It made no sense, why couldn't I keep my eyes off the potion.

  It was still brewing. Tubes ran from the arms of two deceased teenagers, into a setup of beakers, bunsen burners and glass tubes, some straight, some spiraling. At the very end, a glass tube being cooled by a block of ice, from it the drips fell into a vial.

  The craziest thought occurred to me looking at that vial. I dismissed it, turning back to the body of the witch I'd just assassinated, to carry on cutting. The witches head was needed to get the reward, but as the witches identity wasn't well clear, something proving it was the witch has been demanded too.

  The organisation would normally shield us from such odd demands, but two wealthy pissed off families meant the reward was large enough to indulge the request. It had been the reason I'd looked around and spotted the potion in the first place.

  The two poor bastards in her hut today were unknowns, I'd seen them alive while scouting the area, they weren't my concern. It had been two years ago that the witch had made the fatal mistake of snatching a young couple travelling through her hunting ground. They'd made themselves look poor, no doubt she'd realized her mistake, but had to commit nonetheless having snatched them.

  The organisation had various experts on hand to advise for jobs. A pattern had been drawn up. Her deadly habit laid bare on parchment. They couldn't have known exactly when she'd strike but roughly was good enough. Considering the reward, I'd been posted to this area for months.

  Hundreds of years of killing. The first potion, made from one person, would supposedly have been permanent; she would have been made younger and aged normally. The second, third and so on, less effective. Two people at a time now, just to avoid wrinkles.

  It was a crazy thought.

  I realised I wasn't cutting anymore.

  I was looking at the potion.

  What youth had I known?

  While a pretty nun was being raped, a gang member explains resistance is futile. The prick does so while fondling the older nuns' breasts. She doesn't react. Her defiance was a memory forever etched in my mind.

  Of course the nuns couldn't hide us all. Their best efforts had been made for the female orphans. The boys, understandably, had to fend for themselves.

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  I broke some fingers, I remember hearing crunching as I kicked the door. I broke a nose with the hard side of a wooden brush. I kicked, I punched, and even bit.

  I was sold to the organisation as "feisty". Of the maybe three dozen recruits gathered in that dungeon, four of us survived to join the organisation.

  I walk over to a door that intrigued me. From the outside a solid lean-to extension. Opening it I was greeted with quite a sight.

  Shelves piled high with gear.

  So many stolen adventures, so many hopes and dreams dashed.

  I should be working. The thoughts are crazy. I walk into the witches' loot stash. A few toys are assembled together on an eye level shelf.

  What toys can I remember?

  I had a wooden sword.

  I beat another child to death with it.

  A satchel marked with the caduceus, the healer's mark. There's everything not one person, not one party, but maybe two parties could use to start adventuring.

  It doesn't take long to find a dagger marked with one of two wealthy families' crests. Could be the demanded evidence too.

  While not at war, there had been tensions between the families. Both victims had been betrothed to others but had eloped together. The rage at their disappearance and wanting to keep the whole affair quiet. We assassins can on occasion deliver a form of justice.

  The witch had been known to the area. Sighting of the couple and a barmaid saying they were heading to town not far away. Them never arriving. It hadn't taken the most elite of guards from either family to figure out what had happened.

  The mother of one of the victims had supposedly had a dream/vision too.

  A couple eloping, against all odds trying to make their romance work. I wondered how they'd have worked out were it not for the old hag killing them. Looking at their bodies, I felt a pang of emotions. They'd risked it all for love...

  I'd never known romance. It was against the organisation's rules.

  Could I?

  Could I know romance?

  . . .

  I throw a fire punch. Enough skill points invested that it serves not only as close range, but as mid range too, throwing out a fist shaped fireball. As soon the fireball is airborne, I turn and with magically enhanced speed, sprint away.

  Boom!

  RapidDash was getting harder on my aging knees. The deceased pair being turned into potion were in one corner. I'd staged a struggle, spilled flammable liquids and had thrown an explosive potion into the opposite corner.

  An explosive potion set off right against me, would vapourize me. They'd find remains of my metal gear and some of my blood around. That kind of last ditch suicide attack was not uncommon among captured or injured assassins.

  I'd slung a rope over a roof beam, making the witch "stand" in front, with as lose a knot I dare make. The rope should come apart in the blast, burn away. Neck wound healed, so if the head did come off, no one would find signs of me cutting.

  Her hut collapses. The fire where I "died", white hot. We assassins can stage a scene.

  . . .

  Not knowing what the exact effect of the potion would be, I camped not far from the orphanage. Rising up the ranks and gaining greater freedom from the organisation; I'd taken to anonymously donating, as well as slaughtering would be raiders.

  I didn't care what the effects would be.