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Sinking Note: Song excerpts from "Sinking" by Econoline Crush. This was originally written as a stand-alone fic, not a songfic. I just found that some lines from the song seemed to fit so I just inserted them in. It shouldn't affect the story at all. Also, I don't know much about the background of the Weiss characters, so I took some liberties.
< Shit. > Ken glanced despairingly at the files strewn haphazardly around him on the floor of his already disaster area room.
Ken stared down at the package containing the information on his target: a bio, pictures, itinerary, and even a psychological profile were all there, compliments of Omi. Simple indeed.
Name: Jonathan Staples, age: 41, residence: secluded 5 bedroom house, children: one son, age 7. Ken's eyes scanned the meaningless lines of a life he couldn't care less about until they came to rest on some words that made his heart skip a beat: likes power, needs to feel dominant, must have absolute control at all times, leading to conclusion of domestic abuse on son. Ken blinked, and quickly sifted through the pile to find a picture of the son. A precocious looking child, Ken noticed, wearing a red and black soccer uniform, looking with uncertainty at the camera as he held a soccer ball loosely in his hands. Innocence redefined.
Ken looked at the itinerary. Tomorrow would be the perfect day for death.
~*~*~*~*~*~
11 years ago...
The sun was going down. Ken could feel the heat of the day slowly dwindling as his skin started to feel clammy from a whole day of physical exertion. But he didn't want the day to end, not yet, not when he could still play a little more soccer.
< Please, just a little bit longer, Mr. Sun. > thought Ken as he kicked his soccer ball over to Justin, the only other boy on the field. But instead of returning the ball, Justin deftly stopped it, picked it up and walked over to his friend.
< No, please, don't go. I want to play some more! > Ken's mind screamed.
"Sorry, Ken. But I really have to go now. My mom will be really mad if I don't." Justin handed the ball back to Ken. "I'll come back tomorrow so you can beat me again!" Justin laughed, with his sparkling brown eyes, flushed cheeks, unruly black hair, looking so innocent and carefree. "You must have practiced a lot to be so good, Ken," Justin continued as he ran to pick up his jacket lying on the side of the field.
Ken didn't know exactly how to respond. "Thank you," he replied in a little voice as he watched his last soccer friend leave while he stood alone on the empty field.
"Bye, Ken." The departing boy waved. "See you tomorrow." Then he was gone. And Ken was alone.
The solitary figure stood there for a minute, staring at the ball he held in his hands, unsure of what to do now. The sun wasn't completely down yet so maybe he could play a little longer, even if it was by himself. He could practice some of the tricks he'd seen on TV. He could practice controlling the ball a little better than he did already. He could... he could...he could practice almost anything as long as he didn't have to go home, because he really didn't want to go home ... because "he" was there. He didn't want to go home to "him".
His little brows furrowed in determination, Ken dropped his ball on the ground and started kicking it around. It didn't matter that no one was there to play with him. He could play by himself. And so he did, well past sunset and into the night.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Present...
The sweet melody of the lock clicking open greeted Ken as he slowly withdrew his lock pick. This was going exactly as he had planned: quietly break in, quietly kill the target, and quietly leave. Everything should run smoothly considering the itinerary had stated that the man was alone tonight, his son supposedly over at a friend's house. Easing the door open and grateful for its well-oiled hinges, Ken stealthily slipped into the house. Silence and darkness, the trademarks of his profession, encompassed him, seeping into his blood and mixing with the adrenalin that already coursed through his body. This was the rush that usually came before a kill, the natural high that heightened his senses and enhanced his actions. Enticing, addicting, consuming... Reveling in its feel, Ken continued into the house, and towards the bedroom.
~*~*~*~*~
11 years ago...
Ken turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the back door open. Sticking his head in first, he scanned the room to make sure the coast was clear. No one. Just a dark empty kitchen. He stepped in and turned to close the door, wincing at the squeak it made right before the final click when it met the frame.
"Ken, where have you been?" came a loud whisper behind him.
The little boy jumped but calmed down when he realized it was just his mother.
"I was just playing, Mama." Ken turned to look at his mother in the semi-darkness. Dull brown hair that had probably once been vibrant and lustrous was pulled back at the nape of her neck, revealing a pale face that was taut with worry and fear. But it was the look reflected in her brown eyes that Ken wanted to get rid of, that look of despair and hopelessness. How many times had he seen happiness shine in those eyes? Probably enough to count on the fingers of one hand.
"I'm sorry, Mama. I didn't mean to stay out so late and make you worry."
The woman moved to hug her son. "No, it's not that, Ken. It's just that you know how your father..."
"Is that the little runt I hear?!" The deep timber of the voice caused both mother and son to stiffen. Ken stared at the tall figure that stood in the entrance of the kitchen. The urge to run, to turn around and escape through the door behind him, was overwhelming. But he couldn't leave his mother here, not alone with "him". Stepping away from his mother's embrace, he moved towards the imposing silhouette of his father.
"I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't know it was so late." Ken looked down at the floor, hoping his father would accept his heartfelt apology and let things be for tonight.
"Sorry? I've told you a hundred times that you're to be back early. I have things for you to do but do you ever listen?" Each of his father's bellowed words caused Ken to slump lower; he wanted to disappear, to cringe into himself until no one could see him anymore.
"I told you, I'm sorry," Ken muttered, still staring at the floor, fascinated by some scuffmarks he had made a while back when he had tried to play soccer inside. The backhand across the face didn't take him by surprise. In fact, Ken expected it. But the force of the hit sent him reeling to the ground. Ken raised his hand to rub his burning cheek, rapidly blinking his eyes to keep the tears at bay.
"You little fuck, don't ever talk back to me." Without looking, Ken knew what was coming next - the belt. He could hear his father working with the buckle.
