"When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."
Douglas Campbell

>>>>>>>

Angela glared at the figure on the television screen until she memorized every inch of 'king' Bradley's too-pretty face. His teeth obviously had been whitened to the point of glaringly bright, his face doctored until he looked every bit the young king ready to take the throne. He was, according to records, forty-six. His blond hair was perfectly manicured in curls across his head, and he wore a suit that looked to be worth more than its weight in gold.

She hated him already. And that was before his speech that proclaimed he would be getting rid of the assassins that had basically run the country since Angela could remember, and he was starting here - in her city, New Providence. That had been a week ago.

Crowds had gathered for another of his speeches today, one where he would be answering questions on his radical new program and generally making himself look good in the public's opinion. He had also announced a 'surprise event,' which made the assassin even more nervous; it wouldn't be good.

Angela couldn't decide yet whether he deserved to die today. Certainly, he should die, but it was only a matter of time. Although, there were bound to be dozens of other assassins after him, and she wouldn't let the others take all the glory. After all, she had a reputation to keep up.

Gun safely slung in a bag across her back, Angela turned off the television as she closed the door to her apartment. The session would start soon, but Bradley liked the sound of his own voice. It would be long before it was over.

She didn't mind being late to the party. Her destination was simple enough - the roof of an abandoned apartment building two blocks away from the central square. From there, she would have a clear view of the event through her scope. It was the best spot for an assassination like this, without a spot for a counter sniper if you were on the right side. The wind was finicky up high, but Angela didn't mind waiting for it to die down.

Throwing caution to the polluted breeze, Angela stepped onto the sidewalk and followed the flow of the crowd until she was where she needed to be. Angela slipped into an alleyway and climbed in through a broken window into the lobby. This place hadn't been used since - well, forever. A long time ago, it must've been beautiful. Arching windows lined the now boarded up entrance doors, reaching all the way up to the ridiculously high ceiling. The pillars lining the rotting carpet were crumbling but still enough to keep the building upright. People somewhere between dead and alive littered the floor in various stages of drug-induced peace.

Angela paid them no attention and made her way to the staircase, which was in surprisingly good condition. She climbed with ease until the top and came out on the roof, admiring the fact that spring was truly here. It was a gorgeous day, but storm clouds were in the distance. It would rain tonight.

Without bothering to see if anyone else was here, Angela set up where she would be almost invisible to the other buildings. She had to sacrifice her view of the doorway, but Angela wasn't too keen on getting shot today. It was impossible to not run her fingers along the cool, smooth metal of the barrel before setting it on the ledge. Angela attached the scope with practiced ease, and laid down on the concrete, peering through it at the city below.

King Bradley looked even more disgusting in real life than on camera. Usually, whenever she was on an assignment, her anger dissipated - but she simply hated the king too much. Her fingers itched to pull the trigger, but she would have to wait until he started his grand speech. She had made good time on the way here and still had a few minutes left to go. His makeup artists were applying last-minute touch-ups on the spot. It was certainly a funny sight, but Angela was too angry to feel anything remotely happy with the king in her sights.

Angela's impatient wait was rewarded when the event started, first with the sound of trumpets and a deafening noise by the huge crowd that had gathered for the event. From what Angela could see, most of them were commoners, hoping for a life where they wouldn't have to constantly fear their own assassination. They crowded the square and spilled out onto the streets - there had to be thousands of people here. It angered Angela even more that they all appeared to be genuinely happy; didn't they realize that this politician was just like the rest?

She flinched for a moment when the address began. He was loud, even from this far away; she couldn't imagine what it must be like down below, right next to the speakers. She didn't see anybody complaining, but that would make sense with the number of security guards down below.

"Friends, family, people of this country... Today is the dawn of a new world. Today, we will be freed from oppression!"

Deafening cheers from the entire crowd. Angela fought the urge to gag when he put his hand up, and the silence fell just as quickly. The people below were more like sheep than humans.

"Today, we will start with the persecution of one of the assassins who has kept us in fear for so long; he has killed over one hundred people, all in the name of terror. Today, this man, Hugo Simmons, will die."

