Beyond the Horizon
- Part 1: Meetings -
**note** This is an ORIGINAL writing. All characters and situations belong to ME under the pseudonym deadxdreamer. If you would like to recreate, archive, post any portion of this story, please obtain permission first.
The sun was setting just below the horizon. It's always beautiful to watch, seeing the red glowing light pass down below the line that seperated the sky from land, farther than you can travel and farther than you can see. Of course it's all just the lights switching from day to night, but it's still a nice touch by the builders to have a sunset every day.
I stand and walk down the steps of the staircase leading into the building, descending from the rooftop where I make my daily sojourn so I can watch the lights change.
This is 5046 A.D., the year of my 27th birthday. All I want… is to be able to go beyond the horizon.
He sat looking dispassionately at the black haired man sitting across from him in the crowded café.
"You were gone for a while Beautiful," the black haired man said quietly, picking up his cup and taking a lengthy sip. His porcelain white skin seeming unearthly against his black turtleneck. A silver watch peeped out from his thin wrist, catching the light and sending a slight sparkle winking up at the white haired man watching it intently.
"A new present from your master, Deacon?"
He looked down at his watch and firmly tugged his sleeve over it. "None of your business."
"So what is it this time?"
"Nothing incredibly hard. We just need you to exterminate a few problems. Here's the list. I think you're familiar with most of them already."
The blond nodded and continued to sit, blowing gently on his coffee. "When do you want them by?"
"As soon as possible."
"All of them?"
A blond eyebrow arched above cold grey eyes that were looking at lavender ones harshly. "Are you kidding me?"
Deacon swallowed audibly and put his cup down with one hand, grabbing his leather gloves with the other. "I'm sure you'll have it done. Half the money's in your account, the other half will be paid upon completion. Do you have anything you want me to deliver to Mr. Singer?"
The other man toyed with the lip of his cup with a slender finger. His grey eyes looked up, capturing Deacon's lavender ones.
"That he get a new whore."
Deacon bristled at this and grabbed his trenchcoat from the back of the empty chair and stood, glaring at the other man. "Are you volunteering to take my place, Saul?"
Fire seemed to shoot from Saul's grey eyes as he beheld Deacon. He stood, took up his own coat from the chair beside his, and with a cold smile, placed a kiss on Deacon's smooth cheek.
"Good bye Deacon," he said pulling on his coat and walking out of the café.
My apartment's dark as I walk in. I had spent the day at the library checking out the "list." Poor guys'll be dead in about three weeks.
My penthouse overlooking the lights of New Covenent has become a haven of sorts. At the end of a hard day, I find comfort here. My first home and the only home that not even Mr. Singer knows about.
I flip on a few lights. I have about an hour to get ready to go to Ivory where I have a date with a Mr. Alexander Kein, which will unfortunately be his last. He's undoubtedly the easiest to be rid of. He has a history of heart disease (as a convenient little hacking job with Z had uncovered) and a drug induced death resembling a heart attack won't be too hard.
I shed clothes along the floor as I go towards the shower. The sunset was somewhat nostalgic today. Fiery reds and oranges, fierce yellows and harsh neon pinks streaking across the sky. It reminded me of when Covenent was on fire during the Great War. No one knew the enemy would turn around, go to our homes, and kill all our women and children. My mother and my sister were there. I had been drafted then into the army. All the men that were old enough and weren't too old had been. I fought like there was no next few moments. Everyone did. Rage was consuming us. They had killed our families, our children, our sister, our mothers. I remember stepping into the front lawn of my house, the eerie quiet that had covered everything. The sky was red. The city was burning. Inside I chocked on the smell of ashes and blood. It streaked the walls, the floor, the furniture. What had they done?
The house seemed empty until I got to my mother's room. I remember looking at the door that was slightly ajar. A bloody handprint was imprinted on the otherwise pristine white door. What looked like fingers streaked across the wall to my right, red. I don't know why I opened that damn door. I told myself that it wasn't a good idea. I told myself that this was where they had put the bodies. I told myself that I would never, EVER, replace the image of whatever I would see with the image of my mother and sister.
