Why did these things happen to him?

The piece below is 100% fiction, and is not intended to hurt anybody's sentiments.

Why did these things happen to him? the boy wondered, half awake.

'Wake up, Sathya!' yelled a hoarse voice from a distance. 'Its 9.30 already'. It was Annan, his elder brother. Sathya had been dreading that moment for a whole week. It was the 23rd of January, the day Annan was to be transferred along with the rest of the elite sniper team further south.Annan was his only living relation. He was his hero and his best friend as well. In fact, Annan had practically raised Sathya after their mother died while delivering Sathya.

Annan, at the age of 17, had the physique of a Greek god, and knew the region like the back of his hand. The adults in the camp called him an excellent strategist, whatever that meant. That, and his excellent skills with guns had brought him close to the leader of their camp. It was the only reason why Sathya had been able to enjoy luxuries like sleeping in until 9.30 instead of crawling in a trench with all the other 9 year-old boys, learning to handle a rifle.

He woke up irritably, and walked towards the stream, to begin his morning chores. The stream had always disgusted him. It was not a clear stream of water, but an ugly garbage dump that also acted as a breeding ground for mosquitoes. In fact, he hated everything about his surroundings. They had no electricity, no clean water, no sanitary facilities, no doctors for medical attention. Those were luxuries for them. The mentality of the adults in his camp too annoyed him. 'We must fight unto our death, dear boy. One day, the Eelam will be liberated', they would say. 'For whom?' he wondered. If things continued the way they were, both armies would be decimated completely before the Liberation, leaving nobody to live in the Eelam. That is, if the malarial mosquitoes and unhygienic conditions didn't kill them first.

Having brushed his teeth and defecated, he returned to his tent, to find Annan completing his packing. He had so many questions in his mind. Would Annan return? If so, when would he return? Who would take care of him when Annan was not around?. Annan too, seemed to be anxious, as was obvious from his body language. 'Sathya, promise me that you will behave responsibly when I'm away' said Annan in a firm yet loving voice, like a father going away on a business trip. Sathya nodded, his voice lost amongst his fears.

Annan then turned back to his bag, and rummaged for a while before producing a gun from it. It was an battered SIG-Pro semiautomatic pistol. 'This belonged to our father', said Annan 'use it to protect yourself if necessary'. Sathya stared at the little device for a whole minute, before extending his hand to touch it gingerly, even as Annan continued to tell him how to use it. Sathya wasn't paying attention. He didn't care anymore. Annan was going away. That was all that mattered. Annan then hugged him and left, and Sathya bit his tongue to ensure that Annan didn't know he was crying.

Later that evening, Sathya roamed the camp with a heavy heart, with no purpose, stopping from time to time to give his feet some rest. The clouds above hung low, and were as dark as any he had seen. He knew that it would rain soon, and that he would be safer in his tent, but stayed out in an act of defiance. He then reached the central clearing of the camp. The boys were usually trained by the veterans in the clearing. He watched from a distance as 50 skinny boys squatted on the floor, rapt in attention, as one of the teachers told them how to handle rifles. He wondered where the weapons came from. Clearly, they were smuggling it from somewhere, but if somebody wanted to help them, why didn't they just bring in their army and win the war for them? 'War is not all that simple' his brother had laughed, when Sathya had asked him.

He had heard about the protests in India. He had heard the elders discuss how Sri Lankans were not allowed to play cricket in some parts of India. 'What purpose does that serve?' wondered the irate boy. The Sri Lankans could play all the cricket they wanted as long they gave the elders the measly bit of land they demanded, and allowed them to live in peace. He also wondered, albeit secretly, whether their demand was justified. After all, they were all humans. Why couldn't they just live together? So they had different languages, and different cultures. Would it really kill them to live together? Having been born into the war, he knew nothing of what happened before it.Yet, it was his conviction, that whatever the situation was at that point of time, it was definitely not worse than the current one. 'Always aim for the forehead, it kills instantaneously and saves you ammunition.' he heard the teacher ramble on. An instant death. He wondered if that was a luxury he could ever afford. His death, he imagined, would be a painful one, in the tent reserved for the wounded in the camp, like all the others. If only he could die right away. He had nothing to live for anyway. Even Annan had left. It struck him then. It was perfect, he had a life he wanted to end, and a gun to end it.

He ran as hard as he could, oblivious of the rain and the stones beneath his feet, and burst into his tent. The gun lay there, on the makeshift table they owned. He walked up to it cautiously, picked it up and ran again. He would run deep into the woods where nobody would go, so that his body wouldn't be found. He knew that if Annan returned and learnt of his death, it would break his heart. It was better for him to think that Sathya was lost, or better still, abducted by the Sri Lankans. After 5 minutes of running, he stopped. Pointing the gun carefully at the middle of his forehead, he steadied himself, 'On the count of three, pull the trigger'.

1...2...3....

*Click*.

Of course it wasn't loaded. Annan was not a fool. The misery had to continue.

Why did these things happen to him?

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Again, I need a name for the story. Any ideas?

Fellas, Don't be jealous.

