For what it was worth

For what it was worth, this was a relatively simple task.

The light snow blew gently with the wind, pressing against the the red brick structures that reached into the sky and the cracked concrete that was lain to the ground. It was the beginning of winter in Novosibirsk: the great industrial city of the Federation, as it rested jaggedly atop the Ob river. But for what it should have been, it should have been more lively in the commons district, and instead it was as dead and quiet as the height of winter itself. No one stood in the streets, nor did anyone walk along it. No vehicle drove the paths, nor did they idle. There was nothing that could go wrong: the perfect opportunity.

Almost too perfect.

AAT-08317 walked down the street as a lone man, wearing a simple suit and tie with a rather warm commanders mantle. He held a silver briefcase in the black gloves which wrapped tightly around his hands, as he approached a single apartment complex. The lights that decorated the street flickered, as the assassin stopped and glanced up and down the building.

Fourth floor, apartment 407. AAT-08317 thought, before he stepped toward the stairs that led to the front door of the complex. A flicker sounded through the assassin's radio, notifying 08317 that whoever was on the other end was ready to speak.

«AAT-08317, are you on site?» The voice asked.

«Affirmative.» AAT-08317 replied, as he stepped up the stairs and wrapped his free hand tightly around the door handle.

«Understood. We have terminated security services in the area, temporarily. Move quickly.» The voice then said, before the radio was silenced once again.

AAT-08317 pushed the door open before he walked into the hallway of the apartment complex. The assassin would usually be completely focused on his task, but this time felt different. For the last dozen or so assassinations and operations, the Administration had the Advanced Augmented Troopers (AAT's) target and eliminate the most bizarre of 'threats.' They have killed finance directors, soldiers, medical personnel, teachers, industrial workers, farmers and many many more. None of these individuals had connections to organised crime to the Russian Federation, and the majority of them were retired, no longer working in their professions.

AAT-08317 was no stranger to eliminating traitors of the Federation, but according to these files, they haven't even committed any major crimes. Occasional traffic citations, or social violations, but nothing to directly threaten the state. No, this operation wasn't like the others. It was different.

The Administration had something to hide, something to fear.

AAT-08317 walked up the stairs with little effort, his augmentations making it difficult for him to tire or to feel the slightest of discomfort as he marched up uneven and high steps to the fourth floor. He encountered no one in the hallways as he made his way toward the apartment number: 407. It was a long and abandoned hallway, with cracked wooden floors and a variety of bumps or cracks in the painted drywall. There was no lamp overhead, but instead a window mounted on the far end of the hall that offered minimal light.

A wooden board creaked under AAT-08317's weight as he stepped upon it, as he ceased movement entirely afterwards. The assassin flexed his free hand, before he reached to removed the heavy winter coat that had been keeping him warm. He rested it gently on the floor, before the assassin rested his briefcase on the ground and undid the latches mounted onto it. Opening the silver case slowly, AAT-08317 reached down with his left hand and removed his specialised sidearm: the Cz-45. The black painted pistol was already mounted with its silencer, as the assassin withdrew it and lifted the weapon into the air.

Slowly stepping forward, AAT-08317 glanced at the silver numbers that marked the door of the apartment where his targets stayed: 407. The assassin stepped forward, keeping his pistol raised in the air as he used his right hand to reach down and grab the door handle. He turned it slowly, finding the door to surprisingly be opened before he pushed it in gently. The door was pushed in with little effort, as the sound of a cackling fire instantly notified the assassin that indeed someone was in there.

There was a weak sigh and gasp, as a figure shifted in what sounded to be a leather seat. AAT-08317 didn't tense, as his right hand left the door handle and the assassin approached further into the apartment. There appeared to be three rooms that dotted the hallway: a bathroom, a bedroom and a small kitchen. The hallway lead into the living room, decorated with a series of carpets that laid either on the floor or mounted on the walls. The assassin crept silently toward the living room, toward the cackling fire as he made his way toward his target.

Two eyes fell on his figure, two penetrating and tired blue eyes of a woman who sat in the leather chair. She seemed to be fairly old, in her mid-fifties with silver hair as her eyes seemed to neither be depressed with fear or surprise. Instead, she spoke: «Who could you be?»

AAT-08317 remained quiet, before he heard a shuffle of footsteps that made their way slowly toward the hallway. The figure was revealed to be a man of roughly the same age, with silver eyes and hair as he bit onto a pipe. The man instantly recognised the pistol that the assassin held, before he spoke: «Who could you be? A thief, a murderer?!»

AAT-08317 remained silent.

«If he comes to steal,» The woman said, «there is nothing to take.»

«Why go through such trouble,» The man sighed and looked back to AAT-08317: «to look for something that has long since been stolen?»

«What has been stolen?» AAT-08317 then found himself asking.

The assassin nearly bit his tongue after he said this, cursing himself for his lack of professionalism. But something felt familiar about these figures, something that he couldn't put his finger on. Something was odd about this entire situation, almost as if the fates had willed it.

