Chapter Two: Fateful Encounter

I begin this request like any other. After I send the client my formal acceptance, I begin conducting my collection of information pertaining to my target. I don’t really delve too far into my targets’ background, just enough to find out a rough estimate of their strength and fighting ability so I’m not caught with my pants down. My current target is a man by the name of Damien Englewood. I go to my usual source to get detailed maps of both Damien and my client’s estates and their surroundings, paying the greasy, fat man half of the required coins for his business. I always hate coming here because he smells like shit. His shop smells like old feces, potent stagnant piss, body odor, and decay from the corpses of rats. There’s trash, dust, and rat shit everywhere. The shop is dark and always feels way too hot. I don’t even want to guess at the green oozing liquid that dribbles out of his vents. But business is business though, am I right? He says the estate layout will be drawn up within two days, so I leave and head to my next source for background information on this, Mr. Englewood fellow.

               My next source is a much more pleasant visit. He’s a higher-class citizen of the Underworld, obviously still a criminal because everyone here is unless they’re slaves. He always dresses quite dapperly with a suit or some nice button-up dress shirt with khaki pants. Nothing as fancy as the highborns up top with all their lacy shit, but nicer than most citizens down here. Despite my reputation, he always chooses to do our business at his house. It’s a really nice place compared to many of the broken-down, shabby neighborhoods built on ledges of hardened soil that are beginning to topple over. I don’t like drawing attention, so I live in one of those shabbier neighborhoods in Underworld Southern District Twelve as Tiffany Baxter. His house is always spotless and smells like rich burgundy and leather from his flooring and furniture which I find oddly pleasant, especially in contrast to the smell of sewage outside and DEFINITELY in contrast to fat-man, map-guy’s shop whose name I don’t know nor do I care to. My background source goes by the name Thomas Anderson.

               I follow the nicely maintained cobblestone path that leads up to his front door and give it three sharp taps which is my usual knock. Thomas opens the door almost immediately following the third knock with a quizzical look that reforms into a bright, charismatic, dimpled, white smile. He is actually quite handsome, but I don’t humour ideas of romance or physical intimacy. He has a solid jawline, clean-shaven face, thinner cheeks with just the right amount of plumpness, dimples that would take any normal woman’s breath away, beautiful bright brown eyes with flecks of gold, a tall leanly-muscled build, and short dark brown hair that is always neatly combed to one side, but tufts at the top in a cute way.

               I give him a polite nod that contradicts the rude way that I shove past him to step inside. I wordlessly pass him the name and photo of my target that came with the job posting, fixing him with an intense emerald-green gaze. He already knows the drill and I’m not one for pleasantries or small talk. He gives a low chuckle at my straight-to-business attitude, “always the eager one eh, Reaper?” he says with a playful smile. My eyes narrow halfway in an unimpressed gaze before I respond with, “do you want your money, or not?” in a fairly cold unfeeling tone. He shrinks away a bit at my tone and remembers I don’t fuck around. He grabs the photo and name from my hand, glances at it for about ten seconds before mumbling, “alright, I’ll see what I can find. Give me two days, he looks relatively high-class or possibly of noble or royal lineage.” I give him a nod of acknowledgement, already turning to leave Thomas’s house.

               Once my sources are all visited, I fuck off until nightfall, spending my time between short, restless, nightmare-riddled naps and downing glasses of whiskey until the hour in which the sun sets in the world above. I leave my safehouse after ensuring no one is anywhere near the area then follow the shadows to my usual hidden escape route. I make my way to the outskirts of Damien’s estate, watch for three hours at a large distance, roughly half a mile away, from the rooftop of an old, abandoned warehouse. Once I’ve surmised that no guards patrol this far out, I move to the top of a thickly veiled pine tree, perching on one of the thicker branches. I watch the stagnant guards that stand as rigidly as statues outside the main gates leading into the courtyard of the estate. I notice a few patrolling guards just within and mentally stow their routes. The guards all shift at the same exact time, seven in the morning. It’s not how I would recommend doing shift changes but it’s extremely advantageous for my cause. I watch Damien’s estate for the rest of the day in complete silence, exercising a seemingly impossible amount of patience that I’ve become used to over the past ten years. A small price to pay for the extra caution. I sleep like shit anyway. I see my target enter the courtyard a few times throughout the day. He’s too far away to really see but his head of midnight-black hair is a fairly distinctive trait amongst the shining, silver helmets of the guards. I’ve never seen someone of high-class or a high-born wear casual clothing, but I can tell from where I am that he’s wearing light blue jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Usually, the higher-class citizens wear lacy shit made from the finest silk, even to sleep. He doesn’t ever leave his little fortress of perceived safety and just seems to be taking quiet walks by himself through the gardens.

               Once the sun dips behind the mountains, allowing the darkness of night to consume the world, I head back to the Underworld. I make my way back to one of my safehouses, drop my assassin outfit in a locked chest under the floorboard, then discretely leave as Tiffany Baxter, the cute, shy, quiet lady with the green eyes, short stature, and platinum blonde hair dressed in casual clothing with tennis shoes. I go to the house I mainly reside at as Tiffany, which is quite a shithole, but it keeps the rain that leaks through the ceiling of the underground out. I spend the day lazing about, napping, reading, training, and being bored. The night is restless as usual. I close my eyes and fall into a variation of my usual nightmare.

