The Quiet Mercenary

The drops of rain pelted down on the young man's head as he hurried through streets.  He was clearly bent on  something desperate, for although he went fast, he would stumble now and then on his way through the night.  The rain washed away the other drops on his face that were tears.  As he ran headlong into the windy darkness, he slipped on a brick and fell forward.  Now there was blood added to the equation.  It burned his eyes as it seeped out of his wound and flowed down his face.  The young man at last gave in and slipped into a faint.

                Four hours earlier.

                Eric Hemsworth sat in his chair at the restaurant tapping his fingers.  His fidgeting seemed to indicate that he was waiting for someone, as he also checked his watch from time to time.  At last, someone walked up to the table.  A balding man in his mid-forties sat down across from him.

                "I'm sorry, this table's reserved."  Eric said rather timidly.

                The man simply smiled through unnaturally white teeth.  It was a sinister sort of smile, alerting Eric that something was terribly wrong.

                "She's not coming, Eric."  He seemed to enjoy saying this.

                Eric was confused.  "I'm sorry, who are you?  And how to you know my name?"

                The man only lifted his napkin from his right hand.  A silver object glinted underneath.  Eric looked on in horror as the man cocked his gun.  Eric barely had time to think before there was a quiet poof from the gun, and a stinging pain in his abdomen.  He looked down as his vision blurred and saw a small dart sticking into his stomach.  That's when Eric Hemsworth started down a road of dangers and peril.  The road of a quiet mercenary.

                When he awoke, Eric was in a small room, lying on a bed.  It was uncomfortable, for the bed was old, and a spring jutted into his back.  He tried to move, but found he was strapped down.  A voice of sophistication suddenly came from the shadows in a far corner.

                "Eric.  How are you?"

                Eric responded with disgust.  "How do you think I am?"

                The voice laughed.  It was not a chilling laugh, but one of utter control.  "I apologize for the rough recruitment, but it was the only way we could get you to join us."

                As the man walked from the shadows, Eric saw that the voice belonged to a man of considerable height, wearing a long trench coat and a black bowler hat.

                "Recruitment for what?" Asked Eric, confused.

                The man pulled out an old projector reel from a pocket and held it up.  "Perhaps this will answer the questions you may have."

                Methodically, he placed it in a rundown projector Eric hadn't noticed before and turned it on.  A bright light was projected onto the wall and a voice started talking.

                "Hello new recruit.  You have been selected out of a very large number of potentials to be in our program.  Congratulations.  You have been selected for our program due to your outstanding human attributes.  We have selected you from our pool of candidates because you have been proven to have the most advanced in senses and hand/eye coordination.  Although you probably didn't know it, you are genetically ninety-nine percent better than anyone else your age.  We have been studying you for years now.  I hope for your sake that you are willing, because frankly, you don't have a choice in the matter.  Your gifts are too incredible to be wasted."

                The video ended.  Eric lay in shock for awhile before gathering his senses.  Whoever these people were, they obviously had many resources, he thought nervously.  The man in the bowler hat turned.

                "Does that help?"

"No!  I want to get out of here!"

                The man paused.

                "Well I'm afraid I can't help you with that.  I can, however, show you to your room."

                Eric struggled with his bonds, but they wouldn't budge.

                "Come on."  The man said.  "Let me show you where you'll be staying."

                The man nodded to a shadowy doorway.  A rough-looking thug walked in.  He unstrapped Eric and grabbed him by the arm.  In a thick New York accent, he spoke to Eric.

                "Let's go pal.  We've got a long walk ahead of us."

                As they walked down the hallway, many thoughts were going through Eric's mind.  He was trying to figure out who had tipped these people to his location.  Were they watching him?  How else would they know he was meeting Elise at the restaurant?  The jerk on his coat snapped Eric back to the present. The New Yorker clasped a band around Eric's wrist and shoved him toward a door.

                "We're here."

                Opening the door, he threw Eric out in the street.

                "Have a nice life.  Until we call you again."

                Eric got up slowly in the street.  It was raining.  He had no idea where he was, and now there was a strange bracelet on his wrist.  He looked around, trying to catch his bearings.  He didn't recognize any of the surrounding area.  Just then, he heard a shout from around a corner of the building.  Looking back fearfully, Eric saw that it came from a man in a blazer and cap.  The man shouted again.  He had a gun.

                "Hey!  Get outta here!"

                The shot from the gun caused Eric to run as fast as he could.  The man was laughing behind him.

                And that is how Eric ended up lying in the street, with blood in his eyes, and clothes soaked with rain.  'Until we call you again...' the New Yorker had said.  Eric wondered when that would be as he slowly got up and continued into the night...

                It was a windy day when Eric was called next.  This time, they forced him through some special "training sessions."  He was forced to fire a handgun at a steel target for an hour straight.  The sounds of the gun pounded on his eardrums beneath the earplugs they had given him.

                This sort of "training," as well as others, continued throughout the next couple times he was called.  When Eric threatened to go to the police, the New Yorker merely threatened to kill his family.  That stopped Eric, for the meantime.  He hated the times when he was called.  He hated having to lie to his friends as to where he was going.  But above all, he hated that he could do nothing about it.

                These instances continued for a month, until he was called one final time...