A Former Assassin's Existential Crisis

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

((Solo.))

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

Nell, one of my part-time employees in the Janus Street Bookstore, broke my train of non-thought. She heaved her rather corpulent form onto the counter, the thick layer of oak creaking under the sudden stress. She gazed at me with deep blue eyes, searching for an answer that I honestly couldn't give her.

"Hmm?"

"You've been in a funk for the past couple days, ma'am. What's wrong?"

Rather than turn to face Nell, I maintained my position of leaning on the counter, head propped up and cradled in my bony, pale hands. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just..."

"Are you lonely? Do you need someone to keep you company? I have a brother who is around your age--"

I shot her a sour look, which made the poor girl blush and turn her head away, hiding from me behind a thick mound of brunette curls. Nell's a good girl, but her brother is a creep. He also shares many of the same qualities--they're both klutzes, considerably overweight, have faces that were beaten with the entire ugly tree, a bit on the smelly side... I could go on and on.

...Bad teeth, only two brain cells to rub together... I better stop.

I racked my brain for a few seconds, searching for the words to say that wouldn't insult her. I decided to change the subject altogether. "Did the new release cart get shelved?"

Nell nodded, her second and third chins bulging with the movement. "Yes, ma'am. But seriously, I could set you up on a date--"

Turn my head to show her how serious I was, I cut her off with a tch. "Let me tell you something about myself, Nell. I've only been with one man my entire life, and that only last one night. It began with a drinking contest at a tavern; first ale, then shots of hard liquor. He was able to go toe to toe with me that night, so we both fell in a drunkard's love. We rented out a room and committed acts of such debauchery and depravity that only the sickest romance authors would dare put to print." With a hooked finger I brought down the top of my blouse just enough to show the tip of the thin scar that ran between my breasts. Nell's chubby, freckled face caved in on itself in disgust.

"I left him with several cuts on the palm of his hand. After that night, I haven't been able to sip a pint of dwarven ale without remembering the taste of his blood."

Nell waved a hand at me, motioning for me to stop with the storytelling. "It's okay, ma'am. I understand now."

"Besides," I continued, "I'm pretty certain I'm antisexual anyway."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Nell's question bothered me for the rest of the afternoon.

What is wrong with me? I couldn't understand it. I was away from the killing; all the senseless violence, the cloak and dagger work, the blood money, being someone's puppet in the theatre of darkness that held performances every night across the world. I threw all of that away when I opened my bookstore. I had hoped for a normal life; one of counting coppers, making friends, arguing with belligerent customers, killing Friday nights at the local tavern with a pint of bitter.

So what in the name of the Thayne was wrong?

I want to guess that part of the problem was that being an assassin was all I ever could've had in the first place. I was a fabulous Freebird: a sixth-generation assassin who knew all the tricks of the trade. It was honest work--well, perhaps honest isn't the best word to describe it. It was exciting work, to be sure, but like any other job, after a while you just get tired of it. Every throat just looks the same after a while. You get complacent and leave some details out--a drained corpse left out in the open here, a witness spared there, some loose ends left undone.

That's what happened recently, actually. One of my last targets, this Fallien fellow, apparently had some friends in lofty places I wasn't aware of. I was forced to run the gauntlet of goons in an eerily empty district of Radasanth. Killed one by caving his face in, hung another, then collapsed onto the business end of a spear brandished by a third. Luckily for me, it was a fiasco that went down within the magical confines of the Citadel... for the sick amusement of my mysterious tormentor. But it's been weeks--and I haven't been confronted by any sand devils since.

But strangely enough, as much as I told myself I didn't, I enjoyed the ordeal. But on the other hand, I didn't. It was a stark reminder of the crushingly dark life I left behind three years ago. But the satisfying crunch of a man's cartilage going into his brain... The symphony of gasping screams coming from the throat of another thug as my wire tightens around it... It sings to me.