Stunned silence from most of the crowd, but they roared when a man was brought up onto the stage; Angela grimaced when she realized she recognized him. The fact that he had been captured already wasn't surprising considering his total lack of discretion; he might as well have shouted "I'm an assassin" to the world. He was tall, with graying black hair and a face that looked odd without an easy smile. He looked as beaten as the dogs that wandered the streets; Angela was almost tempted to shoot him out of mercy, but she only had enough time for one good shot before she had to be up and running.

Seeing the arrival of an old friend in chains made her angrier than ever; the only thing keeping her from pulling the trigger was the sudden gusts of wind from all directions. She'd have to wait for the right moment to kill the man this country called king.

"Yes, the wine is rather exceptional, isn't it?" Verité de Merteuil let out a joyous gail of laughter, clinking her glass against that of the man who was accosting her with slurred flirtation. It had always astounded her how easily some people got drunk so early on in the day. The reception was taking place in one of the plush buildings overlooking the main square, a palatial hotel with a suite completely booked out for the purposes of entertainment. From here, the guests could enjoy an optimum view of the King's speech out of the great glass windows and on the large, sweeping balcony.

It had not been hard to gain entrance to the reception, Verité smirked as she looked around the room. All you had to do to get into any event in the city was to know the right people, perhaps spend an evening with a man or a woman here and there... peak properly, have good table manners, and know your wine. She circled the room, leaving the greasy, suited gentleman to contemplate himself for a while. The wine was not exceptional, at all. It was a bad vintage - far too sweet; almost syrupy. Which sort of epitomised the whole event. The decor was gaudy, almost chintzy, with chaise longues thrown haphazard around the room. Everyone was dressed in far too little, or far too much. The food was not up to scratch.

Despite all of these grievances, Madame de Merteuil continued her circuit. She glanced down at her diamond-encrusted watch. It wouldn't be long now before things got underway. Sure enough, glancing out of the window, Verité could make out the figure of the King with his shock of blonde hair and his attendants. A crowd had amassed, and no doubt the entire country's media was watching and waiting. The crowd began to drift out onto the balconies and towards the windows, and Verité followed suit. Her blonde hair was piled up on her head, and a red ruby pendant adorned it at the top. She had often used the shining broach to signal to other assassins her allegiance, and putting it on today had been a brave but perhaps foolhardy move. The party hushed as the King began to speak.

He, too, represented everything that gone wrong with society. His very presence was a pestilence, a decay. His withering and blindingly white smile and immaculate hair was rotting away at any sense of high society left, and with every move he made his very presence made Verité bristle with annoyance. And now he was coming for her, and she had a reason to hate him. This speech was going to be the beginning, but she had receptions throughout the day, a dinner, and then an after-party. It was not unlikely that she would see him, in the flesh, at one of them. All she had to do was get close to him, and then she could strike silently in the night.

The beginning of the speech made several members of the assembled jump. One woman dropped her glass, which smashed onto the granite balcony with a resounding crash. Verité, for her part, opened her hand fan and held it in front of her face - her subconscious expression of distaste. Laughter erupted at the loudness of the speech. Verité hardly studied the words. Instead, she watched the crowd, and the rooftops she could see, looking for some sign of a fellow assassin. She hoped that one would recognise her. It had been too long since she had been able to openly meet with her fellows.

The announcement of execution sent a gasp rippling along the crowd. Several men cheered boyishly, and a woman applauded somewhere down the line. "Bravo!" She called. Verité reddened, and fingered the vial of cyanide she had had sewn into the hem of her dress.

The ten year old boy stood in the crowd, at the front of it waiting upon King Bradley to finish his preparations, quite curious as to what the king intended to reveal in his speech. A bright smile was upon his face, one that rarely ever disappeared unless he was working or he was genuinely upset. At the time he was neither, although it could be argued he was doing the former, albeit the fact he had no intentions of killing today. After all, he was here to observe King Bradley. What he had observed so far was the most blatant of facts, it was staring everyone right in the face, yet none of the assassins including Xavier seemed to realize it could be used to take the king down. The man's face was surgically altered, more so than the movie stars who felt the need to because it appealed to the public. His teeth were perfect, there were no errors, but Xavier felt that the blinding white of them, the unnatural colour, was a flaw. His hair probably had taken hours to prepare, and overall, he looked like a young hero from a movie, even though he was 46. The man cared too much about his public image. Xavier saw that as fatal flaw for the man, and began to wonder if it could be used against him.

