He lounged lazily in the chair, leaning on the back two legs. The room was dark, as cliché as that was; the table his boots were propped up on the only piece of furniture in the room. A lone, bare bulb illuminated the desk and him in the utter darkness. He blew out smoke between his pale lips, watching as it swirled away, up to the ceiling. Despite such a dark room, he wore sunglasses so thick they hid his eyes. Bringing the cig to his lips, he inhaled the arid smoke; the last mission had practically been a waste of time since it was only used as a way to make the company look good. Luckily they paid him for the trouble, but not as much as he would have liked. Eighteen-hundred would have to do though. One thing in this business: don't complain over what you get, that contract is your life. The door across from him finally opened and his boss sauntered in, taking a seat under the swaying bulb.
The man across the table didn't look like the boss of a Hitman Agency. He dressed in a nice suit and tie; the only showings of wealth were his platinum cufflinks and the matching tiepin, all in the shapes of an eighth note in music. His hair was combed over to one side, a stubborn cowlick accenting his appearance. A pair of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, framing dark violet eyes that bore into the endless black of his shades. His lips twitched, bringing attention to the dark mole not far below the courner of those thin lips. Roderich Edelstein was once renowned in the Underworld as the best Hitman money could buy; though as time went on he gathered enough money and acclaim to unionize the work under a dictator's hand. Any hired gun outside of Edelstein's reach was promptly eliminated to keep competition real low. All that was left were the bloodthirsty hounds inside the organization that killed off each other to get the next job. How lucky he was that he only scraped the bottom of the barrel, as all new recruits do. He had plenty of years under his belt before this hot-shot came along. Edelstein had nothing on him.
"You did well on that test round. Due to your undeniable skill, our client has agreed to use our services. You can pat yourself on the back for that one, but don't get cocky," Roderich informed him, the assassin sitting across from the brunette smirked and rubbed his jackboots together, flakes of dried mud falling on the desk top. Giving a reproachful glare, the superior continued on, "The man who hired you, and you by name, goes by the name Ivan Braginsky. He's the leader of a rebel group within Germany called the R.N.M, or the Russian Nationalist Movement. Three months ago a meeting between an R.N.M negotiator and the chief of the Nuremburg Police on the subject of a protection agreement was supposed to take place, but both parties were found assassinated. The details are hazy after that, but Mr. Braginsky is confident that one of his militia members is responsible for the leak. His first assignment is for you to assassinate this man. No civilian casualties."
A picture was flicked onto the table and the boots came down so he could lean over the photo. A Cuban man sat at an outside restraint table, a cigar in his mouth and hair pulled back in dreadlocks. Taking a mental picture, he took the ember of the cigarette and shoved it into the heart of the photograph. The paper smoldered and warped, turning brown, then black, the fag burning out entirely. "Consider it done."
He sat on the top of an old apartment complex across the street from the Starbucks he had seen in the picture. No matter where one goes, America would worm their money-making sprees in even the vast German Empire. His black hood was pulled up over the white locks of hair; such distinct traits were best kept hidden on the job. Across the way, the target sat at a table, a large cigar in his mouth as he read the morning newspaper. He snuffed out the butt and placed it in his jacket pocket, Mr. González read the Headlines today, but little did he know he would be the Headline of tomorrow. Setting up the cheap .308 Winchester rifle he had been assigned for the mission, sliding on the TASCO scope and propping it up on his bipod, he entered the small world of the sharpshooter. The target rubbed the back of his head, pulling the smoke from his lips. His finger tightened ever so slightly and the kick pushed him back.
There were screams as he packed up the rifle, and sauntered down the fire escape stairs on the back of the building. Shouts of curious residents and frightened witnesses cascaded around him as he slipped through the alleyways. Pulling out another fag and his lighter, he lit the butt and continued on his way. The image of the man was swiped over with a bloody 'X'. "Mission accomplished."
"Oi, not gonna welcome me home brat?" he called as he stepped through the door, kicking off his jackboots and hanging up the jacket he wore to his jobs. The case was hidden far behind the coats on the racks and behind the many boxes that had somehow managed to get stacked in there. He could hear the other in the kitchen and the smell of sizzling wurst was welcoming after a rather uneventful day.
"If you want to be greeted every time you step through the door," another man's voice called from around the courner, "buy yourself a dog or get married already."
"We already got three dogs kid, and we have come to the conclusion that they all love you," he shouted back, smirking like an idiot. These banters were always fun. He crept around the way to see his younger brother cooking, wearing that pink apron he had bought the younger as a prank for his birthday. Hey, at least he used it.
The blonde was busy chopping up potatoes with his back towards the other, "Then go and find yourself a girl or something. I'm sure there's someone desperate enough-." He was cut off by the other's lips on his own, the pale cheeks becoming a bright red before he jabbed his elbow into the albino's ribs. "The hell Gilbert!"
"Aww, come on, no one saw. Besides, we are brothers after all," he snickered, rubbing his bruised ribs. "Don't tell me you are so paranoid to think that the Führer is hiding in our ceiling."
"Homosexuality is banned under the law; you and I both know that."
Gilbert t'sked his tongue as he shook his head, "Too bad, eh? That little Italian down the hall is so fine~."
"BROTHER! ARE YOU SUICIDAL!" the blonde exclaimed, pure horror across his features.
The albino winked, giving his Dare Devil grin, "Maybe I am, but at least I'll go out with a bang."