               It’s quiet, too quiet. The only sounds are the soft patters of mouse paws skirting across wooden floorboards. I’m in the old slave holding cell from my childhood but I am, as I am now, an adult. I’m in my assassin outfit. There are slaves all around me, but they are frozen in time. Their mouths are agape as if they are afraid and their eyes are empty as if they’ve lost the will to live. Their forms are distorted into odd postures, some with their legs bent over their heads or an arm bent backwards against the joint and up. They don’t have hair or distinguishable faces, and they all wear the same rags I remember from my childhood. Finally, a sound makes itself heard from above that sounds suspiciously like a distorted mixture of gurgling, gasping, and the crunching of something heavy striking into flesh and bone. When I look up to locate the sound, my mother’s corpse crashes down from above, spraying me with unrealistic amounts of blood and making the same sickening thud that it had made when she really fell in my past. When she falls and I look upon her face it bubbles in a strange way as it reshapes into the face of Christian Bartoa wearing a smug arrogant grin. His head is all bashed in, brains leaking out, blood and puslike fluids streaking down his face, but much to my shock, he speaks, fixing me with his black irises, “I have to loosen you up, girl.”

               I jolt awake in a cold sweat; my sheets soaked through with tears and sweat. I take a moment to recapture my breath before slapping my hand to my face and dragging it down with a groan. I get up and go for a run around the uneven roads of my neighborhood to shake the nightmare. Once I’ve ran far enough to get my mind straight, I shower and spend the rest of the day much as I did the day before.

               The next day, I made my way to a different safehouse that I use. I don’t like using the same one twice in a row, so I usually shuffle between them throughout each job. I enter with the usual caution and get dressed into my assassin outfit, stashing my casual clothes under the floorboard hidey-hole I have in every one of my safehouses. I leave cautiously and go to smelly fat-man’s shop to collect my maps of the interior and exterior of Damien’s estate. I pay him the other half of the coins owed then leave in a hurry to avoid remaining in the stench longer than I have to. I tuck the maps in my medical pouch and head to Thomas’s house to collect the information he gathered. I pay him what I owe for his immaculate, as always, work. He smiles his charming smile, but I don’t bother bidding him farewell because I’m not exactly a kind person. I make my way to the safehouse I left this morning, heading inside cautiously to review the maps and read Damien’s background information summary until sunset in the world above.

               I begin the execution phase of my job. The infiltration went smoothly; I didn’t need to eliminate any guards at all since there were none securing the rest of the perimeter. I just silently climbed the wall with my fancy-smancy climbing blades that clip to my boots and gloves. I move through the back of the manor’s large, green yard and climb up to the second story window to the manor’s library which is conveniently positioned right next to my target’s bedroom. I remove a thin, twelve-inch-long sheet of flexible metal with a hook shaped end from my boot and force it through the tight space between the windows, hooking the lock lever and pressing it up into the unlocked position. I replace the metal into my boot then place both hands on the glass of the bottom window and slide it up. I discretely step in after listening for a moment only to be met with the silence of an empty room. I close and lock the window behind me before turning to make my way to the library’s open entrance way. I listen for a moment before moving into the empty hallway. I begin to wonder if it’s a trap. I’ve never been met with so little resistance before but, his background did say he wasn’t highborn or anything and actually worked for the fortune he has so he’s probably not used to jealous people hating him or people competing with him by just eliminating the competition. I never ask my clients WHY they want someone dead. I just want to know how much they’ll pay me and none of the rest really matters to me. Sometimes they’ll tell me anyway in the job posting about how they want their cheating spouse dead or their rich family member that left them in their will to inherit their fortune upon death. Shady people for sure, but… I’m an assassin so I’m shady too.

               I approach the door to Damien’s bedroom and place a hand silently on the knob, slowly testing it. It’s not even locked… I haven’t opened it yet, listening intently at the door for a moment. I can see the soft glow of light spreading in a small sliver from beneath the door. He must be awake. My suspicion is verified when I hear the soft sound of a page turning in a book or something from within. I turn the knob slowly until the latch is fully retracted then pull the door open slowly without making a sound. As the door opens, about halfway through, a small creak sounds. I move the instant the sound is made, darting in at the same time I close the door. I’m behind the man sitting in his chair just as he looks up from the book on his desk and begins reaching his arm up in a defensive posture while starting to stand. I yank down on the back of his chair, throwing off his balance and adding to his state of confusion. He tips to the ground, but I don’t let him fall hard so he doesn’t make a sound. I spin around, drawing my blade to make the killing blow as I mount the man, hooking my legs through his and dropping my weight to make a sturdy base so he can’t throw me off. I move my blade to his throat with lightening speed, already preparing to drag it all the way across his throat but then, I do something I’ve never done before. I hesitate. His dark gray eyes are locked on mine and in them, I see no sign of fear and what stuns me the most are the words that spill from his mouth in a dry tone. “Are you here to kill me or are you here to fuck me?” I’m momentarily baffled. Not once has someone under my blade had the audacity to crack a sarcastic comment at me. I study his face curiously for one more moment, completely intrigued by this ballsy motherfucker, before vanishing out of his window into the night as if I was never there to begin with.

               Who WAS he? Who IS he really? Why didn’t I just kill him? Why did it feel like I COULDN’T? I need the answers…