ASSASSIN
TRIGGER WARNING:BLOOD
/~Murderer~/
Murderer? No. He was an assassin. A hitman. Whatever the underworld wanted to call him. What had happened since that day he left the alley he called him, covered in the blood of his "family"? He thought often of that day, some two years ago now. The day his mind broke, and he had stopped caring about the lives he took.
The day his sanity left him.
He took contract after contract over the years after that, building a reputation as one of the most brutal practitioners of his art. When was the last time he had bothered to think of it as murder? Did it really matter? He reveled in his art. The paintings of red that adorned the area and himself after each kill. The payment he received was merely a bonus at this point.
He stood against the wall, a lit cigarette resting between his lips. His gaunt features gave him a grim, and rather skeletal appearance to most. He often saw soldiers at the scenes of his contracts, trying to discover the origins of the blood that was shed. He never left a body to find though. The employer often wanted proof of the deed, and his preferred method was to display each body part in jars for them. Laughter would fall from his lips at the horror painted on the contact's face, and on many occasions this opened the door that gained him further compensation.
Though, here lately he had begun to notice that the usual soldiers were fewer in numbers now. The slowly were being replaced with men and women in black suits. They usually remained silent, merely surveying the area. More than once the redhead had been caught staring at the figures, marveling at the professionalism in their appearance. He always scented an air of danger around them, as well. Like if he took a step too close, he would find a bullet nestled between his eyes.
For some reason this caused him to become wary of the areas he had carried out his contracts in, favoring a position among the lowlifes of the underworld. Through this, he had met some peculiar individuals. Many of them were friendly competitors, often showing him more efficient ways to end his target's existence. He slowly became more refined with the help of a select few. Retired hit men, washed up SOLDIERS, and particularly gifted individuals all flocked to him. Taught him. Soon he could take the most skilled men and women in a fight without so much as a bruise. It got boring. What was there left to do for the fiery maned killer?
The day always came. The day while training, he decided to end his mentor's life. It invigorated him. Watching the light fade from their eyes as he gripped their heart in his hands. He often went to bars completely covered in blood, but surprisingly, no one wanted to question it. The contracts had been building up while he had been training to murder his mentors. The names of these men and women weren't important. He never remembered them anyway. They all died the same way. With a pathetic whimper falling from their lips.
He picked up with his contact, and his killing spree commenced. Over the course of a week, over twenty men and women were eliminated. And no one ever found him.
Or had they?
He started noticing more black suits on the streets. He watched them closely, not letting himself be noticed. Though… Something told the man that he had indeed been noticed. Especially when a man approached him in front of the bar he had frequented. The bar never questioned him being there, and served him silently. They never asked his age, or if he could handle a certain drink after the first time. That time he had painted the walls with the last bartender.
The man gripped his shoulder tightly as he reached for the door. Words fell from the man's lips that enraged, and frightened the young man. It was only a matter of time before he was found out, of course. It didn't stop him from acting in that moment. His foot was caught on the other's knee with a knowing smirk as he tried to kick at the man. His rage only grew with the cocky grin on the man's face. He knew. He knew what he had been doing. He knew who he was. He had to know he wouldn't leave alive.
Jumping into action, the redhead snapped out with a speed only an assassin of his caliber could match. But the man kept up with him. This caused Reno pause. The man sneered and came in for an attack. A stream of insults, and cocky remarks fell from his lips as he did so, striking a chord with the young redhead. It was an attitude he had once held before the pleasure in murder began to cloud his mind.
Who is this man?
Then the man let the word fall from his lips. Insignificant at the time. It would burn into the man's brain, though. The word that would one day be his future, even if he didn't know it yet.
Turk.
As the word fell, the man faltered, noticing his mistake. The young assassin took his opportunity, and jabbed at the man's trachea. The man fell to his knees, coughing violently. Reno smirked, and stood over the man. He felt the Turk's attitude seep into his very being. The confidence. That carefree, cocky tone. It made his blood boil. Though, at the same time. He felt at peace with it. As if it had been a part of him he had been missing.
"Time to clock out, yo." He said before slamming his foot into the man's face. His body was lifted from the ground, and hurled several feet back. A laugh fell the young redhead's lips. For some reason, this man's personality had rubbed off on him in the short moments he had interacted with him. It was strange. As the man attempted to stand, Reno's foot found the back of his knee. He fell, and with a bloodthirsty grin, Reno reached down…. And snapped the neck of the man who said he knew about him.
/~Murderer~/
He chuckled to himself, walking away from the body of the man. He had to agree. He was a murderer. And he was damned good at it.