war on terror. I wonder how long it will be before the "bad guys" get their hands on the same technology. I could apply my talents elsewhere and make a fortune if I wanted to.

Not that I would – I might be a killer, but I'm also a patriot.

When they said that the Raven had caught Tachyon I was so angry – I wanted to be the one who got to him first, not that do-gooder bitch. I wanted to see the look in his eyes as I killed him. I guess I still could – he's only in Ravenstone Prison after all, but everyone has to move on with their life. Take the hand you're dealt and roll with it as best as you can.

Like I said, people tell me I'm special. We'll see.

The door to the basement opens – two figures enter, waving torches around. They're moaning about the power outage. Despite the fact my body is completely covered in this light absorbent suit, I'm still nervous. As they look at the fuse box I make my move – I drive the knife into the base of the skull of the first guy, and then I grab the second guy by the shoulders, forcibly throwing him to the ground on his back. I keep hold of his arm as my foot stomps down onto his throat. I then pull his arm upwards, jerking his body towards me while my foot holds his neck in place. I hear the sound of bone breaking and in the alien green hue of the goggles I watch him twitch spasmodically for a minute before confirming he's dead. Retracting the knife, I wipe the blood from the blade on the first guy's jacket before I climb the stairs out of the basement.

I need to move quickly – the two in the basement will be missed soon and the element of surprise will be lost. I should just go straight to the third floor – but I can't afford to get caught out. I sweep around the first and second floors, finding them empty as I expected. The power disruption has wiped out the elevator – not that I need it, but I use the stairs in case I run into anyone coming down them.

I reach the third floor and carefully open the door from the stairwell. Thank god for well-oiled hinges. As I slowly open the door, I can see a guy at the vending machine. He's fumbling with change in his hands as he tries to simultaneously balance the torch under his arm and count up the selection of coins he's extracted from his pocket. I wait – if I move now the sound of the coins hitting the floor could alert people to my presence. I can afford to be patient.

Six dimes and three nickels later, he's lighting up the candy dispenser with his torch. I step forward, approaching him in his blind spot – the silencer on the end of the Glock looks almost ridiculous compared to the size of the subcompact pistol in my grasp. I've always liked the Glock 26 and the later 29 version – it's perfect for concealment in a purse or a jacket pocket and thus, perfect for my line of work, even if it only holds ten rounds in the magazine. My hands are an average size, yet this almost miniaturised weapon looks wrong almost – like it's a child's toy in the hands of a woman.

He's still trying to decide which can of soda to purchase as the extended barrel edges closer to him. He has no idea what's about to happen – I can feel the anticipation building inside me, my mind is racing – the pressure of my finger on the trigger is increasing slowly, building to a climax. He reaches out, his hand moving towards the digital selection panel.

Phfftp!

I place the shot just behind his right ear, upwards into the skull. Somehow I manage to catch the torch before it hits the floor as the red and white decorative logo on the vending machine gets an impromptu paint job of blood and brain matter. His body hits the floor with a soft thud – the carpet deadening the sound. I pull the power supply from the vending machine – the darkness in the hall now absolute and complete.

There's only one door in this hallway – and Kenson must be behind it, along with whoever is left babysitting him. They'll be expecting their colleague to come back shortly – I don't disappoint them.

He's heavy – heavy enough that once I lean his corpse up against the door it starts to open. As he falls through it, pandemonium erupts inside – the beams of torchlight illuminating their fallen colleague.

One of them rushes forward – I put a bullet into his skull before I dance out of the way of a series of gunshots that tear through the flimsy wooden structure. All those years of ballet and gymnastics as a child paid off. I hear the voices – some urging restraint, some hollering for revenge. The remnants of the door are shattered as one, two, three men rush out, sweeping the hall with their torches.

They are the first to go – one shot into each barrel, shattering the bulbs and robbing them of their perceived advantage. The knife is out of my hand and buried in the throat of one man before the others can react – bullets strike their foreheads a moment later. Everything goes quiet – everyone is waiting for the other to make the next move.

There's a rattling sound, then something rolls into the hallway. Smoke begins to fill the confined space – two shadowy figures dart out, towards the stairs. I take a second to focus, and then fire two quick shots into the back of the trailing figure – he falls to the floor, catching the trailing leg of the second figure.

I can hear him coughing as I approach him. Through my green-filtered eyes I can make out his features – it's Kenson; and he looks scared.

I kneel down and jab the barrel of the pistol into the underside of his chin – he's crying now, pleading with me for his life. If only it were that simple.

I slowly pull the pistol away, and then drop it theatrically to the floor next to him. Something in his eyes seems to click – he thinks I'm giving him a chance. He's wrong of course – but that's what makes the next bit so much more delicious. I grab the lapels of his obscenely expensive jacket and I close my eyes.

They say I'm special. I'm not so sure.

The next time I open them I'm four hundred feet above the city streets. My hands are still gripping Kenson's jacket as his screams fill my ears. I can feel the rush of the wind through my suit, giving me goosebumps across my body. We're falling at a terminal velocity of thirty two feet per second – the asphalt beneath us is getting ever closer. I pull him towards me and speak for the first time that evening.

"I hope you can fly."

Then I close my eyes and let go. When I open them I'm standing on the sidewalk – I see Kenson falling through the air, then watch as he smashes into the tarmac, just behind a yellow taxi cab that's dropped off its last fare of the night. I casually walk over to the impact site, ignoring the shocked people standing on the sidewalk, mouths a jar at what they've just witnessed – it's amazing how much the human body resembles a melon when it's dropped from a great height.

I pull my mask off and run my hand through my dirty blonde hair. I realise that what I want right now is a long soak in a hot bath. Then I close my eyes and in a heartbeat, I'm back at home.

They tell me I'm special. Maybe they're right.

 


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