Author's Note: killer7 is the property of Capcom and Grasshopper Manufacture. This work of fiction is created without the consent of either company, nor is it published with the intention of making profit.
This work of fiction is written under the assumption that the reader has played killer7 to completion, and that the reader has read Hand in killer7, the companion book released by Capcom. If not, it is highly suggested that the reader does so in order to properly enjoy reading this work of fiction.
As this is a work of fiction, any resemblance the characters in this story have to real-world counterparts is completely coincidental.
This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences. It contains intense violence, strong language, and themes that might not be suitable for younger readers.
I suppose you've heard of the killer7. It wouldn't surprise me; it seems everyone has.
Those assassins who took the world by force when it looked as if peace could finally takes its rightful place on Earth. The only ones capable of killing the Heaven Smile, a terrorist group that had filled the minds of the public with unease ever since they interrupted a meeting at the United Nations. A name that would live on in infamy, seen by few but remembered by many.
When I say that phrase, "killer7," most people would think of a specific group of people. I refer, of course, to the second Smith Syndicate. Led by a wheelchair-bound man who seemed to have psychic powers, they could transform from one into the other at will, each with their own special attributes.
With that said, we live in a world where that syndicate has long since been dismantled. Their leader was seemingly shot dead, their ace had turned out to be a spy, and the Heaven Smile had disappeared. The world no longer had a need for the killer7.
What it did have a need for was a different group of assassins, those who had no connections to the outside world, no secrets to be used by government agencies. What the world needed were not superheroes nor antiheroes, but something in between, a group that did what they did not for the good of man or for their own good, but solely to follow commands from an unseen leader.
The world needed something… new.
March 14, 2024
Outskirts of Seattle, Washington
A thin man in a tuxedo walked the empty streets, a platter with a lid resting delicately in his raised right hand. His greying hair was receding, with only a smattering of it left atop his head. A pair of shined shoes glowed eerily in the dark of the night as he paced, his footsteps the only sound that could be heard.
Walter Johnson was more than a butler to me, he was an irreplaceable member of the organization. To say that his loyalty and his willingness to work were a benefit to me and to the rest of the Johnson Syndicate would be greatly understating his importance; as he has often told me, it was like a goal of his to work for the good of the syndicate, so that he could do proper work for his master. Suffice to say, the role of the cleaner fit him like a charm.
I never liked the word "master," to be frank, but Walter wouldn't budge from using it. I suppose he considered it something of a necessity, which I can understand. Walter's mindset is not mine to control, as is the case with any member of the syndicate.
A breeze blew through the streets, though Walter was smart enough to shield his bowtie before his dapper looks diminished any. Walter knew the importance of appearance through his professions both as a butler and an assassin; it did get a bit tricky if blood was to be involved, but Walter was always prepared with a backup suit or two.
After walking for what seemed like hours, he finally saw another man in front of him. This man wore a brown suit similar to Walter's, though it showed a significant number of wrinkles compared to the fresh-pressed looks of the butler's. In one of his gloved hands he held a manila folder.
A glint appeared in his grey eyes as he held up the folder, his long beard waving slightly in the dying winds. Walter paid him no mind, though he did grab the folder with his spare hand after shifting his tray to his left.
Walter did not pass any others on his walk, and he was grateful for it; one false move could have blown any cover he had, and the element of surprise seemed to become more important with each passing day.
Finally, he stopped at the entrance to a towering building next to the Space Needle. The gloomy black paint peeled at either side, the window panes were shattered, and Walter knew just through a glance that any lock the door once had would be broken. Nevertheless, he held his position in front of the gate, glancing to either side to make sure he was not being followed.
His lookout was interrupted with the ringing of a cell phone in his breast pocket. Walter picked it up and answered it within a few seconds, after gently placing his platter on the steps before him.
"It's me. Have you arrived at the designated area?" a gruff voice asked from the receiver.
"I have indeed," Walter responded. "You have my thanks for passing on the necessary papers, Mr. Stonewall."
"I told you, call me Solomon. I may be getting old, but this sort of thing still makes me feel alive."
Walter smiled at that. "So, what would be the primary objective here, anyways?"
"It looks like a few of those damn bombers are still in there. Even worse, they might be spreading again if it's anything like what happened ten years ago."
"Sounds tricky enough," Walter muttered. "Anything else I should keep in mind, sir?"
"Knock it off, Walt. I just reminded you what I like to be called, didn't I?"
"My apologies, Solomon."
"Anyways, from the look of it, there are actually a handful of humans in there. I can't say for sure whether they're working with the bombers or not, so keep an eye open."
"Understood."
"Well, may the Lord smile."
"And may the devil have mercy," Walter finished before hanging up the phone and entering the building.
A familiar assignment at the "Celtic" building
MISSION No. 14: Eliminate the Heaven Smile populating the building, ensuring that any human occupants are safely evacuated.
