A Parody of Fate
There are comedies, there are tragedies, and there is Fate - who enjoys a laugh as much as the next man, and has a lot more power to make it happen.
That, and a sort of quiet fuming, was what was on my mind when I stepped out onto the glass concourse. I was perfectly optimal, as I had always been; there were four coughs from four weapons, and her whisper-thin discreet guards diffracted into blurred stillness.
She turned while I stalked towards her in four uncompromisingly lethal killing machines. Four pairs of eyes in four blank, featureless faces locked and boxed her in luminous cascades of information. Four pairs of arms lowered their cradled weapons by sufficient fractions of a degree to indicate that this was not an assassination.
Cocooned as I was, it would have to be someone intimately familiar with the intricate details of my self and my profession to have a hope of recognising me in that moment. She, of course, did so without any seeming effort, nor care.
I didn't say a word. Fate is cruel indeed.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
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