Nanoblade
07-18-2009, 10:23 PM
I've renamed a piece of writing I wrote a few months back. I want to re-post it and get some new views on it. This way I can take feedback away, and whilst I'm on Holiday/Vacation I'll write something new in my spare time.
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The man looked in the mirror. Perfection. The sleek, black jacket zipped up over a neatly ironed T-shirt. The dark blue jeans, adaquatly moulding to his physice, falling smartly over his polished black shoes, yet falling short of covering his toes.
Looking closer to detail, it is apparant the man is clean-shaven, and has a complete skinhead haircut. There are slight traces of stress and tiredness in his eyes, yet he must ignore these issues, and concentrate on his next task. Striding over to a desk, he picks up the black, leather gloves and slides them on, adjusting them as he does so.
There was no need to check the contents of the bag lying at his feet. He was a man who left nothing to chance, who checked every last element to precision until he was satisfied with the results. On this particular task, he knew the SV-99 Sniper Rifle would not disappoint him.
He reached down and hoisted the bag over his shoulders and swiftly walked over to the Hotel room door and exited the room. He didn't bother to lock the door, afterall, he had all he needed and a return to the Hotel would definatly not be at the top of his list of things to do after the task was complete.
The task at hand was a young Russian, who had recently made billions through Oil, due to the rapid demand and inflation price for the fuel. The man did not care who he was or what the young mans purpose was. He had been given a job, by a rival oil company, and being a professional, he intended to do his job to the best of his ability, which if all went smoothly, would be an young end, for the Russian.
As he left the Hotel, the brisk Autumn wind hit against the man, but he didn't acknowledge it, he merely stepped across the road, towards the tube station and disappeared into the mass of bodys dotted around the streets. To a bypasser, the man blended in with society perfectly, appearing like a traveller or a casual business man, taking care not to draw attention to himself.
The building he required was a short tube ride away, and as he sat in the carriage waiting for his stop, he didn't think about the crime he was about to commit or the turmoil it would have, he didn't sweat or look worried. He was calm, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded, mute expression, every so often flickering his eyes to the floor at the bag out of a very slight paranoia that a luggage thief could possibly attempt to steal it. It wasn't that he was afraid this would happen, or that he couldn't deal with anyone who was brave enough to try to steal it; It was purely because it would upset plans that couldn't be afforded to be upset and he didn't have time to be disposing bodies.
As the doors of the train opened, he bent down, picked up the bag and left the litter binned carriage for the next, unfortunate person. His chosen building was a squat, concrete building, long out of use, a monolith of the communist era. It was in perfect positioning for the task as the target would be a sitting duck, giving a speech on how he plans to rebuild the area with his riches and before anyone had figured out, who, what and where, the man would be gone, lost in the sea of society and the Russian would be breathing no more.
Once inside, he unzipped the bag, attached the scope to the Rifle effortlessly, cocked one bullet (This is all he would need) and waited patiently, until gradually, people started to arrive; Representitives of the Russian's company, body guards (That would soon be a pointless job), spectators and the Cities mayor, to introduce the billionaire. The man did not quiver in the cold, his expression unchanged, he sat patiently, waiting for the main event - The Russian. One look through the scope told him the prize had arrived. He did not rush, there was no need to, the Russian, dressed in a pinstripe suit with a large duffel coat warming him was unaware of his ever nearing death.
Although the man had done this a hundred times, he did not let the adrenaline take control of him and off-put his concentration. He could feel his blood rushing through his veins, but he blocked out the feeling, and took small, controlled breaths to prevent any sudden spasm from his arm that would knock his aim of balance. Now laid out on the solid concrete floor, the man steadied his aim, and waited for the optune moment.
The Russian was smiling, waving to the spectators, enjoying being the centre of attention, ironicaly at the centre of the mans SV-99 Sniper Rifle scope aswell. The gloved finger pressed in a smooth motion against the trigger until the momentum caused the bullet to be sent racing down the chamber, whistling through the wind before embedding itself in the billionaires skull, with the scarlet substance coating the body guards of the Russian. He was dead instantly, in a flash, before his crumpling body hit the floor.
Convinced with the result, the man slowly stood, left the weapon where it was (It would be too much hassle to take it with him, and he couldn't arouse any suspicion), with no finger print traces visible, stared across at the havoc breaking lose before him, turned away and expressionless, made his way out and joined the cities rushour, hidden from the world, a shadow of the criminal underworld and the reason hatred still existed in the World.
