One of my earlier pieces of
writing. There was a part 2 and 3 planned out for this, but alas, it turned out
to be one of those things that just didn’t fly (read: I got bored and lazy with
it). Consequently, readers may find discrepancies in the story, parts that
should have been explained and revealed later on. But still; I’m pretty happy with how it turned out.
And so I present;
TRACK 0: A Prelude
Clerk” sat alone in his office, wreathed in the shadows of a
drowning sun. The flickering screen of a computer shone in the dimness, its
harsh light rendering his rectangular spectacles an icy opaque. His hands,
enveloped in thin white gloves, were folded atop the cool hard oak of the desk
in front of him. Embroidered upon the back of his gloves was the stark
silhouette of a raven crying a droplet of crimson blood, the long forgotten
insignia of the Imperial Army.
On the other side of the extensive glass
panes before him spread the city of Nelo Angeles in all it’s twisted glory,
spiraling black towers and sulking brick buildings, lacerated by gaping
alleyways and stitched together by rails and ramps. Yellow lanterns were
flickering on here and there, pallid flecks of light that looked like the wan
reflections of stars upon a shimmering lake.
And it was from atop his lofty Byzantine
perch that “Clerk” watched the inky night spill through his sprawling empire.
His lips tightened, and his wintry eyes, hidden behind the gleam of his
glasses, seemed to gaze far off into the distance, where the last tendrils
sunlight clawed with desperate futility at the blackening sky.
A phone started trilling on his desk.
“Clerk” picked the flat, rectangular receiver up with a white-gloved hand. He
made no greeting or any sign of acknowledgement, but silently waited for the
caller to speak.
“’Clerk’.” The voice on the other side
was coarse and strangely nasal, doubtlessly mechanically altered to conceal the
speaker’s identity. “How are matters progressing with the Gianti hit?”
“Clerk” narrowed his eyes in slight
irritation. He hated clients who called more than once, seeking empty
assurances, impatient and anxious to get the job done. His reply was frosty
with courtesy.
“Everything is proceeding smoothly, Sir.
Termination agents of cryptonym ‘Jack of Spades’ and cryptonym ‘Basilisk’ have
just been dispatched to the site. They are two of our most competent
operatives. I assure you that the operation will be completed before midnight.”
“Make sure it is.” With a curt click, the
phone went dead in his hand. “Clerk” carefully set it back to its cradle.
Outside, the sky was pitch black now.
Sensors on the ceiling detected the lack of light, and automatically the lights
inside his office stuttered on. The sudden sluice of bleached light washed over
his smoothly chiseled features, surprisingly youthful as he squinted his sleek,
hard blue eyes.
Pulling a drawer open, “Clerk” took out a
box of cigars. With a long, thin thumb he flicked open the lid and snaked a
roll halfway out of the box. Pulling the rest of it out with his lips, he let
it droop there between his teeth as he fished for a lighter and set it alight.
Taking a raking draw on the cigar, he flipped a switch on the record player
sitting a stool by his desk.
Allowing the faintest trace of a sigh to
mingle with the wispy plume of tobacco smoke expelled from his lips, “Clerk”
closed his eyes and sank in his chair. Burying a hand in his silky black hair and
propping his head up with his elbow, he pushed a button on his desk and the
lights turned themselves back off.
As the last droplet of crimson slowly
soaked into black, the man sat there in the deathly darkness, swirling down
into the black world of a musician, long forgotten. Falling, falling.
It was a beautiful night.
The
murmuring hum of conversation drowned the banquet hall like a fevering prayer.
Wine glasses clinked together, silver forks and knives clattered on fine china
plates. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke laced the air, and light buoyant
music wafted and billowed like a pleasant breeze. Surrounded by the flock of
round, expensively clothed dining tables was the dance floor. Waiters, smoothly
balancing their trays in one hand, strolled leisurely through the hall, serving
drinks to exquisitely dressed men and women. The guests all radiated a sense of
importance and confidence, smiling and sipping their wines with suave
self-possession.