It was a bleak evening. 014 was in room 365, Alson resort, under a Serbian alias, Marko Yvonevic. He didn't know why, his controllers never told him the political motivation behind his assassinations.

Dressed in a loose pair of jeans and a white turtleneck that barely hid his paunch, he bore no resemblance to his fictional counterpart. 'Bond, James Bond . . . What an amateur', he chuckled to himself as he thought about Agent 007. His job was to be inconspicuous, and the muscular frame that belonged to Sean Connery would be least helpful towards that end.

In spite of that, he had always envied 007. His was the perfect life, what with the cars, gadgets and girls. 014? He drove a beat-up Chevy, had only a 0.9mm Magnum, and as far as girls went, his wife had been informed that he died in a plane crash the day he was recruited. His was a thankless job. He knew that his seniors would have no qualms about putting him down if his position was ever compromised.

The despondent train of thought was broken when he heard a knock on the door, followed by 'Room service', in a high pitched Serbian accent. Dinner, he smiled to himself, as he walked up to the closet and marked an 'X' on the table next to it. It was the only spot in the room that was not under the surveillance of the CCTV cameras. 'Come in' he said aloud, even as he heard a trolley roll in. The waiter, walked in smartly, surveyed the room, laid out the dinner table, turned to walk out, and 'accidentally' left a brown parcel behind, on the X. 014 was impressed. the young man had distinguished himself well, by following protocol perfectly. He then ate his dinner, a simple British fare, before reluctantly unwrapping the parcel.

In it he knew, lay concealed the identity of his next victim and details of the plan of action for him to follow. The name of the next victim, was . . . well, unimportant. The plan was simple enough. 014 had to draw him out of the way in a long game of golf, when a brief distraction would be created to take the bodyguard out of the equation. 014 would then have to smother the man with a chloroform laced handkerchief, and leave the body in the woods nearby, for it to be discarded. Lastly, obviously he had to make himself scarce.

'What did this poor soul do?' wondered the man, rumoured to be a heartless assassin amongst his colleagues, staring at the target's photograph. In spite of having killed 13 men in the past in such stealth missions, having to kill one more random person tore him apart. He would invariably spend most of his time before the kill thinking about the victim, the pleasures and pressures of his/her life, and whether or not it was right for him to take away the gift of life. That he would always reason with himself that this kill would save many other innocents, and that he would execute it perfectly anyway was another matter. 'There are no such things as battle hardened men' he argued with his prefrontal cortex, as he crawled into bed. 'Some of us unfortunate bastards just survive too long for our own good'.

The sound of a phone ringing woke him up in the morning. 'хвала' he answered, thanking the receptionist for the wakeup call in fluent yet groggy Serbian and went about his morning chores.

Six hours later, he was at the last hole of the course. The plan was going perfectly, and the distraction was due in a minute. 014 lined up for a putt, as his new friend watched on. It would have been a birdie, given his expertise. It had been a tricky hole. With woods on both sides, it took a classy drive to find the clearing in the middle. At that moment precisely, they heard a mini explosion to his right. The bodyguard scampered off to secure the perimeter, glad to have a few minutes' respite from watching two grown man knock little white balls around a large meadow. The target turned back from the distraction, his smug face indicating the confidence he has in his bodyguard, surprised to notice that his friend had dropped his club and was holding a wet kerchief instead. A couple of seconds later, 014 dragged the lifeless body to the woods on his left.

The job complete, 014 slithered away, feeling his way through the woods on all fours. His spotter must have completed the communication by then. 014 had never been spotter in all his life, and only knew what he read about them in his textbooks when he was being trained. 'The spotter is the backup agent on any job. His/her main objective is to ensure that the mission is carried out successfully, and to provide the controllers with regular inputs. If the main agent on a mission double crosses the team, it is the spotter's duty to eliminate him/her, and complete said mission' he recalled, as he crawled. A few moments later, he heard a twig break. The implication was obvious. His spotter was in his midst! Technically, the spotter was the only barrier between John Dawes and his freedom. If killed, he could escape, or as he thought of it, retire, without his controllers knowing. He lay still for a minute, listening for sounds that would give away the position of the man. There were plenty. Clearly an amateur, the spotter had completely betrayed his position to Dawes. Dawes realised that the man was a few metres ahead of him with his back to John. Dawes crept up with the silence characteristic of a Rolls Royce drive., and prepared to smother the agent, who crouched behind a tree, extremely proud of the professionalism with which he had completed his first mission. Dawes looked at the boy, and realised that it was the waiter from the previous night. The familiar heartache that always struck him before he made his kill, paralyzed him for a whole second. Dawes then bent over, tapped the boy's shoulder and whispered, 'Don't give away your position so easily boy, you're better than that', before hurrying away. The boy turned to see his hero crawl away and turned red with a combination of awe and embarrassment.

A few hours later, a nondescript Chevy was seen driving past the national border. Its driver was no longer a human. He was just a number, again. 014.

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If you're still reading this, thanks. Its my first attempt at writing a story, so let me know what you think of it. The title is from the song 'Man for all seasons - Robbie Williams' (Opening credits of Johnny English)