Just A Whim Revised and Finished

"The President spoke today after the execution of the three terrorists apprehended in the foiled attack on the capitol building last month,” the melodically soothing voice broke the interminable hum of the train speeding along the tracks. The news report cut to a sound bite:

‘Any who feel these men were daring, courageous, or admire them for their supposed faith, know this: Our country has no time nor tolerance for terrorists. We will brook no quarter and have no mercy. Do not allow yourself to be brainwashed into believing their hate-inspired dogma. Such falsely harbored sentiments do nothing to further the common good of our country’s progress.”’

The soothing voice returned as the sound bite cut away, “This is the third such attack this year. Authorities are increasing surveillance in high-risk locations, particularly in populous urban areas. An anonymous source claims the nets are tightening around those believed to be behind the attacks." Her voice cut off with a squelch, and an annoying ad jingle for tissue paper took over.

The sole occupant of the public transit compartment was a man clutching an old leather briefcase. He wore a bowler hat, dress coat over a V-neck sweater vest, and khaki slacks with some ink droplet stains near the right-hand pocket. His worn and faded shoes and generally shabby appearance contrasted starkly with the sterile train compartment. Hard, bright, cushion-covered rows of benches faced each other at narrow intervals. The windows un-smudged or dirtied by human hand grease, with only detailed fire escape maps blemishing the walls of the compartment. Even the floor seemed fresh and new - no dirt stains ground in by the weight of many feet, no chewing gum monuments to pattern the starkness.

The man’s head nodded as he listened to the news report and commercials. He yawned intermittently and hugged a small black briefcase to his chest. The leather of the case was cracked with wear around the edges and gold paint peeling off the metal portions; the clasps bore the inscription J.H.K.

Rolling hills covered in grasses and shrubs skimmed past beyond the glass of the window. Periodically a lone wooden fence post would peek its way through the tall grass; suggesting a rustic time long past, a time of toil and labor. A time when sweat of the brow and strength of the arm were fuel and engine, and rewards were basic and earthy: a soreness in the arms, the harvest of a crop, a tired contentedness. "There are no such rewards to be had in this world," the man thought to himself with a cheerless and resigned smile.

The earth turned steadily, the horizon climbing to meet the sun in its never-ending cycle. The landscape slipped by, uniform in its monotony.

The man's head bowed toward his chest as fatigue crept into his body and his eyelids curtained slowly down. He surrendered to the comforting dark of sleep as suffocating night seized the train.

-------------------------

His phone was ringing. He knew it was. Just like he knew the coffee was brewing, and the metronome was ticking - not because he could hear it - just because he knew. In this meditative state, there were no feelings or emotions; he was one with his apartment, his room, his body, his mind. Sound, sight, and smell were suspended. There was only knowing and being.

Muscles bulged and rippled beneath his skin as he moved through the steps and forms of the ritual. Years of hard training and conditioning were evidenced in the sculpted cut and hardened tone of his body. This was not a portion of his training; he’d picked up the meditative forms along the way. He was one among many, trained with the purpose to kill without being caught, without being seen, without seeming to kill.

He stopped the metronome. It was merely a focus for attaining the meditative state. He grabbed his phone and keyed in the 5-digit code to unlock it. The screen flashed a message:

"Atlantis Target. Urgent. Target ETA 1000. North Station. Subject File Attached."

He always got the Atlantis targets, because he was the best. He scanned the attached file and picture then glanced at his watch. 0800 hours. Plenty of time for breakfast.

-------------------------

His eyes shot open and he jerked upright as the door of the train compartment whooshed open. An elderly train attendant stepped through the door proffering an electronic screen to the man with the briefcase. "Anything from the menu for breakfast?" the old man asked cheerily while scrolling down on the screen, gesticulating at the selections.

He glanced out the window at the early morning brightness creeping over the landscape. "No thank you, not today.”

The elderly attendant nodded with an understanding smile, and made his way to the adjoining compartment.

Can't be far now, the man thought to himself. A few more hours and I'll be in the city. I'll make the transfer and be on my way before lunch.

The worn briefcase gave a leathery creak as he hugged it to his chest, readjusting his seat on the hard plastic bench.