The hall itself was a masterpiece of decor, sweepingly vast, with ivory pillars that dissolved into lacquered, ornately sculpted black oak flowing up into lofty balconies. Precious little angels peered down from the carved mosaic on the domed ceiling high above, eyes of sapphires and wings of pearl. A soft sickle moon peered in from a terrace door, silver curtains fluttering mellowly in the night wind.
In stark contrast to the majestic air of the banquet hall
were the guards, wearing jet-black tuxedoes and black, square framed
sunglasses. They sulked around the shadows of the walls, sub-machineguns slung
casually over their shoulders, their sidearms flashing into view from under
their jackets as they walked. A few stood around up on the balconies, fingering
their matt-black rifles as they stared down intently at the guests below.
Hither two men stood in the shadows of
one of the pillars, standing well apart from the rest of the guests. One was a
small and young, with straight black hair that shot down to his shoulders,
neatly parted in the middle of his forehead. He wore small round spectacles,
and behind them his light green eyes were narrow but ever so slightly
down-turned, giving them a warm, gentle air. His features were sharp delicate,
his face thin.
His companion was taller by a head, with
a rugged crop of blond hair. He wore square framed sunglasses, large and black
and completely opaque, which utterly obscured his eyes and shrouded his
thoughts. His brows, just visible from over the rim of his shades, were
perpetually wrinkled as if in slight annoyance, but his well-shaped lips were
set flat and emotionless. Two black iron earrings hung from his left ear, the
ornaments plain but nonetheless a bit out of place on the solemn figure.
Both of them were dressed in simple but well
fitting crow black suits, identical save that the shorter man wore a red bow
tie, the knot crisp and perfect. He sipped on his wine, dreamily twitching a
finger to the music.
His taller companion moved his head
slightly, presumably giving the young man a sidelong glance, though it was
impossible to tell for sure because of his shades.
“You’re aware consumption of alcohol
during an operation is a direct violation of regulations, of code 13-0-7 ‘Jack
of Spades’,” the taller man cautioned, in a flat, monotonous voice that
bordered on satire. “Further infringement will force me to make a report to
‘Clerk’.” He himself hadn’t touched anything but water since the two had
entered the hall.
“Jack of Spades” – termination agent
Francis Valefore, moved only his twinkling olive pupils to peer up at his own
reflection in the onyx, insectoid lenses of his partner.
“Relax, Cas. As long as we’re here we
might as well enjoy ourselves, right?” Francis gave an artless smile and took
another sip of his drink. “Anyways I’d say the regulations are a joke; I mean,
who doesn’t drink at a party? It helps keep you inconspicuous. Mr. ‘Clerk’ will
understand.” He turned his twinkling eyes back to the dance hall.
“Basilisk” – termination agent Caspiel
Caquix, thinned his lips even further as his companion began to faintly nod his
head along with the up tune melody of a piano that had begun playing on a dais
over at the other side of the hall.
“I trust you haven’t forgotten what we’ve
come here to do, ‘Jack of Spades’.”
“Now, what could possibly make you say
that?” Francis dipped his finger into the wine and began to rub it lightly on
the rim of his wineglass, making it hum. Caspiel watched him do so in silent
but furious distaste, and the smaller man peeked up rather sheepishly. Feigning
resign, he lifted his hand off the glass, and licking wine droplets off his
finger with a playful little tongue, he tilted the wineglass ever so slightly.
Abruptly the top half of the cup mysteriously slid off, as if cut cleanly in
half by an invisible blade. Falling to the marble floor, it shattered with a
lighthearted tinkle. Wine sloshed against the severed end of the glass, and
Francis put his lips to it carefully.
“That was not my idea of inconspicuous.”
It almost seemed as if an edge of exasperation was creeping into Caspiel’s not
terribly expressive voice.
Francis
shrugged.
“Hey, who’s watching? All they’re
thinking of is who to drive off to their suites for a night’s fun, after the
party’s over,” he said, motioning with a vague hand towards the crowd before
them.
His taller companion was spared an answer, for at that very
moment a figure popped into view within the forest of guests sauntering in the
dance hall.
“There’s Vassago Gianti.” Francis tensed visibly,
his body charging with excitement.
