October Black sits outside of a café in a city whose name will be forgotten in a thousand years. On his table, an untouched drink steams quietly next to the book that his hand rests upon but remains unopened. The book is about the lives of colors, written by a man born without eyes in a language no one has ever spoken aloud.
‘Is your name October Black?’ snarls the gunman with a white knuckled grip on the pistol pointed at the seated man’s head.
‘It. Is.’
Not an answer to the assassin’s question. Simply two words spoken aloud closely together. Words spoken in a voice that sounds like a chill wind blowing dead leaves across a grave.
The second gunman, pointing a shotgun at the man who may or may not be October Black, felt a shiver in the place where his soul would be if he had one. His finger began to tighten on the trigger of his weapon involuntarily.
‘Yes or no?’ growled Pistol. Smart, a smart man. And dangerous.
Another question, separate from the first. A question with only two possible answers, both equal in their own way. With no reason to choose one over the other the seated man replies…
‘Yesss,’ the chilling whisper of his answer dragged on and on for an eternity of now. The word wraps clawed fingers around a weak mind, subtly changing a perception, moving just enough.
The boom of the shotgun and the explosion of Pistol’s head are effectively simultaneous.
October Black stands and steps over Pistol’s steaming corpse as Shotgun drops his weapon and vomits at his feet.
Another failed attempt by November.
‘Is your name October Black?’ snarls the gunman with a white knuckled grip on the pistol pointed at the seated man’s head.
‘It. Is.’
Not an answer to the assassin’s question. Simply two words spoken aloud closely together. Words spoken in a voice that sounds like a chill wind blowing dead leaves across a grave.
The second gunman, pointing a shotgun at the man who may or may not be October Black, felt a shiver in the place where his soul would be if he had one. His finger began to tighten on the trigger of his weapon involuntarily.
‘Yes or no?’ growled Pistol. Smart, a smart man. And dangerous.
Another question, separate from the first. A question with only two possible answers, both equal in their own way. With no reason to choose one over the other the seated man replies…
‘Yesss,’ the chilling whisper of his answer dragged on and on for an eternity of now. The word wraps clawed fingers around a weak mind, subtly changing a perception, moving just enough.
The boom of the shotgun and the explosion of Pistol’s head are effectively simultaneous.
October Black stands and steps over Pistol’s steaming corpse as Shotgun drops his weapon and vomits at his feet.
Another failed attempt by November.