professional killer | p

[val]

"yours is not to ask why,"

---

everything's so irritating. the sun's too bright - when did it feel so hot? - and the ground is too hard - why do his paws hurt so bad? - and the birds sing too loud - could they shut up already? - and nothing moved fast enough.

this was taking too long and he didn't know if he was even going the right way. he tried to have faith, but it was waning just as the moon was. his patience was left to a glass-thin sliver of moonlight, ready to shatter if jostled the wrong way.

it was a passing dream, slipping between his claws like fine grains of pale sand. he could keep reaching, keep grabbing, but it'd always elude him. the rasping sound of it trickling back to the earth was a taunt that battered his ears with hellfire.

or, at least, that's how it felt.

and still.

give up? you think you have a choice? how weak are you?

he hadn't really been thinking of it. the thought ran in the background of his mind; he was aware of it as he was aware of the rustle of tree leaves above. he winced as the voice dragged him through the mud. "wouldn't," he muttered with a scowl plastered on his maw.

hah. talking to yourself.

his distracted attention snapped back to the present when the most foul scent ever violated his olfactory senses. it smelled worse than the dumpster he was Frankensteined back to life in. oh wait, that's just the scent of another cat. funny. he'd forgotten what other cats smelled like.

to his disappointment, the scent didn't remind him of any of the clans. dead end.

maybe.

perhaps.

"hey," he barked, emerging boldly from the bushes with a false air of confidence - or was it abandon?

he kept his stance open and grounded as he glared down his nose at them. "you." he paused. how exactly was he to go about this? it didn't help he hadn't started with pleasantries, but even after everything, he still had no patience for that mouse-dung.

"what's your name?" he demanded after his moment of quick thinking.

---

"yours is to do and die"

[ @Bean ]