Unlike the other assassins who seethed in anger at even the mention of him, Xavier's thoughts and feelings on him were very peculiar and mixed. Like the rest of them he recognized the threat, the king wanted all the assassins dead for the sole reason of gaining public favour. It was a method that Hitler had used in his rise to power and now Bradley was copying it, he placed the blame and fixated the hatred upon one group, the only difference being that this group was not innocent. Xavier recognized the basics of what he was doing, if not the whole picture and his exact intentions and plan. He was deceiving the crowd, multiple people at once and it was hardly noticed, and even if it were to be broadcasted, this man had taken care of that, his public image protected him. It was due to those methods and intent, that Xavier had mixed feelings. On one hand he was angry, he wanted the man dead for making him a target, while on the other hand, his skill at deception... Well, Xavier did not admire it per se, he acknowledged it, and acknowledged the man's superior deception skills in that area.

Although his own methods surpassed the king's when it came to his goals, and his skill in the art of deception was greater in places, but King Bradley could manipulate large crowds, something Xavier wanted the ability to do. Despite his skill, his superiority, his intentions, his methods, he was still a large threat to many assassins, including Xavier. The man would most likely have an abattoir of assassins by the end of this if he was not stopped, and Xavier would be in there, regardless of his age. It was simple, the man had to be rid of, but too many assassins were looking at this the wrong way, ignoring cause and effect. They didn't realize that killing him would only make him a martyr, and even more would support his cause. Xavier, whose ten year old mindset was probably helping him think of a better solution than what most of the assassins seemed to have, decided that he'd observe more before acting. 

It was perfect timing for him to decide this, the moment he had the thought, trumpets began to play, snapping him out of his mind, and back to reality. The trumpets were followed by the noise from the crowd, causing Xavier to wince as he contributed, for three reasons: The crowd was too loud for his liking, almost everyone there was ignorant, and worst of all he had to partake. What came next, the volume of his words, was almost enough to make Xavier stop smiling and cover his ears, but he could not bring any  attention to himself, he was at the front and if he wanted a chance to kill the king, he could not be remembered. There were things he could do however, such as roll his eyes at the things this man said. Which he did, at the words 'dawn of a new world,' the statement was absolutely ridiculous to the ten year old, yet people in the audience were actually buying it. This was signified by the cheers from the crowd which once again, he partook in, disgusted. Luckily for him, the king waved the noise down, and Xavier resumed observing.

There was no way he could have been ready for what came next. His eyes widened in shock, the smile on his face quickly replaced with a frown, he was genuinely upset now. When the man, Hugo Simmons, was brought onto stage, his rage began to multiply, and he was slow to join the crowd in their joy, adding his false joy into it, looking around to see if anyone had noticed his momentary falter. They didn't notice it, they were too engaged with the captured assassin. Xavier felt pity for the man, he was beaten terribly, and only more awaited along with humiliation, and then his inevitable death. There was no hope for him, if there ever were a situation where one was absolutely hopeless, this would be it.

Xavier's blood was boiling, he was starting to become consumed by his own rage. Was this is what the king wanted? Others to be humiliated and killed so that he could keep his power and gain public favour? No, he probably didn't care, for him the ends justified the means, and although this was right for most cases, it wasn't for this case, the ends were for asinine selfishness. Xavier, being ten years old, did not think that the ends justified the means. He moved his hands to his oversized hoodie, they were shaking in anger as he subtly grasped his guns. He had completely forgotten everything he had thought about, how killing the king would only make him a martyr, all he wanted was to kill Hugo and Bradley, the former to save him and the latter to end this. He was blinded by rage, trying to figure out which way he'd need to move and how he'd need to shoot if he were to get both before he died. Suddenly, everything rushed back to him, his previous speculation and his common sense, and he released his guns, letting his hands rise again to clap, blending in with the crowd once again. Hugo would die, and so would many others. They would be humiliated, maimed, then killed, and that's what Bradley deserved. A quick death would not cut it, he deserved more, and the ten year old would make sure of it.