No. No way. I've worked too hard to get this shop running in the black. I will not throw it all away for returning to the shadows.

But... Just one contracted kill every so often couldn't hurt... right?

I excused myself from the store and retreated upstairs to my apartment. I spent the rest of the afternoon in my private library, lounging in my crimson leather chair like a ragdoll, staring in the general direction of my damascus daggers as they hung on the wall covered in a thick layer of dust. The shiny metal had dulled with time. I could vaguely make out my reflection as the sunlight poured in through the windows on the wall behind me.

My head pounded as I went to bed that night. I tossed and turned in the oppressive summer heat; the minutes dragged on like hours as I laid under the thin cotton sheets. It had to have been around two o' clock when I finally nodded off. Shortly after that my door exploded inwards. I bolted upright, covering myself with my sheets to get a look at the intruder. the moonlight streaming in the window shone dully on a being that only resembled a human, but was pitch-black and had glowing embers for eyes.

With a voice like the grind of heavy Aleraran machinery, it spoke. "The Writer would like to have words with you, Madison Freebird."

Before I could even scream, the creature bolted towards me. I felt its ice cold claws grasped me, and then... well... It's kind of hard to explain. Have you ever had the very fabric of your being torn apart molecule by molecule? That's what happened. Because what I went through that instant sure as shit wasn't teleportation.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

My first thought when my senses returned was, gods, that music is awful. It was this appalling amalgamation of basic percussion, minimal notes held for long periods of time to fill us space, and these grating notes that sounded... I don't know. Processed. And the vocalist--I couldn't decide if she was singing or talking. It might have been both.

A deep, grinding voice filled the room. "She stirs, Writer."

Another man spoke, his words far more appealing on the ear. "Thanks, Mike. You can go now. Hey--grab something out of the fridge if you want. I picked up some root beer yesterday."

As I regained my senses, an overwhelming wave of pain and nausea passed through me. I began to wretch violently, my insides twisting and knotting up in ways that shouldn't have been possible. The remnants of my dinner started to climb back up. The other man seemed to know where this was about to go. "The bathroom is right in front of you. Please don't miss, I just cleaned the floor last month." I bolted forward and threw myself against the porcelain bowl, then promptly threw up. After a minute or so of me hunched over the toilet, the man nonchalantly called out again. "I have an unopened toothbrush in the cabinet over the sink. The tube marked 'Crest' is toothpaste. Go ahead and brush your teeth; I'd rather not smell your barf-breath when we chat." Lost and clueless, and still hurting all over, I did as he told. As I brushed, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. My skin was as pale as ever. I looked very tired at that moment. My half-open eyes still had that faded blue color that unnerved many a bar patron looking for a quick lay or a fight. My short-cut, pitch-black hair was an absolute wreck, with my bangs hanging all over the place. My facial features could still be best described as "crow-like". Yep; I'm still in one piece.

I spit out the toothpaste and threw the brush away in the blue basket next to the sink. Still feeling dizzy, I slowly turned and went back into the main room. A tan couch sat directly in front of me, encouraging me to relax on it. I threw myself down on it and sank into its thin yet comfortable cushions. I tilted my head back just a little bit and casually surveyed my surroundings. Wood paneling lined the walls about the third of the way up from the floor, giving way to a light cream color that suffocated the rest wall space as well as the ceiling. The only decoration that broke up the monotony was a simple clock that read 5:10. Across from me, and next to the bathroom, sat a bookshelf that contained dozens of small cardboard boxes, which had odd names like Monopoly, Ticket to Ride, POG, and Dread Pirate. Perched atop the bookshelf was a bamboo plant, its leaves beginning to curl and brown in thirst.

In the far corner of the room, a few feet away from the bathroom, sat a man hunched over a desk. He was typing away at what appeared to be a very thin and sleek typewriter with a screen attached; a faint click filled the room with each letter pressed. The contraption also seemed to be the source of the horrible music as well. At his back stood the dark thing. He nursed a slender brown bottle, his burning, crimson eyes staring a hole through my forehead, peering into my very soul.

