Runaway Child

From a 2nd person perspective, an assassin child escapes captivity, revealing some stunning facts about their life.

The dull grey room is dimly lit by the buzzing fluorescent light above you. You shake your wrists; they are bound tightly by heavy steel well above your head. Your feet dangle inches off the ground, making your shoulders hurt. You tense as footsteps echo down the hallway and the lock on the big steel door rattles. The person that walks in is a boy, around seventeen. He is supposed to be dead. You thought you killed him when you put that bullet through his chest and saw his figure shrink off the edge of the rooftop.

Yet here he is now, alive and healthy.

You keep your face calm, betraying no emotion, letting him do the talking.

“We meet again, Agent. I told you then, did I not? I do not die easily.” He snickers. Walking over to a table in the back, he picks something up.

“And frankly, neither do you. So I’m sure you’ll be fine if I, how do I put it, run some of our newest experiments on you? It’s funny, really. You, Agent, you of all people, should not have made the error you did.” The boy walks up to you, leering at you, belittling you. “You let me down. I thought the rabbit hunt would be a little more entertaining.”

He thinks he has won. You know because he is so very arrogant.

And careless.

His guard is down.

With inhuman precision and speed, you pull your knees up, snapping his head back in a sharp uppercut. He staggers back, but does not fall unconscious as a normal person would.

But of course, you two are the last thing to normal.

“You bitc--” he starts, but you have already anticipated this attack and flip yourself onto the top of the post from which you are hanging. The boy drops the knife he was holding and aims a gun at you. The gun fires, but you are already flipped back down. You hear the high pitched scream of the bullet missing your ear just barely. Guards spill into the small chamber, yelling and shouting at each other.

Ah, you think. Thank you, you bumbling morons.

One guard charges at you, but you are too quick for his clumsiness and messy technique. His knife slices cleanly through the metal on your ankles. Shock registers on his face for a moment but only for a fleeting second before your bare heels concave his already-crooked nose, and he collapses, unconscious.

“GET OUT, YOU BAST--” the boy is cut off once again when a guard trips and elbows him in the face.

The boy, rage clouding his judgment, fires two shots at you. He should have not. No, he let you go. The bullets cut cleanly through the metal on your wrists, allowing you to spin and kick your way through another two. They stagger toward the boy, thinking he is you. You take this moment of hesitation to grab a pistol from the table and bolt. Out the door is the only way to escape, so you run, switching the room’s solitary light off. The room behind you plunges into darkness as you take the right corridor.

Even with steel cuffs on your wrists and ankles, you can still run faster than most adults because you are Agent 100, the best Agent in the Children’s Institute of Agents.

It is surprising how badly people underestimate you by for being a kid.

Author's Note

There are two cuss words, but should otherwise be fine in terms of gore and and violence.
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