chapter 2 the spider.

  In the gritty world of contract killing, simply playing the role of the observer is rarely enough; to truly zero in on your target, you need to infiltrate their personal circle. I was grappling with two glaring obstacles: first, my quarry had already locked eyes with me, an encounter that shattered any hopes of stealth. Second, my appearance was far from reassuring—I looked like crap; my eyes, as I mentioned earlier, were reddened and puffy, and I appeared pale. My clothes hung loosely, creased and stained, and my hair was unkempt, effectively broadcasting a careless demeanor that would send alarm bells ringing to anyone in uniform. To a soldier, my haggard look reeked of someone to be wary of; I embodied a dangerous unpredictability. The combination of my scruffy exterior and the intensity of Neurotelin addiction left me teetering on the edge of failure, making the impending task feel all the more daunting. Nerotelin was a type of stimulant an injection used to boost energy levels. It was considered a black-market drug that helped individuals manage their emotions and maintain steadiness. I could feel my body trembling uncontrollably, a desperate craving for another fix coursing through my veins like wildfire. Despite the remnants of my seizure still clinging to me, this jolt had left me feeling nearly impervious—at least for the moment. As I struggled against the relentless tides of pain that threatened to drag me beneath the surface, I felt a shudder ripple through me. It was a fleeting moment of resistance before the effects coursed through my body, washing over me like a sudden rush. With trembling hands, I reached down and picked up my wrinkled shirt from the cold floor, the fabric still slightly damp from the previous night. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the long, arduous day that lay ahead. After I finally mustered the energy to get out of bed, I moved toward the door almost on autopilot, my mind buzzing with the details I had carefully organised in my head and cycled through in my mind. As I cycled through my head notes, something about the tail I had been tracking caught my attention. I remembered the day clearly, yet it felt eerily ordinary—except for the moment when he dropped her off near the old stone church at the edge of town. The detail stayed in my mind. It suggested that his girlfriend was a rare find in a place like Darkspire, where such values were rarely appreciated. She seemed to be a genuinely good person, which indicated that he tended to target good people for some reason, my task now was to enter his circle and understand why... so today feels like a day filled with saintly light. As I steadied my trembling hand, I grasped the cold, bronze door handle. With a cautious turn, the heavy door creaked open, revealing the dim interior beyond. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure as a wave of emptiness washed over me. Instead of the warm embrace of light that I had hoped for, my eyes were met with an oppressive darkness, reminiscent of the desolate streets of Darkspire’s slums. Every time I repeated the process, I kept hoping that the sun's rays might forget that they could never reach me. For a fleeting moment, a profound sense of futility enveloped me as I stood there, As a quiet observer of the world around me, I found myself situated like an observer gazing at a city-shaped box outside. My attention was captured by a worn-out car, an old Henderson model, pulling a rusted trailer behind it. The car exuded a faded elegance, with its deep blue paint, once regal and striking, now dulled by years of neglect and countless road trips. Despite its initial appeal, it was cheaply manufactured, resulting in a vehicle few could truly afford due to prices soaring even for necessities that were inside....(I chuckle) You weren't human if you didn't wonder. Slowly, the vehicle crept along the overgrown and crumbling road, a testament to the passage of time and the stories etched into its battered exterior. Its headlights barely pierced through the thick gloom, and I couldn't help but feel the weight of my insignificance within the confinement of my reality. Monologue quip "Well I'm off to church ma would be so proud"

  Gravecrest Priory nepthis 8th 12 am

  "L'ère du bon sens est perdue, rares sont les hommes de connaissance, les jours de l'humilité sont révolus, les jours de paix sont morts."

  "The era of common sense is lost, few are the men of knowledge, the days of humility are over, the days of peace are dead."

  (monologue) "Every time I look up at that ceiling plate, I’m reminded that in this city of perpetual night, there is little hope. Medicine, or most of it, has become scarce and is reserved for the military. For those of us who get sick or take a bullet, the lack of medical care can be fatal. While the wealthy enjoy luxury, those below suffer endlessly. Not that I care, but that is, and always will be, the way of things." As I strolled along the cobblestone path leading to the grand old church of Gravecrest, I caught sight of Marv's—a quaint little trinket shop nestled snugly between a weathered tavern and a bustling bakery. The shop's windows sparkled with an array of colourful baubles and oddities, each one whispering tales of distant lands and forgotten times. I couldn't help but pause for a moment, admiring the delicate craftsmanship of the items on display, from shimmering crystal figurines to intricately carved wooden trinkets.

