Assassin's (Cursed) Creed

The scent of freshly cut grass tickled her nose as Kaira touched down, the damp earth yielding slightly beneath her boots. A soft breeze danced across her skin, carrying whispers of honeysuckle from a flowering bush nearby. Kaira felt a familiar twinge of envy. The targets always got the nicest houses — quaint little affairs with sprawling yards and cozy nooks screaming of domestic tranquility. It was enough to make an eternally nomadic assassin crave roots... roots she was unlikely to ever have.

Drawing on skills honed through many botched stealth missions, she approached the house. Her movements were a strange, contradictory mix – the practiced, almost catlike grace of a seasoned predator punctuated by the occasional, unfortunate trip over her own feet. She'd never admit it, but the clumsiness wasn't entirely unintentional. Over the years, she'd realized haplessness was an amazingly effective distraction, especially when paired with genuine moments of bewildered incompetence.

Tonight, her weapon of choice was tucked into her boot: a vial of ancient Navajo toxin, potent enough to drop a mammoth mid-charge. The dagger it was laced upon was more for dramatic effect than anything else. A good show was, after all, half the job.

Kaira slipped through the unlocked bedroom window – less 'master assassin move' and more 'Makena really, really needs to up her home security game'. Inside, the air was still and cool, with a faint trace of a lemon-verbena candle recently extinguished. Moonlight traced the curves on the back of the sleeping form of her target in an ethereal glow. Makena Onatah Romanov was beautiful in a way that transcended mere appearances. There was a timelessness about her, as if her sleep was not of this night alone, but of centuries. It was almost enough to make Kaira hesitate. Almost.

"Time to di—" Kaira began, plunging her dagger deep into a back that wouldn’t break. Suddenly she began to sputter and choke on her words as the universe decided tonight would be a prime time for a surprise allergy attack. She frantically scanned the room for the source: a bouquet of flowers? A forgotten pillow? Her eyes landed on a rogue feather duster, left carelessly close to the bed. Damn whoever invented decorative feathers. A sneeze erupted before she could stifle it, a harsh, explosive sound that shattered the stillness.

Makena stirred, languidly rolling over with a sleepy groan, sheets falling to the side to reveal mostly everything. Kaira's impeccable timing had her stumbling backward – foot catching the corner of an antique rug, sending her sprawling. The dagger, meant for a swift and dramatic end, skittered across the hardwood floor before lodging itself, hilt quivering, in the plush mattress. It took Makena a moment to comprehend the sight of a startled, haphazardly armed woman looming over her bed.

"Um," the immortal-who-really-should-be-dead said, blinking sleepily, "Do I know you?"

Kaira was many things, but a quick thinker wasn't always one of them. "Special delivery!" she blurted out, internally cringing at her own idiocy. Before she could process what she'd just said, something heavy collided with her legs, the impact nearly sending her sprawling again.

Looking down, Kaira found herself eye-to-eye with the largest, fluffiest Maine Coon cat she'd ever encountered. It hissed in a most indignant fashion, tail swishing with the fury of a thousand warriors.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" Makena sat up, looking adorably tousled and surprisingly unafraid of the accidental intruder. "Raspukitten doesn't take kindly to strangers."

"Raspukitten?" Kaira sputtered. Of course, an immortal woman would have a ridiculously named, overly dramatic cat overflowing with personality. It was practically in the ancient bylaws of immortality or something.

"He's very protective," Makena explained, scooping up the disgruntled cat. The oversized feline settled into her lap like a furry, judgmental king.

Still reeling from the unexpected feline assault, Kaira could do little more than offer a shaky, "Nice cat."

Raspukitten offered her a slow blink that seemed suspiciously smug. In that moment, Kaira Nizhoni Sokolov, an assassin with a reputation for being both unorthodox and strangely effective, had the sinking suspicion that this mission was going to be spectacularly, hilariously disastrous.

