[Story] The Assassin Ch.5

Eh, my creative spark seems to be dying. That, and I'm constantly getting writers block, so i think I may make this the last in The Assassin's Tale, at least for a while.
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5
The man pounded what must have been his eighth glass of whiskey that night. Lucky for him, he had a very high alcohol resistance, a trait which he considered a blessing when under this much stress. He tapped shakily against the desk with his pencil, unable to fathom what he had discovered. In front of him was a small dictation machine, a microscope which stood sturdily, pointed at a small sample of human genes, and syringe full of viscous liquid. Raising his hand as steadily as possible, he flicked a switch on his dictation machine, and began to speak.
"March 18th, 1987.
Doctor Johnathon Albert speaking. Today was a breakthrough in genetic research for VeasoCorp. After 4 years of strenuous research, we have found a way of isolating undeveloped stem cells without the death of the host. However, we are keeping it strictly confidential; despite there being no risk of death, we fear people may abuse the cell's usefulness. We also believe we have found a way of accelerating the process of renewal, by mixing the cells with human blood. The cells seem to instinctively fix any physical damage that the body may have received." Albert took a deep breath.
"Our second discovery is even more unbelievable than the last. This morning, a young man by the name of O'Neil had found his way to our doors, claiming to have unnatural powers. When I told him of my scepticism, he summoned several balls of flame into the palm of his hand. After 8 hours of rigorous testing, I have found that human chromosomes are not as we know them. To most peoples knowledge, there are twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. This, it would seem, is false. The second chromosome on the twelfth pair is in fact a replication of the first. In O'Neil, or as we now refer to him, Subject 192, there are only 22 pairs of chromosomes, and the first of pair twelve. Although this does not change his species, it does give him the ability to do many things any normal human is incapable of, such as the aforementioned summoning of flames, or the ability to instantly gain muscle mass. Further research begins tomorrow."

After finishing, he flipped the switch once again on the dictation machine and stared intently at the needle in front of him. Temptation told him to pour himself another glass of whiskey, but his head told him otherwise, so instead he hid it out of sight. Seconds later, there was a bout of heavy knocking against the oaken door. After a few deep breaths, he rose from his seat, simultaneously snatching the needle and a slightly battered knife, which had once belonged to his father. His light complexion was the perfect parallel to the darkness that was slowly consuming the room. This reminded Albert of the dying candle that sat, burning weakly on the floor. Many people called him old fashioned, but he didn't care; the warmth reminded him of the family he once had.
"Open the door, Albert. Open it now, and I wont kill you." Threatened a voice from outside the room. Albert looked outside at the dense, impenetrable forest; anyone that would walk through there at the dead of night was not someone that he wanted to go up against. He was an academic, not a ruffian. Born to think, not to fight.
"What do you want with me?" He questioned the voice, despite knowing full well of the man's intent. He was there to steal his research papers, and he would do anything to get his hands on them. Rage boiled inside Albert, and as he approached the door's lock, he was more than ready to stab the man.
"You know what I want, fool. Open the door, or I will open it myself." The voice rang out yet again, berating Albert with it's tone. That was the final straw. Hammering the lock away, he flung the door violently forward, slamming it forcefully into the man's face. He fell backwards from the stairs, and Albert laughed triumphantly.
"This time next week, I'll be a multimillionaire." He finished, grinning broadly.

[Story] The Assassin Ch.3

3
"The Celands" He said, almost disgusted to utter the word "Are a group of incredibly powerful demons, who together possess the power and ability to destroy anything that stands in their path. They feel no guilt and are void of all morality, which makes them perfect for their jobs." A confused look spread over the assistants face, which had since recovered from her abash state.
"Their jobs?" She asked, enthralled. Denzel took a deep breath in.
"The Celands were created for one single cause- to find the Core Gem. Are you aware of what the Core Gem is?" He asked patiently. The assistant replied confidently and quickly.
"Yes, the Core Gem is a shard broken from the core of a now destroyed-or rather imploded-planet. No one has seen it since it landed in one of Area 51's hangars and was took by some kind of entity." She finished, looking slightly proud of herself. Denzel was impressed.
"Well done, I hadn't expected you to know that much about it. Is it part of your case study?" He questioned, and she nodded slowly.
"Thank you Mr. Avens, this has really helped" She said, standing up to leave and smiling softly. She reached out and shook his hand, before dashing off inside, pen and clipboard flailing madly.