The man swung around in his black leather chair. He couldn't have a year or two younger than me. He had a round, boyish face with a nose a little too big to be considered attractive. An ugly soul patch sat underneath his smirk. The man's brown eyes beamed at me from behind a pair of black-framed glasses. His hair, the same color as his wooden desk, was just a touch too long for its own good. Emblazoned on his black hooded sweatshirt was a yellow rat with a lightning bolt for a tail.

We sat in silence for a moment; him with his stupid grin, me with a look of caution, and the thing ready to pounce if given the word.

The man was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. "Er, hi, Madison. I am the Writer. To, uh, to be specific: I am your Writer."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

That word, wielded like a title, hung in the air for several seconds.

"...Writer?" I hesitantly asked. He nodded in response.

"Writer... As in... My writer... Like a biography or something?"

"No," he replied with a sickening cheerfulness. "I'm am your Writer insomuch as... Uh... How to explain..." His smirk melted into a small frown. I could basically hear the gears grinding as he thought of a different way to put things. "You're familiar with the creation myths, right?"

I couldn't see where he was getting at. "Yeah, I've heard a few."

The Writer waved a hand through the air, chuckling. "Of course you have, who am I kidding. Well, let me put it to you like this. Take your favorite one. And now, picture me as the god or thing that created the world. But instead of the world, I merely created you. Are you following me? You, uh, look pretty lost."

I wasn't lost; I just wasn't buying whatever this loser was saying. He created me? No. Impossible. This guy, this "Writer"; he is nothing more than a delusional man with dreams of omnipotence. I've dealt with his type before. Even slid a dagger in between the ribs of a couple of them. My eyes darted from the man, to the thing, then back again. I instinctively slid my right hand around to my backside, grasping for the hilt of my damascus daggers.

"Ah ah ah," he smirked again. "We both know you never wear your weapons to bed. Hell, they haven't left their spot on the wall in your private library in three years. Even when you were in, uh, active duty, you never had them strapped on when you fell asleep. That's not how I wrote you. Then again, it'd be a strange habit for any writer to write his character wearing their weapons to bed, wouldn't it?" He laughed at his little joke; this queer, fake-sounding laugh. But he was right: I haven't touched my blades in three years--

"--Except for that time in the Citadel against the gauntlet set against you by Al-Azeef Orin El-Alhazred."

The man interrupted my thoughts and finished my sentence for me. A small pang of dread crept up my spine. My body tensed up; my fists clenching up as he continued to recall my past life as an assassin piece by accurate piece. "You obviously remember when you were kicked out of your family when you were 20. That was a set-up, of course. I had to start your story somehow; figured betrayal was the best place. I had you messing around in some assassination missions for a bit--I'm sure you remember Lorenor. Then Christopher Knighton--although he goes by the name Elijah Belov now, for whatever reason--battled you in the Citadel atop a stone slab lined with metal strips. During the middle of a thunderstorm, no less. Then you went to Salvar during their civil war, where you met up with Chris again and got wrangled in with his old Cipher Nex crew."

All these violent memories flooded my mind as the Writer continued to recall my past with ease. I shut my eyes tight and bit my lip, bracing myself against the details of my past.

"Then there was also the fight with the cat girl in the haunted carnival--that was a fun little writing exercise. Sure, you died, and I'm sorry I was written into a corner like that; I can only imagine how that felt. Oh, and speaking of the haunted carnival--"

No.

"There was that stint you served on the Dajas Pagoda, where I wrote you to choose that setting as your battle arena. Boy, did we have fun with that... But of course..."

Don't go there.

"We couldn't have done it without fighting..."

Don't you dare say his name!

"...Joshua Cronen."

