The Eyes of the Assassin

You check the time. Perfect. As intended, you've arrived fashionably late. The plan so far is smooth. You beamed in front of the flashing cameras, swaying your hand gracefully at the paparazzi. Graced and poised, you walk in like a proud peacock into the palace. “Oh, just if he knew,” you smirked to yourself.

The grand entrance of the palace was intimidating. The staircase and the floor was made from marble. Red, silk drapes hung on the walls, amidst portraits of different royalties of the past. “The King sure likes grandeur. How…..ancient of him,” you said to yourself.

You are aware of the stunned looks on the faces around you. Apparently, no one recognizes you. “The less they know me, the better.” Shrugging it off, you sauntered through the throng of astonished royalty. The pearls on your ears shimmer in the brightly lit hallway, while the golden pendant on your slender neck shines brighter than the Sun. The pendant resembles a “S” around two pieces of blood-red rubies. It seems highlighted against your green, sleeveless, satin gown.

As you walked up the steps, you looked across to the mirror on the wall to admire yourself. A slender, green-clad beauty with French-braided hair looks back at you from the mirror. You look like a princess. 

The mirror was placed between two most celebrated artworks of the thirty-first century. One depicting a war, another showing a peaceful village. The enigmatic mirror was just between them, for reasons known to none.

You were already high up in the clouds after marvelling at your appearance. No doubt that you were enjoying the praising views of the royalties and envious looks of the ladies. This is the best night of my life.

“You have a task to do, dream-head,” the voice on the microphone chip underneath your ear barks. You get back to your senses. I have work to do. 

Determined and back to reality, you scan the grand open hall in front of you. The majestic chandelier is suspended above the marble-tiled floor. Similar to the staircase, the walls are draped in crimson velvet with intricate designs of floral patterns and altair on them. At the far end, just facing the entrance, is an elevated dais with a magnificent throne on it. It is gold-tinted, with colorful jewels labyrinthine throughout the seat. It is intimidating, dominating. Yet such…….. a blabbering fib. An artificial show of power. How common for Sullivan, you smirk inwardly.

Not to your surprise, the King is not in the hall. He has retired back to his chambers for the night. That’s why I crashed in here late.

You calmly walked out of the hallway. By now, all the curious gazes on you have shifted to Duke of New York. It has been almost a century since America turned to a kingdom, but it still sounds awkward, even to the Duke himself. He prefers to be called NYC. God forbid that his name actually is the full form of this acronym. 

You stealth your way past the gigantic guards in navy-blue uniforms. You feel your palpitations increase by each passing moment. You feel your ears drumming, blocking all the music and the laughters in the background. You feel a rising cocktail of fear and anticipation rising up your throat. You know that you are quivering, yet hoping no one would notice. Beads of sweats form on your forehead as you quicken your pace. You are about to commit the felony of the decade. They’ll thank me later.

You steer to the left against the flow of the glittering crowd. Thank God the moron guards didn’t see me.

You find another staircase leading some unknown posh rooms of the palace. “Finally, the princess has found the lead to the private chambers of the King,” the voice from the microchip scowled. Finally, you smiled. So technically developed. But still a moron, you sighed. Who am I to care? None of my business.

You plan to race up the stairs, but then realize that you have worn stiletto heels. Annoyed, you put them off and throw them off at the end of the set of stairs. After that, a sprint. A race to the top floor. A race to a revolution, you believed. You are unaware of what twist of Fate awaits you.

Heart beats vehemently, almost breaking your rib-cage. With your pace quickening, you feel your legs getting heavier and jittery. Throat was parched like sand-paper, as a whirlpool of questions flooded your mind. One particular question bothered her: Why is it so easy?

Coming from a shady past, you learnt the hard way that nothing in this world comes easy. Especially in a century after the 2020 plague. The question has been poking you since you arrived at the palace, and it has developed into a migraine. Shrugging it off is getting more difficult.

Your train of doubts abruptly halt as you find yourself at the end of the top of the steps. Peculiar palace, you muttered underneath your breath. There was a narrow, dim-lit hallway in front of you, which led to a polished steel-made door. Again, the walls were covered with red drapes. What is it with the King and the colour red!

