Prologue: Mercenary

August 22

Approx: 21:00 hours

In an old, slightly run down building located on the outskirts of Jump City, three figures stood, the first two assessing the third under cloak of darkness. Slowly, as if awakening from a deep slumber, a single dim light turned on above the lone figure, making it much easier for the observers to appraise the man standing before them. At long last, the tallest one out of the three cleared his throat.

"You are the mercenary we hired, correct?" said one of the men in the shadows, his heavy accent curling some of the letters oddly. He was looking the mercenary up and down, a faint frown on his face. At the angle the tallest man was at, the mercenary only had half a face, and his eye was focused on the two standing to his side.

The mercenary nodded once, and his visible eye closed.

"What an interesting accent you have," the mercenary said. "It seems as though you've spent some time in Russia, Mexico, and the United States. Am I right?"

"Perhaps," the man said carefully. "Then it is safe to assume that you are the man we hired, and not some undercover officer?"

"If I was an officer, do you honestly think I'd tell you?" the mercenary asked lazily. "With the fact that you've hired someone to kill for you assumedly recorded on some sort of tape, don't you think I'd do my best not to reveal myself?"

"Unless you are simply using these words to confuse me," the man retaliated. "After all, you could not be just an average Jonathan from the streets to have fooled us for so long. Deception is part of your nature, is it not?"

The shortest man of the three spoke up suddenly, chuckling a bit.

"It's just an average Joe, Mr. B, not Johnathan. Besides, he's the real deal. Take a look at that gun and tell me exactly where any cop would get his hands on equipment like that."

"Of course, Mr. J. It was just precaution," Mr. B said, giving his friend a tight smile.

The mercenary had no doubt that little conversation had just been to introduce themselves to him. Obviously, the one called Mr. B had not lived in America for very long; otherwise he'd have been more in tune with the one of the country's most commonly used idioms. Mr. J on the other hand was pure American; he didn't even have a slight twinge in his accent that would have let the mercenary know if Mr. J was from Alabama, New York, Texas, or Florida. His voice, unlike Mr. B's, didn't give him completely away completely and immediately.

"The job is to be completed tonight, correct?" the mercenary asked, clasping his hands behind his back. Of course it was. But it was best to make sure the clients didn't get scared and back out at the last minute. He had no patience for those who couldn't handle a murder, especially when they were orchestrating it.

"Yes, it is. A relatively simple job as well," Mr. B said. "Just go in, make the man feel true sorrow and terror, I'm sure you'll find a way to do that, and then wipe him from existence. You already have his name and address, no?"

"Yes, almost everything is already in place," the mercenary replied. "Except, of course…"

"The money," the American replied. He pushed a suitcase with the tip of his foot and the mercenary heard it slide across the floor. The mercenary picked it up, not bothering to open it up to see if everything was there. That was an armature's mistake and it usually upset the costumers. If he had a problem, the mercenary would come again to "complain" to his clients about a discrepancy in payment.

The mercenary was set to go. Only one more thing…

"Anything you want me to tell him?" Some clients liked having the last word, after all.

The American thought about it for a moment.

"No," he said finally. "You, Mr. B?"

"Of course not," Mr. B said. "His death will send a clear enough message on its own."

The mercenary nodded. "You each have an alibi in place, correct?" At their nod, the mercenary continued. "Then there is no more to discuss."

Without their say, the mercenary left. His own alibi that he was just settling in to town and was home alone wouldn't cause any problems. There was tape of him entering his rented apartment and the tapes hadn't recorded him walking out, so there was nothing to fear. Besides, the mercenary hadn't committed any major crimes that would link up his name with this murder. He had a clean record, so to speak.

The mercenary walked through the deserted streets, turning in an alley.

Although he was against pointless destruction, the man didn't mind his work. In fact, the hunt always gave him an adrenaline rush.

Life was for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if need be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put on it to give the strong pleasure.

The mercenary was strong. And the hunt gave the mercenary a lot of pleasure. So what if that didn't make him entirely sane? Being sane was what the weak clung onto for comfort. The weak couldn't handle an insane man.

The mercenary smiled grimly beneath his mask, pulling out a little black knife and prying open a small space between a dumpster and the wall. He placed the suitcase into the small hideaway and quickly sealed it shut. He left a moment later.

The night was still young after all, and he had a lot of work to do.