I put out a gloved hand and pushed. The door swung open with a creak, that creak my mother had asked me to fix with a little oil just before I left. I never got around to it. They were on the floor, on opposite sides of the bed. Well… what was left of them anyway. Their faces were missing, gaping holes were all that remained of their heads. Limbs were thrown asunder and their clothes ripped almost clean off. A few shreds still clung, blood soaked, onto their scratched bodies.
I was 15.
Suddenly I couldn't breathe and the contents of my stomach rebelled. I threw up all over the floor and ran. I ran away from the still house that stank of their blood. I ran away from the deserted street. I ran away from the burning city to the army base that would be waiting for me to return. I ran into the fight hoping that I could burn away those images from my mind with the death of those that had done the butchering.
I thought I could kill to forget my family being killed. I never could wash all that blood from my hands. Now I kill again, but because I have no choice. I have to live and eat and clothe myself and killing is all I know.
I suddenly jerk back to the present. My body had known the routine and despite my flashback, I had stipped myself of my clothes and had stepped into the shower. There's no point in thinking back to those days. There is a mission tonight. Another chance to kill. Another chance to try and redeem myself. Another chance to pretend that all this bloodshed will somehow bring my family back.
My mother had called me beautiful once. Well, she hadn't intended to, but she was so proud of me that it just slipped out. I look at my reflection, the flawless white skin, the defined cheekbones jutting out just below gray eyes lined with the thinnest line of eye liner and the slightest hint of black eyeshadow. There are the long eye lashes that fringe them, slightly curled with mascara applied to them. The eyebrows that arch just so, that never grow out of line or out of shape. The long black hair, still a little damp, but tied back. And as I look at myself, at this false beauty, I can't help but wonder how long this mask will stay. When will it crack with wrinkles, or crack with the pain and unrest I feel inside?
"You look just like your mother."
"You're so fucking sexy."
I suddenly can't stand to see myself anymore. When will it end?
He was old. He just wasn't ready to admit it to himself yet. He had obviously gotten a manicure, tailored clothes, a visit to the barber, and decked himself with expensive jewelry. He had tried to black out the gray at his temples with fake dye, only it hadn't set well and didn't match the rest of his hair color. His eyes, once a brilliant green, were growing dull. Wrinkles marred his face, although a light layer of make up had obviously been used to try and diminish them.
He leaned in closer to me as we danced. He was obviously pleased to have me choose him from all the other old men on the dance floor. His pleasure was poking at my thigh.
I almost felt sorry for him. I almost understood the sad attempt to cover his age. I almost pitied him. Almost.
A warm, weathered hand found itself on my buttocks and suddenly all thoughts of sympathy fled my mind. This man needed to die tonight. I wrapped myself closer to him, licking and nibbling at his sagging earlobe before whispering a suggestion to take the dancing outside.
He readily agreed.
It was just behind the club, in the dark alleyway behind a few dumpsters. There was no light here, only a sliver of it along the ground from the lamppost several feet away. How he chose well. He shoved me against the brick wall and pressed a sloppy kiss to my mouth before bending his head to fumble frantically at his pants.
He looked so surprised when I slid the knife into his pot belly and then into his chest. His wrinkled, spotted hands reached feebly towards me, but I stepped away and out of his reach. It saddened me somewhat, watching his make up caked face and badly dyed hair falling away from me and to the muddy, damp floor from the recent rains.
He made a few gasping noises and a few more feeble attempts to grab at me before he stilled, his glassy eyes staring up at me. I had to make it look like a robbery so I bent down, loathing to touch his gaudy suit and pull the rings and necklaces from his decaying body.
"Hold it right there."
I froze. I've never been caught, never been seen. I know the reprocussions that would follow if this man saw me. I also know the reprocussions if I let this man live.
"Put your hands where I can see them and step towards me and into the light. … NOW!"
