Recruitment

Wind chimes, chain link fences, and dog barks all begin to play in reverse. Falling backwards, shattered glass; looking behind yourself to see you who is also looking behind themself, fragments frozen in time before being pieced together.

You fall, but do not fall. Two feet on a dusty road, corn stalks shaking in the wind on either side of you. Farmlands. It almost smells like home.

In the distance dogs bark. If you concentrate hard enough you can almost imagine them, but it is unwise to think in a place like this. It costs time, and time is something you have very little of.

Routine steps carry you briskly toward a house, faded sky-blue paint chipped in places all over the first and second stories. The porch and window casings are painted white; the discovery surprised you once before, but not anymore.

You follow a beaten trail behind the house and toward a small, rundown farm just outside of a forest. The wide, white square doors on its front are missing, the building caught in an eternal yawn as you enter through its gaping mouth.

There's damp, molded hay inside, the stalls and coops within long abandoned. It smells faintly of mildew and manure, though you already know this.

A rickety ladder leans against an overhang and leads up to the second floor, you climb it while skipping the 5th, 8th, and 11th rungs; they do not support your weight. You step over piles of hay and make your way to the small window, cracking it open to catch a view of the back of the house.

Your eyes follow a small child, a version of you that is not yet you, who bounds from the backdoor of the house and laughs past the barn, running toward a treehouse deep in the forest. That is a moment you remember before the blast, before the flames.

A gloved hand touches a pack slung across your back, swinging it in front of you and unzipping it to reveal a sniper rifle, scope and suppressor attached. The suppressor is not necessary for what you are about to do, but it has always been there, so there is no point in removing it.

Pulling the gun from its bag, you also take out a tripod to rest it on, positioning the gun on it so the scope looks through the kitchen window. There, a kettle of water boils on a gas stove, and the scope moves to land on a container of propane, attached to a grill.

Now, you simply wait.

A few minutes pass, the kettle cries. A shadow moves behind the window.

Your finger rests on the trigger, then pulls.

The blast blows blazing air out in all directions, the gust making you sweat all the way from the second story of the barn. Your eye peers through the scope to see two figures moving against the flames, frantic and frightful as they rush outside and fall motionless.

This is the scene you remember when you return from the treehouse.

Oddly enough, you have not returned.

A choked sob comes from behind you, and you do not need to look to know it is you, crying over yourself, who has killed your parents.

This did not happen to your version of yourself, who ran into the forest only to be found three days later by the Organization. To be taken in and trained, then sent back in time to recruit yourself.

You have failed once more.

You fired too soon, you did not ensure you went to the treehouse. You will not make that mistake again.

A ring on your right hand is touched, twisted to the left. The air rushes against you, flames recede, dead bodies stand and move inside a house. Wind chimes, chain link fences, and dog barks all begin to play in reverse.

Author's Note

Written from a phone, pardon any spelling mistakes. I like 2nd POV, but struggle with keeping consistent tenses, so apologies for any, feel free to give advice/feedback.