A purist wouldn’t be here. This wasn’t the kind of out of the way/off the map place they would venture. It wasn’t run by one of them, one of the elite.
But the purists in the crowd were missing out. The Enclave, as it was called by some, was elite in another manner.
Those who traveled to this hidden complex somewhere in the proximity of Moab, Utah, found a place and a method of tutelage unlike any. Rugged, harsh and unforgiving terrain combines with a unique brand of training noted for being rugged, harsh, unforgiving.
Students attending this school come with no preparation, no established curriculum to follow. No records or grades or transcripts will be produced or retained.
Students receive only pass or fail. In this desert of oblivion, pass or fail is life or death.
To attend is to put everything, every moment, every thought, every microscopic instinct to death’s ultimate test.
To survive this education, each student must do more than survive, they must kill. Graduation is earned through the kill, the cull of others.
Nothing is ever the same after the Enclave. Those unsuccessful in this cruelest of schooling remain forever in this arid, rocky place. Until bones return to dust.
Those who return to a world of green or cool or comfort, do so as changed people. The world will never know, can never know.
The assassins who leave this place are much more than professionals, more than purists.
They are pure killer.
iPhone Notes Story
ATL – CHS 10.06.15