Rogue. What is a Rogue, I find myself searching for something out of my reach, with no profile, no description. your mind often flutters to the who what when and how? basic formulated structures that I had no interest in. I am doing this for nothing other than my selfish gain. My own pride, my own right to say I have restored the just within a story I was removed from.

I find my own being standing in a moss-covered desolate alleyway, the thickened heavy air only emphasizes a dampened smell that clings to my senses suffocating me as every pop-up ad with 'Hot Singles In Your Area.' The Adorned walls are painted with layers of graffiti which only seem to consume the artistry around us. The cacophony of adjacent colors dances within the dim flickering light. the occasional tapped-up window only brings more attention to their glass jagged and cracked. The casting of eerie shadows only aids in expressing how desolate the surroundings I stand in are.

"Karma comes with gifts. you hold everything and anything Kismet."

I almost jump hearing the low yet delicate voice of Death.

"I thought you changed my name-"

"I know Kismet and Invada nobody else holds that to you."

"You're opposing as a mentor now?"

I glare at Death with somewhat of a glint in my eye.

"Throwing a child into a deep end is asking for them to drown."

A curl slowly forming a smirk appears on his face. the unmistakable gesture speaks volumes in a way only the pale confusing boy can. In Death's world, his answers only consist of left and right, north and south; never a direct answer to any question which I currently hold or am to hold.

"killing is an obligation, do what you must and save what you need."

He walks himself over to sit on the lid of a trash can. My eyes follow and stare slightly in judgment.

"So you are an endorsement of crime now? how poetic?"

"It's not as if you were ever against crime... Kismet."

"You don't have to use my name like that."

"Like what?"

the nerve. I take a breath which stops my urge to scream.

"You kill people, it's what you were good at. I don't stop people from their natural urges."

I squint, Almost an annoyance and animosity builds in me, the nerve of a next-to-nameless figure. I was and am a lot of things however a murderer I am not.

"You don't get to talk about natural occurrences. without me you're Omen would plague you."

"Who needs the other the most, you would simply need me more."

"How so?"

"Without me, you would vanish; you would be an unfinished diary entry that someone who perished on the first fleet wrote."

I snarl at him.

"Without me, you would be punished."

A sting, there's a glint of remorse almost in his eyes before his unscaled smirk returns.

"Fair play, without me who knows where your sister could be? dead."

Dead, the word replays like a cassette the one your parents would send you a photo of with the allured sentence of "back in my day." For all I knew I was to be roped into an afterlife conundrum with no west end or south end, merely the assumption of my sister's presumed life, living breathing life. He looks at me almost with a smug look, one that unfortunately for my sanity holds what I seek.

"We both depend on the corporation of blind trust, What is a matter of yours is the need to over-perform this role at least better than she could-"

"Who is she?"

He looks at me coldly his eyes glint and glimmer in a way to tell me to not ask.

"In five days there will be an expose created by a boy, who is yet to understand his own involvement in any of this. If his exposing extravaganza is to get out, the Rouge will know we are after her, and not only will people then have a gateway to start a new futuristic religion based on both of us, but our cover will be blown."

"What does that even entail?"

"No sister. No life. you must find the boy at any cost, do whatever is needed befriend him. I simply have no care. Make sure he loses that expose."

"Why not let him go?"

"We can't."

His eyes gaze sternly at me, there is a gravity to his strange demeanor holding a slight sense of purpose that looms heavily in the air. He begins to drift both of us from our current surroundings. As the movement of blurs continues, shelves seem to grow, arise from the earthed ground, and books materialize out of thin air consuming the space around us as we are cramped within the confinement of centuries of knowledge all compressed into what beholds as a library. I found Death had a funny way of presenting himself, a single spill of care from him would be a nun's equivalent to her favorite sermon being read out on a Sunday.

"A library-"

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He presses a finger to my lips.

"shh. this is public domain."

I roll my eyes. was he supposed to be funny?

"For someone who encourages murder, a group of bookworms should be your least concern death."

The oppressive Shadows and walls of the towering library shelves consume, envelop, and surround us as dim natural light filters through the almost invisible crevices. The air is thick with scents of old dampened paper, hushed muffled whispers; the cladestine haven almost echoes every sound. The place boy places a weighty stack of papers onto a rather worn wooden table, just as dust escapes.

I find my hand waving the particles of dust away whilst a cough escapes me. The boy stands rather proud, perhaps from carrying all the stacks of literature however I doubt it must have taken up much of his strength.

"Books hold what pictures can't. All you'll find is that a camera can be your soul demise Kismet."

"What riddle is this one for? oh let me guess I-

"Tell me, how talented are you at dodging speed cameras?"

The broken silence filled by a question that was not only odd but unhelpful. Was it a joke? The look presented on his face says otherwise.

"To what absolute relevance does that have?"

my face perplexed as I try to grapple his mind which tends to have no link whatsoever to any action he performs. The boy leans in with an unwavering gaze.

"Perhaps it alludes to the time you found yourself behind the wheel of a stolen vehicle, a vessel that only paints a small smudge of a tragic demise."

A pause hangs in the air as I absorb the weight of his words.

"Got it. Thanks."

My own tone betrayed a mix of acknowledgment however guarded.

