Mohawk_626
Legacy Name: Mohawk_626

"Once more into the fray.
Into the last good fight I'll ever know.
Live and die on this day.
Live and die on this day."
'Breathe in and then out, slow.' Mohawk told himself. 'Remember your training...' His back was pressed up against a cold metal wall, his sharp green eyes peering around the corner at the man he'd been tailing for days. It was only a matter of time.... He was getting close to the final moments of this hunt, he could feel it in the pit of himself.

He studied the narrow hallway as he waited for the man to make a move, his target oblivious to his silent presence. He wasn't sure why the man, Ortega, had wandered in here. It wasn't one of his usual haunts. Something was going on, that was for sure. Mo tried to shake this wandering thoughts away. 'It isn't a time to get curious!' He chastised himself. He was paid to kill, the details weren't supposed to be important, at least not to him anyways. He was the hired gun, the help, not quite an infiltrator nor a spy. A small thing in the grand scheme of something else.

A shuffling sound broke him from his thoughts and his eyes shifted to Ortega as he stood, stretching, finally finishing whatever it was he had been doing. Mo swept the room, the entrances and exits quickly. Something seemed to click deep in him, an instinct. Ortega was completely alone, this place appeared abandoned. It was time and now or never. It was the perfect place that needed the perfect shot.

With Ortega's back turned, he crept from his hiding place, moccasins upon his feet causing his steps to be light, quick, and almost utterly silent. Mo readied the bow that had been in his hand since the day he first started following him, positioning himself fluidly and notching an arrow from the supply at his back. He drew the string back with an exhale of breath. 'No sudden movements. Just like hunting prey.' He could hear his heart beating in the quiet, could feel it in the tips of his fingers holding the bow and arrow. Ortega was turning around now. Mo let go.

It caught the man in the throat just as he turned, a sharp sound emanating forth as it cut through the air and landed on its mark. Ortega hardly had time to utter a cry before he was crumpled on the ground, hand at his throat, a gurgling, gasping sound bubbling from his lips as the air escaped the hole and the blood flowed out. Mohawk approached quietly, still cautious, though he was sure they were the only ones. He needed to make sure this man was dead.

He was still choking, though the arrow was out the other side completely, nothing but the fetching protruding from the front of his neck at the moment. Yet, Ortega was staring directly up at him, still with a bit of fight left in him. He stared up at the tanned man hovering over him, dazed and glossy eyed from pain, a contrast to the straight face of his killer. He passed that way with one last choke of breath, eyes wide open and staring up.

Mo gave a small sigh, turning away at the sight of his kill and attaching his crossbow to a place on his back where it hitched easily to his modified animal skin shirt. It never got easier, this killing. Most of the time, he was rather tired of it. This time. This place. It was so different than his home, a place that was in a year long, long ago. He remembered the day he had been brought to this era like it only just happened and the raw emotions he had felt.

The wind howled, swirling up dusts of snow and pelting him in the face as he crouched in front of a slim figure. The facility behind them loomed, gray and ominous and strange to him.

"Please!" He had cried out to her. "I don't understand!" His fear was evident as he raised his face to look up at the strange being before him, his long hair whipping about his head.

The mask upon her face met his gaze with a blank one of its own, the eyes behind it, however, seemed to narrow. She said something, curtly, and in a strange language. She crouched near him before speaking again, this time in a way he could understand.

"We have taken you here to help us. We need your skills." Her voice was quiet above the wind and he had to strain to hear her, the harsh accent she carried not helping one bit.

"Taken me? Where are we? First I was home, hunting, and now I am here! Where are my people? My friends? My family?" He reached out to grasp her shoulder in desperation but she moved too quickly, standing straight again before he had a chance.

"Come. I will explain all inside." The woman turned without waiting and headed toward the dark building with sure steps.>

And he hadn't gone inside as she had suggested. Not until men were sent out to drag him in, shivering and with blue tinged lips. He hadn't felt cold at the time, not physically, anyway. Nothing had been colder than the feeling of dread at leaving and losing everything he loved and the shock of it all. The eagle feathers in his hair that day had even blown away in the harsh winds, a warning sign he noticed now looking back, a sign obviously from some Great Spirit. That day had been two years ago and some months and now he was, indeed, using his skills to help them and then some. They had trained him in all they knew and had enlisted him to kill, to reshape history. It took him a long time to accept and process all the information they were feeding him, this far in the future. It was more than just a culture shock.

He adjusted the crossbow one last time on his back and turned back to the freshly dead man, bleeding all over the concrete of the floor. Mohawk leaned down, passing a hand over the man's eyes to close them, to keep them from staring at the truth.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, soft. "I am doing this for them. My people, and all the wrong that will be done to them."

With those final moments, the assassin turned and left just as quietly as he had entered, dreaming of the days of hunting and the glowing sun, with loved ones at his side.