From the Story Arc: Bear It Alone

Previous Story in the Arc: Bargain of Sorts by Soviet Bear (Saturday, July 22, 2006)

Next Story in the Arc: Odessa Revisited by Soviet Bear (Sunday, July 23, 2006)

(posted Sunday, July 23, 2006)

But he's just an old man. Why do you hate him so much?

The words of Komrad Vex resonated within Bejouled's mind as she packed her things into a big, battered suitcase. Werther had delivered as promised: her Rogue Isles bank account had it's first twenty-five thousand dollar deposit and she had received an e-mail containing a one-way ticket to St. Martial.

Bejouled took a deep breath and smirked. She had been created by the Soviet Union as an assassin, bred from the finest genetic material available for her purpose: the Soviet Bear and the Odessa Electress. She was meant to kill, raised to kill. The mere thought of it made her smile. All of her training, her breeding, it was all going to come together today. The sound of Gomer Pyle leaked under the doorway. Everything was coming together.

But he's just an old man. Why do you hate him so much?

Bejouled was a trained assassin, created by the Soviet Union for one purpose. The Bear knew this, as did all of the CCCP; she made no attempt to hide it. The old man was just too addled to ask who exactly she had been trained to kill.

She did hate him, the old man. The ever-vigilant, ever-foggy automaton that sat in his chair day and night watching the same reruns. She hated him for his very being. She hated him because she had been trained to hate him since birth.

He had been declared obsolete when she was created, and he is obsolete now.

Bejouled zipped up her suitcase, slipped her ticket into her purse, and opened the door. The light in the kitchen was on, but the living room was illuminated only by the flickering of the television. Bear, as always, was in his recliner.

"Are you leaving, Sveta?" the Bear asked curiously.

Bejouled crept up behind the Bear silently. She whispered, "Do Svedonia, Old Man."

Focusing all of her electrical energy into her right hand, she whirled around with all of her strength. The light bulb in the kitchen exploded and the toaster jumped off the counter. Her fist came down on the back of his skull. The Bear's head snapped forward like spring.

There was the sound of a handful of firecrackers and the old man's head did not snap back. His chin rested peacefully on his chest. The blow had severed all of the cyber-neural connections that kept him anchored in life. The dull buzz of his plasma generators began to slow, and then cease.

A pale Bejouled steadied herself on the recliner; the hit had taken almost all of her power reserve. She straightened her shirt and tried to look presentable despite her weakness. She did not want to alarm the Paragon TSA and delay her relocation to the Isles.

Bejouled took a deep breath, opened the apartment door, and slipped out quietly. As the sound of high heels made its way further down the hallway, the television dimmed and grew dark. The Bear's world was finally silent.