The bones in my hands cracked and my knuckles turned white. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands, and I bit through the edge of my lower lip at the mention of that bastard's name. Joshua Cronen. Several years ago, I was driven by my hatred for that man, and the utter humiliation I suffered at his hands. It was the thought of having to team up with him that made me crack and leave Cipher Nex for the stifling confines of a normal life. His unnatural strength, disgustingly good looks, his condescendingly kind demeanor, his ability to have a smart response for every situation...

"And of course, we wouldn't have beaten Cronen's writer if it wasn't for the dick bite. Which, of course, I am sorry for--"

That was the one thing that I clearly remembered from my time at the Dajas Pagoda; and it was also the one thing I was hoping the Writer wouldn't have brought up. I had begun to accept the idea that this man was what he said he was; a Writer, my creator. Meeting the very thing that brought you to life a harrowing experience. But I don't care who you are--you do not bring up that fight and what happened during it. In a flash of blind rage, I leaped off the couch and cocked back my arm, preparing to slug the brunette across face. Before the Writer could bring up his arms to defend himself, the thing was between us. The bottle still clenched tightly in one hand, he intercepted my blow with the other, then pushed me back with such force that it brought the couch up off the carpeted floor and slammed it against the wall. It took a step towards me, but the Writer stood up and laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He spoke to the thing, more of a command than a plea, "Please; my security deposit. Think of that next time before you go to defend me."

The Writer took a few steps towards me, his dark blue denim jeans rustling lightly with each step. He sat down on the floor, addressing me as I lay sprawled on his couch. "Questionable tactics aside, that battle did win me--us--it won us the Battle of the Year and Rivalry of the Year in 2008. Both Cronen's Writer and myself were pretty proud of that." He sighed, and every trace of his previous mirth melted from his face. "That being said, lately I have become bored writing for you. Extremely bored. And when I get bored with things, I tend to... well, let's just say it wouldn't bode well for your future."

And suddenly, my world felt that much smaller.

"Maddy, we need to talk."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

My head was spinning. Those were words that nobody wanted to hear during a normal relationship; and here was this guy, who seemingly knew every sordid detail of my past, giving me the dreaded line. We need to talk.

The Writer locked eyes with me. Motioning with his thumb to the thing that stood over his shoulder, he said, "The reason I had Mikey bring you into my apartment today was so we could try and figure out what to do with you, Madison."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Wait, we need to figure out what to do with me?" I snorted. It wasn't quite laugh, but it wasn't a scoff either. I couldn't believe what I just heard. I leaned forward on the couch, my right shoulder stinging ever so slightly from where it hit the back when the thing launched me clear across the room. "You're the Writer here! You figure out what to do with me! I'm entirely at your command; shall I go out and kill some more? Shall I establish a permanent residence at the Citadel? Should I just toil away for all eternity in that gods-damned bookstore some more?"

The thing narrowed its burning crimson gaze at me, taking a step forward. "It seems your guest isn't very appreciative of her current circumstances, Writer."

The Writer turned his head and motioned for the hulking black humanoid to stop. "Mikey, please; I can handle this. Go get another root beer." There was a tense moment where none of us moved a muscle, until Mikey set his empty glass bottle down on the nearby desk and slid off into the kitchen without a sound. He shouted after the thing, "And can you get one for Maddy too? Thanks." The Writer returned his attention to me. "Alright, look. I'm going to level with you; I never really had any big plans for your storyline. In all truth, you were actually more of a support character than anything else. I whipped you out when I needed someone to play second fiddle, so to speak. Fight, kill, and be miserable; that's all I ever had you do."

"Gee, thanks."

He winced slightly, shifting around on the carpet below. "But now I need to write. And my other creations? Well, they're pretty much useless now. I got bored with them too." That got me thinking: How many other "characters" has this Writer created? How many poor souls on Althanas were left to rot simply because this nerdy little man before me simply said "fuck it"? Did I know any of them?

"You do, actually," the Writer said, reading my mind. "But I don't think you should know who."

