2 A Normal Family

It was a warm spring morning in Sublimaeir, a small city about 100 kilometers from the capital. The city was serene at this hour, a refreshing change of pace for those accustomed to the bustle of the capital. Almost everyone was accustomed to it; all but a handful of the locals worked there, commuting by train each morning.

The city offered everything its inhabitants might need, but apart from its tranquility, nothing more. The houses were all simplistic, nearly identical with their flat roofs, white facades, and curiously rich mahogany doors. To the unsuspecting onlooker, they might have appeared bland. But to the trained eye of a modern architect, the whole town would be a work of art, aligning perfectly with the current trend of Architectural Minimalism.

Many of the inhabitants of Sublimaeir, especially the elderly, were oblivious to architectural trends. So when an influential developer from the capital came with a renovation offer too good to refuse, almost too good to be true, the once archaic town received a facelift few people fully appreciated. Nobody questioned the developer's generosity, or the stipulation that all the buildings be standardized according to the same template. What was a little uniformity in comparison to universal internet, television, and technological upgrades?

Within one year, the city had been completely transformed and enlarged. Now, five years later, the developer was a hero. The more spiritual residents of Sublimaeir revered him as a prophet sent by their god. They even gave him a nickname. They referred to him as Hestius.

But he was no prophet. He wasn't even a developer, as he had so proudly proclaimed. He was merely a servant on a mission. A mission he'd completed satisfactorily, thus keeping his head attached to his neck.

The reason for this mission lived in the city, in one of the newly renovated houses. It sat in the kitchen, newspaper in hand, sipping black coffee and enjoying a croissant. No older than forty, at least in appearance, the man glossed over most of the news. But a sudden background noise caught his attention, and he lowered the paper.

From the open-concept kitchen, the man had a clear view of the living room TV. Even so, he stood up and walked toward the screen, his expression unreadable. He grabbed the remote and increased the volume by a few notches.

". . . on Monday, the 26th of July, 2016, Parliament will be conducting a hearing to discuss the illegalization of the Assassin Practice that has been plaguing us for a long, long time now. This practice allows any individual to hire a gunman to carry out an assassination on any specified target. With us today, we have the leading figure of the Anti-Assassin Movement, Doctor Anthony Moore. Welcome, Doctor Moore. What can you tell us about this whole situation?"

The camera shifted toward a man in his late 30s. He had short, obsidian-black hair and a full beard of the same colour. Though time seemed to have treated him well, anyone could see the deep sorrow written in his chestnut eyes. The man forced a smile. "First of all, thank you for inviting me," he began, his voice deep and resonant. "It is my pleasure. As you've already mentioned, this situation has been plaguing our society for decades, and it's about time it stops. Many of you might not think of this as a huge threat. However, the reality is quite frightening, even for the people that aren't very. . . " the man paused, searching for a suitable word, ". . . influential in this world."

"Statistics from the last decade show that the number of assassins has increased almost ten-fold, and the average price for assassinations has fallen by 30%. Judging by this data, it's safe to assume that the trend will continue. Eventually, the only thing that keeps assassinations to a minimum, the high price, will become history. After that, you'll start seeing your neighbour get assassinated because he cheated on his wife."

A couple of people on the set chuckled, but the man's face was impassive. He hadn't been joking. He paused, waiting for the reality of his words to sink in.

"You laugh, but this will soon become a reality. We will see an unstoppable avalanche of death and terror, and it will be the bane of humanity as we know it!"

He paused dramatically. Once again, he waited for the audience to grasp the significance of his words. Then, like a general addressing his army, he continued.

"In two weeks, we will be holding a parliamentary meeting, to change this terrifying future of ours. I can't garner the support of a constitutional majority to end this threat on my own. Therefore, I will attempt to initiate a referendum. A referendum in which you will decide my future. Your future. The future of your children. I urge you—comprehend this danger, and act accordingly."

Just as the burly woman sitting across from Mr. Moore was about to ask a question, a young voice interrupted the concentration of the man in the living room.

"What are you looking at?"

The man calmly turned the TV off. But before he could answer, the voice behind him spoke again.

"Trouble at work?"

"No, not trouble, son. This is much worse. A complete shitstorm is coming."

The man turned to face a young boy, golden-haired under the sunlight from the window. At fourteen years old, the boy was already 170 centimeters tall, with muscles honed by prolonged martial arts training.

"I thought as much. Some of my classmates have been creating some really stupid theories. It's almost sad how oblivious they are," the boy said, with a confidence beyond his years.

"You can't blame them. Most of them live in their own bubbles, ignoring the atrocities happening around them."

He paused, thoughtful. "Your classmates, you say? Still adamant on not calling them your friends, Nathan?"

The boy chose not to answer and walked to the kitchen.

"Do you have any questions regarding your training?"

He followed his son to the kitchen, softly sitting down to continue his croissant.

"No, Father. It's just a lot of repetition at this point. But I could use some hands-on experience. Could you perhaps. . . "

Suddenly the confident facade crumbled, and the boy stopped.

Unhurried, the father continued with his croissant. Only when the plate was empty did he look up to answer.

"You can't even ask the question properly, yet you expect me to take you along?" he said gently, caringly. "You're delusional if you think this little resolve will make you useful."

The man paused.

"As I've said many times before, experience is key. But no experience is worth it if you're gonna die while getting it. You still have time, Nathan. What's more, I can't just take you along and risk the whole operation."

He stood up and began tidying the table. The silence stretched into eternity. Nathan clenched his fists.

When all the dishes had been cleared, the father hugged his son tightly.

"I know that you want to be helpful, that you just want to beat the shit out of someone to vent all of the frustration, but no matter how agonizing this is right now for you, I want you to trust me when I say that you're still not ready."

The man released his son and walked slowly to the door.

"I might be gone for a couple of days. Please take care of the house for me. If you need anything, just call me."

He left without looking back. Nathan remained, seemingly unmoved. For just an instant, a tear appeared on his cheek. But his sleeve flashed over his face as he jumped up, and the stoic look he wore as he headed to the training room suggested it had been sweat.