Not long after, Denzel stood. An all consuming forest towered over him, enveloping all sounds that travelled inside it. Gorgeous flora of every species sprouted playfully from all angles, giving a great feel of peace to the area. Slowly, he made his way to the most open clearing he could find, between the trunk of a large sycamore tree and a set of creeping vines which was ensnaring what seemed to be another smaller tree.

As he entered the deadly silent forest, he was instantly taken aback by the aura of tranquillity that lingered. He inhaled and tasted the sweet, unpolluted air that his lungs had craved for years. A crystalline lake settled in the dead center of the area, the perfect centerpiece for the perfect forest. The grounds that his feet had firmly rooted themselves into were near untouched, only slightly cracked by the shallow footprints left by marauding animals. He felt himself becoming lost in a fantasy world, a world where the Celands had never existed, and where Denzel had been born into a normal life.

He was just beginning to regain his senses, when a freezing cold chill passed over him, defiling his body and leaving him with a heavily tainted feeling. He wasn't alone. A wild scream was emitted from behind, and Denzel was blasted powerfully into a nearby rock. He quickly stood, barely avoiding a stream of black energy by sheer chance. He could not see a thing, and when he finally could, he regretted it. Before him stood something that looked like a cross between a werewolf and a harpy. Loading his USP, Denzel began to move backwards, never taking his eyes from the beast. Denzel locked sights with it, and roaring demonically, it pounced.

Denzel assessed the situation. The creature, whatever the hell it was meant to be, was moving towards him at about 3 meters per second. He checked the distance between them; about 87 meters, give or take 10 centimetres. 29 seconds was all that separated him and something that looked as if it had been dragged directly from hell. These 29 seconds were the most hectic 29 seconds of his life.

Within an instant, Denzel had reached down to his waist and retrieved a blade, no longer than his forearm, with his left hand. He held it backwards with the tip aimed at the floor and the hilt protruding from between his thumb and index finger.
23 seconds.
Tightening his grip on the blade's hilt, he Nothing at alled the USP with his remaining fingers, and deepened his stance. The edge of the blade shimmered in the pulsating sunlight, accentuating the lethal spine that ran the length of the weapon.
18 seconds.
The beast snarled, baring it's mouth for the first time. Denzel counted three rows of 32 teeth, all diamond edged with a slight elevation. Perfect for tearing flesh.
12 seconds.
The rhythmical pounding of paw on earth echoed in Denzel's head. The beast was now running on all fours, it's sinewy wings slashing through the air effortlessly. Denzel raised his pistol and took aim at the area between the two heavily bloodshot eyes which were hastily approaching him.
4 seconds.
It propelled itself forwards from it's hind legs at full force, ready to bite. Denzel hammered the trigger three times, all hitting the same spot.
With no effect.

A quick and well timed dive to his left proved more successful. The beast continued on, careering into the ground, unable to defend itself from the harsh impact that befell it. The aftershock only lasted mere seconds, and by the time Denzel had readied his blade, it was back on it's feet. It lunged once again, and he swung wildly towards it. Perhaps not the most impressive move, but it got the job done; the blade seemed to make a small indentation. The beast fell, keeling over on it's ankle. Denzel smiled, but his happiness was short lived. Tripping on a thick log, he fumbled and dropped his blade. Recovering quickly, he raised his head, only to see a set of claws inches from his face.
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Just a small side note:
I'm having problems with this chapter, so bare with me on it, i'll try to add more as soon as inspiration hits me.

[Story] The Assassin Ch.1

1
The assassin perched himself on a small patch of tiles at the top of the building. He had been following his target for 2 entire months, and for what; a 10 second job for some easy money? "No", he thought to himself. He brushed a hand through his infinitely black hair, feeling the sweat from the sheer anticipation of what he was about to do.
"I'm not one to interrupt," Came a cold voice from his left "But I get the feeling your plans are less than innocent."
The assassin swung round to face his newest obstruction. The man in question seemed to emanate a sense of utter control, a sense that was reflected heavily in his attire; a perfect condition business suit, complete with steel-plated gloves and what the assassin assumed were steel capped boots.
"What is it to you?" He questioned, boring into the man with his powerful gaze. The faint light from the street lights below accentuated the emerald green of the assassins eyes.
"Mr. Mensuta hired me," Begun the man, extracting a high caliber handgun from his belt "To take care of any disturbances." He finished, a wide grin forming on his face. The assassin laughed.
"I don't waste ammo on straw targets like yourself." Replied the assassin confidently.
"So?" Questioned the man, who was beginning to become infuriated.
"So," Replied the assassin, facing away from the man, "Catch me if you can."
With that final comment, the assassin catapulted himself from the roof and through the window of a nearby dilapidated house. The man groaned.
"I hate assassins."