I had an idea who; I had to dig deep and look at who I was as a person. A quick recap: I am a miserable ball of hate. I can be extremely violent when provoked, but I can no longer stand actually killing someone. I enjoy alchemy, a good book, and the occasional theatrical production. I hate my family for their betrayal. I dislike being touched in any manner. I cannot stand human companionship. I love to drink.

Those last two pieces swirled around in my mind for a bit. Then something clicked. My hand lightly traced the scar in between my breasts, and my eyes searched the Writer's face for an answer.

"...Elijah? Elijah Morendale?"

The Writer nodded solemnly as the thing re-entered the living room, two brown bottles in hand. Had it not been for his presence, I would've throttled the guy right then and there.

Instead, I settled on saying, "You're an asshole." I could feel the venom dripping from the words as they hung in the air. "Wait, let me guess. I've got this nasty scar on my chest because you got bored and decided to play your 'creations' off one-another? Was this for another one of your stupid 'contests'? Did you win that one, Writer?"

He blushed lightly, averted his gaze downward, and began picking at the threads of the carpet. "No. I came in third for that one."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

We sat in silence for several minutes. The Writer fidgeted uncomfortably as he sat on the carpet. The thing stood close-by, his red eyes on me, just itching for me to make one wrong move. I sat with my eyes clenched shut and fists balled, recalling every single thing of note that happened during my life, and coming to terms with how my actions, rewards, and hard lessons learned were all because of the whims of this man... This shaggy-haired, over-sized hoodie-wearing, fake-laughing Writer. Killing Teric Barton in the Citadel, my Warriorship at the Dajas Pagoda, the founding of the Janus Street Bookstore, my violent departure from the Freebird assassin family, and the emotionally destructive actions that led me to quick Cipher Nex... All at the hands of this man.

I regressed into a state of emotional blankness. To be honest, I wouldn't have been able to feel anything; I should've been angry at this revelation: That my all of my accomplishments in life weren't earned, but given to me on a whim. But every time I got to thinking about it, something in the back of my mind clicked on and told me that I was only reacting like this because this was how I was written. Then I would shut down again. By the gods, I needed a drink. Anything with a heavy enough alcohol content where I could quickly black out and forget the last couple of hours.

This time, it was the gear-grinding voice of the thing that broke the silence as he stepped forward to offer me one of the bottles of root beer. "It seems that Ms. Freebird is handling this situation a little better than you expected, Writer."

I leaned forward, taking the bottle out of its hand. I shot the Writer a sour look. "That's the way I was written."

He slouched even further. "Look, I'm sorry. I really didn't want to bring you out of Althanas. I really wanted to just keep writing for you; but I was stuck. I had no other choice!" There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

I took a drag from the bottle. A little too much vanilla in the mixture; but the root beer wasn't all that bad. "Well," I said after taking another sip, "Why can't you simply continue writing? Plenty of interesting things go on at the bookstore. The part-timers absolutely love messing things up so bad that I have no choice but to scold them and dock their pay. There's some mighty fine adventures to be told there!"

The Writer looked up, anger flashing in his eyes. "The bookstore angle was simply a stop-gap while I tried to think of something else to do with you."

"Like what," I asked.

He shook his head in frustration. "Alchemy. Exploration. Hunting for rare books. I even considered having you start a small-time poker ring in your back room to help pay for your business expenses." Now that he mentioned it, I had thought about running a couple games in the back after I closed up shop at one point. That sounded kind of cool, actually.

"It sounds like you had a pretty decent plan for me, Writer."

"Yes, but, none of it was working out. I'd begin setting you on a new path, but then..."

"You got bored."

"I got bored," he echoed. He fell silent for a couple seconds, seemingly searching for the words to say. "I got to thinking the other day. I really want to write for you. I enjoy writing for you. I'm just not sure what to write. All of the angles I had worked out weren't so great after all. So, Madison, I ask you..." He slowly looked up, locking his eyes with mine. "...what do you want to do with your life?"