Weekly Drabble #241: Elusive (Patreon)

This week's prompt is from Framing Device with 'tink, tailor, soldier, spry' and gives us a continuation of Drabble #137. Enjoy!

Elusive:

Several feet below Illya Vadokov, a group of soldiers prowled through the building’s hallways. The woman was pressed against the ceiling, her feet and left hand braced on the walls with her right wrapped around a fire sprinkler. If a single one of the humans beneath her glanced up or got far enough down the hall and looked back, they would see her and then she would die. They had no reason to look up, though. She could only hope that none of them caught her in their peripheral vision, or one of the beads of sweat forming on her stolen skin didn’t drip at an inopportune moment.

She supposed she should have been more worried, but if it happened... well, it happened.

How can you be so damn calm? Don’t you want to live?

Of course I do. I don’t want to die any more than you do.

Then act like it, you stubborn alien bitch.

Beneath her, the human soldiers clicked and chirped to one another. “Team Four to Command. Completing sweep of third floor. No sign of the target.”

“Confirmed, Team Four. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Don’t worry, sir. If she’s here, we’ll find her. Heading to fourth floor now.”

The soldiers moved methodically on towards the stairwell. The very instant that their backs were turned, Illya dropped noiselessly from her position and darted back the way they’d come. There was a passage in the building’s sub-basement, one that had been removed from all official records specifically to serve as an escape route for her and the others. She’d killed the others, so that only left her.

Illya flitted through the building, striding over the bodies of their former human servants and running past bullet-riddled walls, burning stacks of paper and rest of the carnage from the assault. The first stairwell was just ahead. The cameras were still working in places on the first floor, so she couldn’t take this one all the way down, she’d have to cross over to another-

She swept around a corner and came face-to-face with a human soldier, a woman in a medic’s garb, presumably checking for survivors. The human recognized her, eyes widening, lips starting to part. One hand went for the radio on her left breast, the other for the pistol on her hip. Illya was faster, closing the distance between them in heartbeats. Her first strike hit the woman just under her diaphragm. The air whoofed from her lungs, preventing her from shouting and raising the alarm. The soldier staggered back, but Illya pressed in, grabbing the woman’s head, pulling it down and bringing her knee up into her face. She felt the human’s nose give way from the force of the blow and the soldier went limp. The battle, such as it was, had taken less than a second.

Before she fell and the sound of her collapse carried through the building, Illya grabbed the soldier by the collar with her left hand, holding the human up. Her right hand cocked back. Muscles unravelled, bone shifted, stolen flesh sending spikes of agony that Illya ignored as it changed into a killing spike, ready to be driven through the human’s face.

She froze. The human was staring at her in fear, blood pouring from her broken nose and split lip, making short, soft little gasps to try and pull air back into her bruised lungs. It was the kind of sight that Illya had seen time and time again and never once had she ever hesitated to make the kill.

What are you waiting for? Come on, Vadokov! Finish it! Do it! Do it, God damn it!

I...  I...

Almost never.

Kill her and hide the body. That was the smart thing. That would buy her the most time. This was just another human. An obstacle, a threat. A target. Kill her.

The blade turned back into a fist, Illya punching the soldier hard and knocking her out. There was no gentle way to render someone unconscious, but Illya had been programmed with extensive knowledge of human biology. Damage would be minimal and death from a brain bleed was unlikely. The building was swarming with soldiers. They’d find their comrade within minutes.

She ran, almost preternaturally silent, as she slipped between kill-teams, ducking behind walls, crawling behind desks, hiding in corners and shadows, only still when she had to be. Seconds were like hours. Any instant she expected a flurry of activity as one of the other teams discovered the downed woman.

You’re not like the others, are you?

I am not. I was selectively specifically for my role.

And what role is that?

Eluding detection, Illya reached the sub-basement, pausing at the bottom of the stairwellas she listened. There was another group of humans here. They were between her and her way out. She either had to go through them, or surrender. If she surrendered, they’d kill her.

There was a nearby fuse box. She cut through the lock and pulled it open, tripping all the fuses and throwing the basement into total darkness. Confused shouts came from farther ahead, then quickly terminated as the soldiers realized what was happening. She’d given up the element of surprise for the advantage of darkness. It would have to be enough. Even for her, an entire squad of humans would be difficult to deal with all on her own.

Wait, stop, what are you doing?

She was holding a gun to a sobbing human’s head, her finger half a second from pressing the trigger. Confused, she looked over at Mitchell. I’m going to kill him.

You don’t have to.

Why not? He’s a threat. He should be terminated.

You broke his hands! He can’t do anything to us. You don’t need to kill him. It’s over.

I... it isn’t. He’s still alive.

That’s right. He is, but the threat is over. You don’t need to kill him. Listen to me, Illya: you don’t need to kill him, okay? You don’t need to kill.

That was a concept she’d never before encountered. She was bred for her role, trained, toned and indoctrinated to become ruthless and efficient. It was what she was created for. Hunt. Kill. Destroy. Serve. Until this assignment. Until one target, one frustratingly lucky and elusive target that always managed to get out of her grasp. Until he didn’t. Until she’d completed the mission, but even then, he’d left part of himself with her.

Illya whisked through the passages, utterly silent, her course taking her towards the humans, Mitchell’s words ringing in her ears. Don’t you want to live?

“Yes,” she whispered. The soldiers were in her way. If she wanted to live, she had to get past them. She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t have to kill. Maybe that meant...

Maybe that meant something.