Walter opened the file as he slowly paced through the ominous green hallway of the Celtic building. He stared at the face of his new target.
Just as he suspected. There was the same green suit, the same green skin, the same piercing stare. The target was none other than Kun Lan.
Walter frowned at the picture. It had been reported years ago that he had died along with Harman Smith in a room of the infamous Union Hotel, shot multiple times by a tommy gun. If he could have survived that, would Harman also be alive? And if that were the case, what good would his being here do?
The cleaner had to interrupt his thought process as he glanced up at the corner of the room. A familiar security camera glanced down at him in response.
"It appears this is more serious than I thought," the butler remarked. "Swap out, Monica."
Walter's body dissipated into a series of blood-red orbs that floated in the air for a few moments before reconvening into a new person.
This new entity was a raven-haired woman in a three-piece suit, complete with a jet black necktie that complemented her white undershirt. Her blue eyes glared around the room as she marched forward.
"Hey… hey, somebody's here!"
The woman raised an eyebrow as she watched a young man in red shuffle awkwardly towards the center of the new room.
"The hell are you doing here?" the woman berated as she stared down the survivor. "You must be one of those Red Gunners, aren't you?"
"What… you know about us…?" the man asked, supposedly at a loss for words.
"You realize that your gang were supposedly killed some ten years ago, y'know. All by those smilin' bastards."
The young man looked around in fear. "Don't say their names. They can hear us… sense us… you could almost say that-"
He couldn't finish his thought, however, as the woman had already launched a bullet from a magnum pistol straight through his heart. A maniacal laugh filled the room as the young man exploded in a torrent of blood, which she absorbed through some unseen force.
"I'm looking right at one, huh? Looks like you're a bit late on the trigger. Sucks to be you; I never am."
When seeking a worthy wielder of the title of hellion, it was Monica Johnson that stood out from the crowd. Not only did she seethe with every comment someone would make at her, but she would show her opinion through bullets, not berating. Someone who shoots first and asks questions later is always a good choice in the assassination business.
What surprised me about Monica was her choice in weapon, or should I say, weapons. She dual-wields magnum pistols similar to the one used by one Coyote Smith of the second Smith Syndicate, who despised their Hellion. I imagine this is only a coincidence, but it still leaves me more than a little wary as to what she could be trying to say.
Of course, as I've already pointed out, she'd only say something after filling her target with lead, which I'm more than okay with.
Monica spat on the floor before running forward into the lobby. She left one of her pistols facing backwards, an insurance policy in case a Smile dared to sneak up on her.
Her movements were interrupted when a familiar man in bondage gear bungee-jumped from the ceiling.
"Oh, for fuck's sake…" Monica grumbled.
"Master, it is new," the being groaned, his voice distorted and high-pitched. "A new chance to face the day, to conquer the known world with your unstoppable might. I, Vincell Dill Boris VIII, son of Iwazaruscof, shall assist you in any way that I can."
"You could start by shuttin' your trap," Monica grunted.
"It appears that another familiar foe shall approach you soon. I trust that the Hellion will be able to assist. I relinquish this, under Harman's name."
With that, Iwazaru bungeed his way back up to the ceiling. Monica flipped him off before setting out to the next room.
The Remnant Psyche was correct, though. A Duplicator Smile sat at the other end of the garage that the door led to, countless eggs being spat out by the second.
A twisted grin spread across Monica's face.
"Looks like it's time to shine."
Readying her twin pistols, she fired at each egg before destroying the Heaven Smiles within in a single shot.
"How pathetic," Monica taunted with each terrorist destroyed.
She continued this for several minutes, only pausing to reload when necessary. Finally, she paused to reach into her breast pocket and pull out three vials of a strange red liquid.
Opening one of the magazines with her thumb, she stuck the vials into the gun before taking aim at a disgusting-looking sac on the duplicator's web-like body.
"Prime Collateral Shot!"
A blue orb of dazzling light shot out of the magnum, hitting its target dead on. A blinding explosion resulted from the destruction of the duplicator, which Monica used to blast the last few eggs into oblivion before doing the same to the Smiles that emerged.
After absorbing the blood that emanated from the slaughtered Smiles, Monica rushed forward to see another familiar face, one with grey hair, soulless eyes, black jeans, and a matching black tank top that read "FALSE MEMORY" in bright pink letters.
"Now you're just trying to piss me off, aren't ya," Monica growled.
"Hey, maybe I'm not entirely pleased to see you either," Travis Bell responded. "Straight up, though, this is getting serious. If the chief wanted me to switch jobs just for the sake of some half-baked assassins, that's saying a lot."
"Watch it. Don't think I can't kill you right now."
Travis gave a distorted laugh. "I'd like to see that happen, to be honest. But that'll have to wait until after this hellhole's cleaned up. You're no Smith, of course, but it's always nice to watch people try."
