Shadows - Creative Writing Contest

[mybeary]

Two individuals stood at a standstill, as shadows under the moonlight hid their presence, away from the police, away from the city, away from righteousness. A suitcase lay between the the two, untouched and pristine. A single pistol lay between the two, both representing the two sides of the city in darkness. Where the vigilant Jackson of the 85th Division stood, his shadow concealed his secondary dagger: An empty pistol. He'd brought no ammunition with him, yet ammunition is what he needs most desperately at this moment. Jackson kept his eyes on the actions of the other man, attempting to predict his movements, his play, and his strategy. The other man showed no sign of moving, yet he returned the stare. 

 

Jackson, in his navy blue tuxedo, had just come from an evening masquerade, where he was secretly ordered by Secret Ops Commissioner Deeph Eriksson to protect the President of the Guild of Minehut Servers, Trent. As he had been suddenly called from his position to go on the offensive, in favor of recovering an asset of the government as well as Intel on the city's Mafia, he rushed to the scene, grabbing a pistol on the way. He'd only realized now that the pistol was empty, yet his hand still instinctively hovered over it passively, waiting to anticipate his opponent's next move.

 

Why was Jackson even here in the first place, when he could have stayed behind and enjoyed himself at the masquerade? He'd clearly worked hard enough; he'd risked his life disarming bombs, intercepting hack attempts, interrupting smuggler deals along the portside, and even saving people from peril. He could have taken a long deserved drink from a good shot of wine, coupled with grape juice, in celebration of his ten years working for the government. He shook his head.

 

The man was dressed completely in black except for a bright yellow tie. He was none other than The Angel, an extremely deadly and crude hitman. Other than his dashing looks which, the man had also possessed a weapon suited not only suited in the art of death, but also in the art of agony and suffering. He snickered gleefully, as he loaded a spiral-shaped shell into the mechanisms of his weapon. The weapon hummed with a sweet tune, hissing against the cold of the night. 

 

The hiss of the machine reminded The Angel of what would happen if he failed now, especially with such a weapon at hand, and with such sensitive information being revealed to the government. Oh, what terrible things the Mafia would do to the poor man, as a result of his failure, as a result of his incompetence, and as a result of his uselessness. He squinted; he remembered those times since he was a kid, being ruthlessly tortured by those who dictated his lives. He recognized Jackson, and judging from his stance, he should be able to make easy work out of him.

 

Jackson may have been the first person to advance, but the Angel took his first move, firing off a large shell straight at the enemy. Jackson, in a quick reaction, attempted to twist away from the shell's velocity, leaning towards the left in order to save himself, but he skewered his right side in return, a risky move made by the bold individual. He forced himself to fall onto the briefcase, the handgun on the briefcase digging into his side. Jackson knew that the Angel, though a mercenary, would still kill him at this point, but he knew that he wouldn't touch the briefcase otherwise.

 

He'd been wrong; the moment Jackson's body landed onto the suitcase, the Angel was already reloading his weapon and heading over to the suitcase; Jackson could sense his footsteps. From underneath his body, he drew the handgun from out of his side and readied it; it felt full. Whoever loaded this thing knew that there was going to be conflict over the intel. Jackson made a split decision, then he loaded the barrel of the handgun once more. Everything depended on this one moment.

 

In a sudden instant, Jackson leaped from where he was, aiming to shoot his perpetrator down as he flung himself upwards, but he'd calculated too late; in a moment's matter, he felt a sudden force bring him to the ground and pound the handgun out of his hands, pain surging through his body. Jackson sensed that he was going to die at this moment.

 

"Number 85. It's been a while."

 

At that moment, Jackson looked up, only to find himself face to face with the steaming barrel of the Angel's weapon. His eyes became wide in shock, as he felt like he couldn't do anything at this moment-

 

But wait, there was yet one thing he hadn't been daring enough to do. 

 

With a push of his other arm, Jackson propelled his upper body upward, allowing his head to be above the barrel of the weapon. The Angel thought to correct him in this sudden surge of energy, but Jackson bit down on the barrel, and shook the weapon off his grip with a shake of his head. The Angel punched Jackson, sending him to the ground once more. Jackson rolled onto his side, and revealed his own pistol.

 

It had one shot in the magazine.

 

Bang.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

"Well, well, well. Not bad, after ten years."

 

A red color of paint suddenly dyed the Angel's uniform, as the Angel then brutally stomped on Jackson's head, causing blunt trauma to his skull. In turn, Jackson spun upon the ground in order to trip the Angel, in an attempt to get him off his arm. The hitman fell, and Jackson immediately took the opportunity to rise and to give him a sudden kick on the shins. He won't be getting up, but he'll still be conscious.

 

"Michael, I'd like you to reconsider your decision. I get your lifestyle, being a hitman and all, but you should come back."

 

Michael groveled on the floor. Jackson had always been a good shot, but his close combat skills had been lacking, back when the two of them worked together. They'd been the perfect duo, with Michael on the offensive, and Jackson right behind him, quickly eliminating any threats on the Horizon. When Jackson left, Michael felt without a soulmate - he'd felt as if the only one compatible with him was truly gone.

 

As if.