-------------------------

He snatched up his bag and opened it, ensuring everything was there. Satisfied, he left the apartment, locked the door, and descended the stairs to the street. He made his way down the sidewalk inhaling deeply the smell of the city as he walked. In the street, cars and taxicabs floated silently by, supported and propelled by the magnetic field created between the strips on the ground and the engines in the cars.

Things had changed drastically in the past thirty years. Some for the better, some perhaps not so much. Fewer people walked the streets than would have been out on a morning like today before the Consolidation. Many still wondered whether or not that had been the answer; though most were smart enough to keep such doubts to themselves. Not my business to worry about those things, the man shook away the distracting thoughts with a silent reprimand for his loss of focus, even if it was only a stray thought.

He bought a bagel at the corner store, pressing his thumbprint against the pay-screen so the store could charge his personal account.

He glanced up at the nimbostratus blanket scrolling across the sky with the sunlight streaming through in places as the light breeze tossed his hair almost playfully. A young lady walking her dog on the sidewalk threw a friendly smile at him, which he returned before turning his steps purposefully towards North District.

He glanced at his watch: 0910 hours

-------------------------

If they knew he was coming, if they knew the transfer was today, there was not even a chance he would make it out alive. The clock crawled steadily forward, the train sped toward the city, and a warm dampness gathered on his brow.

He thought of his wife and his two daughters. Lisa understood the risk. She had signed on willingly just as he had, in the beginning. They both had believed in the movement. Neither of them had the heart to stand by idly and watch. Belief. It’s funny what time can do to perspective.

Yes, Lisa understood the risk back then, they both had. Then Sara was born, and Mary a year and a half later. They had wanted children; they knew that from the start. He wouldn't trade them for anything. He just hoped he would be able to see them again.

The group would protect his family if he didn’t make it back. Hide them, provide for them. Originally nothing else seemed to matter except the success of their efforts - originally. And he still wanted their efforts to succeed; he and Lisa had just never realized it might mean this.

The kids were too young to understand now. One day though, when they were older, Lisa would explain it all to Sara and Mary. Hopefully they’d be proud of Daddy, and remember him with love even though he isn't there.

"Some things in life are more important than living."

That sounded familiar. Maybe someone said that once. He would probably never find out whom though, even if he lived through the day. Too much had been lost.

The train suddenly began to decelerate. Glancing out the window he could see skyscrapers in the distance, rapidly approaching. He glanced at his watch. It read 9:55 a.m. It was time.

-------------------------

Sometimes he was introspective. He thought about his life, the things he had done. The things he had accomplished. He had as normal a childhood as anyone born after the Consolidation. He had aced his way though school, been a standout in almost any competition, and enrolled in the mandatory screening process the day after he graduated.

He had high hopes going in to the screening. Two days of written and practical examinations, then the fitness tests. He had been born an athlete. He was always the fastest, quickest, and strongest. He had always been smarter too. His high hopes popped like a balloon's dream of flying to the moon. The facilitators had given his parents an envelope and sent him on his way. He cried. He thought he would never stop crying. It felt like drowning. Disappointment. Despair.

On the way to the car to head back home, a nondescript black car stopped next to his family. Two men got out and spoke briefly with his parents. There was a lot of nodding. Then his mother came over. She had tears in her eyes too. Why is she crying, he had thought. Maybe she was just that disappointed in his failure.

"You've got to go with them son," she said. "I'm very proud of you. But your father and I may never see you again. Remember us, and always remember that we love you."

They hugged. Then he got in the car with the two men. They told him he was different. Better than normal. Special.

He had been chosen for admittance into a secret program. A program that chose ten from the screenings each year from across the country – to compete, to train.

Competition. That was where he thrived. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he remembered those days. He had truly shined during training. He broke every record, bested every test, and finished faster than anyone on record. He truly was the best.

Now he utilized everything he had ever learned. And utilized it well, to complete the missions. He never had seen his parents again. Sometimes he wondered if they were still alive. Did they think about him? He could still remember his mother's face, the tears in her eyes.

The corners of his mouth dropped to form a thin line with his lips.

He turned a corner and saw the train station three blocks ahead. His watch read 0955 hours.

-------------------------

There he was. The target. He looked older and heavier – more worn and faded – than he appeared in his picture. He kept his head down, shading his eyes from the bright sun as he left the train station.

