The young man was disgruntled with his situation.
Suddenly, everything seemed awfully childish- from his alias right down to the soft white leather of his mask.
This was, of course, due to his current situation.
Suspended from a twelve story high Russian Accommodation Block by a thin rope tied to his ankle: Below, cars burned and screams still echoed about the city of Moscow; even a few of the buildings were still alight... including his.
The young man didn’t understand the excessive carnage of the games. The point was for the murderers to kill each other—not massacre the general public.
The growing heat attracted his attention back to his situation. He’d been unlucky enough to be hit during the initial bloodbath, a scene he usually avoided, but was lucky enough to still be breathing. The hulk of a man that’d bagged him was known as ‘The Spark’; he was Sadistic, Psychotic, and a Pyromaniac who enjoyed giving his victims the choice between: ‘Suicide by Knife’ or ‘Death by Fire.’
The knife in question was firmly in the grasp of his assailant and his arms were left in a swinging suspense, and the last of the paralytic drugs were leaving his system.
Above him, on the terrace, strode his would-be murderer, ‘The Spark’, his footsteps heavy and clumsy. He laughed a wheezy, cough tainted laugh as he peered over the edge at his victims. To the best of the young man’s knowledge, he was one of three captives.
“Flame or Blade, girl?” sneered The Spark over the edge, his words aimed at the captive to his left. A groan only met his taunt. He laughed some more, and lumbered his way past the young man’s line, to the right.
“And you?” He asked to the victim right of the young man.
No answer was forth coming, and The Spark let out a disappointed sigh. The young man listened as the man above him shuffled, grunted and fell to one knee, unsheathing his blade as he did so. Wasting no time, the Spark slashed the taunt rope holding the unresponsive victim. No sound came forth as the limp body fell from its previous point of suspension, until it bounced off the thin ledge below with a sickening crunch, and continued it’s decent to the pavement.
The sounds of a struggle reached the Young Man’s ears, and he couldn’t help but smirk as he realized it was the man above labouredly making his way to his feet. Knowing his was next, the Young man tried to think of escape routes. None were forth coming.
“Blade or Flame, Mr Silence?”
The young man winced at his Alias, one again cursing himself for childishness. Admittedly, “Mr” was not a prefix of his own, but still.
“Blade, please.” Silence called up to his captor, who chortled in response.
“Most people cut the rope you know.” Said the Spark, “But I prefer it when they cut themselves.”
Silence felt the pressure against his leg as the Spark pushed the knife in through the fabric of his leggings. The young man took the blade in his left hand and the rope tight in his right.
“Sorry pal, but I choose rope.”
Then, with a swift and sure strike, he slashed the thick rope holding his legs: below where he was holding. The Spark shouted in surprise and pushed himself frantically away from the edge. Silence took a second to calculate the fall to the thin ledge below before releasing his hold on the rope. He landed nimbly and surely on the balls of his feet- with all the agility and grace of a descending Cat of Prey.
One his foothold on the ledge was assured, Silence began his climb back up to the terrace- he could still hear the terrified breaths of his tormentor, now turned tormented. It took him mere seconds to scale the wall back to the roof. Once there, he saw the fat form of the Spark vainly crawling to the door.
He strode with a quiet confidence over to the steel escape door, reaching it just as his victim did. He kicked the door shut just as the other mans fingers scraped at it. Silence sighed as he looked down at the Spark and slowly unsheathed the thin blade he’d given him.
He said nothing, as he slammed the rusted, bloodcrusty blade through the extended hand of his would-be murderer. The Spark screams joined that of those in the city below. Silence left him there as he looked around for his stolen equipment; and upon finding it quickly redressed and armed himself- but left the stolen mask off.
The Spark still tried for the door, but had made no progress. Silence went and knelt beside him, the longest and sharpest of his knives drawn. He looked into the fear stained eyes of his enemy and said: “My name is Jonathon.”
He brought the dagger to the long black ponytail at the back of his head, firmly sliced it off and tossed it away.
The young man laughed again- free of his old identity. Free of reputation and targets.
He waited a moment, relishing in the freedom of animosity before looking back at the man splayed before him, a malicious, vengeful tinge in his eye.