The Assassin's Charge

Chapter 1

This time, in the dream, she was walking up the spiral staircase, beckoning to me.
She's actually sleeping right now. I should stop watching her like I am now; I will know if someone is in the vicinity. I look around the room once more. It's a decent room, by their standards anyway. She has painted all of the walls white, except one, which is a deep purple.
"I wonder why she chose that color," I think to myself, ironically at that, because I know full well why she chose it, even if she doesn't know the actual reason. It's not her favorite color anymore, though. Now, it's turquoise.

I've been staring at her for longer than I intended to.
"Only one check-up per night," I remind myself. I sigh, and I am gone. There is a hiss slightly towards my left, and I realize that I've startled a stray cat in the alley beside her home.
"She's different now," I murmur to myself for what must the second time this hour, as I try to calm the mottled grey feline that is now in front of me and starting to back away.

One way that I know that she is different is that, when I say, "She's painted her walls," I actually mean that. She would have gotten someone else to do it before, as she couldn't have been bothered to do it herself. And, her favorite color is different; that's what she thinks, anyway.
She also listens to different music now. She would have only endured live performances of the greatest classical musicians; now, she listens to a type of music with a heavy base, screeching guitars, and voices that should not be able to shout that loud, for that long.
Her hair is also different. It's the same color -- a rich, chocolatey-brown -- but it's much shorter now. It practically used to trip her up when she climbed the stairs; now, it reaches to just below her shoulder blades.

All of these things are quite superficial, though. The greatest change that I've noticed has been to her personality. I could listen to her talk with her friends for hours; to that snarky wit, dry humor, and, to be frank, that excessive use of sarcasm. It is a style of note. She is so different now; and I -
There is a crackle of plastic as a homeless woman peeks into the Dumpster that I am standing beside, and moves the black bags that are suffocating the beautiful environment around us, seeking a better angle on what she probably hopes will be her breakfast. I have been standing here for far too long, staring after the mangy animal that sped away soon after I startled it.

The sun is starting to rise - later than usual, now that the seasons are making their lethargic shift towards autumn. I sense her slowly remove herself from her cocoon of dreams and warmth, and plod lazily in the general direction of the bathroom, after downing her daily glass of water in what I can assume was one gulp. The shower begins its soft drone as it's woken from its slumber and forced to supply the scalding hot water that she demands day after day. I could recite her morning routine verbatim -- she hasn't changed it since elementary school: wake up, drain the mandatory glass of water, shower, dress, brush teeth and apply a swift layer of kohl and mascara, consume a small bowl of oats with one or both of her parents in the kitchen, and off to school. She usually plays music that I refuse to admit to anyone that I like while she dresses for the day. Today is no different.

The only distinction in the otherwise normal morning is the fact that her biennial exams begin within the next week or two, so she seems more hesitant than usual to face the school day.
The music is my cue - not that she realizes - to scout out her area. The entire block needs to be checked; a walk around the perimeter remedies that issue. But, before I can set off to make sure nobody or nothing has made its way onto her property and those surrounding it, there is the sharp melody that she has set as the ringtone of her cellphone, causing my spine to stiffen.

"Hello?" Her voice, usually a rich, full sound that conveys a slight tinge in her accent that causes slightly more rounded 'oh' sounds than those in the surrounding area, is vaguely hoarse from sleep, with an irritated edge to it that displays her previously violent temper.
"Oh, hey Soph... What? It's this week?" A hiss from the tiny speaker as her closest friend - this time - responds.
"I haven't even started painting yet! How long do we have?"

Her friend replies swiftly.
"I swear, this art practical will be the death of me. Be sure to write something that sounds cool on my tombstone. What do you mean, 'Like what'? Write something like, 'Our beloved Stacie. An amazing person, until the end, when she was tragically killed while saving four orphans and a puppy from a burning building while riding Smaug.' That would be awesome."

An almost silent chuckle breaks free from my throat as the speaker hisses to announce the laughter of Sophia, before she says something else.
"Oh, I don't know. I should start tonight, shouldn't I?" She sighs, before saying goodbye, and hanging up.
I've seen her in these 'art practicals'. They seem to be some form of torture that her school has dreamed up and placed right in the middle of the exam period. The students have to sit in a classroom, and have six straight hours to complete some sort of inane assignment that their teacher has decided is worth about a quarter of their Art grade. I've heard her complaining about it to friends that don't attend her school.

I wait for a bit longer in case anything else happens. But she's just carrying on with her routine, so I decide to go on with my check-up of her land.

There is a package on her doorstep, but, after inspection, I find that there is nothing of note inside it. As I finish my rounds of the yard, she clomps down the stairs in those thick boots of hers. A glance through the window reveals that it is safe for me to leave and conduct the daily sweep of the school before she arrives.
I release a sad sigh as I lay eyes on her. She's as beautiful as the day we met. She doesn't know anymore, but she would seldom have a smile on her face, as she reserved it for important guests and getting what she wanted; the scowl that was ever-present would make it hard to look at her, and I would use that as my excuse. But that wasn't fooling anybody; she was plain repulsive in terms of personality back then, with her good looks used like a mask, as an alluring blossom is sometimes used by a carnivorous plant to lure unsuspecting victims into its clutches.
But, nowadays, a smile is usually her default expression. However, I have seen her get incredibly serious at some times, and fly into a rage at others. I sigh quietly to the now-empty alley - the woman has moved on with a half-finished burger grasped triumphantly in her too-thin fingers - at the memory.

She's fine - physically - so I reappear in her school and conduct my search. It appears to be turning into one of those boring weeks that I cherish so much. Oh, well; I'll survive. I always have.

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Please leave a comment if you want to see more! I might not be able to post very quickly at the moment (there's a lot on my plate) and I know that this first chapter was kind of short and insubstantial (so sorry about this!), but I really hope that it introduced the story well enough, and provided enough mystery that everyone who reads it wants to see another chapter.

Lots of love,

_PreciousJem_