[WIP] The Peppermint makes the Difference
As he aims down the rifle, he can see her clearly without anyone or anything in his way. He carefully rests it on the iron balustrade steadying it for its great appearance. He looks down the rifle again to see if she is ready yet.
There she is, on the other side of one of Piltover’s unnatural canyons of concrete and steel, but while he is kneeling on the roof of his tower, the opposing building is significantly taller, though she is on the same level as him. He spectates her through the large windows of her apartment.
Neither the rain nor the cold of the night matter to him. This moment is too important. The stage is set, the actors casted, the spotlights are on her and she will play her role better than anyone else could.
He loads a bullet into the rifle.
And another one.
And another one.
And he crams in his small, unique, leather bag, then pulling forth the special bullet he had crafted just for her with love, dedication, and a hint of peppermint.
He is ready. Now, he is just waiting for her.
She walks through her dimly lit living room, dressed only in a tight, black shirt and fitting, dark blue pants, with a white towel, covering her short, dark purple hair.
He is so tempted to pull the trigger. He can see it already. He can imagine the glory of her performance.
Not yet.
Not yet!
NOT YET!
He drops the rifle with a loud gasp and stumbles back a few steps. His body is shaking and cramping. He looks at his hands with utter disbelieve.
He almost ruined it.
He almost ruined it!
HE ALMOST RUINED IT!
He takes a deep breath and gives in a moment to listen to the thousand voices of the rain.
He walks to the balustrade and picks up his rifle. He takes aim, this time standing, for that a performance like this requires it.
He aims again. Her slender, athletic figure shows well with her clothing but does not take focus from her pretty, rather boyish face and her silver-blue eyes. An excellent choice of clothing for her grant debut.
She walks over to the two meters tall mirror at the back wall. She dreamingly lets her thin hands play along the copper frame for a few seconds.
Soon.
Soon!
SOON!
He can feel it. It is so close. All eyes are on them now. The world is holding its breath.
She raises a hand and pulls down the towel from her head, unveiling her very short, dark purple, chaotic hair.
She throws the towel to the side, runs her fingers playfully through her hair, and smiles at the mirror.
NOW!
One!
The first act: He pulls the trigger. His bullet runs through rain, through glass, through flesh, through bones, and through glass again. It shatters the mirror. Only she and truly she must be seen in his play. The shards of the object fall around her, glimmering like stars around the queen of moons.
Two!
The second act: The force of his impacting bullet whirls her around, presents her to the stage. He frees her life, paints it onto the copper back frame of the mirror like she always had seen herself.
He can barely hold his excitement back anymore. She plays so well. Her surprise, her drama, her tears so genuine. He knew she was the one for this piece.
THREE!
The third act: A bit rougher, a bit harsher to remind the audience of the gravity of this scene.
He frees her mind, unlocks it from its shell. Now she can dance along with gods. Now she sings with the rising sun. The dark purple and the red pair so well. A nearly perfect color scheme.
His body is trembling, but his hands are steady.
This will be perfect.
Perfect!
PERFECT!
He is ready and so is she.
FOUR!
The grand finale: He can hear the orchestra – their brutal, rapid piece ready to explode in a last crescendo to take the audiences breath.
He frees her heart, unleashes it into the world. And when the bullet exits her back, her heart becomes her wings, like an angel about to ascend.
He looks at his work. The rifle falls out of his shaking hands onto the wet, grey concrete.
It is a masterpiece, greater than any human could produce. His legs give in. He falls to his knees, his hands still shaking at this glorious performance of hers.
He hears the audience. They applaud. They jump out of their seats. They chant their names in ecstasy.
Yes.
Yes!
YES!
She was so marvelous. She did not believe in herself, but he did. She was perfect.
His hand reaches up to his face, rips the mask of it and exposes it to the cold stings of the rain. He pants uncontrollably. He still cannot believe it.
They did it.
They really made it.
He stands up. He looks at it again.
He slams his fist onto the balustrade. Bitter frustration fills him as he notices it: One of the mirror shards is marginally out of place, taunting him, ruining his installation, robbing it of perfection.
He need not give in to his anger though. Anger ruins the skin. He picks up the rifle. He puts back on the beautiful, handcrafted, ivory mask. He turns around and walks away.
Next time, he will do better.
Next time, it will be perfect.
Next time, he will use slightly less peppermint.