Hello, everyone stumbling into this story. It's going to be multi-chaptered and I have them all planned out...I just...might take a while to upload new chapters? I'm going to try really hard to update. This story was born from my friend saying that no one could be as 'moe' as Matthew without forcing it/ it being faked. I..I don't know how it turned into this, but it did.
Warnings: Alternate Universe, Swearing and Character death. The characters that die were seleceted from a random number generator. I hate killing these characters, but for plot's sake I had to. I'm so sorry if your favourite dies! Please don't kill me. Character death in this chapter and in chapters to come.
Pairings: Okay, I said somewhat AmCan in the summary, and it will be, but this story is not focusing on romance and whatnot.
Please enjoy the product of my odd brain, I hope you enjoy it. If nobody likes it, I'll probably drop it. Why keep writing something no one likes? Haha, well, anyway, enough of my rambling! Enjoy the story so far. Better explanations to come in future chapters. If anybody is interested, that is.
Relectant Assassin
"You are to assassinate a wealthy business man, who is known to have discovered dangerous amounts of illegal paraphernalia."
A pause, brief and thoughtful, bright irises locking in the dimly lit office. A quiet hum of questioning lingers, the sound of a wooden chair creaking back on two legs. Feet propped up on his superior's desk in a display of reoccurring defiance and disregard, the assassin raises thin blond eyebrows.
"And why, per se, am I the one for the job?"
A manila folder is pushed across the table, open, displaying a dark skinned man with a cigar in hand. Calculating eyes, ever cold, never trusting, glance over every detail; the photo is locked away in memory.
"This particular target has a taste for sweet, innocent faces. Regardless of gender. Stuff right up your alley, poppet."
A coy smile spreads across the young assassin's face. Without another word, the file folder is picked up and tucked beneath lithe arms.
"Look at that pretty little face. No one would ever believe that you're such a heartless twat underneath those flashy violet eyes. That is why you are the one for the job. Unless, of course, you've simply lost your touch?" the boss laughs, reaching into his mahogany desk drawer for a cigarette. "Got a light?"he asks belatedly.
The younger boy rolls his eyes and reaches to pull a canary yellow lighter out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Lost my touch?" he sounds incredulous, but the elder has known the boy long enough to tell his fake emotions from real ones, "really, now."
His entire countenance changes in one fluid motion. Gone is the stoic, cocky boy, with an alluring smirk and cold voice. Instead, in his place, a watery smile is timidly sent in the elder's direction, the young assassin appearing to quake with anxiety beneath his very gaze. He bites his lip and almost seems to fade around the edges.
The older man behind the desk throws his head back and laughs, the sound affectionate and vaguely impressed, as he shakes his head, "You're almost too good at that. Just like I taught you."
In a moment, the cold, empty stare is back in the other's eyes and he smirks languidly, plucking the cigarette from the other's hand and lighting it, taking a long drag of smoke into his lungs; he leaves it there, breathing deep. A bemused sound escapes from his superior and he asks, "When can I expect you back?"
The smoke is breathed out in leisure before he hears a reply.
"I will report back when I am finished, boss," is all he gets before the boy leaves, cigarette in hand.
A faint chuckle, a mere snuff of moderate amusement and mild annoyance, leaves lips quirked into a faint smile.
"Call me Arthur, lad."
The home of the target has the grandeur of money to flaunt; marble floors and high archways, built like an old cathedral with a new age twist. Hundreds of well dressed guests mingle, their chatter and laughter heard from the expanse of lit gardens and gazebos outside. Champagne, possibly more expensive than some of the mansion's furniture, is passed around on silver platters by waiters with permanent smiles. And who wouldn't smile, with the amount of money they are likely to be payed that night?
The ballroom is a large, high ceilinged room with a chandelier that belongs in the movies; white frosted glass like icicles flowing down in candescent swirls of shimmering light. Two sets of stairs lead up to a balcony over the room, a place to get away from the noise; if even for a moment. Slow, sweet, sensual jazz breezes through, the musicians whims changing by the second. A slow piece becomes fast, too fast, slow, too slow, meshing in a perfect frenzy of sound and motion.
He stands by the tables of food, casting eyes around everyone in the room. A trained mind has already found every exit: one behind the music stands, one to the left and down the corridor (a long, swooping affair of marble pillars and silk tapestries), one to the right, several up the stairs.
The target has yet to arrive.
"Champagne, sir?"
He blinks slowly, smile spreading across his light, lovely features.
