Above is my lil' darlin' character Sugar Lightspeed, The Schoolgirl Assassin.
This is the first installment I ever wrote about her and the world she inhabits. This is my Lost Peaks Universe, and there are a rogue's gallery of characters that roam the seething metropolis of my mind. And now for your literary perusal, my girl Sugar Lightspeed, and he mentor, the enigmatic X in...
Light in Darkness
He was a killer, plain and simple.
It was what he did, and he did it extremely well, but now…
Now there was her.
And that changed everything.
He was cold; hard as concrete bunker in the arctic depths; where he walked Hell and carnage washed in his wake…
But she got to him. Like no one ever had. She got to him deep.
He was on a job, like any other. Like hundreds of times before. The mark had pissed off the wrong person, and X had received a call. Profiles on his targets usually revealed them to be the worst of God’s mistakes, ripe for culling, but it didn’t matter if they weren’t. If he got the call, they were dead as deep space.
This hit was no different from any other hit, except…for one thing.
He entered the penthouse like a whisper in your mind of something you’ve forgotten. In deathly silence he came. No locks could bar his way. No security devices would trip him. If X wanted you dead, you were dead. One in the heart and one in the head.
Life was not precious to X. Not a thing to be cherished. Not anyone’s life. Not even his own. His own march to this moment in his existence had taught him very little about compassion, tenderness, and love. They were just insubstantial words that dissolved like smoke into the night sky. His life had been all but devoid of such things. Very young he learned the hard lesson that he could only count on himself. No one would protect him. Ever. It was this desperate atmosphere that would breed a killer. A killer with no remorse, no conscience, no qualms, and no peer.
People. Humans. Each face became a potential target.
A mark was a mark.
This particular mark was a wealthy man. A connected man. It didn’t matter. It never mattered. In the end, he was nothing special. Like all the rest.
The mark thought he was unassailable, untouchable, impregnable. He wasn’t.
This certain mark, he was a great beast of man. Bear-like, powerful, corpulent, and hirsute. Draped in a lengthy, black, silken robe, he came from his bathroom off the master bedroom.
The mark suddenly found himself confronted with a shadowed, almost formless figure holding a silenced pistol pointed at him.
The mark opened his mouth to speak. To demand, to plead, to offer, to gasp…whatever he meant to say was never uttered. A whiffing thoom signaled the end of the mark’s life, and he fell dead on the luxurious, deep pile, white carpet, a slowly spreading crimson stain growing under his body.
It was time to leave. Except…
There was a sound. Only a clinking tick of movement. His gun swung toward the walk-in closet door which stood slightly ajar, the interior dark. He eased the door open with the barrel of his gun, ready to clean up whoever he found within. There was an odor in the air. Acrid. Bitter. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. He knew that smell all too well. Those attuned to the scent could sense it afar off. It was the stink of terror. The place was permeated by it. Rank with it. With his other hand he switched on the light, and stepped inside.
There was only a dim crimson glow that washed the chamber like blood. He thought he had seen everything. He’d seen many things. Dark things. Terrible things. He had beaten a man to death with his bare hands. He had tortured to get information. He had bathed in blood, sculpting grotesque forms from the heaped gore. He murdered men and women without a second thought. Not even a pause. But he wasn’t a devil. There were places he’d never delved, where he’d never go. He took no pleasure in death, in cruelty, in brutality. He was good at it, that was all, but he didn’t revel in it. It was part of the job
But he had limits. Though he never realized he had them.
What he found froze his bones to the core.
His breathe caught in his throat. His own reaction shocked him all the more.
In the closet he found a torture chamber dungeon, all hard, gritty concrete, cold, cruel steel, and black, knotted leather, spikes, hooks, serrated edges that screamed of sado-sexual depths to make the Marquis De Sade cringe…
This was not what made his veins freeze. No, not the room.
In that blighted room of horror he found a girl. A young girl, of no more than twelve, if that. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Painfully lovely. Radiantly fragile. Cornsilk hair and ice blue eyes, with flawless skin. Those eyes. A perfect angel consigned to a pit of Hell. Bound in a kneeling position, naked and chained to the back wall. In her mouth was a blood red ball gag.
Her haunted eyes were very wide as she looked up the length of his silenced barrel, up his long arm at his cold, grim face, into his hard, killer’s eyes. She had seen him. Those eyes. She knew his face. She would have to die. That was his rule. That was his law. No witnesses. Ever.
He took aim. Her eyes grew even wider, like saucers, but she made not a sound. Those eyes. She knew she was going to die. There was no doubt. It was in her eyes. Those eyes. There was no fear in them. Only an empty despair, a dead hopelessness, and as he took aim there seemed to be a sort of relief in them. She was looking at the unknown depths of the black beyond with those eyes and had no terror of it. Only a sorrowful new hope of something better to come after.
