Killing Sarai

40

Victor

When Niklas and I were just boys, before we were taken by the Order, he was my best friend. We fought a lot, hand-to-hand, always trying to size the other up, and although we both often came out with bloody noses and once a broken wrist, nothing could make us turn on the other.

We would walk off the battlefield, carrying on about what we thought our mother's would have waiting for us for dinner when we got home. And we'd wake up and attend school the next day with matching black eyes.

The ones I gave him were bigger, of course, but then Niklas would say the same about those he gave me.

After we were taken by the Order, things between us began to change. Vonnegut, although rarely ever making a face-to-face appearance-and that hasn't changed even today-said that I showed promise. But he said nothing about Niklas. And the first time I saw Niklas' face when Vonnegut promoted me-younger than any assassin he had ever promoted-to Full Operative when I was just seventeen-years-old, I saw something in Niklas that hardened me against him: a jealous heart.

I knew at that moment that one day I might be forced to kill him.

Niklas is the only family that I have left. And as much as I wish it didn't have to be this way, that I could be wrong about him and go back to the way things were, I know that's not entirely possible. The truth is, I have been watching my back where my brother is concerned since last year.

And our father is to blame for that.

I suppose I should've listened to him....

I meet Niklas at the front door. He walks in, calm and collective as always except when he's angry with me for having my own mind and choosing to do things the way I see fit.

I shut the door behind him.

"This is a much nicer place than the last one," he says, looking up at the scaling ceilings with his hands folded together behind his back.

I find myself privately studying his features, looking for traces of me and our father in him. We have the same eyes, though his are bluer than mine; mine tend to appear more green at times than blue. His face is rounder, mine slimmer. But I think what separates us the most are our accents. Our father and his mother were both German. I was born in France, my mother a French spy for the Order. My father moved us to Germany when I was two-years-old and I did not meet Niklas until I was six. I helped him learn to speak English and French, but he did not have the knack for linguistics that I had and so he never was able to fully lose the accent. But despite the differences we have, I still see only a younger version of me when I look at him. Especially right now as I try to grasp the fact that I'm going to kill him. I don't want to. I want to walk away from this and forget that it ever happened, but that's not an option.

He smiles at me.

We have the same smile, too. I remember our father telling me this.

"Yes," I say about the house, "I thought it was time I slept in something more upscale. I hoped I might get to stay here for a while."

"Has that changed?" he asks curiously, having reason to believe that judging by my tone.

"Unfortunately."

I gesture toward the living room. "Let's sit down," I say and he follows. "We have a lot to discuss."

He takes the chair next to the marble side-table.

I remain standing.

I sense that he wonders why I don't sit down as well, but the curiosity disappears from his eyes and is replaced with attention when I begin.