Flair

By Seth N. Locke

Danil raised his binoculars to his eyes, scanning the buildings below him. From his perch in the clock tower, he could see the necessary details from a great distance.

Apartment 203’s curtains were pulled back, allowing him to survey a tidy living room. He panned his binoculars to a church across town. Viktor sat inside the steeple’s highest room, leaning back in a chair, puffing on his cigar, a high-powered rifle leaning against the wall behind him.

Danil grabbed his own rifle and crowned himself with his headset just as the bell in the tower struck six deafening times.

As soon as the reverberations died, Viktor’s voice croaked into his ear. “Your target is an errant H-BOT, feminine form, approaching apartment 203 in a lavender dress. After 18:15, fire at your discretion.”

From his vantage point, Danil could not quite see the ground level of the apartment, but he ranged the scope of his weapon for the distant window and waited until his target appeared in its living room. It was indeed a feminine-form bot, with the overly perfect features common to artificial humanity.

“I have a visual on the target,” Danil muttered into his mouthpiece. “It appears to be putting its belongings away. Now it’s sitting down at the desk.”

“I can see that,” Viktor said. “Hopefully, it stays there for ten more minutes.”

Danil hated days with his boss on the job—it was hard to do anything that pleased Viktor.

Danil eyed the H-BOT through his scope. It opened a drawer in its desk and pulled out purple stationary.

“Apparently, she likes purple,” Danil said. Perhaps Viktor would appreciate his observational skills.

“You mean, it likes purple?” Viktor snapped back.

Danil scowled. It’s easy to forget.

He looked at his watch. 18:09. He lined up his crosshairs with the robot’s forehead.  Studying the room again, he noticed a decoration on the wall. It was an embellished text set over a mountain scene: Alex & Catherine.

He glanced back at the feminine form at the desk. She—it—was writing something on the paper. Her hand moved steadily, forming meaning from the ink. After each line, she raised her hand, rotating her wrist and flicking her smallest finger. Danil realigned his sights with her face, reconsidering his initial thought that she had perfect features.

“18:15. Fire at your discretion,” Viktor’s voice came through.

Danil could not take his mind off the flair in her writing style and her purple preferences. “Viktor, I—I need to check something first.”

“What do you mean?”

Danil put the gun back in his modified guitar case.

“Danil, what are you doing?”

Danil began descending the ladder. “I’m not sure of my shot, with the crosswind. I’m going to have to use my revolver. I’ll make it look like a self-destruct.”

“Sometimes I wonder how you got hired.”

“I want this mission to succeed as much as you do. I’m going to have to go off comms.” He removed the earpiece and exited the bell tower through a back door.

Danil rang Catherine’s doorbell, his mind racing for something believable to say. He ran through the list of questions used to distinguish a human from an H-BOT in legal situations. Door 203 opened, and Catherine stepped out. As she tucked her hair behind her ear, a ring glinted on her finger. Her eyes were indigo, perfectly accented by her dress, and deep enough to tell Danil she was human. Still, before he judged Viktor, he had to ask.

“Is your husband home? I need him to sign for a package that we couldn’t send by drone,” Danil improvised, holding up the faux guitar case. An H-BOT would never consider itself married.

“I’m sorry, he’s still at work,” Catherine said, brushing another loose hair behind her ear with the same flick of her finger she used while writing. “Can I sign for him?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Danil could not deny the depth of humanity in her eyes and the flair in her mannerisms, and he suddenly realized what Viktor had told him to do. He shoved the earpiece back into his ear and turned on the comms.

“Viktor, I think we made a mistake,” he said. “She’s not an H-BOT.”

Viktor’s voice came in, blunt as ever. “You ask too many questions. If you won’t do your job, I will.”

Catherine backed away.

Danil froze. “Don’t do this, Viktor!”

“I’m not after the woman anymore.”

Danil made his decision, and instinct took over. Still gripping his guitar case, he dove into the doorway. Catherine shrieked as she toppled. Danil rolled away from the entrance, unlatching the case.

“If only you had followed orders, Danil.”

Danil pulled his gun from its case. The range should be about the same.

A bullet splintered the door jamb and whistled past Danil.

Danil took his chance. He shouldered his rifle, peeking around the corner of the door. He scanned for the steeple, then ducked back behind the door. A second bullet pierced the drywall and the nearby purple couch. Catherine disappeared into a hallway.

“You idiot!” Viktor growled.

“You always said I’d be the death of you.” Danil jumped out, eye to his scope. He adjusted in a nanosecond, thankful for countless hours of training. No time to double-check. He squeezed the trigger.

Even with a silencer, the gunshot resounded in the apartment. He dove again, but there was no third shot. Danil waited a moment. Only the whir of broken electronics came from his earpiece. He pulled out his binoculars and peered into the steeple. Viktor slouched in his chair, the gun in his lap and a leaking hole in his forehead.

But not leaking blood. This was brighter. Cherry-colored. Engine grease. And a thin stream of vapor exited, mixing with the cigar smoke.

“Stop! Put your hands in the air, and don’t move.” Catherine entered the room, clenching a small revolver.

Danil raised his hands, smiling. She even held a weapon with a flair.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Seth N. Locke enjoys writing purposeful fiction. When not writing, he runs printing equipment at his day job, or can be found engaged in a variety of nerd pass-times, such as chess, art, and music composition. An INTJ, public sightings are not always frequent.