She was going to die. She had accepted it. More than that, she welcomed it. His finger tightened on the trigger. She was nothing to him. He had snuffed so many other candles of life with not a blink of an eye. Those eyes.
He blinked furiously. It was suddenly hard to see clearly. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He felt a pain deep inside him. A pressure welling up inside him, tearing at him. A tightness in his chest, like his heart would be crushed. It was almost unbearable. Those eyes. He realized abstractly that there were tears falling from his eyes as he stared into her terrible eyes.
Strange, he thought to himself bemused.
Then he found himself. Without a word, he put away his gun. She watched him flip open a multi-tool. He picked the lock keeping her chained with little effort. He put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and removed her gag. She made not a peep. She just looked at him with those eyes.
Gently, he picked up the girl, cradling her in his arms, and took her from the closet, that closet of horrors.
On the floor lay the man he had been sent to sanction. She looked at the dead body of her captor. There was no emotion on her gorgeous face. She just looked away. He laid her on the bed, and she immediately spread her legs. It was obvious what she expected to happen.
A lump grew in his throat. Pain hammered in his chest. Softly, he closed her legs. She looked at him, accepting, because that’s what she was trained to do. He wrapped her in the goose down comforter on the bed. He lifted her up, and spirited her out of the penthouse. He bore her down fifty-five flights of stairs, to the parking garage beneath the building. Placing her in the passenger’s seat of his car, he strapped her in.
She silently watched him perform all his actions. She watched him as he went around the car, and seated himself next to her. He started the car and pulled out of the garage on to the city street. There was snow falling. Her eyes never left him.
He looked at her.
“What is your name?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes looked at him steadily, unnervingly.
“Whatever you want to call me, Master?”
He stared at her. The pain in his chest was returning, as was the lump in his throat. He felt his eyes water, but his voice was low, but steady.
What is wrong with me? He wondered in his min, utterly mystified.
To her he said in measured tones.
“I’m not your master.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“You’re my Master.”
“No, girl, I am not.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes began to tear in confusion.
“Am I not being a good girl? I’ll do whatever you want, Master.”
The pain in his chest was so tight he thought he would fold in on himself.
What is the matter with me? He thought in consternation.
“You…You’re being very good. Please, don’t call me master.”
“O-okay.”
“I need to know your name, miss.”
“You called me Miss. Is that my new name?”
“No. No, it’s just something you say, sweetie.”
Her eyes were filled with confusion as she searched his face.
“You want my name to be Sweetie?”
“No….What did the man who…what did he call you?”
“Lots of things. Cunt, slut, bitch, slave. I-I’m sorry. I can’t remember them all, Mast-“
She looked terrified that she had almost called him master again. It was obvious that she expected to be punished.
“It’s alright. Go on.”
Tentatively, she continued.
“M-mostly, he called me Cunt or Cunny.”
“Don’t you know your real name?”
“Real name? My Master gives me my name.”
Something occurred to him.
“How many masters have you had?”
She looked back and forth her eyes scared again.
“I-I don’t know. L-lots and lots. I’m sorry, M-“
“It’s alright. It’s fine.”
He paused searching for the right thing to say.
“You’re safe now. No one will hurt you. I…I will never hurt you.”
Her eyes, those eyes searched his face. The depths of her eyes were a mystery, full of hurt and misery he could never understand, he never wanted to understand, but it was very apparent that she had heard such words before. Lying words, full of deceit and sadism.
Those eyes riveted him. Held him bound in serpentine chains. Those eyes, their gaze crucified him. Ripped open his soul, dredging up feelings he long since thought he had eliminated. But now they burst forth as if a great dam had been torn asunder, the torrent of repressed emotions crashing inside of him filling him with sorrow so great he thought he might not be able to bear it.
Empathy was not a gift given to him. It had been long lost. Now he found it being forced upon him, and the burden of it was terrible to endure, bitter and agonizing, but he knew somehow he had given away a part of himself to this child, this wounded dove. She had not taken it. He had given it to her. He had thought himself immune to such things, such emotions, but he now knew he was not. He did not understand how it had happened, but it had, and nothing could change that now. She had changed him.
He knew he was different from what people called “normal.” He had a switch permanently turned off. Most others always had it on. He wasn’t a psychotic or sociopath, but he was broken. He knew it, but he never cared.