Not far away, the assassin was making his way through the back alleys of London; if he could lose the obstruction quickly enough, he could easily get back to his target. And with no ammo wasted, everything was effectively going according to plan. Traffic roared past at break neck speeds, something very uncommon so close to the center of the city. "Typical," muttered to himself, "The one night I get a chase, I can't even use the roads."
He pressed on, wary of leaving any incriminating evidence. He didn't appreciate people being sent after him. After all, he was the assassin.

After staying out of sight in the house for around 3 minutes, the assassin decided it would be safe enough to exit. As he approached the well worn door, he took a moment to ponder the implications of being seen; there would almost definitely be added resistance once the kill was complete, and when his assailant returned to Mensuta with the news he had gotten away, he would certainly be on his guard. Of course, none of this made any difference. He had gotten away with much worse before. His targets were generally heavily armoured guards. Mensuta would just be another body in his never-ending chain of blood.

As he edged open the door, he was greeted by the familiar scent of pollution and drunken I love eating my dirty socksneys. He gazed around, cautious of his surroundings. Across the road, just outside a busy pub, stood the man.
"You're a feisty one" He wheezed. The assassin began to walk backwards, and the man followed suit, matching every step with perfect timing.
"And you just won't let up" The assassin replied spitefully.
"No, no I will not."
"Well, I'm sure that truck will convince you otherwise."
Milliseconds later, there came a scream and a crash of steel. The assassin laughed mercilessly. He always had an ace up his sleeve, whether it was guiding someone into the path of an unwitting truck driver, or having them step on a pressure plate, ultimately leading to a nearby oil tanker exploding. The second was admittedly more elaborate, but still equally as effective.

He sprinted at full speed, the wind clipping at his heels. Nothing could stop him now, which, considering the situation, was a blessing. There would be mere seconds before Mensuta would leave the restaurant, and he would have to be there there the moment he left. With the nearest building in his sights, the assassin leapt towards the wall, using the cracks in the brickwork to propel him vertically. As he reached the roof, he used all of his strength to force himself to the top. He readied himself, back in a kneeling position; it allowed for a stronger dive, and helped keep him hidden.

At the same time, the target sat inside a posh restaurant, enjoying a portion of cheesecake. His full name was Teuril Mensuta, and he was a well respected businessman. Unfortunately, Teuril tended to do as he willed, regardless of who he offended. Little did he know that this meal would be his last, and as he exited the restaurant, the assassins plan commenced.

The door to the restaurant swung open and he reacted instantly. Standing, he proceeded to jump from the top of the building, snatching a small, slender H&K USP from his trouser pocket and shooting once. The bullet hit with perfect accuracy to the forehead.
Of the wrong man.

The assassin landed softly on the floor, distributing his weight.
"Denzel Avens. I should have know it." Teuril said, his voice tainted with hatred.
"What is your problem with me?" He asked, never breaking eye contact. Denzel found it hard to match this, but still spoke softly and calmly.
"I know what your doing Mensuta. I know all about your plans to bring back the Celands." Teuril glared at him.
"What's your point?" He whispered after what felt like an eternity to Denzel.
"The point is," Denzel replied, raising his pistol, "That you aren't going to see tomorrow."
Another bullet was fired, and the now silent and still corpse of Teuril Mensuta dropped to the floor.

Denzel inhaled deeply. Despite the street being empty, he was worried about being caught. Nothing else tonight had gone particularly well, so police interception was highly expected. His suspicions were confirmed before he had time to think. Police sirens wailed as 14 cars pulled around, ensnaring him. He laughed at the thought of being apprehended by such feeble forces.
"Sir, put your hands behind your head and get down on your knees. You're under arrest for suspected murder and criminal damage." Shouted a police from the nearest car. Denzel simply looked at him.
"Don't try to control me." Replied Denzel, outraged. One of the police made to hit him with his baton, but he was forced into submission when Denzel lodged his foot deep into the policeman's stomach.
"GET HIM!" Commanded another officer, carrying a large riot shield in front of him. Denzel simply smiled.
"Good night boys." He finished, still grinning. The guards advanced at full speed, but he was more than prepared. Taking one forceful jump, he caught the bar of an above lamppost. 10 seconds later, he was gone, a feather on the wind, impossible to catch.