Grozny, Autonomous District of Chechen (A.O.C),
20 October, 2428. - 14:45.

"Federalists and those svoloch' in the Kremlin are demanding blood for blood, it's a fucking nightmare, Petyr!" Minister Stepov groaned noisily over the phone, the call was being held through a private government channel that was under the radar of the FSB. Moscow had grown increasingly lax in security over the last few decades, internal corruption reached levels that had not been seen since the late twentieth century. Petyr Magedan sat at a mahogany desk and waved a fuming cigar through the air nonchalantly, for those that sat before him he seemed less worried than he ought to be. The lavish office was dim as large plumes of smoke wafted about the chandeliers and drapes, sure to leave a brown stain over time. Three men sat before him, silent and deathly pale while the conversation over the phone continued with little regard to them.

"Calm down, Mikhael. This is nothing, a setback that we can overcome. The Federalists have no sway in Moscow, you know that, and the Kremlin can eat dung for all I care. Their feathers have been ruffled and now it's all rhetoric and rattling sabers, in a week this whole thing will blow over and it will be business as usual." Petyr looked unconcerned and puffed away on his cigar, his face lighting an ugly red from the smoldering end that stretched the lines of his face in grotesque shadows. As the Second Chair of the Office of District Affairs, Petyr was well-informed on what was being said and done in and outside the state. That Moscow had already dispatched a wet team to find the killers of yesterdays assassination and snuff them out was not a problem, Petry knew whose palms needed to be greased so the threat was minimal. Even so, the organization he was affiliated to had made a catastrophic blunder on their part. It was supposed to be a clean job, one man was all that was asked. Unfortunately, when the assassins had found their target in his suite, he was not alone. A woman happened to be sharing the target's bed, as she could be a witness there was no thought as to leaving her alive. The target was no one the world would mourn for, the woman on the other hand, Anastasya Dvorbkin, was the eldest daughter of the Russian Minister of Interior, Alexei Dvorbkin.

"They are calling it a botched kidnapping, so the target's demise is being overlooked. The Minister is ready to order the troops into the district, treaties be damned!" Though he could handle Stepov's overreacting, Petyr knew that heads would need to roll in order to ebb the flood of political backlash that would ensue unless he made a gesture in good faith to the Kremlin. Deliver them a head on a silver platter and they will not dare enter the district. A name sprang to mind, one that had been the cause of some recent embarrassment for the Office of District Affairs. Playing that card would wash his hands of two problems, the Chechen Brotherhood would be happy and the Ministry of Interior as well. But was it wise to throw away your ace in the hole? Petyr needed to think on that one, so often decisions were made without thinking things through and the results could turn disastrous. He snubbed out his cigar into a crystal tray.

"Leave it to me, Mikhael. Continue as normal and I will be in touch." Petyr ended the call and set the phone on the surface of the desk slowly, his faded blue eyes glancing up to the three before him with a cold stare. One of the men flinched when he met his eyes, the others tried to look calm but the sheen of sweat on their foreheads made it clear they were on his shit list.

"Gentlemen, find the dog and have him delivered to the kennel. You have one day; don't make me wait." The edge to his voice made his intentions perfectly clear and he did not need to order them out, they were quite ecstatic to leave with their heads still attached to their necks.

New Providence,
Present Day.

It was going to be a good day.

Edward Bradley, the Hero of the People, had taken meticulous steps to 'pretty up' for the public spectacle about to take place before a throng of jubilant supporters. There was nothing about the man that was not cosmetically altered to make him appear the king he was meant to be. The lines and wrinkles were pulled and stretched, teeth beaming radiant white, any blemish or imperfection masked with layers of make-up. In contrast to the man that had arrived earlier, it was as though he had dropped thirty years. Gregori worked nearby with the other teamsters setting up for the public address, so he was never far from Bradley and could watch as the pompous ass rehearsed his speech and made revisions on-the-fly. Those who worked around him were worse, like carrion birds hoping for scraps and feeding off his every whim and command with glee. Revulsion surged up inside of Gregori, that people were actually eating up his bullshit was reminiscent of the stalwarts of the old union in the Motherland.