***

Night after night, the scene played out like a darkly comedic loop. Kaira would materialize in the manicured garden, case her target, and then proceed to execute her assassination attempts with all the finesse of a drunken bull in a china shop. Poison cunningly slipped into Makena's morning tea was foiled by Raspukitten, who promptly knocked the mug over, regarding the contents with blatant suspicion. A carefully devised boobytrap, meant to ensnare Makena as she took her evening stroll, snagged a bewildered owl instead, leaving Kaira to untangle a screeching, feathery mess as Makena watched from the porch, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"You know," Makena remarked one sultry summer evening, sipping her Raspukitten-approved tea as Kaira dusted herself off from yet another garden mishap, "I've survived ambushes by Viking hordes, outmaneuvered Templar assassins, and even had a surprisingly awkward encounter with Napoleon during his Egyptian campaign. Yet, you might be the most persistent threat I've encountered."

Mortified, yet also perversely pleased with the unintended compliment, Kaira retorted, "Well, you can't say I'm not creative."

Makena chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm for someone who, by all accounts, should be cursed with an eternity of solitude. Over the course of these failed attempts, something strange had happened. Kaira found it increasingly difficult to view Makena simply as a target. The initial fascination sparked by the woman's immortality had bloomed into a begrudging respect for her quiet strength and unexpected sense of humor.

Frustration still coursed through her, of course. But as she shifted tactics, moving away from elaborate poisons and booby traps, her approach took on a different turn. There was the night Kaira attempted to seduce Makena under the pretense of a romantic moonlit rendezvous, only to end up sharing stories of disastrous first dates under the starry sky. Another night, she challenged Makena to a duel, a clash of wits and weaponry…which promptly devolved into a surprisingly competitive game of charades filled with exasperated gestures and bursts of laughter.

Through it all, Makena remained un-killed, persistently resisting all attempts to un-alive her. Kaira began to suspect that beneath the amusement, Makena was secretly enjoying the absurdity of it all. Perhaps, after centuries of existence, Kaira's chaotic presence and determination were injecting a spark of the unexpected back into her eternal life. It was, Kaira admitted begrudgingly, the strangest budding friendship she'd ever experienced.

One crisp autumn night, armed not with poison or traps, but a bottle of aged whiskey and a worn deck of cards, Kaira arrived at Makena's doorstep. Raspukitten, who'd gone from nemesis to begrudgingly tolerated co-conspirator, greeted her with a disgruntled meow before padding inside.

The scent that hit Kaira upon entering was unlike anything she'd encountered before. It was a heady mix – the musky sweetness of a woman's perfume intermingling with the warm, earthy aroma of someone who'd spent the day outdoors. Makena stood by the fireplace, a vision in a state of semi-undress. She wore only a loose silk robe that barely contained the generous curves Kaira had never dared to linger on before. Her hair, usually tied back in a practical braid, cascaded down her shoulders in a riot of auburn curls.

Heat flared in Kaira's cheeks, a blush warring with the frustration she'd carried for weeks. Makena, for her part, seemed to be enjoying the sight. Her lips curved into a sly smile, and she flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder in a gesture that could only be described as deliberately provocative.

"Trying a new strategy, I see?" Makena's voice was a husky whisper, sending shivers down Kaira's spine.

Kaira cleared her throat, forcing her gaze away from the expanse of creamy skin revealed by the parted robe. "Something like that," she mumbled, setting the whiskey and cards on the coffee table.

As Makena poured them both generous glasses of amber liquid, the firelight danced in her eyes, casting long shadows across the room. The air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with assassination attempts.

"You know," Makena began, settling into a plush armchair opposite Kaira, "there's a reason I haven't ended you after all this… chaos."

Kaira raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity battling with the remnants of her assassin's instincts. "Enlighten me."

Makena sighed, a melancholy tinge creeping into her voice. "Immortality, it turns out, is a double-edged sword. You watch empires rise and fall, witness the changing tides of history… but you lose everyone you love along the way."