"Honey, he didn't mean to..." His mother moved to stop her husband.
"Stay out of this. The boy needs discipline. He's been bad and won't realize it until he's taught what's good."
Ken watched his mother halt in her rescue attempt, torn, wanting to save her son but afraid of what would happen if she did interfere.
"Mama, it's alright. I - " The thwack of leather contacting skin cut off the rest of the sentence. Ken turned accusing eyes toward his father as the man brought the belt down again. And again.
Ken tried to be brave and thought he withstood each hit with admirable control, distancing himself away from the pain and forcing his tears to stay in. But when his father finally kicked him in the stomach, he felt all his efforts begin to crumble. His vision blurred as wetness began to trickle down his cheeks. The combination of kicks and the belt soon had the boy rolling on the floor, trying to evade the next blow. And through his tears, he saw a smeared image of his mother, her posture that of helplessness and resignation.
"Mama, help me." But she didn't move. She was afraid and Ken didn't blame her. His head began to spin as the force behind his father's blows started to lessen.
< Perhaps he was getting tired. > The thought was no sooner through his head when one final kick caused Ken to sob out loud. His tears were falling freely now as he attempted to draw in air between sobs.
Lying there, crying, in pain, Ken managed to speak. "I'm...sorry...I promise...I'll ... be good...I promise, Papa." The litany of words from the boy's mouth repeated itself over and over, with Ken only pausing to fill his lungs with air, until it was just his mother and him in the room again.
Curling up into a ball and hugging his knees, the little boy tried to ease the pain. He felt his mother cradle him to her breast, rocking him as if he were a baby and crooning, "it's okay" repeatedly. Ken took comfort in his mother's arms but inside, he was in turmoil. Perhaps the most potent feeling in the miasma of his soul right now was frustration, frustration over the fact that he was too small, too weak, too scared to prevent any of this from happening. Or maybe it was disappointment, disappointment in himself, his inability to protect his mother and please his father. Whichever it was that fought for possession of his emotions, he didn't care. He just didn't want to feel anything right now. He hiccupped, trying to prevent any more sobs from escaping.
"Shh, Ken. It's alright now." His mother lovingly smoothed his hair. "Be a good boy. Smile for me, okay?" She looked down at her son, her expression soft and nurturing. Ken forced himself to smile but the effort took too much out of him and soon, his lips returned to their previous sad state. "See, Ken. Smiling should always make you feel better. Even if you're not happy, if you pretend to be cheerful, eventually you will be."
"Yes, Mama," the boy squeaked, still enclosed in her arms.
"Be a good boy now, okay?" She gently wiped his cheeks with her fingers, erasing the streaks left there by his tears. "Cheer up now. Think of the soccer games you'll have to play tomorrow."
" 'kay." Ken slowly and reluctantly removed himself from his mother's embrace. "And I promise I'll be good next time, Mama. I promise. Then Papa won't have to do that anymore." His mother gave him a weak smile and nodded.
Slowly, more like a legarthic old man rather than the energetic little boy he was, Ken rose to go to his room. He needed to rest and heal. He wanted to be ready to play more soccer tomorrow.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Slash and burn
~*~*~*~*~*~
Present...
Ken watched the man through the half opened door as he went about his nightly rituals: take off the watch, loosen the collar, turn on the bedside lamp. Ken waited in the darkness of the hallway, like a predator observing its prey, until that lamp finally turned off and the man made ready for bed. Then, he made his move. Claws unsheathed, he moved fast; concealed in the obscurity of night, he grabbed the man from behind with one arm while the other embedded itself into warm, unresisting flesh. Ken looked down at his instrument of death, surprised that he hadn't made the blow lethal. He withdrew his bloody claws, readying to plunge it into the body one more time. But the man turned and stared at Ken with startled, bulging eyes as he fell against the assassin. In an unconscious reaction, Ken slashed at the man to keep him away, leaving marks on the dying man's face that oozed black blood in the moonlit room. But where any efficient assassin would have finished the job with one fatal blow, Ken did otherwise. He slashed the man again, across the other side of the face this time. And again, across the chest. And so the brunette lost himself in this continued action, leaving his body to take its pleasure in the torture of the older man. A splash of blood. Warm. Then cold. A groan of pain. Then silence. A spurt of ecstasy. Then nothing.
Finally, Ken plunged his sodden claws into the bloodied man's chest, not only piercing the victim's heart, but also the tattered remains of the assassin's soul. Ken stared down at the dying man: this was what it was all about, wasn't it? The kill, the rush, the power, the freedom...As the target's eyes glazed over, Ken let the limp body slide to the ground, his claws now extracted from their temporary sheath. Success. Mission accomplished. Ken apathetically looked at the blood soaked corpse. Then, a noise behind him drew his attention. Turning around, the Weiss member froze as he met the tearful dark eyes of a frightened seven-year-old boy sitting in a half opened closet.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Here comes the pay off
~*~*~*~*~*~
He wanted to comfort the boy. He wanted to say that everything was all right and father would never hurt him again. He wanted to tell the boy to smile, as he had once been told, because smiling could fool your body into thinking it was happy. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted...he wanted so many things. But he couldn't do any of it. Not like this, not when his hands were covered in blood and his soul was stained in death. And telling the boy that his father would never hurt him again would work to no avail, because deep down, Ken knew the boy had loved his father and sought that fatherly approval, despite every hurt that may have been inflicted upon him; the boy had loved his father because he had hoped for that love to one day be returned. And thus, the images of this night will linger in that young mind for the rest of his life.
Ken closed his eyes, knowing the futility of the situation and accepting another demon into his soul. Resigned, he walked out of the room out of the house, leaving the body on the floor and the boy in the closet, haunted by innocent brown eyes that would linger in his own memory forever.
End.
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