Chapter 1
We meet in the early evening, at a hotel restaurant with tasteful decor and inflated prices. The kind of place where it's hard to get a reservation and the wait list fits on several pages. The walls are painted with a red and gold pattern that matches the carpet, matches the chairs and the booths, and matches the drapes on the windows. The waiting staff carry large trays of who knows what over-priced food. There's a wine bottle on ice and lit candle in the center of our table The idea of a dinner for two in this kind place sounds kind of romantic, and I might've considered it a poor excuse for date if I didn't know the woman I was meeting with so well. She sat in front of me, wearing a long midnight blue dress, slowly enjoying a bowl of tomato soup spoonful by spoonful. I sipped a chilled glass of water, no ice. Neither of us have touched the wine. "What's with the scarf?" She asks, pointing one of the metal fingers of her prosthetic hand at the strip of blue and black wool around my neck.
"It's getting chilly out there." I reply "And I don't want to risk a throat cold." She takes a another spoonful of soup and shrugs off my response.
She looks down at a manila folder sitting on the table, then hands it over to me. "All the information you'll need is in there." She says, as I flip open the cover and slide the contents out in front me. I start to look through the paper inside. Notes, schedules, letters, and 4 different photo's of the same person taken at different angles. The man in each of the photos has a bush of thick, curly black hair, a lanky body, dopey eyes and the same stupid grin in every shot. His face was painted in makeup that made him look like a demented mime. I immediately dislike him.
"So, what's his story?" I ask. "What he do to piss you off?"
She yawns. "Eridan, have you ever worked with someone who was so obviously out of their fucking mind that you morbidly wonder how long it'll be before they try to kill you?"
She asks nonchalantly, looking at her nails. They're painted to match her dress, the same striking blue shade. The nail on the middle finger is longer than the rest, decorated with a spider design. I cross my arms and say no comment. All she does is roll her eyes. "Well, look, I don't know what you're policies are about working with psychotics, but my personal policy is I fucking don't."
"Hasn't stopped you before." I say, and she gives me a look of disdain.
"I never liked working with purple-bloods. There all the same. Barely holding on to reality, barely even lucid. Fucking nutjobs, seriously, but this guy is like, he's on a whole 'nother level of fucked up." I take a sip of water and let her continue. "His sanity, or lack thereof is a... threat to our stability. OURS, not just me. Usually, people we do business with can be reasoned with, to an extent. Usually they have the sense enough for that. Someone could talk to them, or I could get Equius to strong-arm them, but not this time. I can't do that with this looney fuck. You can't reason with someone without the mind to reason." I bend over, elbows on the table, flipping through the documents in the folder for details. I imagine this smiling powder keg ready to blow, the number of bodies that would stack if what she was saying was true. He may not look it, but I know to never underestimate a purple blooded psychopath.
"So, how'd you want it done?" I say after a second.
She shrugs, dropping her spoon into the now shallow bowl with a small tink. "I'm only going to pay your standard rate, so you only have to give as much effort as fifteen grand will get me, okay?"
I stand up, pick up the folder, and push in my chair. The pay was fine. Standard rate or not, I don't really do it for the money anyway. "Alright. I'll see to it by tonight. He won't be a fly in your soup much longer, Vriska." I tell her, and she can't help but give me a smirk of satisfaction
"And this is why you're my favorite problem solver, Eridan."
A concierge hands me my violet jacket at the door. The wool and stand up collar shields me from the cold winds of Alternia's winter. When the valet brings me my car, I drive it for about a 3 miles and a half, until I'm across the street from the targets apartment building. Taking an alleyway off the street proper. I park the car, then go around back and open the trunk. A homeless woman, who was digging out of a dumpster for bottles to cash in, looks at me strangely as I put on a pair of black leather gloves, pull out a grey duffle-bag from the trunk, slip it over my shoulder, and then precede to climb the fire escape of a building to my right. The metal stairs and railings are slickly coated with a thin layer of last night's rain that turned into frost in the freezing wind
I go up until I reach the roof of the building, careful not to slip on the ice. I open a piece of paper I had folded in my coat pocket, taken from the folder Vriska gave me. It's an address and a phone number. I start counting windows of the apartment building across the street, getting the right floor up and the right apartment number across. I walk following my count until I'm more or less where I need to be, then I lay duffle-bag down and pull out a rolled up blanket. I lay it on the part of the roof right before the ledge,directly across the targets kitchen window. I kneel on the blanket and piece by piece, start assembling my tool from out of the bag.
Ahab's Crosshairs, my weapon of choice. A synthetic stock and scope tinted dark violet. Stainless steel barrel, chamber, and firing mechanism, polished to shine like platinum. It's accuracy, power, and low recoil make it one of a kind. Bolt action, anti-material, .50 caliber. Powerful enough to cut through concrete like it was construction paper. Heavy, but elegant, and a few months of handling it had made me accustomed to the weight. It only ever took one shot with this gun. One pull of the trigger, and the shot, like a spear of pure white light, will make anything drop like a bull elephant. One squeeze, one blast, one hole, and the target wouldn't be getting back up. Precision, and elegance.
I look at the address and apartment number again, recounting windows with my fingers to make sure I have the right place, then I pull out a disposable cell-phone and dial the number. After three rings, the light in the window turns on. The light gives a good view of the apartment's kitchen. Through the scope, I see a refrigerator and a counter top with a corded phone sitting next to a toaster. Most people don't have landlines anymore, but the fact that he still does makes this much easier. When the target enters the kitchen and picks up the phone, his body faces the window, and I have the perfect shot. I put my cell-phone on speaker mode, then set it down on the blanket next to me. I wrap my gloved finger around the trigger of the gun, and the leather squeaks ever so slightly. "Is this Gamzee Makara?" I ask when the target puts the phone to his ear. Black t-shirt, and polka-dot pajama pants.
Through the scope, I see the target crack a smile, and reply in upbeat tone "Yeah, that's me, brother." I squeeze the trigger then the rifle kicks back. There's a boom so loud a deaf man might cover his ears, then my target falls back, hole in his chest. He hits the refrigerator behind him and slides down, leaving a streak of blood the color of grape jelly. There's a dent in the fridge door.
` I take apart the rifle, pick-up up my towel and phone, and put everything back in the duffel bag. After I descend back off the fire escape, far away, I can hear sirens, getting louder every second, and I want to be where they aren't. When I put the bag back in my trunk, I see the homeless woman again. Standing by a flaming barrel for warmth, awkward. Torn gloves on her hands, a stained wool coat hanging off her, several sizes too big. She's young, but the burdens of this urban jungle have clawed at her, making her look ragged, weak. Her big eyes filled with sadness, glassy, tired, and bloodshot. The sounds of cats meowing come from somewhere behind her. We look at each other for a moment, say nothing, then I climb in my car when the impending police sirens bring me back to reality.