I literally had to force myself to write this.

It has been a week since the funeral and the brown eyed assassin has been collecting various information from various sources about the crown prince. He made sure that his plan was practically foolproof, impossible for it to go wrong. He had gone in the castle under pretext of a normal servant, and learnt most of its secrets, it's nooks and crannies, and memorized about a dozen different escape routes.

Mitchell strutted the streets, head held high and a heavy leather pouch filled with gold attached to his belt, which he made sure the public saw. His plan was to hatch rumors about him having to attend a party tonight, and it would hopefully simplify the task he was given. Walking purposefully into a busy tailor shop, he waited with the manner of an impatient spoiled rich man. The tailor saw his displeased expression and quickly called for him,

"Sir, I believe you can be first, seeming that your need is greater than others."

Mitchell flashed a pampered smirk, and elbowed his way rudely across to the counter, ignoring the annoyed glares coming from all directions, and said in a loud, boastful voice,

"Ah, tailor, please hasten and make me a black suit, formal but not too formal, nicely fitting, but not too tight, and pray to finish it by five in the evening and I'll pay you handsomely. It's for a party I'm attending."

The scrawny tailor bowed low and responded meekly,

"Yes, I'll make sure it's delivered to you in due time. But I need to take your measurements."

"Be sure to post it to the "quartz plaza" and not a minute under five." Mitchell instructed, hiding a smirk as he knew the public saw that apartment used only by very rich, well-to-do folk.

"Will do." The tailor stammered, and bustled to the assassin to start taking his measurements.

Although the tailor tried his best to refrain from aggravating Mitchell, his fingers twitched every time he came close to the secret daggers he kept strapped on the underside of his calves, and he had to clench his hands to stop himself from strangling the weedy tailor.

Finally, after the tortuous episode, Mitchell carelessly flicked a diamond at the tailor, who gaped at him, not comprehending what just happened. He smirked inwardly, and made his way out of the crowded place, paying no heed to the awed or disgusted looks given to him by the members of the public.

The assassin sighed softly, flopping down in a very undignified manner onto the cushioned ledge next to his spotless window, and passed a weary hand over his brow.

"I need to defenestrate something..."

He muttered under his breath, his left leg swinging. Casually plucking the hidden dagger from his underside of his calf, he twirled it expertly in his hand, enjoying the weight of it. Taking a breath, Mitchell brought his arm back and flicked the short weapon. The dagger cut through the air cleanly, and stuck to the wall, with its handle sticking out. He smirked charmingly, calming his nerves.

Mitchell was bored and he still had a few hours to kill before the mission, and he was a bit nervous, nerves getting to him. It was a very important assassination he had to do, considering the crown Prince was so hard to guard, and if he got captured...

He didn't want to think of the consequences that would follow.

He stretched, and walked slowly to the bookshelf that as overflowing with thick leather backed books. He had always enjoyed reading, particularly history (I personally hate history.) and was always fascinated with the past years. He carefully picked up his favorite book, went back to this cushions, curled up like a cat and started reading.

That book was talking of about 100 years ago, the land of Mariclaff was ruled by a king and a queen, and peace prospered amongst them. But after for some strange reason, a reason that no one could find out, the rulers stepped down from their throne and gave it to a person, called Notch.

Notch still ruled Mariclaff up till this day. There was a rumor that was proven false that a group of people tried to stop Notch, but failed. That rumor was proven false by Notch himself.

Mitchell looked out the window, and noticed that the sun set a long time back. He shook his head, efficiently getting it out of its daydream, and stood up. It was almost time to go. He had ordered a servant to collect the box with his requested clothes to throw off suspicion, and was now resting in his room.

He dressed up in his typical assassin's trademark clothing, blue jeans, white shirt, and the most noticeable of all, his black and red checkered jacket. He brushed the hair off his bare neck, and tucked his daggers into his hidden spot. Double checking his weaponry and required things for the mission, he slung the hoodie over his brown hair, and stalked out of his room, an aura of death radiating from him.

