Tyr In Your Hand

"Tyr, wake up." A metallic voice wakes me from my slumber, and in less than three seconds I have shot out of bed and into the shower room. Beside me, Mierii scrubs her legs furiously before moving up her body in an angry rush.

"What's with you?" I ask, soaping myself just as fast, but without the anger her dark green eyes radiate into the steamy air.

"The Old Grate wants me to knock off some damn politician."

"Good for you," I say joylessly, rinsing my obsidian hair under the scalding spray. Thank goodness I can't feel the burn here.

"I'm gonna be the sucker's whore, Dragon Glass,"1 she snaps irritably. "Scrub my back, make yourself useful."

She turns away from me and hands me her scrub brush, then glares several holes in the wall. "Quit doing that," I said.

"What?" she growls, and spitefully burns a smiley face into the tiles, the small holes smoking into the high ceiling.

I dig the brush into the small of her back, then pull it in a rough streak up her back to her neck. She hissed at me, but even she knows it's necessary. The insignia carved into the bones protecting her spine must be visible through her irritated skin when she exits the shower room; otherwise, she will be punished. The rule is the same for everyone.

I look at the wall and find Mierii's bullet holes have disappeared. "You play with people too much," I tell her.

She tosses her curly, red, dripping hair, purposely sending a stream of steaming water at my face. "Hurry up, girl, or you'll be late for breakfast."

"Save me a seat."

"No."

"Who's backing you up on this mission?"

She scowls. "Felix."2

"You'll need it with him. I hear he has a thing for redheads."

She glares at me. "I hate you." I grinned. "You've got five minutes, babe, then your seat's taken."

"Ten."

"Five."

"Good luck."

She glares at me again. "Fine, you've got ten minutes."

"Thanks! Hey Marx!" Marx, who has just entered the room, is awake enough to smile at me before stepping under the spray on the other side of me, and asleep enough to scream when the water hits him.

"Why do they make this water so hot?!" he whines, muttering obscenities under his breath and occasionally spitting at the floor by his feet. "Oh no, it's shrinking," he mouths in horror. "When I finally quit, I'll be a eunuch!"3

"Marx, you are a eunuch, now wash my back, would'ja?" I turn away from him and put my hair over the front of my shoulder.

"I'm not a eunuch," he growls, taking my brush and sniffing.

"So you prove to everyone every other night," I jab, bracing for the smack on the head that comes a few seconds later as his morning-mind processes what I've said. With the rough scrape that leaves me crouching to keep my balance, my shower is finished. "See you at breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he mutters as I walk out.

Dressed in the Mizani uniform - tight black pants, calf-length black boots, and a black jacket over a white T-shirt - I walk down to the mess hall and take my reserved seat next to Mierii. "What took you?" I grin. "You were baiting Marx again, weren't you?" I just laugh and turn to my soon-to-be-filled plate with new interest. "You're so mean to him, Tyr," she informs me sternly.

"He'll get over it." I give the room a once-over to see who's sitting where today. It's pretty casual compared to many other companies I've seen, but every place has internal politics no better or worse than a high school, and sure enough, the same cliques are sitting at their usual tables eating their usual breakfasts with their usual facial expressions. I wink at Zed, who sits at the hackers' table, and he gives me a shy smile before turning back to the blonde boy sitting on the table, who leans in to give them all some obscure bit of information they must be finding rather interesting.

Mierii gives me a quizzical look. "I'll never understand you," she announces, then jams a fork into an overcooked egg and drops it onto my plate.

I nod and swallow my milk. "I agree. And thanks for the egg." I gag at it. "I abhor eggs," I mutter to no one in particular.

"I know." She stands and picks up her tray. "Briefing in fifteen minutes, babe. Better hurry, or you'll be guarding the control room with two hands instead of your usual six."

"Ha. Ha." It's a long-standing joke around here that I've got six hands rather than two. How else could I possibly do so much damage so quickly? Many times, the enemy will see me walking out with what they're guarding and try to sound an alarm, only to find they cannot move, and are already feeling my poison traveling through their veins and closing off their lungs.

I take my plate, now empty but for the burnt egg, and leave it on the conveyer belt. I've got a briefing in about thirteen minutes, and that's more than enough time to get a pre-briefing briefing from Mierii. "Wait up," I yell.

Old Grate is the nickname we have for Gary Tamartus, the leader of Mizani, a young, moderately handsome man who was frozen for forty years. He should be celebrating his sixty-sixth birthday in a few weeks, but he hasn't really lived that long. The ‘Old' is, in this context, easily understandable. The 'Grate' bit is harder to explain, and only a few of us know the reason behind it. I am not one of those few.

It's the first time I've seen Tamartus in person, but I studied him extensively before joining Mizani. It's good to know one's boss if you want to get higher up in anything, assassin companies included.

He rises and shakes my hand, then Mierii's, then Felix's, who somehow turned up behind me without my noticing. That bothers me. As long as he stays where I can see him, he and I can be best friends.