Travis was unfazed as Monica's bullets traveled through his ghostly personage. She swore violently before retracing her steps to the elevator hall.
It was then that she noticed a curious door that seemed out of place. Checking her other breast pocket, she pulled out a large plastic bag full of viscous blood. Bag in hand, she opened the door and entered.
A modestly-decorated living room sat untouched by any bloodshed or intruders. A television sat in one corner, Iwazaru in another. Paying the Remnant Psyche no mind, Monica turned on the television.
While the first channel was blank, it was the others that she was interested in.
"At your service." The cleaner.
"You wait here." The hellion. Monica flinched; she never could get used to seeing her own face on the monitor.
"To spill blood is to pay your respects to your homeland. It is a sacrifice I am willing to make." Barefoot.
"Whoa, where'd you come from, man?" Four-eyes.
"Ah, are you looking for a magic show?" The thief.
"Ooh, pick me, pick me!" Shorty.
"Make your face like stone. Only then can you possess true power." The mask.
Everyone was there, all accounted for. With the unofficial roll call completed, Monica flipped through a few more channels of static before finding her target, a mysterious-looking man hiding in shadows, his gloved hands raised ominously.
"Hey, doc, make with the serum," Monica commanded, shoving the bag of blood through the television. "Those freaks aren't much now, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna be caught off guard."
The Mad Doctor gave a solemn nod as he pressed a button on a strange machine next to him. It sputtered for a moment before slowly churning away, washing the blood from the bag and popping out small orange bottles of a shiny liquid in its place.
Monica tapped her foot impatiently before the machine gave another sputter. The doctor sent the serum back through the television, which Monica grabbed before injecting several of the bottles' contents into her right arm.
The hellion smirked as she felt power coursing through her veins. She placed the remaining serum in the corner of the room before giving another middle finger to Iwazaru and taking her leave.
Glancing around the room, Monica noticed a spiraling staircase that ascended to the next floor. Not seeing any other doors, she ran straight for it before crashing headlong into an invisible wall.
"Shit," she grumbled, dusting off her suit. "Looks like it's time to punch out. Swap out, Zechariah!"
As Walter had beforehand, Monica dissolved into a collection of red orbs, which gathered together to create a giant of a man. A bandana rested over his scalp, complementing his serious green eyes. Rolling up the sleeves of his off-white dress shirt, he brushed off some dust from his muscular arms, admiring the sheen that the light had on his tan skin. Alongside a pair of black slacks, his most peculiar garment was his lack thereof, in that he wore nothing on his feet.
There have been some rumbles of uncertainty regarding Zechariah Johnson's place in this organization, perhaps not due to his work ethic as much as his appearance. Even in a business as unethical as this, I have been accused of stereotyping with having him take up the position of barefoot. After I correct them by saying that he chose that position himself, naysayers tend to keep quiet, lest they anger a seven-foot-two Indian cutthroat.
Zechariah may seem menacing at first glance, but he is arguably one of the gentler members of the Johnson Syndicate. Maybe it's the fact that he uses a crossbow instead of a more traditional firearm, maybe it's his reflective tone of voice as he waxes poetic on the importance of one's native land. Regardless, he's also a damn talented assassin with some… unique traits, shall we say.
Zechariah felt around in front of the staircase, ensuring that the unseen barrier was not a trick of the mind. He nodded grimly before reaching into a knapsack he had resting on his shoulders and pulling out a standard crossbow bolt.
Without any hesitation, he stabbed himself in the arm with the bolt, causing a torrent of blood to spray out and submerge the barrier, destroying it almost immediately.
"An offering has been made," Zechariah commented, returning the bolt to its holster. He paid no mind to his arm, which was already in the process of healing itself.
"W… what just…"
The Indian looked over to see another Red Gunner, barely holding on to his bleeding stomach.
"You can… control…" the gang member whispered before fainting. Zechariah shook his head before pointing his wound at the fallen man and letting his hyperactive blood cells fix both of their injuries.
When the Red Gunner was breathing steadily again, Zechariah moved on to the staircase, knowing full well that he had only interrupted the survivor's inevitable death.
The barefoot giant moved up the staircase slowly, his hulking size preventing him from running as quickly as the other two members of the syndicate. When he did reach the top, he found himself glaring at a Camellia Smile, her bloody spots dimly glowing in the dark hallway.
Zechariah reached for his crossbow and prepared the same bolt that had stabbed him not a minute ago. He closed one eye to prepare his shot, and fired.
With a loud twang, the bolt shot forward, leading the Camellia to run away from the bolt before it could hit her. Zechariah cursed under his breath; his weapon was never good at stealthy situations, and losing the possibility to obtain that much thick blood would mean he'd likely be the first to give up on the power-granting serum.