“Don’t be so sure, he could be a decoy-
halt any further action until we receive positive identification,” Caspiel
cautioned, fiddling with a flat square panel in his hands. A small round lens
was fixed to the top of the device, and he beamed it straight towards the
direction of the burly, sharply dressed man. The laser proceeded to do a quick
scan for any holographic or robotic gimmicks present in the vicinity. The panel
flashed – PROCEEDING SCAN.
The slick, beefy crime lord ambled
through the sea of guests, and where he walked, the crowd parted. He wore a
velvety black tuxedo and a blood red cummerbund with a tie to match, his
cufflinks glittering gold. Egg-like rings gleamed on his thick fingers.
Admirers and fawners alike flocked around him, desperate to please and eager
for a favor. He smiled at them good naturedly, playing the perfect host, though
his beady brown eyes flickered this way and that, hungry with reptile design.
Two bodyguards walked with him by his side.
Caspiel flipped the panel shut in his
hands.
“We have a negative. He’s the real
thing.”
“You know, why don’t we just kill him
here and now?” Francis suggested hopefully.
“No, we stick to the protocol. We’re to
do this by the book.”
“When
do we ever not.” He gave a small – albeit a little hypocritical - stoic sigh.
“Then let’s get to work, shall we?”
But Caspiel was already sliding away into
the shadows and out of view. “Jack of Spades” watched him disappear out of the
banquet hall, and then turned his gentle green eyes to Gianti. Throwing his
mutilated wine glass carelessly to the floor, he made his way across the
ballroom with a brisk stride, weaving lithely through the bustle of
people.
“Excuse me.” Francis crafted a pleasant
smile on his beautiful face as he approached the gangster. He stopped a
respectable distance away, and gave a sweeping bow. “Francis Valefore, at your
service.”
Gianti frowned at him.
“Who the hell are you? I haven’t seen you
around before.” Beside him his bodyguards tensed, their hands brushing their
waists and the firearms holstered there.
“Oh, you could call me a… messenger for
an acquaintance of yours,” Francis said.
“Message? What message is this? How the
hell did you get in here?”
Francis spread his hands and held them up
to his shoulders, as if in surrender. His eyes danced playfully behind the
lenses of his round glasses.
“I believe his exact words were; I’ll be
seeing you in hell, monster.”
What happened next was impossible to
capture with the naked eye, his hands blurring like the wings of a black
hummingbird. There was a white flash in his hands as he lashed an arm out to
the guard on his right, and without a sound, the man’s head rolled off his
shoulders with a spray of blood. Before the detached member was halfway to the
ground, his other arm slammed its palm into the chest of the bodyguard on his
left. There was a curious rasping, sliding sound, and when he drew back his
hand, the bodyguard slammed down to the ground spilling crimson from his mouth
with a gaping slit over his heart. The head and the two bodies hit the ground
almost simultaneously. The body of the headless man was twitching spastically
on the ground; spewing his crimson life’s water everywhere.
Screams and shouts rang through the hall as the guests all
scrambled out of the doors, and as if by magic the crowd was instantly replaced
by a small army of guards. They surrounded Francis in a loose ring of gun
barrels, the sounds of their cocking and locking resonating into the night air.
“How the fucking hell did he get a blade
like that in here? All the guests are supposed to have been fucking
body-searched,” Gianti shrieked from outside the deadly circle.
“Hey pretty boy, you just put your
goddamn shanks down, and we promise we won’t cut you into pieces with it before
we shoot you,” one of the thugs said.
Francis looked unruffled in this sea of
naked hostility.
“What blades?” he said in mock curiosity,
raising his hands, which were, mysteriously, completely empty. He examined them
himself with a quizzical expression on his face.
“Oh, you mean, these blades?”
There was that rasping, slithering sound
again, and a silver beam began to slide out of the heels of his palms. The
knifelike blade was thin and flat, extending from his inner wrist parallel to
his hands, so that he had to keep his palms facing away from his body to keep
from cutting his fingers. Nothing fastened the knives to his hands; they simply
burst out of the skin on his forearm like retractable claws.
“What the fucking hell!?”
