MMXVI

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

A fog of warm breath puffs from between my lips, wreathing my head with a fine, white mist. Brittle sun shines at my back and feathery snow falls before me. Snowflakes alight on me like butterflies, melting one by one. If I look closely enough, I can just barely glimpse the fine latticework of their delicate form, right before they crumble. Lovers of the storied metaphor will be glad to know that indeed, none are perfectly alike, though the simplest hexagonal prisms are similar to the point of triviality. A snowflake is most unique in its complexity and the flaws complexity breeds. That snowflakes, no matter how intricate their structure, have unfailing symmetry is a misconception. Truthfully, I prefer it that way. The variety of their imperfection is blessedly infinite. Thin, clear discs scored with an off-center asterism. Lopsided jewels with a thatch of crystalline feathers. Hexagrams encircled with stately crosses, a many-steepled cathedral wherein the north spire sticks out just a bit too far and east much too short. In the tiny grooves of each cross, refracted winter light creates a brief, transparent iridescence.

You savor little details like these when you’re as old as I am. The notion of a big picture is for small minds. Big and small things alike are short-lived, and their worth is all the same to me. Which is to say, it all amounts to everything.

It also amounts to nothing, but nothing will have to wait. Do not fool yourself into thinking I am waiting. I am never the one who waits.

I venture south in a methodical pursuit. Snow gives way to rain and electricity crackles in the clouds above as I close in on my destination. I make my rounds in the midst of a city and a great monolith rises among the many-storied buildings. It's a tall rectangular structure, checkmark-patterned with columns of square, black windows crawling up the sides. This place was once a printing press. Plastic neon-orange construction barriers surround the entire block the abandoned building occupies. The building is marked for demolition, to be replaced with a parking structure. I step over the rain-slicked barriers and place an ear to the damp outer walls. Once, the sound of chattering voices and rumbling printing machines echoed through the halls. Now there’s only the faint creak of an aging building’s aching joints and the howl of wind slipping through the cracks. Somewhere in these ruins is my objective.

I’m never surprised when the hit is put out, but my clients have been especially pushy about this one. They insisted on an expedited hit. A rare demand. Usually they urge me to wait until they’re properly ready. That they’re never ready conveniently eludes them, but as I’ve said, I never wait. I never rush, either. Their sudden insistence in expediency quietly piques my interest, but I keep to my methods. I do the hit my way, and my way always works. Let them complain. I have a schedule to keep and pay to collect.

All things attended to, I am ready now. The building the objective hides in is locked up and closed to the public. Getting through the door wouldn't be much trouble, if I'm honest, but I feel like being contrary. I lay a hand on the walls, feeling the age of the material. It’s older than it looks and it won’t take much to make an entrance. I unsheathe the weapon at my hip.

I take my weapon with me everywhere I go. It is dual-edged, powerful, and nobody else knows how to use it but me. This is for the best, because nobody else would use it properly. Mine is a weapon of both healing and destruction. Right now, I need it for the latter. I brandish its sharper edge against the stone wall and deliver a critical blow. An air-splitting crack echoes through the stormy night. When the dust clears, I see an opening just big enough for me to slip through. Water pools at my feet and the scorched edges of my new entryway hiss and sizzle in protest.

I enter the building, brushing the rubble off my coat. It’s dark in here, and the odor is atrocious. It reeks of stale ink and oil, and also of acrid, burning flesh. A burbling growl echoes in the darkness, an occasional hissing noise glancing off the walls. It’s difficult to determine the source of the noise. My clients warned me about that. The objective likes to use confusion to keep itself from being pinned down. A clever tactic, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’ve seen it all before. I don’t need to untangle the sounds when I have the means to cut the knot. I raise my weapon and it emits a witheringly bright light.

The floor is stark and empty, a row of decaying white columns down the center and industrial grooves on either side. Scant graffiti marks the walls. The harsh light of my weapon casts heavy shadows. Pools of old ink shine like shards of broken mirror. They ripple with the guttural growling.

At the furthest end of the room, I spot the silhouette of a huddled body. I cast my light upon it, revealing the objective to my eyes. Its form is disgusting to behold. Piggish dark eyes and slavering jowls. A wide mouth gapes in a prolonged hiss, exposing a pale pink throat and protruding, uneven teeth. Its limbs are twisted and deformed, yet knotted with dense brawn. Its skin is wrinkled like an elephant's hide and white, lank hair cascades over its brow. I soon realize the source of the burning flesh smell; gouts of smoke are rising from large open wounds on its back and belly. The wounds spit embers that scorch everything they touch. If the floor were anything but metal and concrete, it might start a wildfire. My clients claim precisely that has happened. Just one of many reasons they are eager to see me finish the hit.

The revealing light of my weapon catches its attention and it looks at me. An uncanny smile curves it lips. It tosses back its head and laughs.

