Bloody Sunday
He stood there, over the still warm body. His shotgun still posed in his hand, his breath short, his face speckled with the blood of his victim. His first kill, it wasn't his fault though. It was his organization's, the guy who order the kill, right? Right.
Down the street lights began to flash red and blue, sirens were waling throughout the night. He cursed to himself, tucked the shotgun back into its sling inside of his cloth maroon coat and ran towards the entrance to the nearest alleyway.
It was a cold night, a little humid from a small shower of rain just before. He ran through the open dark corridor made of stone. His boots clicking on the slick street below him, jumping puddles as he went.
He reached his destination and slipped inside the wooden building, quickly shutting the big heavy door behind him. He took in gulps of air as he stood there, relaxing against the door; Gulps turned into short breaths and short breaths turned into snickering, and snickering to cackling. He had done it; he had carried out his orders perfectly and got away with it.
He wiped a few strands of his raven colored hair to the side, out of his face. Blood was splattered over the black stripes that marked his ash colored face.
He sniffed the air and smelled wood burning in the fire place in the next room to his left. No one occupied the room, but the fire was roaring as if it was recently started. He made his way over to a blue plush chair, and shrugged off his long coat, not bothering to remove his gun from it. He sat it in the other blue chair opposite him. He made to take off his silver vest, but he saw a violet colored letter on a small table near him. From his employers, that was how they communicated with their underlings, through carefully placed letters. He was new so he had violet ones, his next ranks would be yellow, and then orange; the highest ranking color was black. He was a ways away from that though.
He took the letter into his hands as he flopped down into the chair behind him, kicking his leather boots off, leaving him in a black shirt covered in his silver vest, and black slacks with silver pinstripes.
His thumb broke the red wax seal away on the back of the letter. He fished it out and opened it up; it read basically all that he was expecting. Congratulations for finishing his first mission, glad that he made it back to the 'safety point' in order to find said letter, the location of his pay and his next orders that were to be carried out tomorrow. He memorized the main points of the letter then tossed it, and its envelope into the crackling fire. His emerald eyes watched it burn closely as he tried to concentrate on his next mission.
His name was Sunday. That was the name that the organization had given him anyways; his other name, his original name, didn't matter anymore. Soon though his name would change to Bloody Sunday as he carried out mission after mission in perfection; rumors would spread around the organization, things like he didn't have a conscience, no guilt. That wasn't entirely true though, just partly. Some said that all he used for a weapon was that black shotgun he carried, never any knifes or anything else small that would be simpler to use, and if he didn't have the shotgun he would prefer to use a fire arm of any kind over anything else. That part was true. His shotgun was his baby really, he almost never went anywhere without it; Always hidden away in the back of his maroon coat.
His name was Bloody Sunday and he was at gold letter rank, one away from black now. He had received his newest orders earlier that day. Once he completed this mission he would black rank, the top ranks, and maybe then after some work he would be the one giving out the orders.
His new orders were to infiltrate, observe, and take out a member of a certain family that lived in near-by town. He found his base, the room that the organization supplies their workers, and spent many hours in town. He spotted the woman of the house he was supposed to infiltrate and followed her daily route for a few days. She was a relatively young woman with long black hair and green eyes like his, she almost always wore some kind of dress every time she came to town.
He took notice that she checked the 'help available' board postings every day. He posted an ad for himself the next day, advertising himself as an experienced butler. They supposedly lived in a big mansion in the country side, and as far as he knew they had no kind of butler, so why not try it?
The next day there was a knock on his door, the woman that he had followed. "I've seen your advertisement as a butler. I'd like to interview you and see how you do, I've been looking for some help around the house," she had said to him as he welcomed her inside.
"Of course," he replied, "What would you like to know?"
He was inside the mansion within the week. Many of the mansion's occupants were quite annoying to him, but he had his orders, and he had to tolerate it. He had to focus on the black letters that were just within his grasp.
His mark was a man named Jubal. A musician of sorts, he was spotted by his organization for owing them too much money that he refused to pay back and skipped towns on them. He obviously had the money though, he was smartly dressed, had a grand piano and a cream of the crop violin, along with all of that he had seemed to buy himself a body guard. Which only made this mission tougher for Sunday; but that was fine, Sunday had all the time in the world to get close to Jubal, he had waited years to get to this rank, impatience wasn't going to get in his way now. Jubal didn't seem to notice anything suspicious about him, which made it easier.
Besides, he was just hired help. Nothing but a simple butler, wasn't he?