The Serial Killer's Hotline:
Jaune never attended combat school, or Beacon for that matter. His life had spiraled down the drain when what the doctors called "schizophrenia" hit him at 14. Jaune thought they were fools, he wasn't hearing things or imagining messages from mysterious benefactors were being left on his phone. No, his employers needed him, he was their professional, the clean up crew, the man who got the job done. When his bosses needed someone silenced, or maybe they wanted to remind a business partner of their contract, they always called The Professional...
0-0-0-0
It was a hot night in the massive expanse of Vale, but gradually the heat had been giving way to a humid coolness that clung to the skin. In the lower reaches of the distinguished city, sat a shady, and seedy, motel and in room 13 lay a man with a mop of golden hair.
Jaune laid on his bed, hands behind his head, as he waited for a call. Any call really, his employers were being kinda slow with the work and, if he hadn't been their number one guy, he might've thought they'd fired him. But no, eventually the phone in the crumbling room gave its shrill cry, interrupting the otherwise silent atmosphere...
Once...
Twice...
Beep!
"Hey Jaune, we got a little bit of a problem down at the Red Room on the east side." A low and rather gruff voice said from the other side. "Turns out the DJ we hired didn't show up, and, well, we were thinking you'd head down there and act as a replacement for a bit. Personally, we think that the owner is skipping out on a few payments and maybe doesn't want to talk with us about it. I hoped you could change his mind, and remember: make sure the establishment pays you..."
A vague and concerning message? Jaune sighed and sat up at the edge of his bed, cracking his neck and fingers, another job and another wad of cash given to him. That's really all it was, money, a job. It's not like he particularly found joy in hurting people, I mean, he took satisfaction in how thorough his work was but it didn't really excite him to extract someone's innards. In the end, this was just another job with a particularly good hazard pay and who was he to turn down such steady employment in the midst of a growing recession?
Schizophrenia, yeah right. Last time he checked, hallucinations don't leave you bundles of cash inexplicably out of nowhere when they tell you to do stuff. So what he was having visions of people he never knew in his dreams? So what if they were pestering him about his choices in life? It was probably just work related stress. Those doctors should go back to school and hand in their degrees, just because his work wasn't as glamorous as a huntsman's it doesn't mean they have to vilify it.
Sighing deeply, his personal scroll ringed again, and again, and again...
Beep!
"Hey Jaune it's me, ugh, just calling in to see how you're doing...?" came a sweet and soft voice from the machine, a surge of throbbing pain shot through his head as it talked. "Vale's been good to me bro, ugh, my partner is pretty cool so that's great... Ugh, mom and dad are worried about you again, they called me last night and told me you had to go to Vale on "business" whatever that means. So just ugh, please be careful and give me a call back when you can, love you."
Twin sisters, or just twins in general really. Connected by that red string of fate crap, she probably felt his tremor of... whatever he felt nowadays. Fatigue? Weariness? Monotony?
Good questions all around, but he needed to punch in and it was time to get to work. He slipped into the beat up 1966 mustang and sighed as he turned the ignition, the car sputtered and coughed to life as the headlights grew brighter. Jaune threw it into reverse and off he went for the night...
0-0-0-0
The Red Room was, unsurprisingly, placed in the middle of the Red Light district. Courtesans were placed at every street corner and even shadier folk stuck to the dark alleyways of the seedy district. Jaune parked the car in the only free spot, halfway down the block, and picked up the duffel bag from the back seat as he neared the entrance.
Outside, two goonish bouncers awaited, looking at all who entered. Jaune walked up to the front of the line, ignoring the outcries, and stood facing the two security guards, they both seemed rather unimpressed and looked poised to escort him off the property, but before they could Jaune began to talk.
"I'm the replacement DJ you guys hired for the night." Jaune said lightly, trying to make himself seem unassuming. "Guy in charge said the last one cancelled right?"
The two goons looked at eachother before one pulled out a walkie-talkie and contacted someone on the other end.
"Hey boss, d'you hire a replacement for the DJ that skipped out?" the man asked in a heavy voice.
"Replace-? Dammit, one of the girls must've hired him, whatever send him in." came the annoyed and rather tired reply from the other end. The grunt jerked his head at the door and let the blonde man through.