Now he had found someone far more broken than he ever would be. An innocent who had never known innocence; only a life of cruel depravity, obscene perversion, utter degradation, and endless bondage. Why did his heart ache so? He did not understand it. Why did her eyes, those eyes, rip at his insides? It confounded him, but he could not look away from those agonized eyes, and drowning in their depths, he could not find the hard hearted will to kill her. Her eyes had shot like bullets through his soul, into the very core of his being, and suddenly he felt how broken he was as he saw himself reflected in this shattered child. It was a brutal epiphany, but then again, he was a brutal man.
Or at least he had been. With regard to this girl, he was anything but what he had been.
He reached out and softly touched her cheek. She did not shrink, but she did not respond either. He knew his words would sound hollow to her, but he had to say them.
“Listen to me, Sugar. You may not believe me. You may not understand it now, but your life has changed. It is going to get much better. What has happened in the past is passed. From this moment you are free. You can stay with me or go. It is your choice. If you stay with me, I promise, I will protect you, and look after you...always.”
Her searching eyes bored into him.
“I…I will stay with you, Mas- Um…”
“You can call me X.”
She cast her eyes about as if looking for something long lost. Then she looked at him with great worry in her eyes, seeking approval.
“A-and…my name is Sugar.”
“Sugar it is. That is until you find something you like better.”
He was still holding her cheek in his hand. She closed her eyes and nuzzled his palm slightly. He brushed her long hair back from her exquisite features. She opened those cutting ice blue eyes. She didn’t say a word, but those eyes, those terrible eyes, said to him like the thundering knell of Fate.
“YOU PROMISED ME!!!”
Those words echoed in his mind.
For all his many faults, X was man of his word.
“Let’s take you home, Sugar.”
* * *
He had fed her a slice of pizza, and given her one of his old shirts to wear. She ate sparingly, always watching for his approval. He could tell she had never eaten pizza before, though she made no mention of it. His shirt hung on her like a sack. She looked at it like she didn’t know what the article of clothing was either, then look at him questioningly after he put it on her.
He patted her on the head.
“Tomorrow, we’ll go shopping, and get you some nice new clothes, okay Sugar?”
“Um, okay…X.”
He walked a distance from her and turned, peering at her studiously.
“Sugar, do you know how old you are?”
Again, she looked frightened,
“N-no.”
“It’s alright. If I ask you a question that you don’t know the answer to, it’s fine. You don’t have to know. Do you understand?”
She nodded timidly.
“Good.” he said.
He looked at her. He had seen her naked. She had no modesty. She did not try to cover herself up at all. She even seemed confused when he put the shirt on her. He studied her, pondering.
She had budding breasts, and well formed at that; quite perfect, but she had no pubic hair. No body hair at all. She was small, very petite and thin. There was a slight curve to her hips, but no more. He had a hard time determining her age. He judged it was somewhere between ten and twelve, but he could not be certain. He found that distinctly frustrating.
He looked around at his abode. The place was not designed for young girls. X lived in a converted warehouse. There were three floors. He lived on the top level. His car sat on the freight elevator pad. His residence was basically a great studio flat. Kitchen, bath, sleeping area, gym and workout area, and a small living area; just partitioned by furniture and sheer space. It had little amenities, and no frills.
His home was very Spartan and utilitarian as was his lifestyle. He did not need much. His life was simple, or at least it had been. He had no family, no attachments. If he wanted food he either cooked a minimal meal, or ordered in. If he wanted sex, he ordered that in as well. He could afford the finest caliber female flesh. Money was never a problem.
He was not classically handsome, nor overly large, just average, but he was powerful, both in demeanor and physique, predatorily muscled and raw boned, as if carved from fluid granite, his motion full of purpose and grace. His eyes were his one distinctive feature. They were so dark they looked like bullet holes, like twin black stars sucking you in.
Like any alpha male predator, nubile females found him attractive in a primal manner, but he preferred the distance of anonymous sex. No strings. Picking up a girl led to involvement, questions, answers, complications. He liked things simple, or at least he had.
He looked at his place, then back at her.
He suddenly felt very tired, even battered. Never before had he experienced such draining emotions. He thought it most taxing, most distressing. He had come down from many an adrenalin high, but this exhaustion was entirely different. He still had an ache inside that had not subsided. It was extremely troublesome, but he held the feeling close as to not let it overwhelm him. He hoped the morning would quell what he was experiencing.
In his living area, in front of his entertainment center, he had a large couch and a great chair with an ottoman, all upholstered in soft black leather. He took the down comforter, and one of the pillows from his king sized bed, and made a place for her on the couch.
He bade her lay down. Again she spread her legs, and again he closed them. He pulled the blanket over her, and tucked her in. On impulse, her kissed her forehead. He was not sure what made him do it. He was not one for shows of affection, but he had seen such things in films and television. It had seemed the appropriate thing to do.
