“You are eighteen, Ahradok. Here is your sword. Come join the fighting men!”
“Father,” said Ahradok, “I wish to remain in the kitchens.”
“Son, men work with drawn swords, not wooden spoons.”
Ahradok honoured his father’s advice, but soon found that a sword is highly impractical for chopping and dicing.
“As I suspected, Gling, the human aliens are paranoid and aggressive. He ‘killed’ the dummy in order to escape.”
Gling gargled. “But this one had a weapon. We must test others.”
They watched as Herbert Cralston flung the hospital doors open and sank to his knees in despair.
Patience. One round, one chance. No errors are allowed. Tranquility. The jarring of the heart’s voice deters and distracts. If you still its wild fluttering, nothing is impossible. Steadfastness. Be ready for the ensuing chaos. It’s time.
The weapon fires; the crowd scatters; the politician falls; the mission is complete.
This Guest Writer story is from Zachary “Nomadic” Williams, who notes that he is not trying to suggest any specific situation or any specific person. He just had assassinations on the brain at the time of writing. At some point or another, don’t we all?