The Camellia ran forward to another Smile, this one seemingly asleep. When the traitor exploded, the sleeping Smile awoke with a ferocious cry, firing a rainbow-colored laser forwards at an unsuspecting Zechariah.
There was a great flash and a cry of anguish before Zechariah's head, removed from his body, dropped its jaw, and stared into the abyss.
"Need some cleaning?"
Walter emerged from the red specks back in the living room area, dusting off his jacket.
"I did not expect to be called back so suddenly. It appears that our foes are gaining power."
As Walter left the room, he cocked an eyebrow as he watched Iwazaru drop from the ceiling.
"Master, it is new. The Smiles are evolving. Some have even given up their invisibility for powers beyond our comprehension! We must be careful, lest the mission is failed."
"I agree," Walter said with a nod. "Any other advice?"
"Those Sleepy Smiles will end the lives of anyone who dares wake them up, as Barefoot so kindly demonstrated. Leave this one to the Mask. I relinquish this, under Harman's name."
Walter gave a friendly wave goodbye as Iwazaru returned to the ceiling. Removing the lid from his platter, he tossed the contents of the tray into the air, revealing it to be a standard pistol. He returned the lid to its rightful place before snatching the gun in his other hand before it hit the ground.
"Time to speed things up."
With that said, Walter escalated the stairs at lightning speed, stopping only to fire at a pair of Heaven Smiles that had escaped Monica's shots. When he had reached where Zechariah's head was, he gently placed it under the lid before returning to the room that he had left from.
"I assure you, this is business as usual. You shall be returned to normal in a moment's time," the cleaner whispered before emptying the contents of the platter into the television.
A celebratory jingle played from the speakers, and Zechariah Johnson once again returned to the television to fight another day, though Walter's attention was focused on another member a few channels away.
"Swap out, Konstantin."
Once again, Walter disappeared, soon to be replaced by a man with an expressionless face. His simple clothes made him look as if he was attending a funeral; pure black, including gloves. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a pistol and a revolver.
What is there to say about Konstantin Johnson? He is the mask for a reason; he does not show expression on his face, regardless of the circumstance. Even the likes of Zechariah could show anger or surprise, but this man simply will not. I'm unsure whether it's a choice or some sort of disfiguration, and to be honest, I'm not courageous enough to ask.
Konstantin's position, though, is one that others could not take, as he is a master of two types of combat. In one hand, he holds an automatic machine pistol good for taking out hordes of whatever he may face; in the other, a silent revolver perfect for stealth. Not all assassins could master multiple arms, and I have come to theorize that that same lack of expression somehow gave him this talent.
Konstantin's empty stare focused solely on the door in front of him. He entered it slowly, ascended the staircase slowly, and approached the Sleepy Smile slowly.
The tired terrorist barely blinked its eyes open before staring down the end of Konstantin's silent revolver. With one shot, the entity that had so quickly destroyed Zechariah Johnson was destroyed just as quickly.
"You are powerless," Konstantin said blandly, preparing his automatic pistol. "Now, to handle the others."
Konstantin would have moved on to the next staircase, had he not caught Travis leisurely standing in the corner of the room. In his typical fashion, he had changed the phrase on his wifebeater; it now read "GHOST STORY".
"Let me tell you something, shit's been a whole lot different nowadays," Travis remarked, not waiting for Konstantin to ask him anything. "For one thing, those Soul Shells have all but vanished. Guess folks aren't biting the dust like they used to. And another thing, where the hell did everyone else go? I'm still here, the new bondage freak is here, but there's no sign of the chick with no body, the kid in the stripes, or that shithead salesman. Tell you the truth, it's almost gotten lonely."
Travis looked around from his position; Konstantin had long since moved on to the next floor.
"Son of a bitch," the Remnant Psyche swore under his breath.
The steps seemed familiar to Konstantin; they went around the building instead of another closed-off area, letting him take a few breaths of the nighttime air as he ascended.
He only stopped when he saw what was ahead of him. A Giant Smile was patrolling the rooftops, its one eye gazing every which way for its next target.
Konstantin considered his options. His revolver wouldn't make any noise, but if he missed any more shots he'd have to reload, a decidedly louder action. On the other hand, his machine pistol could blast it to bits, but Konstantin knew full well just how much damage a Giant Smile could take if his weak spot wasn't shot.
Finally, he made his decision.
"Swap out, Kyle," Konstantin whispered before vanishing.
As the blood molecules reformed, a mousy man with short brown hair took in his surroundings, his wide eyes squinting as if the stars could blind him. He wore a green jacket over a plain white shirt, along with a pair of brown corduroy pants and dusty brown shoes. He pushed up his thick-framed glasses as his gaze was drawn to the cyclops ahead of him.
