{emotio (adjective) – a state of showing no emotion; unemotional}
y/n's pov:
My fingers reached for the locket around my neck, fiddling with the chain to stay preoccupied.
Because I wasn't nervous – I was ecstatic.
This was when I knew I was exceptional; the field I thrived in most, where few could overpower or defeat my position. I was in control – and I lived for this moment.
I would look into their eyes, watching as they became aware of the fact that my face would be the last thing they would ever see.
My unresponsive, cold and distant eyes would bore into them, and when I knew they had taken their last breath, I could take comfort from the fact my presence would be forever their final thought.
Who doesn't like to be remembered?
I placed one foot in front of the other, storming over to the hollowed-out cave that gave solace to roughly 20 people.
20 means nothing – it's no different to 1, or even 100.
Nothing matters anymore.
I knew the others were no longer behind me – I would hear them instantly. So, they held back, frightened of viewing something that could imprint itself in their brains for the rest of their lives.
Who knows when I'm going to die, I just know it won't be today, so who gives a fuck?
The anger that fizzled in my chest did not cease, further pushing the rage to all corners of my mind, blocking out any rational thinking that could have strayed nearby.
Nothing matters anymore.
I swiftly removed the bows from my quiver, using my final step to reach the opening. I placed my fingers over the tab, outstretching my arm all the way, and lined up the shot.
I knew exactly what to wait for, the thing that told me when I should fire, and at where.
It was a personal favourite of mine, the tactic.
And it played right into my hand as I heard the first scream; the first explosion. It wasn't even an explosion really, merely a manoeuvre we used to evacuate large gatherings.
The damage is small and limited – you'd have to be rather unlucky to be badly injured, but it can happen. Most of the time they cause miniature gashes in the sides of limbs, maybe a chemical burn here and there.
Nothing too serious.
But the next stage was the most exciting part; closer targets.
The screams continued, many merging together to create a long stream of what only could be described as high-pitched wails of torture. An unpleasant experience encapsulated by absolutely no words, just sound.
And finally, just like always, they began piling out of the cave. It was like herding sheep – if you even believe that morally we could compare a human life to livestock, that is.
I raised the bow higher, picking my initial target.
Taking out the largest of the group was always the way to go in my opinion; I liked a challenge, not often a death wish.
Of course, the first shot increases the terror exponentially. People quickly catch onto the fact that the armed man beside them has an arrow sticking out of his eye, as they watch in crippling horror as blood oozes its way down his face, surfacing at the rim of his mouth and pouring from his nose.