  Yet, even as the beauty of the shop momentarily captivated me, a nagging thought tugged at the edges of my mind. I found myself pondering the looming threats that hovered over our imperial bastion—specifically, the relentless matriarchy of Hasque with their insatiable lust for power, or the savage raiders that lurked beyond our borders, their shadows stretching ever closer to our safe and decent life of servitude. I’m curious to know which one will reach us first. As I stand outside Marv's shop, looking through the glass window, I see a necklace—a mosaic mother-of-pearl pendant, much like the one my mother used to wear. I find myself reflecting on how we left things. My mother once shared with me an old saying, a cherished piece of wisdom that echoed through the years before her illness cast a long shadow over her mind. It clings to my heart like a familiar melody, lingering even as her own memories fade like mist at dawn. I make the pilgrimage to see her from time to time, navigating the sterile corridors of the hospital, where the rhythmic hum of machines fills the air—mechanical lifelines that help her draw breath in this world poisoned by our own actions. She exists now in a disquieting limbo, suspended between life and the unknown, a mere shell of the vibrant woman she once was and somehow I know even she deserved it.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I won’t disguise my thoughts; the idea of ending her suffering, of offering her peace, has occasionally crept into the corners of my mind like a shadow stalking the light. There’s a haunting phrase she used to embrace, "I dreamt but did not know, yet I knew but dared not dream." During these challenging days, the weight of our collective struggle has never felt heavier, serving as a nightmarish reminder of a society that has lost its aspirations and is adrift in a sea of gloom thicker than the factory smog. Each word strikes a chord deep within me, like the echo of a grand ballroom where the haunting notes of a melancholic waltz fill the air. The bittersweet struggle of yearning for a future that seems impossibly distant unfolds gracefully, reminiscent of a model gracefully gliding across the floor in an elaborate mask—exuding beauty but remaining elusive and intangible, a dream just beyond our grasp, forever teasing our hearts and not something you or I could have or could be. I paused for a moment, my fingers quivering slightly—not from any medical episode, but as if I were bracing myself for an impending revelation. As I slowly turned to take in my surroundings, an overwhelming wave of sadness washed over my features, catching me off guard. It was a peculiar emotion to feel in that moment to me at least.

  Moving further down the cracked pavement, I spotted a crowd congregating in front of the church, its weathered stone fa?ade looming behind them like an ancient sentinel. In the centre of the gathering stood a man, his posture upright and defiant, exuding a fa?ade of bravery that felt almost theatrical. His voice rang out, filled with fervent intensity as he delivered one impassioned rant after another, rallying the crowd around him as though he were a general on the battlefield.

  Yet, behind that bravado, I sensed a palpable undercurrent of fear propelling his words the onlookers listened with rapt attention, their expressions a mix of hope and apprehension, drawn together by the magnetic pull of his bravado after all .....strength in numbers right?. As I approached the swelling mass of the crowd, a chilling disconnect washed over me; their humanity felt like a distant shore, receding into the fog of despair. Fear hung in the air, thick and sharp, as they clutched their signs like shields, their trembling hands waving a desperate message before the looming fa?ade of the church. The anger radiated from them, a volatile energy rooted in the depths of their anxiety, surging outward with each passionate gesture. I could feel the inevitability of intervention by the protector class we called firewall creeping in, like a storm ready to break upon this fragile assembly.

  Their hopes and indeed even the protest had been misdirected; the factory that once breathed life into the community had closed its doors, leaving behind a hollow echo of despair. As they were herded toward the church intentionally that loomed ominously further up the road, it became painfully clear that the society they inhabited held no sanctuary for the spiritual; it was a profound injustice that demanded to be crushed. In the realm of true spirituality, all men are equals, aren't they? Yet in Darkspire, that idea flickered like a dying ember, a haunting dream that had never truly lived—an illusion devoid of meaning, destined to be extinguished once and for all. Since neither the crowd nor the ruling class cared, it could be used as leverage in the paper. They could claim the church had been attacked, thus asserting a moral right to suppress it with force. Wishing to abstain from judgment, I offer these thoughts for you, my reader, to ponder: Would you say that the boots on my head suggest I’m something of a prophet? You may not be able to tell, but I can't help chuckling as I make my way to church humorously. As I climbed the rail-like stairs into the church's backroom confessional area, I realized I had forgotten to mention that, like the matriarchy we were born into, our roles were supposedly determined by fate or some such nonsense. I began to wonder if my purpose was to fight against them, especially since my role seemed to be death itself. I found it amusing that the restrictions we refer to as castes covered art, science, military, and retail work, encompassing a vast array of jobs.

  It gets trickier because the chip is procedural, and you are coded for what you are "meant" to be, seemingly at random. I paused to continue speaking, but a can obstructed my foot, so I playfully kicked it down the stairs to avoid breaking my neck. As I push open the heavy oak door, a sly grin creeps across my face, revealing the magnificent interior of the church that now lies in a state of disarray. Once a beacon of serenity and art, the vast expanse is now cluttered with refuse, remnants of a long-forgotten reverence. The upper levels, once adorned with intricate woodwork, are now partially collapsed, exposing their vulnerability to the elements. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, casting fragmented hues of silver and shades of light onto the debris-strewn floor.

  These windows serve as a haunting reminder of Asyrin's legendary battle against a Grahmulza demon—a scene of fierce struggle and heroic valour. The glass vividly depicts Asyrin, sword drawn, with determination etched across his face as he vanquishes the monstrous foe and cradles its still-beating heart, an offering meant to heal the world. Yet, the irony is not lost on me: the very essence of his triumph lies shattered around us, a poignant testament to his ultimate failure. As a tear left my left eye for a reason not known to me the stillness in the air seemed to harry my thoughts as I continued my caste as it were was the role of officer police so how does one go from that to well....a parody of that me I suppose destiny is rarely so simple and there were circumstances that changed me perhaps I'll tell you someday for now all you'll know is a word Scarlet.