If You Don't (Fyodor X OC)

Mission Failed

"𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜; 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙴𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Good. You're here. We have a new mission for you," Christopher spoke with his face still buried in his laptop. the screen reflected off the lens of his glasses, and his short blonde hair was neatly tamed with copious amounts of hair gel. It was a typical look for an atypical businessman.

I nodded with my hands clasped together behind my back. Christopher was my father, yes, but i never thought of him that way. He was merely just my employer who was generous enough to house me as a child. Whatever business we had was always strictly professional, and nothing beyond that. I wasn't his child, I was his property. His to demand, control, and use.

"This one is important. There is no room for failure," he scolded. He rose from his seat, collecting a file that was sitting on his mahogany desk.

The sun was cascading through the large windows, causing Christopher to cast his shadow upon the plush tan carpet. His office was surprisingly small for a business owner, sporting only his desk and a few file cabinets. He had a few family pictures on the walls, though they were only there to make a good impression. Christopher was not a family man. He was a money man.

"We're sending you to Moscow. Your job will be to locate this man, and see to it that he is executed," he said, handing me the tan folder. His look was stern, as it always was. He didn't have to use his words to tell me that he was as serious as a preacher at a funeral.

I glanced at him in acknowledgment before opening the files contents. There was a picture of a man, one who seemed to be devious in any way possible. He had vibrant lilac eyes, shoulder length black hair, and sharp facial features. I couldnt tell much about his actual body from the headshot, but I could determine that was likely on the thinner side. Possibly malnourished, even. His eyes were sunken in slightly, as if sleep evaded him like the plague.

Below his picture were the few details that the American Undercover Gifted Agency had managed to scrounge up.

Name: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Age: Early to mid-twenties
Height: 5'11"
Weight: N/A
Temperament: Manipulative, Confident, Observant, High Intellect, Reserved
Origins: Leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead, member of the Decay of the Angels. Born in Moscow, though frequently seen in Yokohama Japan up until last year.
Ability: Crime and Punishment: unknown details, avoid touch at all costs.
Goals: To capture 'the book', to bring an end to all ability users.

I closed the file and handed it back to Christopher. There was no need to take it with me. I learned from a young age to memorize information, as carrying classified details with me could serve to be dangerous. If someone were to discover what i know, or that i was sent to eliminate
them, it could cause my mission to fail. Failure wasn't an option. Not if I valued my life.

"When do i leave?" I asked monotonously. I already knew the drill by this point. I would be given a time and a plane ticket, along with the required form of currency for the country I'd be in. Id arrive at said destination, and reside in a low-traffic hotel under an alias. I would be given a single day to recover from the travels, and given a week to complete the task. It was always the same regimen. Always the same orders. The only difference was the target.