The Short Stories of Harry Styles

The Assignment: Part 1

Assignment #243

Location: London, England

Gender: Male

Age: 26

Eye color: Green

Description: Brown hair, approximately 6'0", distinguishing feature: tattoos along left arm, sternum, and stomach

Mission: Find the man with the rose tattoo. Discover secret location of hard drive by any means necessary. Terminate once uncovered.

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Another assignment. Another mission. Another life to take.

The endless train of bodies rounded up for slaughter does not stop nor does it rest for the wicked.

I am wicked.

To say that what I do is the pride and joy of my very essence would be a lie but not necessarily far from the truth.

What I like is that I am powerful. I am the hurricane, the tornado, the fire that ruins all in its path. I cannot be stopped. I like that I am wicked.

What I hate is that I am alone. A solitary being. I cannot love, I cannot have family, I cannot be loved. I destroy.

I am a machine meant to kill or be killed.

I choose to survive.

The ones who send me my assignments call me Jasper.

My true name, like many other things, is long forgotten.

It started with a K...three syllables...maybe four....

Whatever it was, it does not matter anymore. Pushing away memories was only one part of the training I underwent to become what I am today.

I am like one of the four horsemen, sent to pillage and kill at a moments notice.

I am wicked.

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Tasteless, ruminating, undulating.... toxic and smoke.

The omnipresent darkness coils around the dank club as I watch from the shadows.

I arrived in London at dawn and milled through the streets biding my time until more information came through about my target.

At approximately 1600 hours the text came through.

Remmy's on Brixton road.

Upon initial examination, I discovered it was a nightclub. Upscale and yet exactly like the rest. A place for sinful desires and poisonous drinks.

It is now closing in on 03:00 and I am beginning to think my assignment has not followed through on their plans for this evening. My eyes have scoured every inch of this place and I have not seen a man with a rose tattoo.

The smokey haze of the club hides me well. My black wig hiding the true color of my hair that would draw too much attention to myself flows gently down my back. My clothes are black as night as well, nothing too flashy but still appropriate for the climate of the club. One of my color contact lenses scrapes across my eye but I do not dare adjust it.