The sun’s light was barely able to penetrate the thick winter clouds and the crisp winter air. What little did get through was mottled and choked by the snow in the air and the trees. The smell of frost and pine trees was enough to keep the memories of blood and murder back. At least for now. They always came back.
Felix had never learned to be a killer. When he was younger he had written any deaths off; they were just bad guys. Later he just became so caught up in things. There was always some mission that needed to be completed, so person to be saved or lab to be broken in to. It kept him focused on something other than the collateral damage.
But there weren’t any missions anymore. There were no teams, there were no friends, there were no lovers, and there was no saving the world. There was just a head full of bad memories, a body full of scars, and a chill in the air.
He had seen more than one future where he ended up being the villain; Adolph Hitler on a whole new scale of gruesome. His friends hadn’t looked at him the same since then. They didn’t trust him anymore, and how could they? In a few years he could become their enemy. Again. No, this was going to be his last act of heroism, to make sure that he would never hurt another human. At least, that’s what he had called it three years ago. He wasn’t entirely sure of anything anymore. The days had blurred into weeks, until trying to remember why he did anything was like looking for the sun in a snow storm. It all seemed childish to him now. He should have just stayed dead.
The wind shifted, and a new smell met him. Burning wood and gasoline. Manure. Roast beef. He was close to other people. It would be smart avoid them altogether. But he had been wandering for a long time now, and the chance to rest wasn’t something he could really pass up. He walked for a few more minutes before the farm came into sight. It was a bit rundown, but it would do. Whoever lived in the farmhouse wouldn’t be bother, as long as he didn’t make too much noise. But as he stole past the warm house towards the barn, a familiar face caught his eye through the window. He stopped and did a double take. It was the face of… His old teacher? Kiara Sullivan. One of the greats, though she had switched sides more often than an attention-seeking teenage girl. There were words splashed across the bottom of the screen, just below the picture. They were tough to make out between the snow and the frosted window pane, though. I took him a moment to decipher it. He regretted looking immediately.