March 4th 1916

On the doorstep of a Catholic run orphanage lies a small bundle, wrapped tight in blankets awaiting the dawn and the opening of the door. The passing milkman pauses, staring at the bundle before knocking on the door, waiting for a sister. She comes out, opening her mouth to call out a question and pauses at catching sight of the bundle the postman now carries in his arms. She sighs, pushing aside a corner of the blanket, staring down at the figure inside. Staring back with eyes the colour of the void, unusually quiet is a baby. Softly she whispers "Another one. Is there a note?"

The postman nods his head mutely, offering her the note. It reads "Take care of Johnathan for me, for I can not." There is no signature.

March 4th 1921

"Johnathan!!! Johnathan, where are you?"

"Here Sister." From the top of the roof a child cries, waving to the sister. He walks along the edge with the abandon and lack of fear that only children have.

"Merciful God." Her hand raising to her lips, the Sister's eyes widen. "Johnathan. Don't move... we'll come up and get you. Just... don't move."

"It's okay Sister. It's time for my cake isn't it?" And with that the child runs to the side, moving to the corner of the roof to climb down. Yet an unseen bird takes flight, bursting from an alcove where it rested till so recently disturbed. Jerking back, the child gasps, wind-milling his arms to gather what balance he may. Yet the wet roofs, slippery and cold still offer little support and he falls.

"Noooo!!!" Already the Sister moves, to try to catch the body, hoping without hope to get there in time.

Luck perhaps. Fate maybe. For as he falls, his loose clothing catches an outcropping on the church, a spire jutting out snagging upon his shirt. He jerks to a halt, hanging precariously for a moment. Yet clothing, worn from overuse and threadbare already gives way. Yet time it bought, a few precious seconds that the Sister reaches him, to catch him and break his fall.

Both land, bruised but alive. The Sister turns to the child who seems completely unaware of his close brush, ready to scold him. Yet, as she opens her mouth he offers a gentle smile, touching her hand and then giving her an impulsive hug. And instead, she breathes a soft thank you to her God.

March 4th 1926

A young boy in a class of 40 plus fights a yawn, watching the Sister in front of him continue to try to teach a group of inattentive students the intricacies of the French language. She moves along the desks after a while, rapping the knuckles of those students who make mistakes in their work, offering a glare at those who would speak.

A bell rings, and the children look up alertly, realising class is over. The Sister, glowering slightly at the children at last lets them go and they rush out, silently till they reach the playground wherein they burst into laughter. Yet, more slowly a black-eyed boy follows outside, pausing at the doorway before stepping into the light. Alone among the group of children, he leans slightly against a nearby wall, not taking part but watching.

March 4th 1931

"Child, are you sure you're ready?"

"No. But let's do it."

A nod from the man to the side, a gesture with his head towards the waiting crowd. The teenager moves forward, almost flowing to where his opponent awaits. And almost absently, as a parting shot he adds "And don't call me a child."

A harsh bark of laughter from his opponent, a foot taller and at least 50 pounds heavier. "Oooh, the child's trying to act tough."

A tight lipped smile is all the answer he gets as fists raise to protect his body. Eyes the colour of the void stare over the raised fists, taking in the one before him even as he waits, slowly beginning to circle his opponent.

There is no bell, no called out shout to begin the battle. It just happens, in a flurry of arms and dodging bodies as the two boxers lash out at one another in a dusty, abandoned warehouse with bare fists.

They break off as suddenly as they start, a slow trickle of blood running down one lip from the one named a child. He does not move to brush the blood away, his eyes continuing to follow his opponents. He fights eerily silent, his breathing slow and regular, no cries or grunts of pain coming from him.

It his him that acts first this time, a quick step inwards and then outwards before stepping in once more, following the arm that shot out. He swings his own fists, taking the initiative and keeping up his momentum, pushing his opponent backwards as he rains blows down on him.

It is over, almost as fast as it started. His opponent lands on the ground, stunned and unable to get up, having left his guard down too long, having underestimated the child before him. Yet, there is no joy in those black eyes, nothing but a void.