«A rather personal question you ask!» The man replied, «How could it matter to you? Do you care for us?»

Again AAT-08317 fell silent, as the man sighed once more before throwing his hands up in frustration. The man carefully and slowly stumbled over to a collection of newspapers that he had stacked, his shaking hands fumbling through the papers as he lifted up one copy. The assassin watched the man curiously, as his fingers twitched in a mimicking movement. The man flipped through the pages, before he found what he was looking for.

«Stranger, why do you come?» He eventually asked.

AAT-08317 remained silent, as he glanced down to the sidearm in his hands before he eventually answered: «My task is your elimination.»

The woman shifted in her seat, before she asked: «What have we ever done?»

«Stranger I pray you leave us to peace,» The man responded, «through whatever means you see fit. Leave us to live, and we continue to be as lost as we would be dead!»

The man lifted his newspaper, shifting it over to the assassin. AAT-08317 became tensed, as the man pointed out a specific article on the page. The man watched as AAT-08317's eyes darted across the page, seemingly confused. It was the funeral detail, for those who have been declared officially dead by the Russian State for the area of Novosibirsk. The assassin glanced over the names, confused for but a moment.

But then he saw his name.

Vadim Mironov, age 7. Declared dead.

It was one of only a few children that were listed on the page. A strong chill rushed down AAT-08317's spine. A chill ran down Vadim's spine. The assassin's eyes darted up to the man and the woman once more. He knew there was something off about this operation, about his targets.

Vadim wasn't given their name.

Vadim's wrist flicked as he found his Cz-45 sidearm lifted toward the head of the old man, as for the first time he felt his hand tremble. But the assassin didn't understand why, he wasn't in physical stress or agony. Something else was making its cold appeal to him to make Vadim lose his usually perfect control.

The man looked into Vadim's eyes, what should have been a stare of hatred or confusion was one of pity and sadness. The assassin didn't understand the face of his target, it wasn't that expression of fear that he had grown accustomed to when he usually killed his target. This human nature and self-preserving thought was almost as withered and gone as his own.

«If you kill me,» the man calmly said, «know that I won't blame you. I've lived dead far too long, a shell of what should have been a happy life.»

«Why?» Vadim demanded.

«Why would you care?»

Vadim felt his finger curl as he fired his sidearm, the bullet passing through the head of the man as his crimson blood erupted from his head. The limp body of the man collapsed onto the carpeted floor beneath them, resting still completely. Vadim then concentrated his weapon on the woman, as her eyes welled up with tears before she asked with stuttered breaths: «What kind of monster are you?!»

A second fire cracked, as the woman fell dead in her armchair. Blood ran down to the floor, as Vadim turned to look at the pistol in his hands: the instrument in countless murders, as he then cast it from himself. The assassin stood still as he huffed out a few confused breaths, before his eyes darted around the rest of the apartment. There was a collection of murals and photographs of the couple, whether in sunny days near a dacha or winters together on the industrial streets of Novosibirsk.

But in the centre of a collection of photographs, there rested on of three figures. Vadim approached the table that held the photographs, as his hand wrapped around its frame and he lifted it up to look at it. The two he recognised were of the man and the woman in their younger years, smiling and happy. And between them stood a child, too familiar to what the assassin recognised.

Vadim froze.

Because the child was him.

His hands crushed the frame of the photograph as he seized the photo in the centre of it for himself. Vadim looked at it strangely, cursing himself internally before he radio crackled externally. The voice of the one on command rose: «Report of progress?»

Vadim's free hand curled around the radio as he yanked it from the position it rested in, before he looked down to the device. His eyes quickly found the symbol of the Administration that he served embedded on its casing, as the radio quietly asked again: «Report.»

With all the strength that Vadim could muster, his fingers curled around the device and closed on it like a vice. The casing crack as the circuitry underneath broke and sizzled in his hands, the signal and receiver it held going dead as Vadim dropped the broken device to the ground. The assassin circled around carefully to where the fire still burned, as he looked down to the photograph of him and his parents once more.

Emotions surged through Vadim for what felt like the first time in a life time, before it burned into something else completely. The assassin then let go of the photograph, as it sailed carefully toward the fire. It lit spectacularly, as the edges and the centre burned in the fire as the photo began to run and fade. Vadim then looked back up to the wall before he heaved out a breath, as all the warmth that he had felt seemed to dissipate  instantly. The assassin curled his hands into fists, before he turned back to the person who could only be his mother.

«I am 08317.» AAT-08317 spoke, as his eyes immediately removed themselves from the body of the woman.

Slowly walking away, AAT-08317 retrieved his Cz-45 from off the floor as he approached the silver case that he had been carrying. Placing the sidearm back into the case before sealing it, the assassin picked up the briefcase before he slowly approached the door. AAT-08317 didn't turn back once to glance back at the scene, selectively removing the encounter from his mind as he turned toward the staircase he ascended only moments before.

For what it was worth, it was a relatively simple task.