"Not cool, man…"
From what I've witnessed, it seems that with every group of assassins you hire, there always has to be one choice that you end up regretting at the end of the day. Suffice to say, Kyle Johnson fits the bill more than anyone else could. I'm practically driven to madness whenever I see his bloodshot eyes or hear his exhausted, breathy voice; he's probably taken more drugs than anyone else I know, alive or dead.
He's still a top-quality assassin, of course. Additionally, since he's inherited the title of four-eyes, he can turn invisible whenever he pleases. His weapon of choice is an intriguing selection, being a multipurpose firearm that can fire deadly shotgun shells or be used as a sniper rifle. Essentially, I'll support Kyle as long as he keeps himself away from me and focuses on those Smiles.
Then again, I don't think I've ever seen Kyle focus on anything. God, what a mess.
The assassin's shaky hand reached into his coat pocket, carefully pulling out a complicated-looking weapon and aiming it at the Giant Smile. From either overdose or withdrawal, Kyle's hands shook even more as he tried to use the scope of his rifle to aim for the humongous eye that was his target.
"Just a few more seconds, man…" he muttered to himself, trying as hard as he could to properly aim his shot.
The unmistakable sound of a bullet resonated, and just as the Giant Smile turned to see what had caused it, the bullet landed straight in his pupil.
The terrorist gave out one final laugh before exploding into an array of colorful dots, some of which were absorbed into Kyle's person.
"Whoa…" he mumbled, unsure on how to handle the array of lights and sounds that bombarded his pounding head.
It was no surprise, then, that Kyle had no idea that a carrier pigeon was divebombing at him. Fortunately, he chose that very moment to approach where the lights just were, making the pigeon crash straight into the floor.
"…Wha?" Kyle half-asked, glancing over at the grounded bird. "This ain't the place for you, man. You'd better… you've gotta get outta here, man…"
As he approached the pigeon, he spotted something clenched within its beak; a rolled-up piece of paper. Kyle snatched the paper away, and began to give it a read.
Courtesy of Dwight the pigeon
~ EVERYTHING IS NEW ~
From the desk of Mr. Jim Townsend
January 3, 1772
Dear Mr. Deltahead,
I thank you for showing interest in the Jim Townsend Survey Company. We have looked over your credentials, and believe that you will be an excellent addition to our fair establishment. That being said, there is a fairly rigorous task that must be done in order to prove your worth beyond what can be said through merely pen and paper.
As you are no doubt aware, the world of contracts is not one to be taken lightly; one mistake could end your career, your life, or both. I hope that you do not show fear when you witness death, though considering you have already lost the woman you love, I would not put it past you.
Your first assignment is to find and eliminate a man by the name of Travis Bell. Do not ask any questions about this man, or who asked for his elimination; it is against our code of ethics here, and that code shall not be breached under any circumstances.
When you have eliminated the target, return to me at my office, and we shall discuss your future, if you choose to continue working with us.
Good luck, Mr. Deltahead.
Yours truly,
Jim Townsend
Kyle stared at the letter for a few moments before Dwight snatched it back up and flew away. The assassin tried to shoot him down, but his shaky hands did not aim true that time.
He shuffled along awkwardly, trying to maintain his balance, before he collapsed into another mysterious door that led to the living room.
"I need a little help here, man…" Kyle gasped, staring at Iwazaru, who was perched ever vigilantly in the corner of the room.
"Master, it is new. You seem to be undergoing a loss of energy. Consult the Mad Doctor and get some serum into your body before your blood is diminished entirely. If you are worried that you will not have time, I would highly recommend changing places with another member. Please do not die in this room if you can help it. That would be very ugly, and I much prefer looking at a clean room. I relinquish this, under Harman's name."
Kyle rolled his tired eyes at Iwazaru's diatribe before crawling his way to the television. He barely managed to change channels to the doctor before handing him the bag of blood.
The doctor nodded once again as the machine whirred away, spouting bottles of serum that the doctor somehow injected into Kyle through the television.
After a few bottles, Kyle managed to get himself back up and collect any extra serum bottles, though his brow was wet with a cold sweat.
"I can't take much more of this, man. Swap out, Christina…"
As Kyle's body vanished into the familiar red orbs, just as quickly they reconvened as a young girl who looked no more than ten. A grey wool hat rested on her head, though a pair of blonde pigtails stuck out from the sides. Her hazel eyes were bright with excitement, and she hummed a little tune as she wiped herself off and adjusted her purple backpack. Her orange sweatshirt was far too big for her, as it almost covered up her running shorts and sneakers, but she seemed to enjoy the coziness that it brought.
If Kyle was the member of the Johnson Syndicate that I would rather have gone, Christina Johnson would be the one I think the group needs the most. Most assassins I know are all the same. They are the definition of cold-blooded, wanting nothing more than their target's head in a bag and willing to do anything to obtain their goal. But looking at Christina, she wouldn't want anyone to get hurt. To her, she's just playing a fun game, which coincidentally is helping us save mankind from a group of terrorists.