 

A sudden beep echoed throughout the alleyway, as a soft ticking sound set the stage for the endgame. Jackson looked around with a cold sweat - he was never informed that the Mafia were capable of creating bombs. He went over to Mike, the Angel, and examined his body freely, without the Angel interfering with his actions. The Angel was grinning throughout this time.

 

"Jackson, you're right. I should reconsider my decision - I never needed you back."

 

Jackson, frustrated that he didn't find anything on Mike, searched the perimeter, trying to listen in on what the bomb could possibly be. Could it be near the few bags of garbage lying around in the corner, or could it be hidden away inside a box? Jackson panicked until he backed up onto the briefcase, from where he heard a sudden beep.

 

"Listen, Jackson, do you hear that? The sound of fear, sinking into your very soul?"

 

Jackson looked back, at the briefcase he'd just stepped over, and realized that the briefcase was the bomb. Had he been duped from the anonymous tip which led him to believe that he'd be able to recover important government assets and be able to gather intel on the city's Mafia; but then again, why was Michael here in the first place, working for the Mafia, and here at this very location? Should he have a job somewhere else, perhaps at the Masquerade party itself?

 

The idea struck him suddenly; had this all been a diversion? Had it all been a plot to frighten Jackson out of his position at the party and to isolate him in one location, so that the President could be targeted at last? Jackson looked at his watch - he had around seven minutes to head over to the party now and to prevent the President from exposing himself. 

 

He'd started to go off in a sprint when the Angel called out for him in a jeering manner, as if he wanted more. Jackson turned around furiously.

 

"Look, Jackson, as long as that bomb exists, it doesn't matter what you do. Do you realize where we are, and where the party is located?"

 

It dawned on the man; the location, the setup, everything. The anonymous tip given to him had been a setup, and the President was already in immediate danger, and yet, Jackson knew he couldn't leave the bomb; they were located too close to the city's oil foundries. Jackson didn't know the size of the explosion, but if one of the buildings nearby caught fire, a third of the entire city would perish in a surge of fire and flame. Hell would run within the city itself.

 

Jackson looked around for the spare handgun, when he spotted it far out of his reach, in the distance. He started to run, when he sighted the handgun suddenly sliding into the shadows. He was not alone with Michael.

 

Three figures emerged from the darkness, each grinning with a feeling of accomplishment. Jackson knew them well - they were his former subordinates, after all, but the one in the middle struck him as most surprising; he was someone he knew very well.

 

The one on the left spoke out first.

 

"Jackson, ol' pal. Aren'tcha gonna give us a good ol' hug? We missed you so much, so I made you a classic bomb to celebrate! Ain't that right, Richie?"

 

Richie merely shrugged. It wasn't like him to care much for the man who betrayed the Mafia and turn, of all people, him into the police. It'd been hell getting Richie out of prison, and Richie's mind was now filled with vengeance.

 

Of all people though, why would this sneaky fox of a man know how to build a bomb, especially a man known to him only as Kailum. Jackson hadn't been too close with him, but he knew that the man's morals hadn't come close to being righteous; Jackson knew that if he learnt how to build a bomb, the entire city would definitely go down, and that vision had now become a nightmare for him.

 

The four surrounded him, with the one in the middle reloading the handgun casually and pointing it towards Jackson, a cruel glint in his eye. Jackson's eyes opened wide in horror.

 

It had been Deeph Eriksson who'd aimed the crescent inscribed handgun at Jackson, with such an expression, so devoid of emotion that Jackson had never seen from him before. Jackson froze in place, too terrified to do anything. Then, with a slight cackle to his voice, Deeph spoke.

 

"Jackson, I do hope you do understand that this is just business in the Mafia. Governments can be as easily swayed as the payments you exchanged."

 

Gunshot. Jackson screamed in pain as his leg buckled out from beneath him.

 

"My newest subordinate did well in fooling you, even though he had been raised to his position by someone not of the Mafia. We would have to hunt him down."

 

Gunshot. Jackson fell down to his knees.

 

"Don't worry, once we take care of ol' Trent, finally we will take shares of the stock of Minehut. No longer will we live in the shadows of the city."

 

Gunshot. Jackson's vision began to blur, a warm, sticky substance trickling down his face. His vision turned began to fade, dark layers of crimson blocking his view.

 

"It's about time for new management. After all, there is a saying that is said."

 

Gunshot. Jackson fell to the ground completely, his body limp and cold on the concrete floor..

 

"Out with the old, and in with the new."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Edited April 11, 2020 by mybeary
edited story, refined a few parts, as suggested by a dear friend.

[Jackson85]

You are an amazing writer. I felt so many emotions while reading this yet the plot was so diverse. 

11/10 (Make a sequel some day)

[UntitledGoose]

im gonna have to reread this, so many twists and turns for my smol brain to understanddddddd

[Jackson85]

20 minutes ago, TheGoose said:

im gonna have to reread this, so many twists and turns for my smol brain to understanddddddd

Honk

[ThiccBrain]

such masterpiece , yours is better than all the other three

[JeanJoy]

Shadows are the subject of my creative writing. My story is about a man who lives in a house with his wife and two children. The house is old and rickety, and it has been falling apart for years. I would suggest you to click here for help. There are many shadows in the house, but they are not all bad. Some of them make the house look bigger and brighter than it really is.