Now this is rare. I say rare, because it’s not new. Snowflakes aside, I’ve long run out of new things to see. But this laugh is nonetheless surprising for its undaunted quality. It isn’t every mission I meet one that laughs when it sees me. Most plead for mercy or else sink in despair, knowing I am not to be deterred. Amusement is not a reaction I expect, and I raise a brow in a show of silent interest.

“Welcome to my den,” it says, lolling about on the floor. The floor around it is littered with trash stacked into a crude nest. Scorched papers and old containers of takeout pile up against the columns. Torn-up and wrinkled papers clutter the floor, mostly newspapers and propaganda posters. Some of them, I recognize as publications of this very press.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I would show courtesy to my esteemed guest,” it says. Its voice is deep and gravelly like a crocodile’s growl. Its jaws clench in a wide, mocking rictus. I accept the offer and seat myself on a stepladder leaning beside the nearest column. I delicately set my weapon across my lap, and, chin in hand, I allow it to speak.

“Do you like my handiwork?” it asks. It indicates toward the wall behind it and I raise my light to see a massive canvas stretching from cavernous ceiling to floor. A painting. That’s no surprise. Most of my objectives make one. They like to leave something to be remembered by. This painting isn’t like the usual ones, though. Besides its extraordinary size, the paint is made from condiments and sauces from the leftover takeout and the canvas is cheap and rough, like recycled denim.

The vulgar medium is offset by fine technique. The enormous painting is a soulful depiction of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse, composed with elegant impressionistic strokes. The horses are cantering about in a green field, an almost giddy expression on the riders’ faces. Death is wearing a garland of day lilies and little else. His entire body is tattooed to resemble a score sheet and he wears the Comedy mask over his bare skull. Pestilence is similarly dressed, and his horse appears to have a case of the measles. In most paintings depicting the Horsemen, Pestilence rides alongside Famine, but instead, he’s instead riding side-by-side with War, the two linking arms in a jovial, brotherly fashion. As usual, War has a sword for a weapon. It’s a bright purple balloon sword. Strangely, if I tilt my head just right, the sword also looks mustard yellow. It is apparently nonetheless a lethal weapon, stained with blood and dripping with gore. In the lower corner of the painting, Famine, depicted as female, is riding her horse side-saddle. The horse is grossly obese and primly groomed. Famine’s right hand daintily holds an empty grape branch above her head. A hardcover book with all the pages torn out is in her other hand.

Perhaps the strangest thing is the inexplicable optical illusions of the painting. It was the color of War’s sword that made me take notice; it takes some concentration and a careful eye for tiny details—no easy task given the chaos of this composition, but I have an eye for detail—but the riders swap features depending on the angle I view the painting from. War has Famine’s face if I view it from the left. Viewed from above, the Comedy mask appears on Pestilence and Death’s face, a skull without eye sockets, is fully exposed. At an up-close angle, a few of Death’s day lilies sprout from Famine’s grape vine. The grassy fields inexplicably turn to sand if I stare at it with my eyes just slightly crossed. No matter how I view the painting, the title of Famine’s book changes ceaselessly, covering every topic and genre I can imagine. It’s impossible to tell which impression of the painting is meant to be the primary one. The more I look at it, the more difficult it is to grasp the focus. The painting is confused; that is to say, the work itself seems unsure of what it is.

“You’re impressed, I can tell,” says the objective, noting what I’m sure was a certain level of admiration in my gaze. I admit, the creativity is notable. I never see anything new, but the objectives do lend a certain personal flair to their work. The abject madness of this one is distinct.

“Surely you can see the unerring devotion I have put into my work,” continues the objective. “I’m an unconventional artist, wouldn’t you say? Your clients, they wanted you to assassinate me faster than usual. They can’t appreciate my brilliance. They’re offended that my work exists. Or maybe they just don’t like where I got the materials to make red.”

I quietly note that even in all the chaos of this painting, there is no red hue anywhere to be seen. The objective notices my skeptical gaze and smugly adds, “Well, it used to be red. But it dries brown. You would know, wouldn’t you? Tell me, how many of my kind have you butchered?”

Against my better judgement, I hold up my fingers to indicate the number. I always have just enough fingers to do so.

It tsks disapprovingly in response. Suddenly, it bursts into a coughing fit. A sickening, phlegmy hacking rattles in its throat. Black smoke plumes heavily from its burning wounds. The lacerations widen, spilling fresh sparks on the cold floor. It writhes and heaves for air. The objective is suffocating. Swiftly, I take the softer edge of my weapon to its throat, freeing its breath. The cut mends itself and the objective catches its breath, clutching at its breast and cursing fluidly.

“Some of them weren’t so bad, you know,” it croaks as it regains composure and wipes a line of saliva from its chin. “They didn’t deserve to die. Your clients even tried to pay you not to kill them. But you did it anyway.”

I nod in agreement. There are many I have dispatched despite mass protest. But objectives are objectives and I don’t protect. Even when I heal, I am, at the very heart of all things, a killer. I’ve killed objectives that didn’t do anything to deserve it, because no matter how good they were, there is always a client to put out the hit. Some of the objectives cried for mercy. Some of them accepted me graciously. Some begged for just a second more to live.