As you'd expect, Christina does not carry traditional firearms, but words alone can't describe the power and surprise that comes when she does battle with a Smile. Outside of that, her petite frame allows her to sneak through tight spaces with ease, and her general level of energy lets her run faster than any other. We just have to make sure she doesn't get hurt; when Christina is involved, despite all of our differences, we become a family for her. Even Konstantin is among the first to ensure her safety if something goes wrong. It's nice to know that we still have our humanity, I suppose.
"Thanks, Mr. Kyle!" Christina chirped, giving a friendly wave to the television. "I hope you feel better soon!"
With that, she skipped out of the room and back into the Celtic building, where another Giant Smile had replaced his fallen comrade.
"Uh-oh," she whispered. "Looks like you're gonna have to go away now!"
She knelt down onto the dusty floor, and from her backpack pulled out a bazooka-like object. Looking over it, she gave a little smile and aimed it at the eye as Kyle had done so before.
"Sorry, mister, but I hate it when people are mean to my friends!" she yelled before pulling the trigger.
A moderately large potato launched out of the tube-shaped cannon at a frighteningly high speed, somehow exploding on impact with the cyclops.
"Yeah!" she cheered as the Smile dissipated into the familiar lights and colors. "That was fun! I wonder if anyone else is gonna come out to play?"
"Looking for some fun, kid?"
Christina turned around to see Travis standing where the door had been. He snapped his fingers rhythmically as he stared into space, his shirt now reading "TRUE LOVE".
"Let me tell you how not to have fun; get yourself tied up in something like this. I was only killed once, right? But that letter said I was killed some two hundred years ago. That's some serious…"
Travis bit his ghostly tongue. Despite his personality, even he didn't want Christina to hear any of his usual profanities.
"Er, some serious stuff going on. I'm gonna look into it. You should go on ahead. We'll play later, okay?"
Christina stared up at Travis' empty eyes before giving another warm smile.
"That sounds good, Mr. Travis! I always knew you were a good guy after all!"
As the shorty walked forward through the fourth-floor doors, Travis' permanent smile widened just a little bit.
As she ran through the twisting hallways of the Celtic building, Christina found herself in a surprising state as she had to stop and catch her breath often. The Heaven Smiles had arrived in greater numbers than before, and even her grenade-like potatoes couldn't get rid of them quickly enough. What had hindered her more was stopping to put more potatoes into the spud gun itself, as her small hands couldn't hold more than one at a time.
"Aw, this is no fun at all," the shorty whined as she threw another potato into her gun. "Mr. Travis is busy, these bullies won't go away, and I'm gettin' tired. Swap out, Mr. Lochlan!"
Christina disappeared into the mist, leaving behind a few confused Heaven Smiles. The lapse in the action soon ended with the appearance of a lanky, slim man with a silk top hat. His baby blue eyes looked into the distance as he ran a finger through his wispy handlebar mustache. His bright green coat fit loosely over his blue button-up undershirt and the rim of his black dress pants, just enough room for him to pull out a curious handgun.
"And for my first trick…" the man stated loudly before firing his gun four times. The bullets blasted forward before turning around and hitting each of the Smiles in their designated weak points, leading to a small series of bloody fireworks.
"Ha ha, voila! That is how you make an entrance!"
Never let it be said that Lochlan Johnson would disappoint a crowd. He gained his position as the thief not just for his impressive feats of sneaking into locked rooms and leaping great heights, but for stealing the show as well. His custom handgun is a bit of an odd weapon, as it is equipped with rubber bullets that wouldn't effect most anything, even when fired from high speeds.
But then again, I guess that's what he wants us to believe. Through some manner of hocus-pocus, Lochlan can change the direction his bullets travel so that they hit his opponents where they're the weakest, despite his never having seen them before. Like any good magician, he doesn't reveal his secrets, but it's safe to say that I've spent a good amount of my time trying to determine how it was done.
The magician pocketed his weapon as he strolled forward, whistling a whimsical tune before a descending Iwazaru interrupted his walk.
"Master, it is new. Something has changed in the building. This door was never locked, and now it is," Iwazaru said, pointing his body towards a heavy padlock on the door that led to the fifth floor staircase. "I've tried everything, but there's no breaking this lock. We need the Thief to help us. I relinquish this, under Harman's name."
"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken, my floating friend," Lochlan said, his voice echoing through the empty corridor as if it were a big top. "Breaking and entering is simple. Any petty thief could do such a thing. But to enter a room and keep the door locked…"
With a snap of his white-gloved fingers, Lochlan disappeared in a cloud of smoke, appearing on the other side of the door.
"That, can only be done through magic!"
"Magic, huh? Is that what you're calling that shit?"
Lochlan whirled around to see, once again, Travis Bell, occupying himself by hanging from a loose metal bar. His shirt now read "STAINED PURITY".
