Young Writers Society

This is just a rough draft, and so there's likely to be some grammatical/spelling errors that will be corrected. I'm happy to take any critiques you have, but I'd really love to know about a few main things, which are:

1) Character portrayal/development, or the sense you have of them.

2) Description! Please help me with that! Sometimes I don't give enough, other times too much, and it's something I'd really love to improve on.

3) Any critique on dialogue & its portrayal.

4) Any recurring problems you think I should improve on.

I'd also love to know what your initial impressions are of it, if you have any, and maybe what you think may happen.

I hope you enjoy!

~ Feather

— Chapter 2: der Silberfuch —

~ The Silver Fox ~

His icy gaze penetrated the piece of paper in front of him. The text was written in a spidery, tight hand, and its contents were evidently distasteful, if the unpleasant look marring his countenance was anything to judge by. He sighed and hooked his mug off the desk as he walked over to refill it with dark liquid.

It was a contract, and the pay was good enough, he supposed — but it wasn’t what he really wanted. There was no excitement. No challenge. Just the same monotonous work day in and day out. Always moving, never slowing, all for the exchange of the green slips of paper that supplied him and put food on his hotel table.

He sat down once more and took a long sip of his straight black coffee, tinged with a metallic taste that was definitely not a natural part of his store-bought caffeinated drink. Four thousand dollars was the pay for this one. He had to have the deed done in three days’ time. Not much pay and not much wiggle room, but he was out of work and he needed something. The man wondered idly if he could return to the Guild; maybe they’d have something for him. Ah, well, he’d make his way back around in time.

He leaned back and gazed out the window upon an oblivious little town. Once his name had been known, even feared, but now he was naught but a shadow faded into legend. With sigh, he chugged the rest of his drink and put the empty cup down before striding over to his bed to grab his knife belt. It had two weapons sheathed on it, one on either hip. Each dagger was as long as his forearm and curved with superb craftsmanship. The blades were nicked and worn with years of use but still in good condition, and they fit him perfectly.

Without further delay, he grabbed his backpack and slipped into the hallway and down the stairs.

“Just checking out, fraulein,” he told the woman at the front desk. His voice was thick with a German accent, but understandable.

“So soon?”

“Work calls,” he replied and passed her the money, flashing a charming player’s smile.

“Good luck on the road, Kratzer,” she said and handed him his cash. “Where are you off to now?”

“Ah, here and there,” he shrugged and slipped the few dollars into his wallet. “I’ll just choose a road and go, I suppose.” Lying and omitting came as naturally to him as breathing after all these years, hadn’t they?

“I hope you find whatever you’re searching for.” She raised a hand in farewell.

“Thanks, love,” was his only reply as he slipped out the front door and twirled his keys around his fingers, beelining for his motorcycle. He liked bikes more than cars — they were smaller, faster, more maneuverable, and easier to ditch if he had to. It didn’t give him the storage space that’d be ideal but he didn’t stick with any single one long enough, anyways.

The bike came to life with a vicious roar as he peeled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He squinted against the sun; he should’ve waited for nightfall. Ah, well, it was only a few hours anyways. The red Nevada desert stretched for miles on end around him. He felt like he was in an old west movie as he watched the tumbleweeds roll across the street. He didn’t mind the barren landscape much; mostly it was the heat that got to him. That and the sun.

Heat shimmered up in waves from the warm asphalt, a mirage of water on the road. Every time he saw it he was thankful that he wasn’t stuck in the desert, delirious, seeing that image of delusional hope that would only be stolen away at the last moment to leave him to die. This time, though, it reminded him of something else. It was a rather cliche thing, he decided, but he couldn’t shake it. It was the thought of a woman.

He thought of women a lot. This couldn’t be denied, even by him, but that one…Well, anyone could tell that she was something else. She moved with the grace of a leopardess and fought with the speed of a striking serpent. She was light on her feet and clever as the very fox he himself was named for. She’d been beautiful too, he recalled: copper hair shone all the colors of flame in the sunlight. But out of everything, it was her eyes that he remembered most clearly. She had spirit unlike anyone he’d ever seen before. It was unveiled, unhidden, uncontrolled defiance and ferocity rising from the depths of her heart to show in the deep mahogany hue of her gaze, even in the face of death.

It was a pity she had to die. He almost wished he hadn’t followed through on his contract, but to do so was of the most dishonor. Despite what people said, there was honor among thieves, even if it was a twisted code. To kill that kind of fire was sobering. No amount of this kind of work could get him fully used to it, as much as he liked to deny it.