"When you are ready, sir." The chief of Bradley's security detail announced and then reached for his earpiece, "Look alive and hold positions, he's coming out." and with that Bradley was escorted to the stage commanding the view of thousands. To add insult to injury, trumpets resounded triumphantly and a roar of shouts and screams filled the air. Gregori moved closer to the stage well away from the police line separating himself from frenzied crowds, to anyone else he would have looked no different than one of the teamsters watching expectantly off the side of the stage. A bit rougher around the edges, perhaps. The fanfare and cheers were drowned out by the loudspeakers near the stage which were set to an obnoxiously high volume, his voice booming over the crowds as they began to settle:

"Friends, family, people of this country... Today is the dawn of a new world. Today, we will be freed from oppression!"

Today was going to be a very good day.

"Today, we will start with the persecution of one of the assassins who has kept us in fear for so long; he has killed over one hundred people, all in the name of terror. Today, this man, Hugo Simmons, will die."

Gregori did not know the man personally nor did he hold any grudge against him, likewise, his death was nothing but a catalyst for the many more that were to follow in this witch hunt. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to watch while the police dragged Hugo Simmons to the stage, the man passing right before Gregori and up the steps to the stage. Their eyes did not meet, Hugo looked like a beaten dog with his head hanging low. Better you than me, Gregori resigned himself to the rest of the kangaroo court. He could have done something but he knew that there would be two dead assassins and what use was he if he was dead? The crowd hissed and taunted and jeered, they wanted the man dead just as much as Bradley wanted his crown.

He watched and waited in silence, analyzing Bradley and making mental notes of where he had positioned his security personnel. They were mainly flanking the stage along with the teamsters and other members of the king's posse. When the speech would end, Gregori wondered if there might be a limousine waiting and considered trying to intercept Bradley there. Behind the stage was nearly empty, it wouldn't be hard to wait in ambush but the amount of security meant his chances of walking away alive were slim. Returning his gaze to the back of Bradley's tailored suit, another possibility floated to the surface of his thoughts; if he was planning to kill the king then there would be others, too.

Grojan sat at the back of the room, staring down at the table in front of him. He looked up, drank the last of his pint and went back to his brooding. It had been nearly ten years since he had last downed a drink, but now seemed like the perfect time to start. The recent purging of society's last commentators would leave the world in ruins. The people were already without the freedom to voice themselves, but it would only get worse when the capitalist nuts were left to run the show. His blood began to boil.

“But I can't react,” he thought, “that is what they want. They want assassins to fight, to show themselves.To betray the positions of their brethren. A fighting assassin is as good as dead.”

He pushed himself up against the back wall and looked out upon the other assassins that were in hiding. They had taken refuge in an old Jazz-club turned tavern under the streets of the city. It had been built many years ago, back when things were "better"... Back before the assassins. It seemed a foreign concept to him. He could only remember times where the assassins were prevalent. The owner of the place was an ex-assassin who had retired fifteen years before "honourable" King Bradley had declared his murderous intentions, putting him well out of the reach of possible persecution. Grojan was always envious of that fact.

It was a nice place Grojan was thankful to the owner of the tavern, but wished that he would throw out all the 'youngers' who plagued the area with their vain talk of rebellion and determination to get them all killed.

Just as he began to plot the forcible removal of the youngers without revealing their location, a young assassin barged his way into the booth next to him and forced a conversation:
"Do you think an assassin'll pop the bastard?" he stammered, obviously drunk.
"An assassin will get himself killed, yes."
"Can you imagine, we'll finally be free!"

That was all Grojan could take, he had had enough of all these idiots who thought that killing Bradley was the solution to all the world’s problems. He got up and wandered over to the front of the room, where the speech was being televised. Blocking it with his face, he switched it off. A commotion ran out through the tavern. Insults were hurled and a bottle or two barely missed his head. Familiar with the antics of the young and foolish, Grojan casually cleared his throat and addressed them:

"Fellow assassins, killing our ignoble King will do nothing for our cause. There are a million people like King Bradley, and every one of them wishes to kill us all. If we dare to try and stop them, we would only invite the wrath of all the people on this earth. It is for this reason that we are hiding here: so that when this blows over, we can integrate with our new society. Do not, under any circumstances, blow our cover! If anyone dares to betray us, I will personally make sure that you die a sickening, horrible death. That is, if the King's regime doesn't first. Kapiche?"