---
The man looked in the mirror. Perfection. The sleek, black jacket zipped up over a neatly ironed T-shirt. The dark blue jeans, adaquatly moulding to his physice, falling smartly over his polished black shoes, yet falling short of covering his toes.
Looking closer to detail, it is apparant the man is clean-shaven, and has a complete skinhead haircut. There are slight traces of stress and tiredness in his eyes, yet he must ignore these issues, and concentrate on his next task. Striding over to a desk, he picks up the black, leather gloves and slides them on, adjusting them as he does so.
There was no need to check the contents of the bag lying at his feet. He was a man who left nothing to chance, who checked every last element to precision until he was satisfied with the results. On this particular task, he knew the SV-99 Sniper Rifle would not disappoint him.
He reached down and hoisted the bag over his shoulders and swiftly walked over to the Hotel room door and exited the room. He didn't bother to lock the door, afterall, he had all he needed and a return to the Hotel would definatly not be at the top of his list of things to do after the task was complete.
The task at hand was a young Russian, who had recently made billions through Oil, due to the rapid demand and inflation price for the fuel. The man did not care who he was or what the young mans purpose was. He had been given a job, by a rival oil company, and being a professional, he intended to do his job to the best of his ability, which if all went smoothly, would be an young end, for the Russian.
As he left the Hotel, the brisk Autumn wind hit against the man, but he didn't acknowledge it, he merely stepped across the road, towards the tube station and disappeared into the mass of bodys dotted around the streets. To a bypasser, the man blended in with society perfectly, appearing like a traveller or a casual business man, taking care not to draw attention to himself.
The building he required was a short tube ride away, and as he sat in the carriage waiting for his stop, he didn't think about the crime he was about to commit or the turmoil it would have, he didn't sweat or look worried. He was calm, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded, mute expression, every so often flickering his eyes to the floor at the bag out of a very slight paranoia that a luggage thief could possibly attempt to steal it. It wasn't that he was afraid this would happen, or that he couldn't deal with anyone who was brave enough to try to steal it; It was purely because it would upset plans that couldn't be afforded to be upset and he didn't have time to be disposing bodies.
As the doors of the train opened, he bent down, picked up the bag and left the litter binned carriage for the next, unfortunate person. His chosen building was a squat, concrete building, long out of use, a monolith of the communist era. It was in perfect positioning for the task as the target would be a sitting duck, giving a speech on how he plans to rebuild the area with his riches and before anyone had figured out, who, what and where, the man would be gone, lost in the sea of society and the Russian would be breathing no more.
Once inside, he unzipped the bag, attached the scope to the Rifle effortlessly, cocked one bullet (This is all he would need) and waited patiently, until gradually, people started to arrive; Representitives of the Russian's company, body guards (That would soon be a pointless job), spectators and the Cities mayor, to introduce the billionaire. The man did not quiver in the cold, his expression unchanged, he sat patiently, waiting for the main event - The Russian. One look through the scope told him the prize had arrived. He did not rush, there was no need to, the Russian, dressed in a pinstripe suit with a large duffel coat warming him was unaware of his ever nearing death.
Although the man had done this a hundred times, he did not let the adrenaline take control of him and off-put his concentration. He could feel his blood rushing through his veins, but he blocked out the feeling, and took small, controlled breaths to prevent any sudden spasm from his arm that would knock his aim of balance. Now laid out on the solid concrete floor, the man steadied his aim, and waited for the optune moment.
The Russian was smiling, waving to the spectators, enjoying being the centre of attention, ironicaly at the centre of the mans SV-99 Sniper Rifle scope aswell. The gloved finger pressed in a smooth motion against the trigger until the momentum caused the bullet to be sent racing down the chamber, whistling through the wind before embedding itself in the billionaires skull, with the scarlet substance coating the body guards of the Russian. He was dead instantly, in a flash, before his crumpling body hit the floor.
Convinced with the result, the man slowly stood, left the weapon where it was (It would be too much hassle to take it with him, and he couldn't arouse any suspicion), with no finger print traces visible, stared across at the havoc breaking lose before him, turned away and expressionless, made his way out and joined the cities rushour, hidden from the world, a shadow of the criminal underworld and the reason hatred still existed in the World.