“Shoot him,” ordered Gianti.
Every single gun in the hall discharged
at Francis in a deafening explosion of light and sound. Machine guns grated and
rattled, shotguns boomed. Sizzling brass rained down onto the ground like
golden rain. The bullets chewed through every inch of his body, bursting his
head like an overripe fruit and shattering his bones and flesh into gory mush –
if he had been there.
“Huh?” As the last gun clicked dry, a
baffled, dull-witted sound escaped the lips of the gunmen. As the smoke cleared
they saw, that though the ground where Francis had been standing was a
veritable beehive of bullet marks, what should have remained of the little man
was nowhere to be seen.
“Nice night, isn’t it?” The artless, carefree
voice came from directly behind them. All the guards gyrated towards the source
of the sound, and they saw Francis “Jack of Spades” Valefore, lazily leaning
against an ivory pillar with not a speck of dust on his suit.
“A- a teleporter!?” Gianti moaned.
“Excellent guess.” But Francis was
already crouching on the shoulder of one of the bodyguards with catlike
balance. A quick flick of the wrist slit his throat open, and the small man
vanished again. But in the same instant another guard toppled backwards with a
quivering red incision from stomach to throat, and then on the other side of
the room another went down to his knees; or the gushing stumps that was left of
them. Francis flitted this way and that through the guards, slashing open and
eviscerating and lacerating with every little wink of existence. He killed and
killed and killed, he killed the riflemen up on the balconies, he killed the
guards as they ran, he killed them before they could even think to turn their
weapons on him. He aimed only at the soft, vulnerable parts of their bodies,
slitting throats and stabbing hearts from between ribs, so that the blades made
hardly any sound as they relentlessly dissected each guard as they stood with
methodical precision. For a single nightmarish moment the whole banquet hall
was suddenly transformed into a solemn abattoir of human butchery, and only
fearful moans, the occasional shout of a warning too late and the merciless
slide of blade against flesh graced the otherwise soundless air.
When Francis finally solidified into
unfluctuation not five seconds later, licking at the stains running down on his
blades, blood lapping at the soles of his black leather shoes, all of the
guards lay scattered dead at his feet. With the tip of his blood-drenched knife
he readjusted the frame of his spectacles upon his nose, and with
self-possession bordering on nonchalance, he turned at the gangster cowering in
the blood of his own dead soldiers. No warmth was in his narrow eyes now- they
were as cold as snow-covered pine, though his lips were slit in a slashing
smile.
“You’re.. you’re from the Guild, aren’t
you?” the gangster said, his body limp and his expression weak with surrender.
“Another brilliant deduction. Now, since
Caspiel would kill me if I didn’t, before I kill you I need to read you
your-“
BLAM
BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM- suddenly a dirty silver gun flashed in Gianti’s
hand, barking furiously with ear grating clamor. Anyone but a teleporter would
have never been able to dodge the barrage of hot lead, but by pure reflex
Francis managed to flit sideways and out of its lethal path. Momentarily
blinded by the muzzle flashes, he stumbled back as Gianti dashed across the
hall and out the door with surprising speed for a man of such girth.
Gianti
burst down the hallway, now completely empty. He was panting like a dog, his
heart hammering in his chest with treacherous pain. As the crime-lord looked
about frantically for the exit, his panic stricken head whirled with inane
thoughts. The place was supposed to be absolutely secure, the guests all had to
be visually identified and screened for weapons. Where the fuck did that guy
come from? But then, that was a stupid question. The sonovabitch was a
fucking teleporter. The only problem, and one that could turn lethal, was that
even he had not foreseen the possibility of one of the monsters from the
Assassin’s Guild coming for him. Blood crazed Imperials, driven insane from a
century of hiding- he had heard rumors of them selling their service as
contract hitmen but he hadn’t believed them until now, when it was fucking too
late.
There; the mouth of a flight of stairs
gaped at the end of the corridor, and he dashed for it. Scrambling down the
spiral staircase, shoes thudding dully on the wooden planks, he reloaded his
pistol; a dull silver Detonics .45 Maxi, dropping the empty magazine and
slapping a new one into the bottom of the stock.
