The Scalpel

Monday

17h55

The thought was of death.

The air was still, and my mind was clear. A clear mind is a focused mind, one that doesn't make mistakes. Perfection. A standard, not a luxury.

Live-sustaining molecules flowed through my nostrils as a cool breeze entered my lungs. I exhaled, slowly, and started the process anew. My Sleeve indicated my heartbeat to be at eighty-five beats per minute. It was acceptable. A heartbeat that is too high decreases rational thinking, whereas one that is too low risks fainting. Both cases would lead to mistakes. Unacceptable. Conditions must be perfect. Form a plan and execute it to the letter. Leave if the conditions change outside the expected. There was no room for deviation, no margin for error.

The thought was of death.

My hand brushed past the bathroom door as I entered. Clichéd, but it would work. Cameras embedded in its tiled walls would watch all who enter. Assumptions could be made, but not all assumptions were correct. I counted to three before sliding the stall's lock. Always add a few seconds to any task. Finished, I snaked my hand into a pocket to find a black cylinder. A pen, or so it was assumed. Pressing its tip against a paper would prove its function as a pen. But not all assumptions were correct. With pen in hand, I touched Sleeve, noting the digits at the top of the display. Six in the afternoon.

I ran through my mental checklist. Pass security, get to the target, eliminate the target, and return to obscurity. Life is simple when broken into objectives. Assignment, completion, done. Any task that cannot follow this pattern must be divided further.

The thought was of death.

Five clicks activated the pen's blue light. The silence gave way to a deeper one as a myriad of devices shut down. Security nullified. All electronics within a two-hundred-meter radius are nullified. All immediate threats have been eliminated.

Objective one, completed.

I lowered the pen into my pocket before exiting the stall. No witnesses. Good. I reached into my pocket halfway to my destination and removed two surgical gloves. Fingerprints would be a liability. A mistake. I needed to compensate.

Three doors waited for me. Pool, corridor, and gym. I picked the latter. Contents: storage lockers, four treadmills, three bench presses, three punching bags, two squash courts, one climbing wall... and one target. The ambiance changed when I stepped into the room. Hints of bleach and chlorine gave way to ragged grunts and a periodic clink. The target was exercising. Likely, on a bench press. And he was tired.

Perfect.

My target came into view as I walked around the corner. Real-name unknown, codename F. Unknown accent. Specialized in mechanical engineering with noteworthy skills in machinery. One point nine meters in length, one hundred and fifteen kilograms in weight. Favors gym sessions on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Bright-red hair kept short, usually self-cut, beard, tattoo of an ostrich on his right arm, often obscured by the jumpsuit.

Maintaining my self-imposed silence, I stole closer, warily keeping an eye on my target as I approached.

"Who's there?" F asked.

I paused my step. F's hearing seemed to be better than expected. A mistake, but not fatal. "Just me."

"Oh." The dumbbell clinked into place as his hands fell onto a raggedly breathing chest. "I never figured you one for the gym."

I shrugged before stepping closer. "I like to spice things up."

"I hear that." F took a deep breath. "It's been weeks since I last pushed a few. Legs are as strong as an ox, but arms? Hoo boy. They need some work."

"Anything to take a break from the projects, am I right?" I clenched my right hand around an object in my right pocket. Something cylindrical. Silver, not black. And sharp.

"Don't remind me." Wiping his face muffled the last of this thought. "That damn centrifuge will be the death of me."

"You should learn to duck."

F chuckled raggedly. "Oh, it's not my body I'm worried about. There'll be nothing left if that counterweight hits me. Nah, it's Management. They want me to upgrade the thing, but their specs are simply ridiculous. Something rotating close to Mach one while anchored? They're insane!"

Our eyes met as I stopped next to him. They say eyes are the windows to the soul. Could he see into mine? See the future waiting for him. His grin was answer enough. "Well, we weren't recruited to do the mundane," I said.

"True, but a break from the impossible would be a sweet relief." He covered his face again, likely trying to absorb some newly formed sweat.

He was blinded.

And alone.

Perfect.

I removed the cylindrical object from my pocket. "The Firewalker sends their regards."

His hands stopped instantly. He knew, but it was too late.

Leaning slightly forward, I struck...