The assassin knocked on Francis's door, intending to tell him about his leave, so he would know if he was in trouble. But no one answered. Mitchell frowned slightly, and turned the knob anyways. The desk was neat and tidied, a stack of papers on a side, ready to be read. A single piece of paper lay at the middle of the table, with the brunette's name on it. The assassin warily picked it up with his agile fingers, and read it quickly. It said seven words.

Bajancanadian

Doing a mission. Good luck.

Null.

He nodded to himself, pocketing the note. Francis, like him, had another name to use as well, and his was Null. Whenever he had a mission, he would dress up completely black. He was reputed to be the deadliest assassin in Aragrave, Mitchell following slightly behind.

Mitchell, now known as Bajancanadian, instead of taking the normal way out of the place like a typical man, he went to the rooftops, through a secret ladder hidden behind a tapestry only assassins knew of. He climbed up the thin rung of ladders, rusted from age, and brushed his fingerless gloved hands together. Taking a moment to enjoy the silent night, he looked up at the skies, with the starts smiling down at him. In a moment, they would be glaring at him and his very existence. He shook his head, and took a few steps back from the ledge of the roof, before taking a running leap to the cluster of shop houses, landing with a soft thump, his fingers touching the roof, equally distributing the initial jolt of impact. He stood up, looked around if he was being watched, and repeated the process until the castle window was right beside him.

He snuck in quietly, the windows barely making a sound. Moonlight shone through softly, illuminating the corridor he was in. Making his way silently down the stairs, he wandered around, never seen by anyone, until he came to the room that belonged to the crown prince himself.

He was rather shocked no one had put guards outside the door.

A smirk wormed his way to his lips, and he congratulated himself of his easy kill.

Sadly, pride comes before a fall.

He congratulated himself way too early.

The door swung open without a sound, and Bajancanadian crept in, he saw the still lump on the bed, hidden barely by thick quilts, and drew his daggers, hissing for blood. When he reached the bed, he smiled sinisterly, and raised his hand to stab.

He pushed his hand down.

But he didn't stab anyone.

The assassin stood still, shell shocked. It was a bolster. The lump was a bolster, cleverly concealed so to look like a human.

Realization hit him, fast and strong, like a tsunami crashing on shore.

It was a trap.

And he fell for it.

Just as that occurred to him, the doors shut by its own accord, and was locked by the outside. Bajancanadian looked around frantically, drawing his daggers, and tried to jump out of the window.

A rookie trick, but not even a professional assassin like him could pull that off.

The windows were locked tight. He pushed slightly at the windows, but they wouldn't budge.

Panic started overriding his senses and he looked around.

Where were they. Where were they.

Suddenly, his legs were pulled from under him and he slipped, his dagger flying out of his grasp.

Great mother of Notch.

At that exact moment, the closet doors opened and seven guards filled in the room. The idiot that had his legs wasn't letting go, and the assassin was thrashing to get out of his iron grip. In a last attempt, he sank his nails in the assailant's wrist viciously, causing him to yelp in pain, releasing the grip on his legs.

Bajancanadian hissed, and stood up as fast as he could, taking the last dagger from his belt.

The moment he stood up, three of the guards rammed their bodies to his, such an old move that he didn't consider to know how to counteract it. The wind pushed out of his lungs and he was thrown back.

While disoriented, the guards ran to him, and as unprofessional and gross as it may sound, one straddled him on his back, pinning him down with his weight, and although the brunette tried to break free savagely, he had met his match.

While the guard was pinning him down, the two other guards had tied his hands together in metal infused rope, so no dagger could break it. Mitchell eyes widened as he realized they knew his strengths and weaknesses. They knew that he had a hidden dagger, so they used metal ropes. They knew he relied on more professional ways to capture prey.

But that information was highly confidential. No one that saw lived to tell anyone.

The now bound up assassin struggled ferociously, taking deep breaths. His arms were tied behind his back, and he was in a kneeling position.

Knowing that his efforts were futile, he calmed himself down, growling softly in his throat. The guards had bound his hands so tight it was impossible to even twitch them. Not that it would help.

The door swung open, and the assassin's face blanched. His heart started hammering and sweat dripped in tiny rivets down his back. It was the crown Prince.

Jerome Aceti.

~writers note~

:>

Welp.

How did I do?