"You want to see some real magic, just look at how much this place changed, how little there is to see. Two humans that got turned into those creeps, the puzzles and mysteries are all gone, and the only thing they decided to add was a fuckin' lock?"
Lochlan raised an eyebrow at the Remnant Psyche. "I admit, the audience here hasn't been as lively as it has in the past. But the show must go on, as you know. Look here!"
Removing his hat to show his bald head, Lochlan reached in and pulled out a pigeon.
"Ta-da!" the thief said with a smile.
"And here I thought a rabbit would be more your style," Travis noted. "That bird doesn't have a message on it, does it?"
Lochlan gave a hearty laugh before noticing that the ghostly figure was right; like Kyle had seen before, the bird held a rolled-up piece of paper in its beak. Lochlan snatched it away before giving it a cursory glance.
Courtesy of Greg the pigeon
~ THE CRYING LIGHT ~
From the desk of Mr. Jim Townsend
February 15, 1772
Dear Mr. Deltahead,
Forgive my not contacting you any earlier than I am. After your spectacular performance, we've agreed that you should be more of a secret weapon than a standard assassin. Your skills and capabilities might even match my own, though I'm sure you'd be hesitant to try and take me out yourself.
Before I delve into what needs to be done, I would like to remind you that privacy and compliance are our top priorities here at the Jim Townsend Survey Company. I've heard a rumor that you were looking into your past target beyond our established guidelines. I will look away this time due to your exceeding expectations, but do not expect me to take this so gracefully should this happen again.
I will say that your next target is another assassin, though from the looks of it he may not be as he seems. They say he has something of a split personality, something about a mask that makes him act strangely. I only tell you this because he was a former member of our esteemed group that broke our trust, and he is not to be taken lightly.
I expect the same quality of work that you gave us earlier, Mr. Deltahead. If you disappoint us now, it's very possible that the whole company would go up in flames, and I will not hesitate to make you take up the yoke.
Good luck, Mr. Deltahead.
Yours truly,
Jim Townsend
"This seems to be addressed to someone else," Lochlan wondered aloud as Greg took the letter and flew out of a broken window. "Did I conjure this bird myself, or was it waiting for me?"
Lochlan gave the room another look; Travis had left his perch. The magician sighed in disappointment for letting an audience member down, but stormed up the staircase with a renewed sense of duty.
It would have continued to be such a sense of duty, had his determined gaze not caught the attention of another security camera. Lochlan looked up in it with more than a little unhappiness, but accepted that his short time in the spotlight had ended.
"Swap out, Walter," the magician said as he disappeared in bloody orbs instead of a puff of smoke, leaving behind the gentlemanly cleaner.
Walter prepared his pistol as he had done before. He wasn't the most capable at fighting the Heaven Smiles, but he surely would not disappoint his master.
He continued up the stairs to the sixth floor, near the dance hall. Walter looked up, and was surprised to see that another camera had vanished entirely. Remembering the information he read about when the second Smith Syndicate stormed the building, he knew that an angel would soon be ahead.
What he didn't know was what that angel's intentions were.
"Once again, my children have been destroyed," the wide-eyed angel said. After ten years, she still held the form of a little girl. "And once again, it is a group of strangers that have done it. We owe no apology for our actions, as we are simply aiming to rid the world of the evils that populate it. Is that not your own goal? Why can our actions not work in unison?"
"I am afraid, madam, that evil is in the eye of the beholder," Walter said, aiming his pistol at one of her four wings. "What matters here is not what is right or wrong, but whose actions are causing the most negative reactions. On that matter, miss, you are far from innocent."
Walter blasted away her wings with ease, as they were not as powerful as they were when she first arrived at the Celtic building a decade earlier. The angel collapsed to the ground, where she stayed for all of three seconds before dragging herself back up, her relatively innocent face replaced with the stern smirk of Kun Lan as dangerous-looking bat wings spread from the abomination's back.
"You're not getting away that easily," the target said with an evil chortle. "You may talk a big game, but let's see what happens when you come face to face with a fallen angel!"
"Swap out, Konstantin," Walter interrupted, replacing himself with the stone-faced assassin. The mask readied his automatic pistol as he fired shots into the fallen angel's body, though they bounced off.
"No weak points this time," Kun Lan taunted before preparing a jet of flames. Konstantin stared it down before side-stepping it.
"There's always a weakness," the assassin grunted before switching weapons to his silent revolver. "Aim for the face."
The silent revolver's shot hit its target, but the angel still refused to die.
"Another tip. If you lose once, you'd better have the smarts to change your weak points."
Konstantin's grip tightened ever so slightly on his revolver, his first instance of a reaction since the mission began. He continued to circle Kun Lan, barely avoiding the onslaught of flames that bombarded him before another idea popped into his head.
