The Man Without A Soul by Hrtofdrkns
Disclaimer: I don't own DC/CC.
Gin smiled as the bullet found it's mark. The old man slumped over dead, a shocked expression still on his face.
Gin didn't know why the organization had marked his target for death, and he didn't care. This was his job, and he enjoyed his work.
People had always said there was something wrong with him. But he didn't see it that way. If anything, it gave him an advantage. He could do what others wouldn't, and do it happily. People feared him. Other operatives, even his little brother was afraid of his wrath. That was the way he liked it.
Guilt and shame. He had heard those words before. That was all they were to him, words. They didn't mean anything.
Growing up, he had tortured and killed small animals when he could get his hands on them. Later, he moved on to dogs and cats. By the time he had reached his teens, he was ready to try people.
His first had been a girl. He didn't really even know her. They had both taken the same route to and from school their whole lives, yet had never once spoken. To him she was just part of the scenery, nothing more noticable then the caution sign at the crosswalk. He didn't know why he felt compeled to drag her into the bushes and slit her throat. He had only intended to rape her, then threaten to kill her if she told. But to his suprise the kill was the most enjoyable part.
He had been young and inexperianced then. He had left evidance all over the crime scene. His guilt was never in doubt. He had resigned himself to prison, only to be saved by some men in black trenchcoats who ran the prison transport off the road, shot the guards, and let him out.
When told of the nature of his new employer, and what his job entailed, he knew he had finally come home. He would join, in fact he would do them one better. He would get them two agents for the price of one. His little brother was like him, abit a little less rational at times. They agreed, and so it was that Gin and Vodka were born.
His first hit. He remembered it clearly. Most of his others blurred together after a while, but not his first. It had been his own father. It was a test of his loyalty to the organization, and he passed with flying colors. The only other one that stood out in his mind was the kid at Tropical Land. He didn't know why exactly, but the sight of the kid and his girlfriend infuriated him. That was part of the reason he had done it. To see the two, laughing and happy and in love, even if they didn't know it, made him sick. Why should they be happy?
The only time he was happy was when he ended a life. He loved the looks he got from the hit. Whether it was shocked supprise, fear, confusion, or anger, he loved each and every one. Killing was better then anything else. Sex, drugs, money, nothing compared to the pleasure of ending a life. Of course, killing often led to the other three things.
Later, after the payment, after the congradulations on a job well done from those simpering weaklings he had to work with, when he was alone, he could take his time with the memory, going over every detail in his mind while he pleasured himself. The face, the blood, the final breath.
It brought a spark of joy to his long-dead heart.
Scene Change
File#912707
Psychiatric report on potential agent.
Subject: Gin.
Real Name: Classified.
IQ: 150.
Known Relations: Vodka (brother). Real Name: Classified.
Symptoms: Subject exhibits no guilt or remorse over past actions. Indeed, displays pride when asked about them. Subject is prone to extreme fits of homicidal rage, at other times is completely calm. Repeditive thoughts involving sadism and torture. Subject has expressed intense desire to join the organization, saying "I've finally come home."
Diagnosis: Malignent narcissistic personality disorder with extreme psychotic tendencies. Very dangerous.
Usefullness to the organization: High.