His speech had obviously made its point, for the crowd was silent. Grojan turned around and turned on the television. He knew that he could never truly change the young assassins, only time could do that, but he could stop them getting themselves killed long enough for them to give time a chance. He stopped by the bar and poured himself another drink before returning to his place at the back of the room. Finally, the young man had left him alone to his brooding.

Angela knew that when her anger flared this high, her aim suffered; and with this wind there wasn't a chance she'd make the shot. Despite this, a roar of anger erupted in her head; Simmons would die by the axe of the executioner making his way into the stage. A block of wood was set up next to a basket, where his bloody head would finally fall.

The king was almost done with his words on the horrors Hugo Simmons had committed. It was painful enough to watch him crumpling ever lower until Ang wasn’t certain whether he had a spine anymore. The only thing holding up her friend was the rough grip of guards flanking him.

He finished up his brief, incredibly biased account of Hugo Simmons’ career, and announced, “Are you ready for this man – this assassin – to die?”

She didn't wait for the wind to die down. Angela trusted her instincts, and let off a shot into the air. It didn’t land, but she couldn’t ask for miracles right now. Just the cracking sound of a shot echoing throughout the grimy square would be enough – and it was.

The king stopped, the tumult of sound ceasing instantly. The silence was just as deafening. Quickly, he attempted to regain his composure, but it was evident that panic had already set in. The crowd was pulling into multiple directions at once, trying to save themselves all from a bullet. Even the king's words had no effect on a crowd intent on saving themselves. A cacophony of shouts rose up above his pleading voice; Angela couldn’t resist a grin at the sound.

Meanwhile, Ang was stowing away her sniper and she was off the rooftop within a minute. She practically sprinted down the stairs until she exited through the alleyway and into the streets.

She considered going home, but that would be too easy - anger boiled in her veins, clouding her thoughts. Hugo was saved from death for the time being, but they’d reschedule his appointment with the axe. It was only a matter of time, and Angela couldn’t watch this happen without doing anything. She had to save him. Fuck the king; it was his prisoner she wanted.

She must've stood out as the only person going against the general flow of the crowd, but the streets were thick with adrenaline and nobody seemed to notice. Not far off, she could see the king finally giving up on controlling the herd; he was leaving, accompanied by a troop of suits. Hugo wasn’t forgotten, but he had considerably less people flanking him than Bradley did.

Angela deftly reached down for the knife on her ankle, coming closer to the stage. Three against one wouldn’t be so bad – she had the element of surprise, and she’d be too close for them to use their guns. As for the other guards, she’d need a miracle. Maybe it would come to her this time.

Angela sped up until she was running, hopped onto the stage, and jumped to the first guard. She killed him quickly and easily with a slash to the neck. The other guards reacted as expected – attempting to distance themselves, pulling out their guns. Soon enough, the others protecting the king would notice. She couldn’t give them time to back away.

A swift kick and another was on the ground, a flick of the bloody knife and he was down for the count. The last one was the most of Angela’s worries – he’d backed away far enough so she couldn’t reach him, but left Hugo unattended. His gun was raised, and he was already calling for backup – that was her cue.

Hoping her luck held out this long, Angela grabbed Hugo by the handcuffs and dragged him along with her as she escaped; she weaved an indecipherable path through the crowd, hoping that they wouldn’t dare shoot into hordes of civilians.

That was Angela’s miracle for the day. She was only chased by shouts of “Freeze!” and “Stop that woman!” but no metal whizzed by her ears. Ang sprinted into the streets, but didn’t dare let go of Hugo for fear of losing him. Weaving throughout the city was second nature to her; she ducked into an alleyway and lost the guards behind her, still struggling to make a path through the crowd.

Before there was any time to think, Angela ducked into the nearest door, a somewhat shady-looking jazz-club-turned-bar. Although she’d only been here a few times, this was the place to go if you needed to disappear – and, as it turned out, Ang needed that quite desperately.