VIII: The Secret Life of Peter Morchov

Peter sat on the plastic subway bench, wedged in between two middle aged Asian women, chatting away as the train wound its way through the dark tunnel of Manhattan to Queens. Irritated, he glanced at the two women, seemingly oblivious to their fellow passengers. On any normal day, Peter would not be perturbed by the rudeness of others, but this was far from a normal day. He glanced down at his hands, twitching and constantly moving. Mentally he chided himself. Guilty hands were a rookie's mistake, a clear give away. Certainly, he had killed before, though never, not even the very first time, did it disturb him as it did today. Peter was in fact a man very well acquainted with death, both in the dealing of and the close proximity to.

The others that were sharing the bench with him could not have possibly guessed that this pudgy, tennis shoe-wearing facade masked lightning reflexes, iron strength, and the cold mind of a professional assassin. Still his fingers twitched. "Get a hold of yourself," he murmured aloud, hastily checking himself as a man sitting across from him noticed his fidgety movements and apparently one-sided conversation. In an effort to relax his mind, he let himself wander back to happier times: his harsh, foreboding training camp miles and miles out in the Russian countryside. Around a third of those who entered did not exit. And it was his home, his most beloved place. He recalled the initial nerves, the false acceptance, the blinding pain, the overwhelming fear, and then true acceptance. And peace. Yes, he remembered the peace. The peace that comes only when facing death, inevitable and unconquerable, and feeling only indifference. Peter carried that indifference with him on every single job, every mission since he left that camp twenty five long years ago. He carried it to such an extent that it became his life. His own outlook, his goals, his identity, all faded in time, falling by the wayside as all unneeded things are. It was for this reason he took on his most recent assignment, when he should have balked and walked away. It was for this reason the woman he loved was dead.




Phew, ha ha ha! That was kinda fun! This was the original intent of this blog, to chronicle the unknown and fantastical stories of the inhabitants of this frantic city (with a bit of artistic license). I hadn't done one up until now because I was a) too lazy and b) caught up in detailing my new experiences. As things begin to fall into more of a routine, I decided to get crackin'. I probably will look back on this as a little goofy, but whatever. More will come, I imagine. I not that all the stories I do make up for people are all very, um..."fanciful." I do not ever seem to invent realistic, boring, depressing lives that people actually probably do live. Assassins and secret wizards trump that. That doesn't sound too healthy now that I think of it, but it is only because I want people to live interesting lives! Crazy as they are.
-Emerson