The Seven

Chapter 5 - A002

The first time A002 killed someone, she threw up.

She stood there, her hands covered in the thick sap of blood, her shirt coated in the remnants of her stomach. Clumps of hair stuck to her fingers, sweat dripped down her forehead, and, for some reason, every muscle in her body hurt. She couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't look away from the dull, hollow eyes that stared back at her—eyes that, just seconds ago, were so full of life and emotion.

Then she heard—so quietly she almost missed it—a little chuckle of approval. Her gaze tore away from the corpse before her and wandered up. There, the most beautiful woman in the world stood before her in all her glory: The Mistress. Her usual thin-drawn lips were turned into a small smile, a single perfectly drawn eyebrow raised. "Good," was all she said and it was the only time A002 had heard her say it since. For the past twelve years, five hundred seventy-two missions, three hundred and fifty-eight deaths, A002 had been chasing that approval any way she could. But it didn't matter what she did, who she killed, or how many tasks she completed, the Mistress was indifferent every time. Quickly she had realized the only times she ever came close to a tug of a smile or the shadow of acceptance was when she was dripping in someone else's blood, her eyes full of horror from what she had just done.

So she learned to embrace it; embrace the pain, embrace the fear, embrace whatever stood in her way and rip it to shreds. And soon, she began to see her actions as an art. She found hidden beauty in the precision of each strike, the fluidity behind every movement like a battle between dancers who fought for the gift of life.

Sometimes, far in the night, she would lay in the grass and breathe in the cool air and think. She would let her mind wander through her memories, shifting through each one like the pages of a book. Chapter after chapter full of her gory actions, blood-stained and torn.

She remembered every face of every person she ever killed. She remembered what their hair smelled like and how their blood felt on her fingers. She remembered their voices and how each of them screamed. They accompanied her dreams, talking to her, whispering stories of lives she had never had the chance to know.

She remembered how each of them died.

There was Dagnel, a 45-year-old Terrian arborist who loved to paint. His hair smelled of pine and his voice was unnaturally deep with a thick drawl. He would tell her stories of his family, more specifically his nine-year-old daughter Olivia. He would complain about how she would always bug him to get her a horse for her birthday. Which used to always make A002 laugh because Dag never had a daughter and he hated the idea of ever having one.

He died from an axe to the naval, his intestines spilling out of his stomach and displaying on his lap.

Or Taran, a twenty-three-year-old Skyrian book keeper who's eyes were the bluest A002 had ever seen. She had a delicate voice, soft skin, and blonde hair the color of hay. Taran's legs did not work and she always had to be carried everywhere, but in A002's dreams she would run through meadows covered in bright flowers, swim in the clearest rivers, and climb the tallest trees she could find.

She had suffocated, choking on the pages of the books she had so dearly loved.

And now there was Atticus Havenash, the twenty-five-year-old unemployed alcoholic Scorcher who reeked of second-hand smoke and body odor.

She looked down at him, the blade pressed harshly to his throat, and watched the thin red stream of blood trickle slowly down his neck before creating a pool in the small space between his collarbone and shoulder. His daring hazel eyes stared back at her, wide and watching; his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. His bare broad chest was moving rapidly, his breath short, his heart beating fast underneath her other hand. She felt the pressure of his fingers tighten under the folds of her black dress, his ashy hands warm against the dark scales of her upper thighs. She felt a shiver of excitement crawl up her spine as she thought of how easily he could burn his fingers into her flesh, a simple steel blade the only thing restraining him from doing so.