[ WP ] `` It 's surprising that the most important person in the world has so little security . '' Said the assassin to his target . `` I am here , there is no better security . '' Was the casual reply .

The assassin paused, regarding the strange young man with a suspicious glare. 
 
 Sat at at the end of the long, impressive, and rather empty chamber was a surprisingly plain little monk. The high ceiling above arched into a beautifully painted dome, and vibrant tapestries hung down the pillared walls. A long red carpet stretched from the main entrance, a pair of elegantly carved wooden doors almost twelve feet high. The side doors through which the assassin had entered were likewise extravagant, depicting scenes of some kind of winged angels or demons prodding or pulling a handful of men scattered across the carefully buffed oak surface. 
 
 The monk himself, in contrast, was very uninspiring. The assassin's eyes chewed through every feature for threats—the piously bald head unadorned by any scars, the humble but carefully woven robes hanging loose over a wiry frame, the unsettlingly calm smile that painted his target's face into the very personification of smug Zen. He could have been concealing anything in those robes, but his hands were laced, palm up in his lap and the robes left his arms bare. Any movement to retrieve a weapon from one of the folds would be slow, obvious. 
 
 `` Well, it makes my job easy at any rate.'' The assassin pulled an old but well-loved pistol from his neat coat pocket. `` Sorry about this.'' 
 
 `` Would you like some tea? Perhaps over a drink we could discuss why—'' the assassin fired at the monk mid-sentence, the bullet tearing through the words' congenial tone with surprisingly subdued pop. The assassin's eyebrows rose, his forehead wrinkling as perplexity supplanted what should have been the rush of adrenalin after closing such a lucrative contract. 
 
 `` —ou seem so intent on pursuing so fruitless a task?'' The question hung in the air, finishing in the same casual demeanor with which it started. The monk was unfazed, unmarked. It was as if the bullet never left the chamber. 
 
 ``... The hell?'' The assassin knew it was n't a misfire from the kick of recoil; he'd half-seen the shell eject and his eyes still traced the afterimage of the fire from the muzzle flash. He fired three more rounds. Three reports echoed back to his ears, but the monk's smile remained unnervingly unbroken. The assassin looked dumbly at the ground, where four shiny, spent shell casings glinted mockingly at him. `` What the actual hell...'' 
 
 `` Not a tea drinker then? Perhaps coffee? Though I will warn you, it packs a bit more of a kick than you might be used to.'' The monk's smile seemed wider, not malicious and Cheshire but jovial and amused, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned forward conspiratorially, and the assassin tensed. `` They're quite proud of the stuff here, but I think it's rather foul.'' He chuckled merrily and the assassin breathed a little easier. Blinking, the monk fixed his eyes on the assassin's face. `` So what'll it be Ben?'' 
 
 The assassin, known professionally as James Corbin, given name Benjamin Fischer, turned rigid and felt his face drain. He'd worked for fifteen years under that alias, and almost all of his original family were long since dead. Those that were still kicking thought he was dead too, there had been a very convincing corpse at his funeral. His girlfriend back at the flat in London, the consort in the hotel down the street, his handlers for the Family, even his Swiss account managers did n't know James was n't his real name. 
 
 `` Tea is fine,'' he muttered, stunned and scrambling to piece together what was going on. 
 
 `` Excellent. I had some steeping, just in case I had any guests tonight.'' As the monk moved to pour gingerly from a tall silver pitcher nearby, Benjamin halfheartedly pulled the trigger a few more times. Four more bright casings joined their sisters on the floor, his clip empty. The monk carefully placed the pitcher back on the tray, then gently patted the seat of the chair opposite his simple wooden bench. `` Please, have a seat. You really need to relax; stress can be quite bad for your health.'' 
 
 `` Maybe I do,'' Benjamin sighed under his breath. Walking slowly over, he sank into the chair with the first hints of what he was would be a migraine just starting to drill into his temples. He turned to give one more hopeful look at the eight still-very-real bits of brass that had ineffectually coughed lead into nothingness, and then returned his despondent gaze to the outstretched cup of tea. `` Maybe I do.''
