Kill. Simple enough really; 1 word, 1 syllable, 1 meaning. It's ironic that a word with such a simple meaning could have such convoluted consequences. Killing a dictator would bring a county to its knees, killing a milk man would result in some spoiled milk. There's one other thing that kill can be associated with- Employment.

That's what Marc Dargreaves did for a living. Kill, murder, execute, terminate, nullify, neutralise. Dress it up whichever way you like, it all comes down to the same thing; ending a life. Killing is a special type of skill; something which, fortunately, they don't teach at school.

Luckily for Marc, he was a natural.

This one was simple, a pleasant walk in the park compared to his previous case. Somebody has taken something they shouldn't, take it back. If Marc had one complaint had his life, it was that his occupation was formulaic; Person X has wronged person Y, and so they want them to be Z. When you've spent 10 years in the job like Marc, it starts to get easy to guess what Z is. Somebody forgets their payment money; Z is a beating, somebody has an affair with a Power-players wife, Z is a castration. 10 years is a long time for anybody in this business, especially for guy with as many enemies as Marc. Surprisingly, being a murder-for-hire doesn't result in becoming loved by everyone. Mind you, the arrogant prick part probably doesn't do him any favours. Marc had no family, no innocent daughter that he would die for. He did it for the cash, and what a payload it was.

The rain was hammering down Sickle Street as Marc stalked down his prey. It was a long wide pedestrian street, which made it all the more impressive that the street was overflowing with people, today being the final day of the carnival. What was once an orgy of fine colours and even finer liquor was now just a dull, water-stained fiasco. Markets, some well-maintained and others looking as though a sewing machine had a violent fit, were crammed along the street. The state of the carnival reflected the people, and the people reflected the place. The shops were boarded up, the windows smashed in; a harsh sign of even harsher times. The price of most commodities had risen by a laughable amount; except many people didn't laugh when they went hungry for the night. Fortunately for Marc, people were the commodity that never shrunk in value. A man, dressed in entirely in dark navy blue, rolled his fedora in such an absent minded way if you didn't know it was a sign you'd walk straight past it. The patio chair the man was sitting in was in complete contrast to the local cafe behind him, one of the few shops still open. The rain splattering against the deck umbrella in the table gave off a false sense of calm around the man. Just as expected, the crowd gave him no attention, instead clamouring to steal the latest bargain, or perhaps to just plain old steal. It was a curious thing for Marc to be out in public; for all he knew, his next target could be the stall owner ripping off customers, or the mother who just picked a man's pocket.

"This seat taken?"Marc enquired to the man. He knew it wasn't, but formality is nothing if not a bitch.

"No, please, I could do with the company" He responded, in a smooth, calming voice. The sort of voice people associate with a politician. Perhaps, in another life, he might've made Minister. But for now, he was stuck as a courier.

"I don't believe I know your name?"

"I don't believe you give a shit" responded Marc, quick as a whip. "I hate formalities."

"As do I my friend, as do I!" the man laughed, "For today, just call me Jeremy."

"Your 'name' is nowhere near as important as what you're supposed to tell me." Marc enjoyed talking down to his superior, and not relish the prospect of overtime.

"Out of my entire workforce, Marc, you're by far my favourite." Jeremy muttered to him, "I mean, who else could pull off the greasy, overweight look like you do"

"I didn't pick this disguise!"

"Oh, course not, I did. I thought having to worry about your appearance might bring you down a peg or two."

"Are you in a constant state of worry, Jeremy?"

"Please, I'm wearing a navy blue suit with matching fedora and leather shoes that probably cost more than you'll make this entire year! So, do you want the information or not?" Jeremy growled at him, letting his carefully created persona slip. He'd probably have to go on an acting course for that; the thought made Marc happy.

"No, I was just here for small talk" Marc responded. "I think you might have me confused with someone else?"

"Oh, shut up and take the envelope" Jeremy's temper was always quick to rise, especially when dealing with a case like this. A man of God, he didn't exactly favour sending somebody to the pearly gates; However, Marc had no such issues. He went to fish the envelope out of his jacket pocket, but instead grabbed a hand full of air. "Oh, crap!"

"Looking for this?" Marc laughed, waving the envelope in front of his face. "You really shouldn't leave your jacket unattended" He added, with a slight wink.

"Have you read it ye-"

"Earl Ray, James. 36. Caucasian White. British. Runs a front for a local money laundering operation. Seems like a classy guy!" Marc was used to skim reading documents for the important facts by now; 'Jeremy' loved to over-engorge on the details. In fact, 'Jeremy' loved to over-engorge in general.

"And we'd like to have this one alive, please" Jeremy sighed, as if he already knew the response.

"You know I can't promise that"

"Sadly, I do. Just... Don't do anything stupid, or rash, ok? This is a top-priority thing we have going on here"

"I still don't understand why a bunch of assassins, thieves, spies and diplomats care about their public image?!"

"Because we aren't a bunch of killers, crooks and spies, and I swear to god this is the last time I'll tell you!" Jeremy said, with a passion in his voice that signalled how offended he was.

"We're Aurors!"