Flames for the Zenith

I was poking around my old documents, looking for something I had already written recently enough . . . so I could maybe get across my style. This is actually just a nameless drabble that I did for a far larger [unwritten] story. That would explain the lack of description on the main character's life. I'm mainly just posting this because, well, it's just been collecting dust. I haven't really shown anyone, and it has its points. A partially unprofessional briefing, though: The mentioned "Lotus" in this story is an organization of assassins. Zenith was, let us say, "drafted" into the organization when they murdered his parents. The only real importance his time in Lotus holds to the story at hand is that they sent him on the mission, and it does mention the sort of religious epiphany he underwent because of Lotus. Grawr, as much as I hate spoiling some stuff, I'm such a knit-picker at details!

Eeeerm. I suppose I'll leave it at that, then.

~

Fire. Fire everywhere. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, smothering the vibrant streaks of sunset. A gentle breeze sent the columns of black slanting and the remaining flames flickering before flaring upward again. The ground was black, covered in charred wood and scattered ashes. Blackened blocks of stone stood among the rubble, the foundation left behind after all above it had been reduced to dust.

Eyes even more menacing than the dwindling flames scanned over the ruin, taking in every detail that he would let himself be bothered with. The fires had died down, leaving behind only a thin blanket of surviving blazes. It was still uncomfortably hot, especially in his thick clothes. He calmly nudged a small rock onto the toe of his shoe before casting it out into the black; the wooden plank it collided with dispersed into ashes.

Zenith breathed through his nose, not quite looking forward to going through the rubble. He wouldn’t be happy to find his target already dead after all that effort; after all, he was getting paid to kill the man himself.

His shoes sunk into the dark soot as he approached what had once been someone’s home. Or rather, a structure that held within its boundaries experimentations of an extremely dangerous degree to the public, as the Lotus would say. Glass crunched underfoot and he glanced down to see what remained of a picture frame. Who even started the fire? It could have been an accident; there must have been chemicals involved. But then again, sometimes assassin missions were accidentally leaked, and this could be their way of disposing of the evidence . . .

He clenched his teeth together at the thought. His missions were never leaked. No one could possibly discover where he would strike next. Lotus couldn’t even be sure he would feel like doing their dirty work after being assigned a victim. It was either an accident or someone beat him to the punch. Either way, he would have had to destroy the laboratory himself otherwise.

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of someone . . . running. Toward him. The air became even more tainted as their desperate feet threw ash and embers skyward. He could hear their labored breath. Not only were they breathing hard, but every breath was choked with heavy sobs. Tiny hands gripped his jacket’s cuffed sleeve. But his eyes only looked straight ahead, intent on a pile of crisscrossed wood that seemed to be . . . moving. Ever so slightly, like the chest of the dying . . .

“Mister! M-mi . . .” The child at his side gave his hand a beseeching shake before bursting into a frenzy of tears against the thick fabric.

Zenith felt his own lips part in an absentminded fascination, watching the charred boards heave more and more violently—until finally they burst from their layered positions, crumbling to join the ashes that had waited for them. His eyes narrowed at the sight of what emerged from beneath them; it was hardly distinguishable as a middle-aged man through the black that coated every inch of him, but he needed no more prompting. He would always know his target when he faced them.

I’ll make this quick and clean, he decided, his fingers brushing the cool metal of the gun in its holster as he made a steady advance toward the man who was struggling to sit up. He felt resistance at his sleeve; the stupid boy was still holding on, as if he were some sort of hero.

“Let go,” he said firmly. Much to his dismay, the child did let go . . . and ran straight to his father’s side.

“Daddy, daddy! Are you okay? What happened? Daddy . . .”

Zenith gave the boy a gentle shove to the side upon reaching them. He slammed his foot into the man’s upturned stomach to stop him from rising; he clicked the gun out of safety and aimed it between his eyes.

“Lotus,” the midnight-stained face managed to whisper, his voice hoarse, staring up the barrel of the gun.

