No Safe Haven

To Hang a Knight

Rook arrived at his destination - a two-story house with a large sign out front, declaring it to be for sale. He rode up the driveway then turned around and backed the motorcycle into the side yard, where it couldn't be seen from the street. He was certain the realtor wouldn't be coming by any time in the next couple of hours; Rook had made an appointment to view a different property under the realtor's listings, which should keep the man all the way across town until well-after Rook was finished here. 

He closed the gate to the side yard and proceeded to pick the lock on the side entrance to the garage. Once done, he hefted his backpack and let himself in. 

For this particular contract, Rook would be even closer than he had been to Morrell. From the upstairs bedroom to the front of Ramsey's house was less than a hundred yards. 

He stopped as he realized he had just attached Ramsey's name to the contract. The inclusion of Bishop into the fold was throwing everything off-balance. While Rook was mentally prepared to kill Ramsey - regardless of whether or not he knew him by name - he still would have preferred to just forget the name altogether. 

This is what happens when you let the altruistic personalities have a foothold. Everything gets heavy. 

Rook pushed Ramsey's name to the back of his mind and continued into the house. The realtor had rented furniture in an effort to make the house feel more like a home. As Rook passed pictures hung on the wall or placed on end-tables, he glanced at the fake families and their fake smiles.  

The only memories Rook had of family were saturated with anger and filtered through the bias of William Dawkins. They were memories of abusive parents; until his parents were replaced by abusive foster-parents. Eventually the foster-parents were replaced by abusive drill instructors, until they were themselves replaced with nameless trainers. Later on, the trainers were replaced with... nobody. 

Maybe that's why he fractured... 

Every picture he passed pulled a memory to the fore-front of Rooks mind until he simply couldn't take it any longer. As he reached the stairs, he swept his hand up the wall and knocked each picture to the stairs as he climbed. Frames broke, and glass shattered over the stairs behind him. Even the sound of broken glass was bringing forth memories. 

Rooks anger continued to build as he entered the master bedroom. These weren't even his memories, why should he have to carry them? 

The large dresser to his left held a mirror which allowed Rook to really see himself for the first time in a long time.  

That's not me, he thought. That's just what I think I look like. 

Cognizant of the fact that his true appearance and how he thought he looked were entirely different, sadness began to encroach upon the anger in his chest. He would never be known to the world. Good or bad, anything he did would be attributed to the name William Dawkins. Rook was proud of the reputation he had built, but he would never know adulation. 

The sadness and anger coalesced into bitterness, and he punched the mirror, shattering it. The newfound pain in his hand purified the bitterness into a diamond inside him, and allowed him to focus on the task at hand. 

To the side of the bed rested a nightstand. Rook pulled on the nightstand until it was under the windowsill, then lifted the window open. He made sure to fasten the curtain in a manner that would prevent it from falling into his view. He set the backpack and tube down and began to remove the pieces of his rifle.  

From his pants pocket, a cell phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again, the notification of an incoming call, not a text. 

Shit...