She gestured towards herself, "…This body? It hasn't aged in centuries, but my soul has weathered the storms of time longer than any mortal should. I need this to end, Kaira. Not out of despair, but from a longing for the sweet oblivion, the peace of not existing anymore."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. Kaira, usually so quick with a witty remark, found herself at a loss for words. Makena's confession painted her immortality in a stark new light, replacing the sense of detached wonder Kaira first felt with the crushing weight of an unimaginable burden.

"So… all of this," she finally managed, gesturing vaguely towards their chaotic history, "you've been… orchestrating it? Looking for someone…" Kaira's voice trailed off, a pang of guilt twisting her insides. Each failed attempt, each bout of laughter, had been a desperate act for the woman sitting before her.

"Desperate, yes," Makena replied, the barest hint of self-deprecation in her voice. "But it hasn't been entirely unsuccessful." She reached across and squeezed Kaira's hand, sending a jolt of unexpected warmth through her. "You, Kaira, with your clumsy charm and unwavering determination, have given me something I haven't experienced in a very long time. Hope."

Kaira's heart constricted painfully. "But I haven't been able to—"

"Fulfill the contract? No," Makena chuckled, a rueful note in her voice. Yet, there was something softer in her eyes now, a vulnerability that Kaira found infinitely disarming.

"Maybe," Makena started, then paused, as if gathering her courage. "Maybe this was never about finding someone capable of killing me. Perhaps the true test all along was finding someone who could make me feel alive enough to even yearn for death."

Kaira felt her cheeks burning hot as the implications of Makena's words washed over her. Her breath caught in her throat, the room suddenly feeling small and intimate. The air shimmered with unspoken possibilities.

The night that followed was a kaleidoscope of touch and revelation. There was the clumsily shed robe, the gasp as Kaira's fingers traced a scar across Makena's shoulder – a relic from a 14th-century pirate encounter. There was the taste of whiskey on Makena's lips and the gentle brush of hair against Kaira's flushed skin. Words were traded in breathless whispers, stories of longing and resilience filling the quiet spaces. And when the first rays of dawn painted the room in shades of soft peach, it wasn't just the promise of a new day that filled Kaira's heart, but the bittersweet knowledge that their journey together was only just beginning.

***

Kaira slumped against the ancient oak, its gnarled branches groaning in the night wind. Exhaustion, a deep, bone-aching weariness, clung to her like a second skin. The mission, once a straightforward contract, had morphed into a tangled mess of emotions and unexpected revelations. Here she was, back at the scene of the crime... or maybe the crime of love, depending on how you looked at it. Her gaze fell on Makena, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moon, and the weight of their situation settled on her like a physical blow.

The plan, a desperate gambit born from conflicting loyalties, had seemed almost romantic at the time. A final dance, a farewell under the cloak of night. Now, it tasted like ash in her mouth.

As they waltzed, a slow, improvised choreography born of desperation and a love she couldn't deny, Kaira couldn't help but think of all the times they'd circled each other like this, predator and prey mirroring each other's moves. But tonight, there was no malice, just a heart-wrenching tenderness. With each step, each stolen breath, the moment ripened.

Kaira drew the dagger, a simple, unassuming blade meant to deliver a swift, painless end. It wasn't the vengeance she'd envisioned, but then again, nothing about Makena had gone according to plan. The blade sank home, not in Makena's flesh, but in her own back.

Yet, there was no pain, no blood. Instead, a feeling of warmth, of something...shifting...deep within her core. Makena's eyes widened as she reached out, tracing the space where the dagger had pierced Kaira's body... her fingers passing through skin and bone as if they were mere mist.

A choking sound escaped Makena then, not in fear, but a dawning realization. The prophecy... it spoke of the curse breaking not through death, but through a selfless act of love. But the realization was tinged with a vicious edge, a cruel amusement that twisted her features.

