hornet \\ one \\ cb {fin}

 
hornet

The art of assassination is the death of reason and the resurrection of adrenaline. Hornet does not live without adrenaline, so therefore, he is assassination's puppet.

Red on black; red on white. His uniform for the work he does normally involves the color of red. Blood was a good enough dye for clothing, right? He get enough of it on his trousers to make it so. It's useless to bother washing out what will soon be splattered on back. Other than becoming the red sea, the black garments that cover his body for work is the only color of life that's presented during his day.

There's a reason Hornet chose assassination. He's named himself after an insect for a reason. Hornet is not a people person. Best way to avoid people? By killing them. What do Hornets do when they don't like people? They sting them.

When he's succumbed to socialization his words are actions. A nod. A grunt. A smirk. A shake of his head. When Hornet speaks, it's raspy and low, one that'd cause chills. But Hornet rarely speaks outside of his work. He only does, and in the art of assassination, there's no time for chit-chat, only the act of doing.

A missed death is a missed opportunity for Hornet to succeed in what he hides from.

Thankfully, there's a place for him to be with people like him.

Murderers are the best killer, because killing mankind is easy enough when you live with mankind. He doesn't mind being in the organization. It's weird. In any place other than the headquarters - Hornet was not one to speak. But in these places, he knows that they've got one thing in common, and even if it was murder, he was thankful.

It's the one place he can speak his mind and not fear rejection.