He left a lamp on. He figured she had lived too much of her life in darkness. The light would stay. He would go to his rest and sleep in relative darkness a distance away from her. He collapsed into his sheets, falling into a deep dreamless sleep as if the abyss had swallowed him up.
X rarely relaxed enough to sleep so deep. His mind was always wary, on the edge of terrible action. It was a tribute to his exhaustion that he did not notice Sugar was in bed with him until her body touched his. His reaction was immediate. Instinctual.
Like the snapping jaws of a viper, he struck. So suddenly she was caught in a lethal chokehold, she could not even cry out. He held her atop him, gripped in a death sleeper, her head held in the crook of his elbow. A millisecond more he would have snapped her neck. Then he realized what was happening.
In the second between the explosion of his survival mechanism and his chagrined recognition of her, Sugar felt Death’s visage wander very close in front of her eyes. Pressure bore down from his iron thews around her neck and throat. She felt her neck bones creak perilously and her windpipe begin to crush. Her eyes watered as her air was cut off. Darkness closed in upon her, and there was a great rushing in her ears. Then it was gone.
He realized who was there, and released her immediately. She fell off the top of him, coughing weakly, and just lay there. He had sworn not to hurt her, and then he had done just that. He never felt so terrified, or so mortified. In all his life he’d never cared a wit about killing someone. He cared now. Very much. He had come very close to killing her. He knew just how close. It was his business. He reached out to touch her. She didn’t flinch, but as before she gave no reaction.
“Sugar, I am very sorry, but you must not surprise me. I…I am very dangerous when I’m startled.”
Then he noticed in the dim light that she was not wearing the shirt he gave her. She lay naked beside him.
“Sugar, where is your shirt?”
She slowly turned to look at him. In a whispered, weak voice she said.
“Too much. I…always wear nothing or…tiny things. I…I‘m happy that way. The shirt feels…weird. Too much.”
“I…Sugar, why are you in my bed?”
In the dim light she looked at him. Her voice was pleading.
“So alone. Always alone. Except when my master fucks me. I like fucking. As long as my master doesn’t hurt me, fucking feels good. I’m not alone when I’m being fucked. I like you. You’re nice to me. Except…”
X swallowed hard.
“I’m so sorry, Sugar. I didn’t mean to do that. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh. Do you want to fuck me now?”
X looked at her, disquieted.
“Sugar, I…I can’t.”
“I’m being good. Please, Mas-…X, I want you to fuck me. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel really good. I promise.”
There was desperation in her words, as if she were afraid that the rejection meant something far worse was about to happen.
The ache inside him was back in full exquisite bloom.
“Sugar, you don’t have to do that. You are good. Very good.”
“But I want you to fuck me. Please don’t put me away. I…I don’t want to be alone. So alone.”
She was close to crying at the end of her plea. He was not sure what to do. He could not have sex with her. That was definitely not something he could ever do, but she needed him. No one had ever needed him. Not like this. What she needed was closeness. He could do that. Gladly.
“Sugar, listen to me. You can sleep with me, but no…nothing else. Is that clear?”
“Sleep? With you?”
“Yes.”
“No fucking?”
“No, Sugar. Just sleep.
“Oh. I…I guess, if that is what you want.’
“It is.”
“You are not angry with me?”
“No, Sugar, I am not angry with you at all.”
She was silent, probing at him, her eyes gleaming even in the darkness, her searching gaze digging deep into him. He let her look. He was getting use to that look. He patted her head, and gave her some of his blanket.
“Goodnight, Sugar. Sleep well.”
He closed his eyes as she continued to look at him.
“X?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Can you put your arms around me?”
He opened his eyes to look at her shadowed face. He put his arm out and drew her little body to him, wrapping his arms around her. She was stiff at first, then suddenly she melted into his chest, nestling contentedly against him. Her breath became even and deep, and very soon she was fast asleep.
He was a killer. So hard diamonds couldn’t cut him. So cold his bullet hole eyes would rattle your core. Mayhem and Destruction strode on each side of him to do his bidding. Yes, Death was more than his business. It was who he was. What he was. At least it had been. With the beautiful, broken little girl wrapped sleeping in his arms, one of the meanest, baddest, hardest bastards on the Planet Earth wept silently in the dead of night at the strangeness of his fortune.
That's the origin. Well, of X and Sugar anyway. There back-story aplenty when things get more complicated later on. If anybody happens to read this, I'd like some feed back, good or bad. I mean constructive criticism, not flames for content. Now watch, that's all I'll ever get, as ol' Murphy fucks with me. Heh...
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