Shadow Of The Prey

Prologue.

The rhythmic beat of my heart overtakes my thoughts, my focus scrambled as I bounce to every miniscule thought that lingers in the back of my mind. The vibrancy of each pulse, reverberating through my body—how every heavy beat seems to weigh down my shoulders, and how it quickens within the seconds it catches my attention.
My fingertips growing colder each millisecond, I want to focus on what's before me, yet the awareness I have towards my pounding heart causes the moment to slow—seeming to never end.

Bullets tear through the air—scintillating sparks bursting around me—ricocheting off the elevator walls. The sharp-burnt odour of gun powder with its distinctive metallic acidic scent, envelops me as the doors slowly close. My eyes focus on the scattered targets, automatically locking my sights on each one as I fire my weapon with my left hand.

A two second pause from the oncoming bullets that rain towards me, my right hand quickly takes hold of the grenade clipped onto my waist. Before the enemy gunfire heavily begins again, the pin is pulled and thrown to their direction. A second before the grenade hits the ground, my hand quickly finds itself attached to the grip of the machine gun that dangles from my harness.

The recoil of the guns, the vibrations bolting through my hands almost instantly rippling into my shoulders—all of my senses heighten as the physical sensation of realization hits me.
The profound beating of my heart, throbs through my whole body—down to the tips of my fingers and toes. The wave of emotions that cause a tightness in my chest, makes my head chillingly numb as if my head was dunked into a bucket of ice.

This emotion, unknown and strange to me—the first time in my life I've ever felt this.

I'm afraid.

The elevator doors finally shut after what felt like eternity, and I can only freeze in my position—my fingers hovering above the triggers of the guns in my tight grasp. The rumbling of the grenade going off, rattles the doors—the explosion doesn't even faze me, the lights flickering for a moment as if signaling that the chaos is at a halt for now.

Realization dawns on me—this isn't the first time my heart beat so loudly as if it would explode. The very first time I felt this way, the other times my chest beat rapidly in agony—was in those moments.
The moments that made the mask I securely wore to crumble. The moment I abandoned the immoral commands that's been engraved and etched into my bones, and disregarding the ideologies of that girl—Elise Barrington.

My hands tremble uncontrollably, my grip on the guns tighten—hoping the weight and ridges of the handle will ground me back from this feeling of fear.
A breath finally escapes my lungs as I focus on the elevator that begins to smoothly move to a different floor—taking me away from the chaos that exists outside of its doors. The weight of how exhausted my arms feel, finally hits me. My arms limply drop to my sides, my muscles agonizingly burning.

The thought of being weak never came to mind. Throughout my training, battling against men twice my size, and even the cruelest torture—I was never weak.
Except now, the bitter taste of reality to what I've become, mockingly dances on my tongue like the slow burn of bleach. There was never a time I lost sight of my purpose. My mind was intricately programmed to follow the agency's words. I never questioned the things I did—never even questioning the lives I took.

Just when did I begin to lose control?
When did the chains that restrained my morals and conscience, begin to rust and crumble into pieces? When have I ever questioned my own decisions like this?

Taking a deep breath in the silence of the elevator, I rest my hands on my thighs. My torso slumps over in exhaustion from the overwhelming realization—my thoughts have gone awry, my mind no longer in control as memories surface to confuse me further. Closing my weary eyes—irritated from the gun powder that lingers—I begin to sort through the thoughts, trying to pinpoint when control began to slip from my fingers.