Ah, well; what had to be done had to be done. It was unchangeable. Even if he’d had a choice, it was in the past now; what good would it do to dwell on it? The snake was dead and that was all there was to it. Good thing, too, or else his head might be the one on the chopping block.

He reached Los Angeles in the twilight of early morning, a soft, silver cast to the sands and the city. 4231 First Street, LA, California was the location of his target. He was a simple man who worked an office job in one of the large glass buildings that towered high above the city from nine o’clock in the morning to five o’clock at night, after which he would usually pick up dinner from a nearby BBQ place and head home, or, if it was Friday, grab a drink at a bar down the street. He lived alone.

Luckily for Kratzer, he worked on the fifteenth story, the perfect level for him to snipe from above. He preferred melee combat over sharpshooting but, for this job, it was simply the most efficient and quickest way. He pulled into an alley and parked his bike before grabbing his backpack and disappearing behind the nearest building to change. He couldn’t be seen in his normal clothes doing this work.

Some assassins used full-face masks that didn’t even show their eyes. Others disregarded such things entirely, preferring to not have their perception hindered for the sake of deception. Kratzer preferred the former method, to an extent. If he didn’t wear a full-face mask he’d be easily identified due to the diagonal scar that ran from his left temple to his right jawbone. Once upon a time he’d hunted with only a cowl, but things were no longer so simple nor so easy with modern technology and his new look.

Within minutes he was transformed from a mere man into an ancient specter. A blue t-shirt and leather jacket was replaced with a black and gray trench coat, jeans became inconspicuous black pants, and work boots were fur-lined ones that went as high up as his knee. But, of all of it, his mask was the real work of art: a silver, masterfully engraved fox designed to perfectly fit his face. Black fabric attached to the back covered his blonde hair. Even if the cameras saw him, they’d have little to go off of.

He grabbed the briefcase that contained his rifle from his bike and started along the back alleys to the man’s work building. He ran details through his head once more, just to make sure he had them: Quinn Tanner, aged 27. 5’ 8” tall and about 200 pounds. Brown eyes and black hair — a common mix.

It took him less than twenty minutes to find the appropriate building and then its neighbor that he was to climb. The walls were smooth without windows or other features that gave him real holds. He might be able to pull it off anyways — he had before — but he didn’t want to be noticed, and the mask already meant that if he was seen he’d be remembered. Instead he hunted for a ladder that he finally found a couple buildings away and ascended. By the time he reached the roof of the one he meant to be posted on it was eight in the morning and the sun was looming on the horizon.

The first order of things now that he was in position was to assemble and check his rifle. The barrel was clear, the action ran smoothly, and his ammunition matched what he was supposed to be using. The tripod clicked into place and his scope zoomed in and out just like it meant to. Perfect.

Gun: check. Ammo: check. Position: check. He scanned the ground below, waiting for his target to enter. It was 8:30 — only a half hour until it was time to shine.

There. That was him. Quinn Tanner.

He felt his breathing slow, heart thudding rhythmically in his ears. Everything around him seemed to disappear, his entire world becoming the target in front of him disappearing into the building. The hunt was on.

4…

His grip tightened on the rifle, check leaning down to rest on the stock and the butt seated tightly in his shoulder.

3…

The man stepped into his cubicle at the window and sat. He was so oblivious of what was coming, wasn’t he?

2…

His eye fell to the scope and gazed through it, zooming towards his kill. A soft breeze whistled through the buildings as he stalled his breath and pulled the trigger evenly…

1.

Bang!

The rifle knocked his shoulder back, bullet whizzing through the air. Tanner's body fell to the ground without delay and blood spattered against the wall. He heard yells from inside and watched the passerby on the ground, startled cries and other rather typical alarm calls.

He slipped his weapon into its case and pulled out a small, canine tooth. He placed it carefully on the edge of the roof where he'd been sitting before slinging the gun over his shoulder and climbing down from his perch with haste. There was no time to waste lest he get seen by the police.

Once on the ground, Kratzer started through the back alleyways. He didn’t want to risk taking his mask off but it was too conspicuous to walk along the road. He wished he knew LA better; then this wouldn’t be so hard. It didn’t take long for the wailing of sirens to reach his ears in the distance — time to fly.

He broke into a run, speeding across the dilapidated cement. He was close to his ride now. He just needed to get to it before the police accessed security cameras and figured things out. They’ve already closed off roads, he’s sure. There’s no question if it’s deliberate or not when the dead man has a bullet through his head.

Kratzer reached his ride without incident and quickly shed his costume before speeding out onto the street. He’d better not get searched; it’d be safer to hole up for a few days instead of trying to run. And, luckily, he knew exactly where to go.