"I am hinting at the mere inexistence of the owner of the car, in which you ultimately killed, to which you then proceeded to follow a map and drive at high speeds."

I glare at him, merely one with slight annoyance and anger.

"I remember."

He smiles at my own annoyance, does he enjoy my misery?

"Within an every day human context speeding is seen as a very damning life ending choice which is punishable-

"You hold no answers to anything I ask."

"Isn't it all good fun, however?"

I snap at him.

"What are you getting at?"

The boy smiles almost in a way which he knows is purely to agitate me.

Death's smile curls at the corners of his lips. His grin almost has a mischievous glint which is reflected within his eyes as they meet my gaze. Theres an almost subtle expression a knowingness that seems to ripple beneath the surface. If I didn't know any better he would remind me of a retail worker putting on an ominous forced smile while telling you "Have a great day" with only such fake eager emotion that you feel complete to say "Yeah you too."

"His name is Marcus."

I roll my eyes at the once again randomized response from death.

"who is?"

I look at him puzzled and slightly annoyed.

"The boy."

The dimly lit corners of the library close in as Death's words echo, shrouded in secrets. His eyes dart cautiously glancing around to make sure nobody, for whatever reason, overhears us. Satisfied with the dusty shelves guarding us, he leans in with what is an unsettling proximity towards me. He points, his finger directing my attention to the top sheet of the stack he brought to the wooden table.

"Today is next week, Monday. We are in the future."

he begins, his voice follows a low whisper.

"by this time a teenage kaleidoscope of gothic, scene, emo, anything else that's odd-

"you could just say, teenager."

A disapproving frown crosses Death's face.

"That ruins my storytelling and emotive language, Kismet."

He coughs clearing his throat before he continues.

"They will hand over four polaroids of what the papers will call 'suspicious sightings' or the Daily Mail which labels them as 'sadistic killer on the loose; messy imagery of their accidental crimes or perhaps it is deliberate?"

I almost laugh, he does to. his smile almost showing a reflection of pure joy.

"it has a bit of ring. its a long title but it seems like whoever wrote that had time-"

His hand waves dismissively as it interrupts me.

"Except these polaroids are of you. The ability bistode within you is the mere ability to manipulate timelines, duplicate one's self, cast illusion, and become invisible to the naked eye. You; Invada in its purest essence are supposed to be untraceable."

"I have had no training in any of that when-"

"At ta ta ta"

The boy cuts me off.

"This kid; he can see you. he can see us."

beat.

"so what?"

I ask in an attempt to downplay the crucial issue.

"You can say farewell to any deal we make is 'what.'"

His eyes stare coldly, a normal void of emotion that now scream a hint of fear.

"Then why not let him die, you said it ?"

"No!"

He yells, in an unexpected eruption, the boy's voice echoes, and pierces through the hallowed silence. A vast contrast of emotions escaping the usual stone-cold death. Anger and Fear dance within the shards of his eyes, momentarily completely shattering his icy facade. His hand begins to nervously tap against the side of him. Was it turmoil? perhaps.

Purely reacting on natural instinct, I take his jittering hand and delicately flip it to face his palm my finger traces a calming circle. There was silence, not an awkward one but a calming almost comfortable silence.

"my father would do this to calm me down when I would fight with my sister."

Silence. the slither of vulnerability almost casts an unexpected sense of peace. though it's unsettling, there's an uneasy undercurrent.

"Better?"

I question him.

His gaze lingers on his palm for a second.

"The rouge wants him dead, if he dies, he disappears; we lose all way, all-purpose of finding the rouge. its cat-and-mouse beat her to her own game. "

I roll my eyes in some sense of a response. His relentless dismissal of human interaction is one not only baffling but almost laughable. His emotions laid bare, swiftly concealed as if he wears armor.

Death retrieves the first printed page of polaroids from the dampened paper stack, waving it with an almost graceful flourish. The room once confiding us begins to warp. Colors blend into a dance of mesmerizing imgery as it shifts and spins. The unraveling of dried strands of tall grass and the darkened sky overhead a tranquil scene.

"A farm?"

I say almost unimpressed.

Death points to a distant light, a humble country-like farmhouse becones in the distant horizon.

"A humble businessman's farmhouse to be precise; his participation in embezzlement, bribery, and perhaps the destruction of some natural trees if that riles up the environmentalists out there. Most importantly, this man works hand in hand with the

Publishing firm set to release the soon-to-be damning polaroids."

"Is that the negative?"

The boy chuckles softly, his eyes looking down to the ground as he nonchalantly kicks a stone. It washes over me- was my question foolish?

"It is the positive."

"He has a family living there as well. However, do what you must. "

I look at him perplexed.

"You are making me call a judgment?"

"It's your job."

The gravity of my position looms, it hangs heavily within the fast breeze. A suffocating weight that applies nothing but pressure to me gives me a sharp pinch of reality. Panic seeps through my veins. What does he mean by "do what you must?" the statement alluring that this is all my responsibility hits like a cold reminder. I turn my full attention to the light source that was the farmhouse in the distance. It beckons to me as the lights almost seem warm and inviting. But even as I fix my eyes upon the distant farmhouse Death's voice echoes. I turn around in a frantic motion to see nothing but only hear one last statement.

"Oh and Kismet. The day is Monday last week. You have five days."