Misunderstood Orders

Mr. Steel sat in his home office late at night reading a book. Several candles lit the room, making up for the empty fireplace long burned out. The window was left halfway open, letting the sound and smell of rainfall fill the air.

He took a drink from his glass of whisky as he continued reading about the modern problems facing astronomers in Singapore.

He heard the curtains shuffle more than he would have expected from the wind. Although well into retirement, his training from thirty three years as an assassin never stopped, and now went into overdrive.

By all outward appearances he continued reading, however the scientists at the NUS would have to wait. Mr. Steel carefully listened to the drum of rain while watching the shadows from the candlelight dance across the floor. He focused with his peripherals, keen to detect any subtle changes in the room.

Keeping his head down, he picked up his glass of whisky, almost empty but still filled enough to have a reflection. As he raised the glass to his mouth, he looked in the reflection to get a clear view of the room, just barely catching a flash of movement coming from behind him.

He spun out of his chair and ducked under the wide arch of a sword, slicing only inches above his head. Too late, however, did he react to a second swing from another sword. He fell backwards as it raced toward him from above.

Out of sheer luck the mahogany chair he was sitting in fell as he spun out and caught the full force of the blade, giving him just enough time to roll to the side and jump to his feet.

Mr. Steel faced his attacker directly, noting his disadvantages. Dressed in complete black and with a thin frame, his opponent was built to move quickly, quietly, and blend in with any amount of shadow. This room, however, was filled with the light from his candles.

As if they knew what he was thinking, the assailant danced around the room slicing the candles in half, bringing more and more shadows to hide in with every step.

Mr. Steel knew he had two choices. He could fight or he could run. Based on the attack thus far, with the speed and agility his attacker had shown, he knew that his old bones had little chance of overwhelming them in a footrace. He knew he had to fight, and he also knew he would only get one chance.

Mr. Steel calmed his breathing and waited.

As the last candle went out and the room went dark, lightning flashed followed by a crash of thunder. In that moment of distraction he made his move. He dove for the fire poker hanging next to the embers from the burned out fire.

Just before he wrapped his hand around the handle he felt a sharp kick against his side, breaking at least two ribs and making him fall short.

His attacker stood over him, a leg on either side of his body. Quicker than the flash of lightning, they raised their swords and swung them down, clearly aiming directly for his face.

Breathing heavy while lying flat on his back, he would have been killed in that instant, had the blade not stopped millimeters away from the tip of his nose.

Mr. Steel looked up to see his assailant remove the ski mask covering their face. Recognition came to him immediately.

Bright blue eyes. Shaggy blonde hair. And a deep scar stretching from her left eyebrow to her jaw: it was definitely her. Rachel Myers. The kid of that evil man he killed all those years ago.

“Rachel,” he said.

“Mr. Steel,” she said. “After all this time I thought you’d be harder to fight”

“I’m retired,” Mr. Steel said. “You were only twelve when I took you to that orphanage. How you’ve grown.”

“Yeah I’ve grown,” she said. “Grown up enough now to avenge my father.” Rachel swung her swords up quickly.

“I had orders, Rachel,” Mr. Steel said, trying to get through to her humanity. “I had orders to take out your father and to take care of you. I couldn’t replace your father and care for you myself but I had hope that the orphanage would raise you well.”

“Raise me?” she said with spite in her voice. “That orphanage broke me. It broke me again and again until I was nothing but a shell. I raised me. I became what you made me become by taking my father from me.”

Rachel held one of her swords so that the tip of the blade hovered just over his nose. He tried to swipe the sword away from his face, and immediately regretted it. Right as his hand came up off the ground, Rachel anticipated the movement and stabbed with the other sword, pinning it to the floorboard.

Mr. Steel choked back a scream.

“Look what you made me become,” Rachel said, a cold fire burning in her eyes.

“Please, Rachel,” Mr. Steel said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” Rachel raised both swords high in the air and with amazing speed and strength, brought them down on Mr. Steel.

Rachel stood up and looked at the crumbled figure of the man who had ruined her life ten years prior. She turned to walk out of the room. “You should have taken care of me when you had the chance.”