Diridian Two

            The click of the trigger was as soft as the bat of his sweaty eyelash. The air remained undisturbed by the weapon. The assassin’s black gloves melded into the silhouette of his sleeves and his black visored helmet concealed his humanity. In the middle of the multi-moonlit plaza lay a man with a black smoky hole in the side of his head; his audience silent, unsure of what just happened, and never to know.

            Cyanide One, or C1, placed his ten-megajoule laser into its case, followed by the electronic detonator used to activate an EMP canister that completely disabled the lights and security systems of the plaza. The air was silent, and as C1 shut the lid to the rifle case, the air erupted with the screams of thousands of oblivious visitors in the plaza.  He lifted his head, arose, and walked out the door. I followed close behind him with all my emotions pushed aside, focused.

            We were the tweezers of the trinity, the overseeing, all powerful group that watched the citizens of the planet. If there was a job that was too costly for the Legionnaires, or too precise for the Centurion, we took control.

            I never saw his face, not once; and in return, he never saw mine. We would rendezvous at an assigned location, carry out the mission together, and then depart. I was his pupil, and he, my instructor by the name of Cyanide One. My call-sign was Diridan Two. It took all my life to get here, and would cost the rest of my life to maintain it.