Tamartus sits down, straight backed, in his chair, and studies our faces intently. I look him in the eyes - I hear he likes that - and wait for him to speak. He motions us to sit, and I dig my heel into the carpeted floor, reminding myself not to move my leg. I picked up a nervous twitch in Corsica a while back, and it takes concentration to keep myself still.

The mission is simple:

Mierii will be a whore given as a gift for the duration of some random politician's stay in the city. They're all the same -- every last one of ‘em.

Felix will monitor their conversations and actions through a series of cams and mics hidden throughout the rooms.

I will stay with Felix in the control room, and protect the two of them from guards, police, and any other unforeseen enemies or threats that might arise.

This is a simple mission. I hate simple missions. Something always goes wrong.

I give Mierii a farewell hug before she gets into her chopper to go play seductress. She gives me a strange look. "What's wrong, D.G.?"

I shrug. "It's a simple mission, and someone always dies on simple missions. I want to say goodbye now so if one of us is it, there's no regrets."

She flicks a lock of my dark hair over my shoulder. "You're so melodramatic, Tyr! Lighten up!" She gives me a peck on both cheeks and runs onto the plane, waving vigorously as it rises into the cloudy night sky.

Felix puts an elbow on my head - he's that much taller - and leans on me. He yawns. "I'm in the mood for a snack. What say we get some pizza?" His lanky frame taunts me as the wind from the chopper whips his clothes around his body, outlining his flat chest and stomach.

I poke him, and he jumps back. "You need to eat more," I tell him and walk away. "But not now. We've got work to do."

I'm in the control room when a paper slides into my hands through the fax, and I read it before crumpling it with a tense fist and hurling it into a wall.

"What is that?"

I sigh and walk up from behind Felix, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and place my chin upon his head.

"Old Grate is dead," I tell him softly, my voice unusually flat even to my ears.

"...dead...?" He puts his head in his hands, and I think he might actually cry. They were friends, strangely enough. "How?"

I steel my voice. "They don't know. His office was bombed shortly after we left. They think it was an inside job, but everybody loves him, and there was no way a bomb could've gotten past the sensors they've got. He was in sick bay for a few hours before he died. 11:59pm."

"It said all that?"

I hug him and bury my face in his neck for a moment. "No."

It is midnight when the second bomb explodes. Mierii is wide awake, lying unmoving beside her blissed-out politician, in his hotel bed. Her back and head give off a strange red glow that expands and envelops her, then the bed, then the room. She unleashes a scream that echoes throughout the hotel, startling the guards outside their door into futile action. They quickly find they cannot get inside.

Felix is punching furiously on the array of keyboards set up in front of him. "What's going on?" he shouts franticly at me.

"Shh," I say, watching calmly over his shoulder, "it's all part of the plan. Just watch for a second, ok? Then I'll explain everything."

He relaxes slightly. I'm protecting them for this mission; he has no reason to be worried. I find his mind crumbles under pressure, a weakness that will get him killed in this line of work. Then — "She's screaming, Tyr, what's happening down there?!"

I put a hand over his mouth. "Felix! Do you want to give away our position?" I hiss. He's only beginning to realize something is very wrong, but it's too late. Mierii's bedroom is covered in the red light, which bathes our faces through the screen. When the light quietly and suddenly vanishes, everything in the room has been incinerated, leaving nothing but a black maw of ash.

My partner's mouth opens and closes like a fish, and all he can choke out is "Tyr...why...?" before he slumps in his chair. I withdraw my arms, and his head hits the keyboard in front of him, cutting up his face a bit, then slides onto the floor, taking his body with it, and leaving flakes of skin, hair, and a few slick trails of blood on the counter top.

"Sorry buddy," I mouth as I walk out of the room.

A simple mission: infiltration and assassination. I notice a tear sliding down my cheek as I tell the cab driver to drop me off at the closest park. I might have gotten too close to the targets this time, I think. This is why I hate simple missions. Something always goes wrong, and someone always dies. And I am always left with alone with my regrets.

Author's notes:

1 'Dragon Glass' is another name for 'obsidian'

2 'felix' is Latin for 'good luck'

3 hot water slows sperm production, as well as killing sperm, in male genitalia (or so I have been told…)

‘Tear In Your Hand' is a song by Tori Amos (very pretty, I might add). The title is an obvious play on that. I didn't write it with the lyrics in mind (I've only just read them today, actually…though I love the song…), but some of the lyrics make sense in the context of the story. Perhaps my subconscious is teasing me.

Wrote this for English class in 9th grade. We were supposed to write a short story employing the use of a literary device (one from a list we'd come up with) that "makes a story good." Mine was irony. See if you can find it. Heh. My teacher thought this was too graphic. I disagree, but then, asking for my opinion on the content of anything requires a thorough understanding of my desensitization. I'm not sure anyone understands how far that's gone, myself included.

I'm rambling. I really don't know how to classify this — short story, vignette, something altogether strange and unfinished…so if you've got any idea, please let me know. I would be much obliged.