"You... you actually fell for it, assassin?" Makena's voice dripped with mockery. "Other so-called professionals saw through my charade after a few botched attempts. But you, with your fumbling attempts at charm and misplaced affection, you were the perfect mark. All this time, you were fulfilling the prophecy, transferring the curse with your pathetic love."

Makena's laughter, a harsh, discordant sound, echoed through the clearing. "I'm free!" she shrieked, her form shimmering, dissolving into a million glittering motes of dust that danced in the moonlight.

Kaira stood there, emptied, the enormity of Makena's betrayal crashing down on her. Grief, sharp and agonizing, threatened to consume her. She had been a pawn, her feelings manipulated, her love weaponized. Blinded by affection, she had walked right into Makena's trap.

A wave of despair washed over her, so intense it stole her breath. In a moment of blind fury and self-loathing, she hurled herself off the balcony, a desperate bid to follow Makena into oblivion.

But the ground rushed up to meet her with a dull thud, not a bone-shattering impact. Kaira lay there, stunned, the air knocked from her lungs. She sat up, bewildered, expecting the worst. Instead, she found herself largely unharmed. A new, unfamiliar strength coursed through her veins. This... this was Makena's curse.

Kaira stood on the precipice of despair, the revelation of Makena's treachery echoing in her mind. The weight of immortality, a curse she never desired, pressed down on her. Grief, sharp and agonizing, threatened to consume her. But even in the throes of heartbreak, a flicker of defiance sparked within her. She wouldn't let Makena win. She wouldn't succumb to this forced eternity.

With a grim determination, Kaira embarked on a series of increasingly outlandish attempts to slough off her mortal coil. First, she decided to utilize the brute force approach. Standing resolute in the middle of a bustling construction site, she waited for the colossal steamroller to inch its way towards her. However, at the last possible moment, the oblivious driver swerved to avoid a rogue squirrel, the massive metal behemoth missing Kaira by a hair's breadth. Frustrated and covered in a generous amount of dust, she slunk away, the sight surely a source of amusement for the bewildered construction crew.

Next, she opted for a more classic approach – train tracks and an oncoming locomotive. Kaira positioned herself dramatically on the rails, picturing a valiant, albeit messy, end. Unfortunately, the train that rumbled into view was a slow-moving tourist choo-choo, complete with a cheery conductor waving enthusiastically. She ended up sheepishly explaining her predicament to a group of bemused senior citizens, who offered her tea and cookies instead of witnessing a morbid spectacle.

Undeterred, Kaira decided to harness the raw power of nature. Flying to Hawaii, She scaled a particularly volatile volcano, the ground rumbling ominously beneath her feet. Reaching the summit, she peered into the fiery depths, picturing a quick and fiery demise. However, as she inched closer, a booming voice startled her. "Hold on there, miss! No swimming in the caldera!" A park ranger, clad in full heat-resistant gear, materialized from the smoke, escorting her back down the mountain with a stern lecture about safety regulations.

Dejected but not defeated, Kaira resorted to a more internal method. She marched into a McDonald's, a determined glint in her eye, and ordered a gallon of Shamrock Shakes – a seasonal minty concoction notorious for its questionable taste and potential digestive distress. She downed the entire concoction in one go, bracing for the sweet embrace of oblivion. However, all she ended up with was a brain freeze, a stomachache, and a lifetime supply of minty burps.

Sitting on a curb, defeated and covered in suspicious green residue, Kaira finally admitted defeat. Suicide, it seemed, wasn't her forte. Even with newfound immortality, the universe apparently still had a twisted sense of humor when it came to Kaira Nizhoni Sokolov. A wry smile touched her lips. Maybe, just maybe, there was another way. Maybe this forced immortality wasn't a curse, but an opportunity. An opportunity to honor Makena's memory, not in vengeance, but in the way she lived. Rising to her feet, a newfound resolve steeled her gaze. The world was full of darkness, shadows that lurked in the corners. And now, she, the clumsy assassin with a heart, albeit a slightly bruised one, was here to face them.