He had almost forgotten the Lotus emblem etched into the side of the weapon, as all issued by the organization were; he had seen no reason to toss away a perfectly functional gun. No matter what sort of reminder it served as or who it stood for.

“No,” he replied coolly. “Zenith.”

And his finger slowly began to pull back on the trigger . . .

“No!” a shrill voice wailed. “Please, please, don’t! Don’t kill daddy! Don’t . . .” The voice broke briefly, and the small hand seized his again. Despite himself, Zenith looked down in bewilderment as he felt something being stuffed into his fist.

“You . . . you can have these flowers.” The boy met his gaze with wide pleading eyes, overflowing. “I picked them for mommy. But you can have them as long as you don’t . . . don’t . . .”

His fist curled around the blossoms, crushing them. He had already looked away. “Move,” he ordered quietly. He blindly reached for the boy when he wouldn’t budge, grabbing the front of his shirt and single-handedly dragging him somewhat behind him.

Without awaiting anymore interruptions, he let the gun do its work.

Heat. The heat was unbearable. In mere seconds, an absolute inferno had burst forth inches from his face. He leaped back in alarm, shock gripping his heart for the first time in what might have been years. He watched, astonished, as the flames grew rapidly, soon towering high above him. But how . . .

Oh. He could just barely make out the remains of a shattered vial inches from the man’s alighted breast pocket. Which was right over his heart where he had decided to aim for instead. He was surprised it had survived the first fire; but if it meant that much to him, it would have been protected by some sort of special material. And if the bullet shattered the glass, and the vial’s contents had been extremely flammable . . .

“Daddy!”

Zenith was jerked from his ponderings by an ear-piercing scream that made even his heart skip a beat in dread. He whirled around to face the distraught child, half lunging in an attempt to restrain him—but it was too late. He turned again just in time to witness the poor boy throttling himself into the flames after his father.

The screams that followed seemed to shatter time itself, ringing, consuming and crashing down on the assassin’s ears. Sweat poured down his face, leaving white streaks in the thin layer of gray that covered it. His eyes stared unblinking at the thrashing within the fire, flames reflected in flames . . .

And finally he turned. Nothing could be helped. He had carried out his duty. He had done his job. There was nothing more left for him to accomplish, no more reason for him to stay here. He walked away from the blazing family at a brisk pace, never once looking back, doing all he could to block out the anguished cries. Cries that would go unanswered.

As he wandered further and further along, aimlessly, absently, a new but familiar voice replaced the one echoing in his ears.

Silly, silly Zenith. There is no god out there to listen to you. Aren’t you living proof of that?

I don’t understand, his own younger voice said softly.

You look into the sky and find hope. Your zenith. But you kill. What do your victims see last of their world when they look up in search of hope? Your eyes. Fire. Fire to match Hell. They look into their Zenith and find absolute Hell.

Yes. Absolute Hell.

He slowed down to get a look at his surroundings. He wouldn’t delve into the past. He wouldn’t feel such worthless remorse. He wouldn’t.

He leaned his shoulder against the nearest tree, letting out a long-suppressed breath. It suddenly occurred to him that there was something in his other hand. He rolled the mysterious object between his fingers for a moment before realization dawned on him: the flowers. Sure enough, he had a fist full of mangled, pale pink blooms when he glanced down to confirm his guess.

Had he really held onto those through all that?

He didn’t remember even considering their existence after the gun had dealt its blow.

After briefly occupying himself with twirling a flower by its stem in an almost sulking manner, he chanced to look past his hand to catch sight of a weathered stone standing straight up from where it was driven into the soil. It stood at the center of what would normally be a sunlit clearing. All around it was well taken care of without a stray weed in sight. It stood there, on its own, lonely but resilient.

A crooked, sarcastic smile crossed his face. Of course.

He dropped the flowers before the gravestone as he passed it by, and then proceeded down the trail in a wistful silence. He was done with this place; he was done lingering on what had happened. He, after all, he had to remember, was raised to be indifferent to these events. Maybe even to take a satisfaction in them.

I’m sorry, “Mommy.”

~

Cookies for the one who gets the Zenith pun!