Annoyed with the constant shades of red and throbbing headache tonight, you stride across the hallway towards the door. Funny, a King with no guards, doubts in your head keeps getting more solid.

You paused before the reflective metal door to reconsider the situation. Is it some sort of a trap? The night so far has been quite good. No questions, no guards, no speed-bumps. You have to get to the King, and yet there is nothing to stop you. You are confused now.

“Just goddamn enter,” the voice from the chip growled frustratedly. Senses recover back. The door is shining, inviting you to open. Yet , there is a strange urge not to open.To open or not to open. You can almost feel your blood running ice-cold through your veins, spiking the underneath of your pale skin. Exhaling out of your lungs seems like a tiring process. The ground beneath you seems shaking. My world is gonna change. Forever.  

There are swishings coming from the vent nearby, threatening you to go back. It seems eerily, like spirits whispering to you. The dean of laughter and music from the hall is now barely audible.

Just do it, damn it.

You carefully placed your thin fingers on the cold handle, and pushed to slide open the door. You did not expect the door to even budge. But it opened. It slides like a ball on a frictionless plane. 

You heave out a forceful breath to calm your nerves down. Then, ever so slowly, stepped into the chambers. The room is exactly as you remember. The walls are grey-tinted, with a Persian blue carpet at the center of the room. Finally, a sense of not burning your eyes with red. There was a study at one end, a dresser at another, and a wardrobe at yet another. The bed was beside the dresser, underneath a heap of soft, white cushions and pillows. Just facing the room’s exit was a large window exhibiting the view of the barren, grey landscape of New Erasork.  They seriously need to reconsider their naming capability, those governors. 

“Hey. How’s life? Can help you in any way, dear?” You are taken aback by the King walking in abruptly. You look back at him. Sullivan has not changed. His golden hair is tied back, yet some of it is rebelliously loose and caressing on his wrinkled forehead. His cold, blue eyes are piercing into your soul, as the perfectly shaped eyebrows frown with confusion. His lips are closed tightly, surrounded by his carefully trimmed beard. He is wearing a grey T-shirt and trousers. Nobody could tell this very man has enslaved an entire planet. An unmerciful conqueror who made Hitler look like a kind leader.

You clear out your mind. The pistola is on the study, as he usually keeps it. It’s his habit. Pistola is an advanced small weapon shaped like a pistol. It shoots out modified gamma rays which never reflect and get easily absorbed by the material, especially flesh and skin.

“Oh, um, NYC is calling you. He says it’s pretty urgent,” you stammer. “ Is it? I thought you have changed your mind about me,” he pouted, pretending to be disappointed, “ why don’t you wait here? I need to talk.” With a smug smirk on his face, he wheels around to leave. Like a lightning bolt, you dash towards the study quickly and in a swish. You grabbed the pistola, pointed at him, and it took a moment.

Then a trigger is pulled, and the King crouches down, clasping the left side of his chest.

A muffled groan, and lying on his back facing the white ceiling.

The King, His Royal Highness, Sullivan I has left the Earth, and he did not go to Mars.

You crash down on the soft carpet, shivering like as if in a seizure. Sweat is dripping on your back and on your forehead. Chest palpitations have soared up, with your head throbbing. You look down at your hand, grasping the pistol. You throw it across the room, frightened by the night’s unfolding of events. You loathed Sullivan, and wished nothing but his demise. It happened, then why are scared and astonished? Because I had to be the one to kill him!

Before you could even clear out your mind, five guards marched into the room abruptly, pointing their Killmonk IISI at me. Killmonk IISI is the latest weapon invented in this era, which uses nuclear fusion inside a small chamber inside the weapon to shoot out particles at unimaginable high momenta.  The impact and the particles are enough to kill a person, after frying his ins and outs for at least three hours. You look up at them, hopelessly. 

“Miss, you are arrested for assassinating the King,” General Tairntun spoke as he entered the room, emerging behind the guards. How did the guards know? The King made no struggle or sound except a soft thud, you wonder.

Why does the General sound familiar?