"O-oh, yes, thank you," he says, eyes shining in mirth.
The waitress, seeming a tad stunned, mumbles a quick 'you're welcome' and excuses herself. The other tries hard not to roll his eyes. Acting so meek and feeble makes him a bit sick but he knows he pulls it off well. They always fall for it, after all.
He reaches inside his suit jacket and fingers the vile contained in his breast pocket; good, all clear.
"May I have your attention!" A voice boomed from the balcony, dark and rich.
The target.
"I would like to thank you all for coming to my celebration! Nothing makes me happier than watching all of you enjoy my home. Feel free to ask me anything you'd like! Now, please," he said with a swoop of his hands, "enjoy my humble abode. Let the party continue!"
At this, a large burst of applause and cheering filled the hall. The music commenced once more and the target moved down the stairs, conversing with several couples as he made his grand descent. A sense of guilt and dread filled the assassin for a split second until a sharp voice in his mind sounded. No, no, no, Matthew, love. Emotions just get in the way. You're a killer now, remember? So, act. Like. One. Matthew does remember; he does remember his teachings and he most certainly does remember each word being punctuated with another laceration to his body.
He quickly suppressed all emotions and a dark smirk grew on the assassin's lips, only to be wiped away a moment later, when he remembered his current timid character, and replaced with a look of pure, simple innocence. A few people bumped into him, then, and quickly apologized for not seeing him. He merely laughed it off with a wave of his hands. That was one of the disadvantages – or benefits, I suppose, he mused – of this quiet, shy demeanor. He became practically invisible, sometimes.
He struck up a conversation with the people around him, laughing joyously and sweetly, sipping at his champagne. A while passed before he noticed the man's brown eyes on him. With an internal smirk, he poured on and upped the innocence and charm until he thought he could go no further. With a quick, shy, but meaningful glance in the target's direction, the assassin noticed the hungry look growing in deep brown eyes.
Perfect, he thought.
When the man started moving toward him, the younger boy walked toward the dance floor. He took note of the way those eyes drank in his crisp black tux and sapphire blouse. When the target was close enough to touch him, the assassin went in for the proverbial 'kill'. He forced himself to trip and almost fall. Someone caught him from behind.
"Woah, there. Careful now," the man's voice, a deep, somewhat rough tone, chuckled.
Turning around with a fake blush and owlishly bright and innocent eyes blinking, the assassin stuttered a quick, squeaky, "O-Oh, I-I'm so sorry!"
When the hungry look only grew darker, an internal dance of victory began. It hadn't been more than five minutes and he already had the target wrapped around his finger.
"What's your name? I don't believe we've met before. You can call me Miguel," the man smiled, reaching for another glass of champagne from a wandering waiter. Inwardly, Matthew smirked and his eyes, their true colour hidden behind emerald green contacts, lit up in mirth.
With nerves so fake it was a wonder nobody called him on it, he loosely twirled a lock of his artificial brown hair. "I..I-I my name is M-Matthew, sir.."
"Ah, ah, none of that 'sir' stuff, alright? I told you what to call me, beautiful," the target answered, velvet smile on his dark face. Matthew mused that, in an alternate reality, the man could perhaps be considered quite handsome.
Allowing a proper blush to spread across his face, he looked away and giggled softly, mumbling 'beautiful' under his breath like a love struck teenager.
"Care to dance?"
The blonde-turned-brunette nodded enthusiastically, keeping a firm hold on his drink as they made their way on to the crowded dance floor. They were pushed and shoved as they tried to find an open place to dance. Spotting one of the exit points he had picked out earlier, he timidly pulled the target to the open space near by it.
They danced for quite some time, the target not seeming to want a change in dance partners. The target, or 'Miguel' as he was called, was slowly becoming more and more intoxicated as the night wore on. It was nearing midnight when Matthew finally saw his opening. The man didn't even see it coming. One minute, he's dancing with a young, sweet faced boy, the next moment he's drinking back what's left in his glass when the current song ends. Matthew flashed pearly whites at the target, tiptoeing and kissing his cheek before parting with a coy smile, empty vile in his left hand glinting in the light of the ballroom.
He's halfway out the exit door when he hears the screams and commotion begin behind him. The music is cut off and people are wailing, crying out for doctors. Matthew merely releases a dark, self-depreciating chuckle under his breath and runs out into the night.
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A/N: Should I continue? Haha? Or just give up...?
ps. Ohmygod I am so sorry Cuba and Cuba fans. It killed me to kill him. DX