My heart was racing. Who was this man? Did he know this would be his last night? Does he have a loved one waiting for him? Does he have any family left? How old is he?
There was a moment of indecision. There was time for me to run, but I might get hurt. If I turned and he sees my face… I would have to kill him.
It dawned on me.
I have never killed an innocent.
These men, these filth, they deserved their deaths. They had looked depravity in the eye and embraced it. Rivals of my own depraved owner. All competing with each other to be more corrupt, to be more perverted, to be more and more and more. But this man. This lone police officer that had the most rotten luck to come upon me. He was clean. His blood wasn't the black filth these heartless, souless men had. His was red. His was alive. His was humanity.
How could I spill such blood?
The click of his gun being cocked brought me out of my desperation and back into the present. I turned …
I saw his eyes.
His innocent, beautiful eyes.
The sheer intensity of his gaze knocked the wind from my lungs. He was extraordinary. His royal blue eyes fairly glowed at me. His hands wavered just a bit and the glare softened almost imperceptibly, but all these small details weren't lost on my trained eyes. He was magnificant. What did he see in me? Did I fill his fancy? Did he find me as amazing as I found him? No. No, he couldn't. Never. Never me. My soul is too tarnished to be beautiful to anyone but the men whose souls are just as black, or blacker than mine. No. He could never. He was too perfect.
I stepped towards him, arms raised so my hands were in clear view on either side of my chest.
Maybe. Maybe, just maybe… he saw me. Maybe he saw beyond the face and the clothes and the "beauty" to see me. Maybe I could impress him enough to let me go, to spare me the shedding of his innocent blood. His angelic blood. This angel….
"Looks like you've caught me…," I breathed.
It was easy to seduce. Or try to. It was like stepping into a second skin, a second mode of working – breathing, living.
"Are you going to… take… me… in?"
He seemed to visibly steel himself against me and tightened his grip on his gun. "You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will –"
I continued moving towards him. What had begun as a simple intimidation tactic was quickly moving out of my control. I was drawn to him. I couldn't stop myself if I tried. I needed to touch him, to smell and taste him. I needed him.
It was almost like he was proof that there were men out there that were out to get me. That there was good in this world. That all the men weren't like Mr. X lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood just a few feet behind us. That they weren't all like me, like deacon, like Mr. Singer. He proved to me that there was redemption and a glimmer of hope beyong the horizon.
I didn't realize I had gotten so close that his gun was now pressed against my chest. But this fact was soon forgotten. His eyes were boring into mine. So alive. So fierce. So righteous. So… frightened. My training stepped in once again.
"Are you going to shoot me?"
He clicked off the safety, eyes never leaving mine. "If I have to… and if you don't take three steps back."
There was a tremor of fear, almost like he was looking at death, or a monster, or the devil himself. I nodded at him and took a few steps back. Lightening quick, I jerked the gun away and aimed it at him. His glare merely hardened.
He was perfection.
The cold of his gun was seeping through my tight leather gloves and onto my skin. I didn't want to kill him. I couldn't kill him. My soul was making one last cry at salvation. He would be my salvation. He already had my heart.
Cursing myself inwardly, I kept the gun aimed at his head. He looked at me like he knew and accepted it. Like he knew he would die at my hands and allowed me to. I knew what I should do – what I HAD to do.
With a quick swipe, he was unconscious. I sank down to my knees and placed his gun in … a quick glance at his name tag told me he was Justin Caufield … Justin's holster. His short blond hair was jostled and his form fitting uniform muddied. Yet he was still beautiful. Still my innocent angel. I would protect him with my life if need be… and probably would after this little escapade.
I loved him.
I love him.
He had my heart without saying a word of love to me. He was merely innocent and his soul… his soul. I bent down until our lips were just centimeters apart. I couldn't do it. I couldn't touch him, defile him with my touch. I merely placed the simple, wooden rosary from my wrist onto his kevlar vest. I left and never looked back.
end part 1