The watcher became a hunter, a panther stalking its prey through the jungle of tall buildings and passing cars. The trick here, the hunter knew, was to be indistinguishable in his hunt, invisible in his visibility. With this few people on the street the prey would feel unseen eyes on their back and become suspicious. He had to delude the target into a sense of security. He had to become commonplace. He became a chameleon.

The man in the coat and the bowler hat made his way down the street from the train station. He took up a steady pace, not in a hurry, but with destination clearly in mind.

The hunter began his stalk; he started on the opposite side of the street keeping pace about forty yards back. The man continued walking for three blocks then turned down a larger street, headed towards downtown.

The hunter switched sides of the street at the next crosswalk – stepping onto the metal disc that the magnetic fields propelled up and over the lines of traffic to avoid congestion. His prey walked two more blocks, then stopped abruptly and sat down on a bench next to the sidewalk. Behind the bench was a wrought iron fence surrounding a small park of green slopes with a duck pond. Two women passed by the fence briskly walking along the trail – late morning exercise.

The hunter, though surprised by his prey's gambit, adapted. The maneuver suggested that his quarry had some experience or training, or some inclination that he was being followed. He slowed his pace, pulled his backpack off his shoulder, and became very interested in the birds zipping from tree to tree in the park. He watched as they swooped playfully, chasing insects and each other through the sky. He reached into his bag and pulled out a camera. The hunter became a nature-loving photographer.

He sidled close to the target's bench and began to snap some shots of the birds and the pond.

He ambled within a couple yards of the bench and interjected observation with snapshots from time to time. He studied the target in his peripherals while appearing to be wholly engrossed with the cheerful birds.

The man seemed distracted. He stared vaguely at the intersection a few meters past where he sat, but with unfocused eyes. His thoughts focused on things unseen.

The hunter, noticing the man's demeanor and understood that the abrupt stop at the park bench was not deliberate, decided to try a new tactic.

"Silly creatures aren't they," hunter said casually to prey, obliviously resting on the park bench.

"I'm sorry?" the man with the briefcase gave a start, noticing the younger man for the first time.

"Birds I mean," the masquerading photographer continued with a kindly smile. "Incredibly selfish and territorial in their small domains though they possess the innate ability of flight, a talent man has failed to achieve unaided. I sometimes envy their carefree gliding through the breeze.

The man in the threadbare suit considered this craning his neck to view the birds, his mouth drawn into a pensive line. "They remind me of my daughters," he said, breaking into a sincere smile. His eyes followed the birds, but became unfocused as he concentrated inward.

"They flit around like songbirds, not a care in the world, simply enjoying life and living at full speed from place to place, game to game, idea to idea. Even when they are upset, whether from bickering with each other, or maybe being reprimanded for disobedience, they are like quicksilver, swift to learn or forgive. Then they leap back to their play with such a passion. A sincere passion."

The older man chuckled, "I've become long winded," then he barked a smart laugh, "old habits never die I suppose."

"What do you mean," the other man asked, shouldering his camera and taking a seat on the bench.

"Well, I used to be a teacher. A professor at a university. But that was far from here, and probably long before your time, before the Consolidation, anyway."

"I see," the younger man replied, "Are you just visiting the city then?"

"Oh yes actually, my stay will be very short." the older man continued, "I'm meeting someone at a small coffee shop in Central Square, and I hope to be on the train home by tonight.

"I'm actually headed towards downtown myself," the hunter replied, "I'm going to shoot some snapshots of the Capitol Building, and the guard change after lunch. I'll walk there with you if you don't mind. I'd like to hear some about your teaching days prior to the Consolidation."

The other man shifted his briefcase, smiled and agreed.

The two men rose from the park bench and set a leisurely pace towards the Capitol District.

-------------------------

“I taught literature, actually,” the older man whispered from the side of his mouth, smiling as if telling a particularly juicy secret.

“Literature? I’m unfamiliar with the word,” the younger man responded.

The older man coughed incredulously, “How young are you?”

“It’s been eight years since my testing,” the younger man responded.

“So, eighteen at the most. Yes, maybe it’s not so surprising, at that.”

The older man’s face drooped ever so slightly at the realization.

“When I think of some of the things we have lost, I can only count it as a terrible shame,” the older man said.

“Tell me of this literature. What is it exactly?”

“Well, it’s stories, really,” the man said, “Just stories, I guess.”