Staggering down to the ground floor, he
saw the fluorescent green arrow pointing towards an emergency exit. Damn, he
might still make it yet. Looking back behind him fearfully, he quickly started
to stride towards the white double doors- when the faintest sound of cloth
against cloth rasped by the stairwell.
Gianti
froze. Had the teleporter found him? Drops of cold moisture trickled down his
brow, and his back was drenched in icy sweat. His whole body was bloating with
dread as he turned, his gun quivering in front of him, and inched towards the
small pool of darkness at the bottom of the stairs.
“Who’s
there?” he asked, his voice cracking. With a thump he kicked open the little
wooden door-
-and instant later the fear on his
piggish face broke open to malevolent glee. He’d found his ticket to survival.
It
was at that exact moment that a cool, impassive voice whipped him from behind.
“What
the hell were you doing, ‘Jack of Spades’?” He spun, and saw –had he been there
all along?- a tall, spidery figure leaning against the walls by the exit, his
long arms crossed over his broad hard chest. Two black earrings on his left ear
clinked together as he turned his head towards the quavering gangster. He wore
a plain black suit and an almost absurdly large pair of black, reflective
sunglasses that hid his eyes completely. Gianti opened his mouth to ask him who
the hell he was, when a chillingly familiar voice slipped through the air into
his ears from behind with nightmarish innocence.
“Sorry,
Cas.” Gianti turned his head and widened his eyes like a cornered animal at the
small, thin man who was somehow now standing lazily by the bottom of the
stairs. “I don’t know, I got a bit careless.”
“Inattentiveness
during an operation can cost you your life and worse- the integrity of the
mission, ‘Jack of Spades’.” It was impossible to tell how serious the man was,
though his lips were still and impassive as ever.
“W-wait,
don’t move! Both of you!” Gianti pulled up his prize against him; a young girl,
dressed in an exquisite if a little simple black dress, and held the snout of
his gun to her tumbling red curls. Her brown eyes were wide and fearful, and a
terrified whimper escaped her lips as the gun grinded into her head. “I know
how the Assassin’s Guild operates. It’s strictly against regulations to kill
unrelated civilians.” The safety on the weapon was off, the hammer cocked back.
The gangster’s pudgy ringed finger was already pulling the trigger back
halfway. Twitching with desperation, he moved his eyes back and forth from the
two hitmen.
“I’ll shoot her, I swear I will. Now,
both of you will let me out that door, and if you so much as wink I’ll blow her
head off. Don’t think I won’t. Now move the fuck out of the way!”
Caspiel seemed to not have heard him, nor
did he make any movement to acknowledge the wide-eyed girl in Gianti’s grasp.
“’Jack of Spades’, read the subject his
rights,” he told Francis perfunctorily.
“Ah,
right. Uh.. abiding by all regulation and protocol set forth by the Imperial
Nelo Angeles Assassination Guild, we are herby proceeding with the contracted
execution of Vassago Gianti, male. Said subject has the right to resist. Said
subject has the right to a prayer and a documented record of his last words, as
long as said subject will submit to his executioners in a peaceful, civilized
manner. Said subject’s family may claim full reparation and compensation for
any civilian and material losses that they may sustain during execution of said
subject. Signed and approved by the Royal Imperial Courts Guilds Office. In the
name of the Emperor and Justice, who are one and the same.”
“Close your eyes,” Caspiel suddenly
ordered, when Francis had finished reciting. His voice was utterly emotionless,
as if he were only a distracted salesclerk giving a customer directions to the
men’s room. The girl stared at him, uncomprehending. Gianti’s eyes bulged.
“What the fucking hell? Are you goddamn
deaf? Get the fuck out of my way!” he screamed, droplets of spittle flying from
his lips. “I’ll fucking shoot her, I fucking swear it!”
“Close your eyes,” Caspiel said, again.
“P-please,” the girl whispered, “don’t
hurt me.”
“No harm will come to you.”
Trembling, the girl squeezed her
quivering eyelids tightly shut.
