The bass pounded through bodies as a shadowy figure lurked in the nightclub. Sex and alcohol permeates the stale air, the chorus of the patrons' voices melding together to a single cacophonous noise. Asari and human dancers flounced about, dangerous curves promising carnality, and yet they are to be untouched. The neon sign bearing the nightclub's name, The Second Circle, continues to flicker, one letter dead, and another off-color.
Nothing has been replaced since the nightclub first opened ten years ago, in 2160. It was a dilapidated, worn down, and wicked place; loud, dark and shrouded with sin. Perfect for an assassination. Noise will muffle any screams of pain, darkness will conceal any illicit activity, and it is relatively easy to disguise oneself as a patron who's simply looking for a good time. It's perfect.
The dark figure slinks along the shadows, formulating a plan to carry out his deed. The target is a human sergeant for the Blue Suns, middle-aged, with green eyes, sallow skin and a shaved head. His contacts identified him as Simon Novak, and from what he learned, this Novak is a hated man. Aside from being associated with the Blue Suns and the mercenary group's accompanying reputation, he violated a lot of women and the families of his victims want revenge. Now that the assassin had traced them to Omega, they're about to get their most awaited revenge. Hitmen shouldn't care; all they should care about is making sure the hit is a success, but this particular one does.
Novak is sitting at a booth, with four of his underlings with him; two humans, a turian, and a batarian. A minor complication; he can easily take all of them out. He can stalk the group until they're all swimming in alcohol, then assassinate the target. Or, he can drop down from the vents and snap their necks, though it poses a significant risk. The safest, yet most complicated option is to find a distraction that will lead the target out of the nightclub, or at least lure him to a secluded spot. He can execute him from there.
However, it seems the problem had taken care of itself.
Someone caught the target's attention; one of the entertainers wasn't dancing. She is simply standing, her body language communicating discomfort or mortification. Approximately standing at five feet and a few more inches, she looked delicate and small in comparison to the other dancers. Ribs poked out of her chest, a morose expression is plastered to her youthful face, and loneliness haunts her eyes; she is a fish out of water among the lively dancers and entertainers in the club.
Novak's group hurled catcalls and malicious intentions disguised as words of praise at the young woman, and after being encouraged by a fellow dancer, she sulks over and got on the table, preparing to entertain patrons who had little respect for her. Gods, she doesn't even know how to dance. Her movements are far from graceful and her flexibility is lacking. But Novak isn't interested in the dance.
One of his men hands her a drink, and the assassin hiding in the shadows takes note of the small tablet dissolving at the bottom of the glass; it has been tainted.
The families of the target's victims had told him that this is his modus operandi; drug the victim, violate her, then leave her to rot or kill her outright. The assassin also learned from his contacts that the drug is illegal even on Illium. It affects them by impairing their vision temporarily, then incapacitates them with a strong paralytic effect. However, it leaves them completely lucid, and that's how Novak wanted it. The assassin will have no remorse removing him. Silently praying for guidance, he moves as soon as the woman consumes the drink.
It took several minutes, and finally, she is swaying when they led her to the dark alley behind the club. Through a sniper's scope, he watches, lining up his shots. The sight before him left him astounded; despite being drugged and cornered, she struggles, brandishing a knife at her aggressors with unstable hands. Clumsily, she pounced at one of the men, managing to cut through his jugular in a moment of dumb luck. Disoriented she may be, the dancer flew at her aggressors with blind rage. Perhaps even literally, due to the drug's aforementioned effects on alien physiology. The shadowy assassin is impressed, though he's mostly pitiful.
However, she is only one woman, and the drug is starting to take effect. The other four men, Novak included, overpowered her, constraining her to the pavement. They quickly and brutally silenced her with their fists. Greedy hands clawed at her flesh and what little she wore, leaving scratches and bruises. There was little movement now, little enough for a clean shot. The sound of unbuckling and unzipping was made, and the inevitable is almost guaranteed to happen.
BANG
A heavy body slumps over the helpless and barely conscious dancer, spraying her with blood that gleamed like ink in the dim lighting of the alley. The hitman leapt over the parapet with grace as the other aggressors scrambled away from the dancer and drew their guns. Firing madly, they didn't manage to land a single bullet on the unknown killer. Red lights flicker and a silhouette of a man appears before them, and in another flicker, he is gone.
The batarian drops as another gunshot was heard. One human felt a wiry hand on his jaw and he collapses, the sound of bone snapping a sickening crunch. The turian falls to his knees as a powerful kick connects to his knee, and as he tumbles the assailant twists him into a leg lock. Snarls of pain escaped him as a finger stabs his eyes, followed by the sound of his neck snapping and the sound of heavy armor hitting the concrete. Though the job is seemingly done; he needs to ensure of his success. It doesn't help that the dancer's presence made everything much more problematic.
After a silent prayer, the hitman's footsteps are silent as he stepped over the pile of bodies strewn on the cold ground. Novak's corpse pinned the beaten dancer to the cold floor of the pavement. He hauls Novak's body out of the way, and sees the dancer lying there, soaked in Novak's blood, and her own. Cuts and bruises covered the expanse of her body and her features are unidentifiable. There's almost nothing left of what she wore. The hitman takes off his jacket and drapes it over her bare form before picking her up and cradling her in his sinewy arms. A small cry of pain escapes her lips.
"Please, don't hurt me," the dancer pleads, her voice broken, her face bruised and bloody, and her paralyzed limbs had angry marks all over them. Stepping over the other three men, he had to see if the human who the dancer attacked is still alive. He wasn't. It was a clean cut. "Amonkira must have been guiding you tonight."
As he laid her down in the back seat of his shuttle, he apologizes. "I am sorry for not making it sooner."