“You used to teach stories? What’s the point of that,” the young man asked, bewildered.

“I’ve never really thought about it before,” the man responded, “I guess entertainment mostly, now that it comes to it, though most works of literature teemed with moral lessons and instructions for life.”

“A story helped people know what to do in life?” the younger man said with flat disbelief.

“Well, yes. It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, well, one of the oldest stories ever written – ?”

“— I’m sorry, ‘written’?”

The older man’s gazed at the young man, mirroring his earlier look of incredulity.

“It was… it’s how things used to be recorded, before screens and computers. People would use implements to etch words onto surfaces by hand, as opposed to the contemporary manner of thinking words onto a screen.”

The young man looked thoughtful.

“One of the oldest stories ever written,” the older man continued, determined to make more than a half a sentence of headway before being interrupted this time, “is about a man’s wrath.”

“Although, technically, he wasn’t a man. His mother was a goddess – ?”

“— A what?”

“…She was a being who couldn’t die, with unfathomable power.”

The younger man squinted his eyes and nodded.

They walked slowly, oblivious to the passing cars and pedestrians. Skyscrapers loomed overhead; man-made mountains casting giant shadows among the scurrying ants.

“His mother was a goddess, and his father was a mortal man. And he was the most gifted fighter ever.”

The young man perked at this revelation, his interest obviously piqued.

“Yes, he was gifted beyond measure. And when the great king of the region took the country’s armies to war with a formidable enemy nation, he went along, so that his name would survive through the ages. To ensure that even when he had died, men would speak his name in reverence and he would not be forgotten.”

“Go on,” the young man prodded.

“Well the battles raged off and on, the army knew disease and defeat, and camped on the beaches, they reconsidered their course. You see, their enemies were defending their homeland against invaders; they hid behind their tall, strong walls and laughed at the army’s futile efforts.”

“The hero himself began to question his motives. He bickered and disagreed with the king. And the king in his arrogant, mindless pride, humiliated the hero.”

“The hero refused to fight. He waited in his tent with his men, fuming at the king and praying to his mother. The enemy attacked the encampment and the hero’s cousin begged him to drive them back to the city. Yet still he refused.”

“The cousin put on the hero’s armor, and masquerading as the hero, drove the enemy from the tents and back to the city. But alas, there the captain of the defenders – the hero’s mortal enemy – killed the hero’s cousin.”

“When our hero is informed, he becomes enraged. He rejoins the battle with a fury. He slays great heroes, and captures relatives of the opposing king. He fights his way to the city and demands that his mortal enemy face him. In the fight that follows, the hero easily prevails. He hosts funeral games for his cousin, and defiles the body of his enemy,” here the older man cut off grimly.

“What happened next?” the younger man demanded.

“The hero’s fate was sealed,” the older man continued. “He would not live to see the end of the siege. His enemy’s brother would slay him with arrows from afar. The story ends with words of the enemy’s burial, respectful words.”

“And so the hero perished, not knowing that the siege would prevail; the enemy slaughtered to the brink of annihilation. The remnant – the survivors – fled. They would later found a great city, a city destined to expand and become a great empire, the greatest empire ever, at the time.”

“What was his name?” the young man asked quietly.

The older man looked at him, that infinitely sad smile on his face, “Achilles. He did more than any man could possibly have done, and though his wrath was great and his name was remembered for millennia, I fear he too shall be lost.”

“That is certainly fascinating,” the younger man said. “But it’s odd that the story about him should end with kind words for his enemy and that he should die before completing the destruction of his enemy’s people.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it,” the older man smiled genuinely. “It’s a matter of perspective. They were both heroes in their own right. Both tremendous fighters, strong of arm and stalwart in courage. Back then, enemies had respect for each other, they valued the strong. To them, nothing rivaled a fair fight – an even challenge. What greater bliss than to enter a battle with an opponent of equal caliber, to strive against this opponent with an even chance of winning and losing. The risk was great, but the rewards were unimaginable.”

“Besides that, history is written by the victor, and though Achilles’ people won the war, their enemies went on to found a great nation that would subjugate Achilles’ people and countless other countries.”

“But what did it matter?” the young man asked in confusion. “He was a great fighter, he killed his mortal enemy, and then he died before they won, before the true victory? I don’t get it.”