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY! MOVE, OR
I’LL-“
The last thing the frothing gangster saw
was the sight of Caspiel slowly removing his sunglasses. Then a brilliant blue-
an unnaturally vivid, infinitely deep azure that filled his whole world in a
single flashing instant. His mind grew numb, his body throbbed, the wintry,
cold cerulean light engulfed him like a massive sea. And finally; Nothingness.
Vassago Gianti slid down to the floor,
dead. His eyes had been liquefied, gushing out of his sockets mixed with his
blood and leaking brain matter. His skin was cracked and charred, sizzling with
thin tendrils of white smoke. The pistol clattered harmlessly to the floor, and
the girl fell limply beside to it.
Caspiel Caquix – codename “Basilisk” –
calmly replaced his sunglasses and knelt beside the girl. She was unconscious,
but breathing. Confirming that her health was not an immediate problem, he
stood, calmly readjusted the knot of his tie on his throat, and threw a glance
towards his partner, who caught it with a knowing smile.
“I suggest we extract immediately.” In
the distance they could hear the urgent whine of sirens.
“Whatever you say, Cas.” Francis hopped
over the dead body, and the two of them pushed open the double doors. The night
was warm and pleasant as it billowed around them. They found themselves in the
back alley of the mansion. A wide, empty road with mellow streetlights and a
wickedly twisted barbed wire fence stretched before them for what seemed like
infinity as it disappeared into the inky darkness.
“The ’Secretary’ will provide
transporation.” Caspiel glanced at his watch. “She should be here any moment
now. We’re a bit behind schedule.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, alright?” Francis
sighed.
“Go to hell, you motherfuckers!” A shrill
voice stabbed their backs and grueled straight through the two assassin’s
hearts like a blast from a gun. They spun around. The young girl, apparently
having regained unconsciousness, was holding Vassago’s .45 Detonics Maxi with
an unwavering hand, her finger on the trigger. Straight at them. Desperately,
Francis closed his little fingers around Caspiel’s wrist to teleport them to
safety, but it was already too late–
An explosive gunshot rippled through the
air, and the sickening smack of flesh metamorphosing into pulp immediately
followed. The girl’s head snapped back, her face crumpling inwards by the force
of the bullet. For a wild moment Francis thought that by some insane miracle the
gun had backfired- until a cool, melodic woman’s voice pattered at their
eardrums from behind.
“You guys just had to let your guards
down at the last minute.” The speaker was a slender, attractive woman, wearing
a man’s raven colored three piece suit and gripping the giant stock of her
smoking .50 AE Desert Eagle –also known as the “Hand Cannon”- in her tightly red gloved hands. She
brushed a strand of her soft chestnut hair behind her gold-ringed ears, and upon
her chest she had fastened a simple but striking pin, shaped in the form of a
black raven. Half hidden over the rim of her oval sunglasses, her hazel eyes
glittered and twinkled abloom.
“Vanth!” Francis smiled and ran over to
her, almost hugging her in childish delight as termination agent Vanth Lanael –
codenamed “Secretary”, smoothly holstered her massive handgun inside her jacket
by her gracefully curved hips.
“I think some of ’Jack of Spades’ is
rubbing onto me, ‘Secretary’.” Caspiel grimanced, as if slightly disgruntled,
and walked over to the girl’s body, still violently frothing blood all over the
glassy linoleum floor. With a detached hand, he turned her mangled face over
and exposed the nape of her neck. Her smooth, creamy white skin bore the black
skull tattoo of the Gianti family. A grisly red rose sprouted from it’s left
eye socket.
“She was Vassago’s sister.” His voice was
utterly emotionless as ever, but it had a strange, faraway ring to it.
“Get moving ‘Basilisk’. City Security should be arriving any time
now.” Vanth was already heading towards her car, with Francis bounding happily
behind her.
As he followed his colleagues to the
sleek dark blue vehicle, now shivering to life with a complacent purr, Caspiel
Caquix – codename “Basilisk” – turned his deadly blue eyes to the dreamy clouds
of the summer night sky. The curved sliver of a moon loomed overhead, casting a
silver glow, warm and gentle and caring. Like nothing else in the world.
It
was truly, a beautiful night.