It’s been an easy day in the ruler’s office today. Ever since General Poptart advised the press to stay off grounds for unspecified secret mission concerns you haven’t encountered much stress from them. You’re finishing up reading the last of your letters, and by the look of the clock, it seems that you’ll be done early. All the better: you could use a bit more sleep.
Suddenly, a knock sounds on your door. It’s desperate and muddled, the third and fourth knocks seeming more like the beating of a palm than the rapping of knuckles. That’s odd, since you told your butler not to let anyone in the halls. The knock sounds again, this time just a little more insistent.
You grab your military-issued high-caliber sidearm and approach the door, prepared to blow the face off any assassin that might be lurking behind it. You throw open the door and point your gun straight at–
“Agent Van Ghalta?” You say, lowering your weapon in surprise. “What are you–“
Without warning, the man lurches forward and falls into the office face-down, smacking his forehead into the carpet. He grunts and tries weakly to roll over to his side. He’s bleeding from two gunshot wounds in his stomach and shoulder, but he’s trying desperately to move away from the door.
You immediately kneel down to help, but he shoos you away. “I was ambushed.” He said weakly. “I missed my word count by about four hundred. Antiwinter’s goons tailed me home and shot up my house. I was only barley able to escape.” He broke off in a cough. “I have to manage my time better next time, provided there will be one.”
“Of course there’ll be a next time.” You say hurriedly as you check Van Ghalta over. “Were you followed?”
Van Ghalta looks embarrassed through the pain. “Well…about that. I was going to tell you–“
The windows shatter and the sounds of gunshots fill the air.
The Writer's Rack 