I never showed mercy. It isn’t in my nature.

“You’re quite the sanctimonious one, aren’t you?" the objective sneers. "Saving me now so you can kill me later. Since you're in the business of healing, maybe you might patch up some of these?"

It indicates to a cluster of some of its larger wounds. Since sealing them would mean dampening that noisome odor, I grant its request and slice at its belly. As before, the cut mends itself and the wounds close. It huffs in pain before sagging in relief, scratching at one of the newly-formed scars. I wrinkle my nose in disapproval, knowing that will only open them up again. It just can't leave well enough alone.

"If I had known you were this agreeable, I would have welcomed you with all the pomp this wretched place can offer," it says, stretching in satisfaction. "It was never my idea to live here, you know. This is where I was locked up. This," it holds up an empty takeout box, "is what they fed me. These wounds? They made them. Every one of them. You know who I mean."

I nod again. My clients.

“So you understand. Then listen. I'm not so petty that mere vengeance is my desire. My only pursuit is my art, and I will make it with whatever I can get."

At this, it pulls an unfinished composition from the pile of trash. Instead of canvas, this one has tinfoil stretched on a frame. Even I’m not certain what the “paint” is this time. It smells foul, whatever it is, overpowering even the stench of its burning wounds. This composition is chaotic and abstract. Beautiful in a way, for how utterly incomprehensible it is. And yet, it is deeply profane.

“I spent all my life making one painting. I want to make more. And what do you gain from allowing me that right, but to be all the more heeded and beloved for killing me once I am prepared to die?” It caresses the surface of the unfinished painting. The wet medium smears slightly, the colors mixing into a murky greyish-yellow. "If you let me live, you will have clients begging you to do your job. They’ll bribe you. They’ll pray to you. You’ll be their god. It’s tempting, isn’t it? To be loved for once, for people to want you not to tarry in your work? You, who will outlive them all, to be adored instead of dreaded. All you have to do is let me continue my work in peace.”

I grasp the handle of my weapon and narrow my eyes. It's not the first time I've been given such an offer, and it only goes to prove how little my objectives understand of what I am.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” it asks complacently. “That's to be expected. You've never seen the likes of me before. But it must be wearying, killing the same stock of objectives over and over. Why not let me live and see what more I can do? I’ve impressed you already, have I not?”

I rise to my feet. The objective snarls and bares its jagged teeth threateningly. Its muscles tense under its weathered skin. In response, I quietly brandish my weapon. The sharp edge glints and flares dangerously. The objective hisses again and fire bursts from its raw skin, dripping thick cords of magma. Its nest is set ablaze and an angry orange light ravages the empty building.

It howls. It tosses its head violently. Then, it lunges forward and swipes at my heart. Its muscles are strong and stout, able to crumble bones like unfired clay. But against me, such fearsome might is useless. Its body slips through mine and I am untouched. It falls heavily against the column behind me and moans in pain. The impact jars its wounds violently. Sparks pool below its torn body. It looks up at me, shivering, at last realizing the intangible nature of my form. Fear is in its eyes. It knows now. It is mortal. It can be killed.

I cannot.

“You’re a fool if you kill me!” it whines. “You will never see one like me again! They would never dare to make another one of me! I will haunt your dreams! You will tremble at the memory of me! My painting will hang behind your eyelids and the smell of this room will never leave you! I will-”

Faster than a second, I dispatch the objective with a decisive strike of my weapon. Not out of anger. Not even out of impatience. Simply because then, at that very instant, the deadline was up and I have a schedule to keep.

It falls at my feet, broken and lifeless, and its bulk dissolves into nothing. Only a shadow remains, sprawled on the ground where its body had lain. The shadow will remain for as long as my clients care to maintain it.

It isn’t in my nature to linger, but still, something tempts me to tarry. I stand silently in the objective’s smoldering den, gazing on its fallen silhouette. Something about it rankles me in a way few objectives have. Its hubris leaves a fouler impression than its works. Though the opportunity to discuss matters with it has passed, I break my long silence.

“You think highly of yourself,” I say softly. My voice is thin and carries no echo even in this empty cavern of a building. “Destroyer. Blasphemer. Artist. You think yourself something special and fearsome. A legend that will live on, haunting the darkest places of the imagination for eons. No doubt my clients believe so. Always, they are quick to dread and disavow what they've made. But I know the truth.”

I kneel down and whisper where its ear would be if it had left a body.

“Far worse have come before you, and far worse may follow. To me, you are all nothing.”

I sheathe my weapon and turn to leave the den. The room has gone cold and pitch-black, ashes coating the floor as I make my way out into the midnight streets. A great shout of cheer from my clients fills the air in a joyful song. The storm roils and lightning dances in the clouds. To my right, the moon sets. To my left, the sun rises. And somewhere not very far away, I can hear the birthing cries of my next objective.

The old year has passed away.