Changing his weapon back to his automatic pistol, Konstantin shot at the bat wings that had sprouted earlier. Again, no reaction. Konstantin considered his other options before noticing the most obvious solution; the door leading out of the dance hall to the final room of the building.
Somersaulting out of the way of one final jet of flame, Konstantin slammed the door behind him as he left the screeching creature clawing frantically at the door.
Konstantin considered his options, but did not expect the final result to be his disappearance without his own consent.
In his place stood a tall man with a wild mane of orange hair that swept behind his back. He wore a duster over a dark brown dress shirt and white necktie. He reached into the pocket of his matching brown pants before pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips, lighting it with a match from his other pocket. His fierce brown eyes stared into the distance as he fiddled with the cigarette near his goatee, before the noises from behind the door finally distracted him.
As he opened the door, the man pulled out a standard-looking shotgun that looked as if it would be best used for hunting game. Putting the barrel between the demon's eyes, the newly summoned man pulled the trigger, and Kun Lan's strange creation collapsed in a heap.
Oh, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself yet, but I've been telling you this story for so long. My name is Jonathan, Jonathan Johnson. I'm the founder and the leader of the Johnson Syndicate, and so I took it upon myself to uphold the position of the "god-killer." Not particularly modest, of course, but it comes with the position.
I hope you don't mind, but I don't like to talk about myself that much. Call it an attempt at being humble, call it maintaining an air of mystery, call it an attempt to push the spotlight on the other members of the syndicate, whichever you prefer. Regardless of the situation, I'm more comfortable holding a few secrets. Chances are they will be revealed eventually, but now is not that time.
Jonathan blew on the smoking gun, smirking slightly at the nonmoving former angel at his feet before turning to the final room.
"Hold it."
Jonathan turned around to see Travis standing in the middle of the hallway, his arms crossed over his "CHAOS THEORY" shirt.
"If you're in charge of things here, you might have the answers I need."
"You're looking for answers?" Jonathan asked. "From what I've seen you seem to get your kicks by having my little organization question its own existence. What reason is there for me to try and resolve your mysteries?"
"Because you know. You know everything."
Jonathan laughed at that. "If I knew everything, Travis, I could tell you why you've decided to spend your time following around our syndicate instead of working with your proper master."
"You don't think I've realized that?" Travis asked, his ghostly voice filled with an uncharacteristic desperation. "The chief killed me off, but then there's a letter saying I've been dead for a couple centuries. Can't entirely ask him about that shit, you know?"
"All in good time, Travis. All in good time."
Jonathan entered the door as he walked through the Remnant Psyche's non-existent flesh, Travis looking defeated for the first time he could think of.
The glass window was still broken in the top-floor room, but Jonathan's attention was focused entirely on the true Kun Lan standing in front of him, his God Hand still glowing with an unnerving light.
"How disappointing!" Kun Lan laughed. "Having to bring out the talents of the god-killer before the game's even begun. I always knew you would be nothing but a sad replacement for Harman."
"This is no game, you sick son of a bitch," Jonathan growled, his tone significantly different than his lighthearted talk with Travis Bell. "You may have played around with that codger, but if you think I'm as soft as he was, think again. I'm here to make sure that your little friends leave this fucking country, one way or another."
"My, your temper is worse than I expected," the Eastern leader said with another taunting chortle. "Don't you remember those days where we could let our words do the talking for us without resorting to violence? Those days where chess games were held in higher regard than war games?"
"I'm not here to play any games with you," Jonathan replied as he chewed through his cigarette. "Now unless you're willing to give up, I'm gonna have to get serious."
Kun Lan's laughter was as maniacal as a Heaven Smile at this point. "Serious! Who do you think you are, Jonathan? Are you planning on changing the world, or just making your little spiteful wishes come true?"
Jonathan raised his shotgun and fired. Kun Lan lifted a finger, and the bullet fell to the ground.
"Oops. Looks like you don't have the power of an anti-tank missile. Shocking, isn't it?"
The god-killer looked at his weapon before throwing it to the floor in frustration.
"If you think I was shooting to kill, you're even more foolish than I expected. I just wanted to send you a message."
Kun Lan cupped his chin in his hand. "A message, you say?"
"Yeah," Jonathan rasped as he spat out his cigarette butt. "The chase is on, and next time, I won't miss my target."
Kun Lan laughed once again. "The world is getting smaller still, but if you think this will make your task easier I'd say you would be the fool here. But if you're so sure that this game is yours, then do your best. This dream of mine… might be the most fun I've had in years! Heh heh heh…"
The chaotic, unending laughter filled the Celtic building's room as countless Heaven Smile emerged from the God Hand. Jonathan picked up and cocked his shotgun; he wouldn't be stopped here.
Devil – Complete
Exterminated Heaven Smiles: 108
He with his head in the clouds will be among the first to see Heaven.
Continue to - Sunrise