March 4th 1936

"Hey Johnathan, how about that one"

"Hmmm? Oh.. umm.. her." The man regards the female for a few moments, letting his eyes linger over her form as she leans against the bar alone on her stool, nursing a drink. She studiosly ignores the rest of the soldiers on leave that hover around her, trying to gain her attention.

"Don't tell me she's not good enough. Go for it. 5 quid says you don't make it."

He pauses for a long moment, staring at his friends who push him onwards before at last nodding. He moves forwards, pausing for a moment near the girl and opening his mouth to speak. She does not look up and he shuts it again, turning away from her to the barkeep to order a drink.

Taking quick glances at the woman next to him, he tries to form words in his minds to speak and fails, instead picking up his beer in the end. He turns to the side, away from her and she speaks up softly in a lilting voice "Don't you want to win their bet?"

"I... no. Not for the sake of the bet." He does not look at her, instead staring down at his beer.

"How... refreshing. Your first time?"

He blinks, coughing slightly as he pushes the pint away. As he opens his mouth to answer her, a call echoes out from the doorway. "Alright you shit-holes. Get the move on. Leave's been cancelled."

Groans arise from the various soldiers stationed around the bar but no one argues, instead all moving to the doorway. Johnathan turns to the lady one last time, offering a silent shrug before he heads for the door, downing the pint swiftly.

4th March 1941

"Halt"

The figure freezes, his head stuck underneath the hood of a truck bearing the insignia of the German armies. It waits for a moment for further orders, swearing in it's own mind at its luck. Slowly, he begins to move from under the hood before pausing at another shouted command.

Desperately searching for a reasonable explanation to be under the hood of a jeep in the middle of the night in a restricted zone, the man slowly moves at the man's commands, inching from under the hood. As he turns, he slowly lets a hand drop to his concealed gun, perhaps hoping to have one last act of defiance.

Silent as a shadow a man moves up behind the German guard. Once behind him, a hand clamps around the guards mouth whilst a blade quickly slides between the ribs, opening an artery. The guard struggles, gurgling as he drowns in his own blood before slowly slumping down.

"Damn... am I glad to see you."

"Luck. It wasn't hard finding what I needed. Are you done?"

"Almost."

"Then finish up and let's get out of here."

A quick nod is exchanged by both men and the killer bends downwards, hefting the body easily as dark eyes scan the shadows for others. Silently and swiftly he moves away, to place the body aside for later discovery.

4th March 1946

"I have a message for Mr.Lorriane that I am to pass to him personally."

The butler pauses for a long moment, surveying the soldier standing before him. He glances to the shoulder bars, unable to read the insignia and at last stepping aside. He gestures within, waiting for the soldier to enter before shutting the door on the war-torn street outside.

"Where is he?"

"In his study. If you will wait within the library I shall announce your arrival." With a last nod the butler begins down the hallway, guiding the soldier into the library. As they both step in, the soldier drops a hand into his pocket, removing a cloth. He moves swiftly, efficiently, putting the butler who has just begun to turn into a hold, holding the cloth to the butler's mouth. The struggle is quick and one sided, the much larger and in better shape soldier slowly sliding the butler's body to the ground.

He steps aside quietly, removing a gun and heading up the staircase, taking the turns as if he knows his way already. He stops in front of a door, listening for a moment. With a quick motion, he opens the door, stepping within. As the man within turns towards the sound, the soldier levels the gun, squeezing a single shot. It hits, point blank and the body begins to slump downwards even as the last echoes of the shot die away.

The soldier does not hesitate, instead moving down the stairs, pausing for a moment to place the gun in the butler's hand. He raises his head, listening for a moment more before he heads for the French windows in the library, sliding one open and then dropping the lock back in place once he leaves.

Silently, he pushes his way out, knowing that the squad down the street will deal with the rest. He does not move to meet them, instead heading in the opposite direction. He does not run, he does not even seem concerned about the events as he slowly moves from the crime scene. All in a days work.

4th March 1951

"What do you mean he's disappeared?"

"Our agents can find no trace of him sir. He is, no longer... active."

"His accounts? His friends?"

"They are inactive or know not of his whereabouts."

"I want a watch kept for him. Have his details spread around. I will not let an agent of his experience just disappear on us."

"Of course. Next..."