“Well, I admit, it’s more compelling in full. I gave you a monumentally abridged version of the story. But the point is that though he lived a short life, his name lived on in legend. He became infamous.”

The young man’s lips pursed in thought; he stopped walking, turning to look at the older man.

Suddenly, moving faster than thought – he stabbed the older man in the lower spine, and then plunged the small knife into his inner thigh, lifting and pushing backwards. He drove the man into and down the trash chute directly behind him. The man’s soft gasp as he fell was covered by the sound of the chute’s door rebounding. The depths swallowed him.

It all happened to quickly for passersby to notice – just a pedestrian throwing away some garbage. The young man bent to retrieve the bowler hat from the sidewalk, and sent it down after the man.

He casually replaced the knife in his jacket pocket and strode through the door of the nearest building.

-------------------------

The old man moved faintly as the beam of light peeked around the corner of the closest intersecting tunnel.

The younger man moved closer to inspect his handiwork. The knife wound in the spine had effectively paralyzed the man’s lower body, and the other – the one that would kill him – had pierced the femoral artery, just as intended.

It would be a matter of minutes.

The young man moved about the tunnel, placing charges in strategic locations, setting timers. Automated tunnel cleansing wasn’t for another 4 hours. He had time.

“Why… ?” the old man whispered, almost inaudibly.

The younger man moved closer, illuminating the man’s ashen face.

“You are an oppositionist,” he said remorselessly. “It is my job, my purpose.”

The old man shakily inhaled. His strength ebbing. His life leaking away.

He reached for the briefcase; his fingers scrabbled against the handle. Too weak to grasp it.

“You mustn’t.. let them.. destroy this,” he began a wheezing uncontrollable cough.

The younger man smiled deeply, “You’re an Atlantis target. Everything about you is to disappear without a trace. Your death will be seen as nothing more than another crime to lay at the feet of those you serve.”

“You.. cannot allow it..” the man’s eyelids began to slowly descend. “Some things… worth more than living...”

His lids snapped back, eyes wide-open, “You do not have to be.. what they have made you to be…”

His eyes glazed and his life hissed away with his last breath.

The young man finished placing the charges, activated the timer, and moved towards the tunnel exit.

He glanced back. Curiosity, a trait he’d never seriously contended with before, tickled his mind with light tendrils.

Before he knew it, the case was in his hands. Beam of his flashlight illuminating the initials “J.H.K.” He tried the clasps – they popped open with a resounding click. Echoing down the tunnel, reverberating in the dark distance.

He opened the case.

Inside was a tabular parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. That was all. Just one blocky package.

He left the tunnels, leaving the briefcase where it had fallen, his business finished.

-------------------------

It was dusk outside. The darkening sky streaked with pink and purple hues, highlighted by burnt orange colored clouds.

He sat in a coffee shop by the window in a high-backed booth. Secluded with his confused thoughts.

“Why?” he heard it from the lips of the man he had killed. It repeated in his head, berating him, demanding an answer. "Why?"

Why had the target seemed so normal, so human?

Why did he seem so sincere?

Why did the story intrigue him so?

Why did fulfilling this assignment seem so wrong?

More importantly, why had he failed to finish it completely?

He glanced down at the blocky package in his hands. He had never deviated from assignment instructions before in the slightest.

A woman’s melodic voice came over the sound system, “We interrupt this radio broadcast to bring you a breaking news story. Several hours ago, terrorists detonated explosives in the tunnel system beneath a downtown building, mere blocks from the Capitol. The building and tunnel networks surrounding it have collapsed and firefighters are still combating the flames. The death toll is estimated to be nearly one hundred citizens. An anonymous governmental source says this is one of the most dangerous attacks to date, and fears that if the terrorists can get so close to the Capitol building, perhaps nowhere is really safe.”

He blocked out the rest. It had never occurred to him before that his assignments would be used in such manners. He had always felt that his work was beneficial, that the losses would be worth the inevitable gains. He’d thought he was making the world a better, safer place.

He had never spoken with a target before.

He looked down at the parcel in his hands once again.

Why had that man been willing to die for this bundle?

He slowly undid the twine, pulling the brown paper off the package. His heartbeat audible.

It was a white substance, covered in words. Like a photograph, or a permanent screen.

He read the first sentences.

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.”