System 1- Prologue

System 1- Prologue  

Night had fallen on the slums of the Urban Jungle.  There wasn't a soul to be seen, or a sound to be heard in the dark streets.  No one was there.  The eerie silence pushed on everything, and the tension in the air was ready to snap.  

He preferred it this way.  Quiet.  

The man sat on a window ledge, unseen by the occupant of the room.  After nearly a month of careful observation and planning, things were finally being set in motion.  The war was about to begin.

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The old man sat hunched over a writing desk in the corner, illuminated by the flame of a single candle.  He scribbled relentlessly on a scrap of paper, muttering quietly to himself as he wrote.

He was ancient, nearly 100 years old.  

His beard, which grew down to his waist, looked like one of the stormy gray clouds that always covered the city had fallen down and attached itself to his face.  His skin had creases that were at least half an inch deep and his back was so crooked that when he walked he was bent at a 90 degree angle.

The candle flame flickered, causing the old man to pause.  Why would the flame be moving?  The air is too still....  He was so consumed in his work, he hadn't noticed the window opened, as if on it's own accord.

Goose bumps appeared all over the old man's body, and he turned toward the ajar window.  No one was there.  Slowly and carefully, he stood up and walked to the window and closed it.  It crossed his mind that he might have just forgotten to lock it earlier, but he was old enough to know better than that.  He knew what was going to happen now.

"I know you're there lad," the old man whispered in a low, gravely voice, "so why not come out and get it over with?"

Quickly and quietly, a dark figure emerged from the shadows, grabbed the old man around the neck and slit his throat before he could make another noise.

Blood splattered around the room, covering the window, the desk and everything else within the blast radius.  The old man dropped to the floor, convulsing, unable to make a noise or even breath, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his neck.  

The paper the old man had been writing on was now peppered with droplets of blood, smearing the words and making the majority of it illegible.  The man walked over to the desk and read what was still discernible and had to keep himself from laughing.  The master will find this funny!  He took the paper, folded it and placed it in a concealed pocket within his tunic.  As he did this, he realized that his hands were covered in the old mans blood.

He raised his hands to eye level and watched as the warm, sticky liquid trickled through his fingers. The satisfaction of this murder was overwhelming.  He smiled a crooked grin and looked down at his victim still writhing about on the floor, making horrendous gargling noises as blood gushed from his jugular. He took a seat on the bed and watched as the old man died, squirming around on the floor like a worm.  

In the few moments that the old man had left, he locked eyes with the one that killed him.  He wanted to see the face of the man that brought about his demise.  He wasn't shocked to see that there was nothing behind those piercing blue eyes besides hatred, although he wished that they weren't the last thing in life that he was going to see.  Soon the old man's body lay still and the light left his eyes leaving behind pools of emptiness.           

The man stared at his victim without remorse, smiling a cruel grin.

Then he was gone.  The room lay silent once more besides the steady drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.   On the desk, the candle's wick ran out, and the flame shuttered then died.

The Assassin had struck again.