Dreamsmith's Forge - The Assassin Chronicles: Showdown on New Haven (Part II)

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The Assassin Chronicles:

Showdown on New Haven (Part II)

The Ctarl-Ctarl. The lions of space. The wolves of the battlefield. Rulers of the greatest empire in the galaxy.

They are proud warriors. Proud of their strength and ferocity in combat. On their homeworld, in ancient times, there were many creatures larger and more powerful than a Ctarl-Ctarl. But the howls of a pack, hunting by moonlight, heralded the death of whatever prey they chose. Nothing, no matter how large or how strong, could face a pack of Ctarl-Ctarl and live.

But sometimes, one was born different.

Amongst these social creatures would be born a shy and solitary child. A child who shunned the pack. A child who liked to wander the forest alone. They would be encouraged to join the pack, to play with the other children, but on the night of their first transformation, their difference would become apparent to all, and the tables would turn. The pack would shun them.

In ancient times, they would go into the forests and live alone, away from the society that shunned them. It was not a punishment. They preferred solitude to the pack. And they could not hunt with the pack. Their hunting form was different. They could not run through the forest for hours, howling fear into their prey. They were built to hunt differently, silently. In stealth, they would sneak up to their prey, silently pounce, and kill their prey quickly. Often, their prey would die not ever knowing what killed them.

For a race of proud (and loud) warriors, such silence and sneakiness was disturbing. These natural assassins were shunned and feared. They were happy that these outcasts chose to live in the forests alone, away from them. They were happier still when the modern era dawned. Instead of disappearing into the forest, these outcasts would disappear into space.

Amongst the Ctarl-Ctarl, they had no place. But these natural assassins found their skills well received by some of the other races in space...

Tikki circled on the edge of the crowd, silently stalking, in search of her prey. The scents of several hundred humans mixed with the smells of various foods being cooked and sold in the marketplace. Her sensitive nose easily separated the mix into the scents of each individual, if she chose to concentrate on any one. But it would do her no good today. She had yet to smell her latest prey. Today, she would have to rely on sight.

She had given up asking the local shopkeepers about her prey. None would admit to having seen her. And she believed them. She could smell the fear when one of them lied, but they had all been telling the truth. Perhaps her prey had not arrived on New Haven yet. No matter, she would come, sooner or later, and eventually she would come here. Unlike the fools who constituted the majority of her species, Tikki knew the value of patience.

She had spent years studying her Art, at first with another assassin, for a time with a Tao master, but mostly on her own. From her first teacher she learned the art of the kill, from her second she learned to enhance her natural senses and stealth to supernatural levels, but most of what she valued she had learned on her own. She learned to study her prey. People are predictable. People are creatures of habit. She had no need to chase her prey down. She would simply wait. Let the prey do all the work. Let the prey come to her. Watch, learn, kill.

A woman dressed in traditional Japanese garb approached the vendor Tikki had been watching the most closely, an old man selling fried food. Creatures of habit, as always. As Tikki watched, the woman began conversing with the old man. Tikki began filtering out the sounds of marketplace, trying to concentrate on the woman and the old man. Unfortunately, she was too far, and the marketplace was too noisy, but she thought she caught a word: "Striper."

Ahh, you know of me, then. Good, she thought. Most of my prey never know my name. This will be an interesting change. For both of us. How often does the hunter become the hunted, Twilight? Are you ready for your new role as prey?

Tikki concentrated on the smell of tempura, and on the scent of the woman eating it. Satisfied, she disappeared into the crowd.

"Striper?" Kamura echoed. "I take it you know her, then."

"Only by reputation," Suzuka replied, "but it's an impressive reputation. Also, at least once she's taken a job I turned down."

"Not worth your time?"

"Not worth my life. They were offering quite a bit, but I still didn't feel it was worth the risk. Later, when I heard the target had been killed, and made a couple of inquiries. After I'd turned them down, the clients apparently hired Striper, and she did what I wouldn't attempt. Her fixer has been boasting about that ever since, and she's been getting some juicy contracts that would have otherwise been mine, I'm sure."

"Fixer?"

