pistachio and flavour of the day with fresh peaches
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: High Ground
Rating: G
Challenge: Pistachio #17: just stopping by, FOTD: byzantine
Toppings/Extras: fresh peaches
Wordcount: 477
Summary: Isaac Prowse debates morality. With himself.
Notes: Because Isaac is apparently insane? Byzantine; characterised by elaborate scheming and intrigue, esp. for the gaining of political power or favour. Fresh peaches; Practical effort will pay off as long as you stay focused and dedicated to your goals.
Isaac Prowse didn’t choose the targets. How in the world would he know who should die and who shouldn’t? Lord Ashdown seemed to know, which was all well and good for him. Sometimes it was useful for people to die, Prowse supposed.
There’s nothing really wrong with me at all, he thought idly as he pulled the knife out of Hyssop’s throat with one deft tug. He let go of the shoulder and the body crumpled to the floor. Ashdown wants people dead. I don’t want them dead. I’m just the physical means.
Pulling out a dark cloth, he wiped the blood neatly from the blade. He would give it a more thorough clean later.
But, another compartment of his mind said, there are lots of people who wouldn’t kill for a living due to their conscience, which means that-by general standards-your own morals are lax.
That is a good point, he responded as he pulled a throw from the nearby lounger and threw it over the corpse at his feet. To start with, though, I didn’t really have a choice. I was on the streets. I had nothing. At least I have a home now. And a job.
But since when has personal gain justified immoral actions?
Hmm. His mind was right. Tucking the blanket under the still-leaking body, he pulled out a set of ropes and set to tying it shut, enclosing the body in a shroud of sorts. A shroud embroidered with forget-me-nots.
Well, I never pretended to be a moral champion, just a person with higher ethical standards than Ashdown.
Who doesn’t have higher ethical standards than Ashdown?
Oh, he’s not so bad really…
The body was not difficult to drag across the stone floor and out towards the large doors opening into the back garden. London was dark and murky outside; fog was perfect assassination weather. The garden wasn’t exactly a garden anyway-a tiny courtyard surrounded on two sides by other buildings and on the other by a wall.
Not so bad? Hyssop is dead because he found out about the privateering contracts Ashdown’s drawn up! Since when are bits of paper worth dying over? Or, for that matter, killing over?
Prowse braced a foot against the corner between the ground and the wall-which came up to perhaps his shoulder-and heaved Hyssop’s body up, flinging it over the wall. It impacted with a dull thump on the other side. The cadaver was still floppy; still warm.
He’s trying to stop the pirates of the Irish sea, Prowse thought grouchily as he heaved himself over the wall and gazed at the blanketed body for a moment. It’s the means to an end, and the end is an honourable one.
But do the ends justify the means?
Prowse grasped the corpse by the feet.
Will you just shut up? I have a job to do.
Title: High Ground
Rating: G
Challenge: Pistachio #17: just stopping by, FOTD: byzantine
Toppings/Extras: fresh peaches
Wordcount: 477
Summary: Isaac Prowse debates morality. With himself.
Notes: Because Isaac is apparently insane? Byzantine; characterised by elaborate scheming and intrigue, esp. for the gaining of political power or favour. Fresh peaches; Practical effort will pay off as long as you stay focused and dedicated to your goals.
Isaac Prowse didn’t choose the targets. How in the world would he know who should die and who shouldn’t? Lord Ashdown seemed to know, which was all well and good for him. Sometimes it was useful for people to die, Prowse supposed.
There’s nothing really wrong with me at all, he thought idly as he pulled the knife out of Hyssop’s throat with one deft tug. He let go of the shoulder and the body crumpled to the floor. Ashdown wants people dead. I don’t want them dead. I’m just the physical means.
Pulling out a dark cloth, he wiped the blood neatly from the blade. He would give it a more thorough clean later.
But, another compartment of his mind said, there are lots of people who wouldn’t kill for a living due to their conscience, which means that-by general standards-your own morals are lax.
That is a good point, he responded as he pulled a throw from the nearby lounger and threw it over the corpse at his feet. To start with, though, I didn’t really have a choice. I was on the streets. I had nothing. At least I have a home now. And a job.
But since when has personal gain justified immoral actions?
Hmm. His mind was right. Tucking the blanket under the still-leaking body, he pulled out a set of ropes and set to tying it shut, enclosing the body in a shroud of sorts. A shroud embroidered with forget-me-nots.
Well, I never pretended to be a moral champion, just a person with higher ethical standards than Ashdown.
Who doesn’t have higher ethical standards than Ashdown?
Oh, he’s not so bad really…
The body was not difficult to drag across the stone floor and out towards the large doors opening into the back garden. London was dark and murky outside; fog was perfect assassination weather. The garden wasn’t exactly a garden anyway-a tiny courtyard surrounded on two sides by other buildings and on the other by a wall.
Not so bad? Hyssop is dead because he found out about the privateering contracts Ashdown’s drawn up! Since when are bits of paper worth dying over? Or, for that matter, killing over?
Prowse braced a foot against the corner between the ground and the wall-which came up to perhaps his shoulder-and heaved Hyssop’s body up, flinging it over the wall. It impacted with a dull thump on the other side. The cadaver was still floppy; still warm.
He’s trying to stop the pirates of the Irish sea, Prowse thought grouchily as he heaved himself over the wall and gazed at the blanketed body for a moment. It’s the means to an end, and the end is an honourable one.
But do the ends justify the means?
Prowse grasped the corpse by the feet.
Will you just shut up? I have a job to do.