The Persecution Of The Lowly

The entrance way to the Mission was close to twenty metres high, the mission itself towered into the clouds to an unseen height. It was decorated as far the eye could see with rich, ornate victoriana, unlike the residents coming and going through the uselessly gargantuan doorway. They were on the whole, the lowest that this broken society had to offer. They shuffled. They were always moving away from never to. Their eyes were full of floating ennui. 

The assassin stood and waited beneath the shadow cast of a weeping willow across the busy road from the Mission he struggled to wonder why they wanted this guy offed. What threat could he be to those who had marked the contract. Who at this Mission could be off any interest to those who pulled the strings. He fingered the cannon in his pocket thoughtfully. Twilight was closing. The lights of the traffic were mingling with the damp and the mist presenting an impressionist's view of the city. He would have to move closer if he were not to miss his target emerging from the ornate entrance. He left his concealment and crossed the busying road.

Now close to the giant building. The assassin waited a few doorways down from the Mission, trying to look casual. Few came or went. They had said that he would know his victim, he would stand out from the crowd. And he did. He had bright red hair, bright blue baggy trousers and long flowing coat. As he stepped away from the wall he had been lounging against and pulled his weapon from his pocket the assassin looked straight into his victims eyes. He was a professional assassin. It was a matter of pride. He wished he hadn't. The eyes were as cold and as sharp as steel.

The assassin started to raise the gun. The victim, never a victim raised his hand in a blur. The gun fell to the ground. He chanted in a low, ancient way and the assassin, by now confused slowly rose to the air. And then became permanently confused when he was casually tossed into the path of an oncoming bus. Across the road, hidden from view, a string puller made careful notes and pulled a red phone from his pocket. This persecution would take some effort.