"A lot of people in the business don't deal directly with their clients. They have someone else that negotiates contracts for them. These agents are frequently called 'fixers' because they fix clients up with the people who can solve their problems, for a price, of course. Sometimes they simply get clients and assassins together, but sometimes they're the only face the client ever sees. Striper is like that. No one knows what she looks like beyond that she's Ctarl-Ctarl and paints herself up when she's working. It's an effective way of hiding her identity -- you met her, but if you met her without her face-paint and dyed hair, you probably wouldn't be able to tell her from any other Ctarl-Ctarl. She's probably in the marketplace right now, watching us."

Kamura looked startled by the thought. His eyes began scanning the crowd. They narrowed as they came to rest on one particular person. "There's a Ctarl-Ctarl woman staring at us right now."

Suzuka nodded. "Unfortunately, she's only the latest of more than half a dozen Ctarl-Ctarl women who've stopped and stared at us in the last minutes. It doesn't help that you run a fried food stand, Kamura-san. Every Ctarl-Ctarl that wanders within sniffing distance stops and stares at your stand."

Kamura sighed. "The price of being so talented. I love the Ctarl-Ctarl customers the best, they always buy so much!"

Suzuka looked down at her plate. "Are you complaining that I never buy enough from you?"

"Do you from anyone? You're so thin! You should eat more, Suzie." Kamura was the one person in the galaxy who could call her that and live. "Here, try some of the fish, it's fresh..."

"No, I couldn't. No no!" she further protested as Kamura put some fried fish on her plate. She sighed and took a bite. Kamura stared at her, eyes wide, waiting for her judgment. Her own eyes widened in amazement. "This is incredible! What is it?"

"Catfish."

"I, uhh... I've never had Catfish before. I'm surprised it's not more popular if it tastes like this."

"It's my own special batter recipe that makes it good. I could substitute just about anything and you wouldn't taste the difference."

A thought occurred to her. "Is this so you can hide the quality of your fish?"

Kamura waved the comment aside. "I don't sell fish, I sell my cooking skill. You're getting the same product no matter what raw materials I use to start."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better."

"Not to worry, Suzie. I always give you the best."

Unfortunately, this was the least of Suzuka's worries.

When Suzuka left the marketplace, she didn't head back to her hotel. She began walking to the seaside district. She took a long, meandering course. The scenic route. Of course, the only sight she was interested in seeing was the person following her. Assuming she was being followed.

She didn't like this. Not one bit. Her knowledge of Striper's habits was sketchy at best, but what she knew of them suggested this was very out of character. Striper's victims didn't find out she was after them until it was too late, assuming they didn't simply die without ever knowing. But here, Striper had practically telegraphed the fact to her. It's almost like she was advertising the fact that she was after her.

... like she was advertising the fact ...

... advertising ...

Suzuka stopped dead in her tracks. "You bitch!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "You think you're better than me, and you want everyone to know it! You want everyone to see you humiliate me! Well, guess what, bitch, it ain't happening! You're dead meat, Striper! You here me? I'm going to turn you into a throw rug, and whenever anyone comes to visit, I'll tell them that's Striper they're walking on! What do you think of that?"

A voice echoed down the street. "You forgot to tell me what time of day you're going to kill me!"

Suzuka whirled around. There were half a dozen people in the street staring at her, and more just going about their business, as if they hadn't heard her outburst or the reply. None of them happened to be Ctarl-Ctarl.

"I don't care! I'm not playing games with you, Striper! I'll kill you the moment I see you!"

"Very well! Midnight, then! I'll see you at midnight!"

Suzuka ran down the street, trying to find the source of the voice, but it had echoed too well -- it could have come from anywhere. Cursing, she resumed walking, this time back to her hotel. She didn't detect anyone following her, but she hadn't previously, either. Striper was as stealthy as they said. It didn't matter. She was sure that Striper meant what she said. They'd see each other at midnight, and not a moment sooner.

As she walked back to her hotel, Suzuka realized something else. Somehow, she'd let Striper steal her trademark. Striper had told her when she was going to try to kill her. It was supposed to work the other way around. How had she let the tables be turned so completely?

She realized that in all her years, after all the times she had had people come after her, try to catch her, try to stop her, she had never really felt hunted before. She felt hunted now.

Maybe I won't have to worry about retiring after all...