Across the threshold held what was possibly the most lavish, and sensual, clubbing scene Jaune had ever laid eyes on. True to its word the majority of it seemed to be decorated in red, although the flashing red and white strobe lights seemed a bit garish to Jaune. Slinking off into an employee's only hallway, he knelt down and unzipped the duffel bag revealing the contents within.
A pistol, a knife, some spare magazines, and an assortment of working tools such as pliers, wrenches, and the like. But what stood out within the bag was a pure black hockey mask, tribalistic lines of red swathed the mask giving it a much more savage look. Jaune slowly, perhaps even gently, picked it out of the bag and slid it over his face; following that, he reached in once more to extract a much larger tool than all the others in the bag.
Zipping the duffel bag up again and placing it in a spare closet, The Professional hefted the large fireman's axe onto his shoulder and made for what could only have been the boss's office. He was not subtle, instead opting to kick in the door where the imposing man jumped from the sudden intrusion. It only took a few good seconds for the boss of the Red Room to put the pieces together.
"Replacement DJ my ass." he snorted derisively. "Look, whatever your bosses want I don't have, so how 'bout you get the hell out of my establishment before I sic all 50 guards in this place on your ass."
The Professional shrugged slightly, not really giving anything away before he stalked forward. The black-bearded man was already reaching for what appeared to be a large, red baseball bat as he kicked the desk towards the oncoming assassin.
As the two closed in on eachother, to The Professional, the world's colors changed and white noise began to fill the air with each step. Once the two were within swinging distance The Professional acted, swinging his axe in a wide arc across the owner's body who just barely managed to dance back. Seeing an opening, the bearded man swing his club right into his opponent's face sending through the remnants of the shattered door.
Not giving up for a moment, the man kept on his supposed assassin swing left and right, trying to hit him once more. Meanwhile, not to be caught off guard again, The Professional deftly dodged each swipe before returning one with a heaving vertical arc right onto the older man's forearm. Aura or not, the blade of the axe sliced through the suit he had been wearing and lodged itself right into the man's flesh.
The man howled in pain before swinging wildly in an attempt to dislodge the killer, unfortunately he had moved to slow and was instead greeted with an elbow right into his nose and chin. The axe came loose and the man fell backwards clutching his bleeding arm.
"Melanie! Militia! Kill this asshole!" he barked, and before The Professional could even truly act he felt a scathing blow connect with the side of his head. Whirling around, The Professional only barely caught the bladed heel that swept toward his head once more with the shaft of his axe. He threw the young looking girl off, someone who must've been her sister stalked up beside the one with the bladed heels.
"Who is this guy Melanie?" the one in a red dress asked.
"I don't know Miltia, but I think it's time we teach him a lesson." the one in white with the heels said before he lunged forward with a daring kick.
The Professional caught the blade with his axe before pushing forward and sending the girl off balance. Miltia picked up the slack and began to swipe with her red claws at the killer for hire who narrowly avoided being gutted by them. Suddenly, when the girl's guard was open, The Professional threw a wild haymaker into the side of her head and sent her to the floor with a loud crack!
"Miltia!" Melanie shouted before turning to growl at the masked man. She slid forward on the blades of her heels before executing multiple feints designed to throw off the mysterious man, she finally acted with another roundhouse. However, this time, instead of dodging or blocking, the killer took it without hesitation the heel cracking against the side of his head and grating against his aura.
But if the man even felt it he did not show as he grabbed hold of the girl's ankle and squeezed with as much force as he could muster. Melanie wailed in agony as she felt her ankle begin to crack under the immense pressure before she was saved by her uncle who knocked the man to the side with his bat. The man got up slowly, cracking his fingers and neck as the three injured stared him down.
"What are you here for?" The owner, Junior, asked impatiently still holding the bleeding gash in his arm.
"My benefactors wanted me to come and speak with you about some missing payments." The Professional spoke, face hidden behind the stoic mask. The two girls glanced between the two of them as more of Junior's guards began to take notice and surround him.
Junior called them off with a wave of his hand. "And I don't suppose we could call this even and pretend like nothing ever happened?"
The Professional seemed to consider that for a moment. "I suppose we could, as long as you didn't try and pull this again. Truthfully, my employers only want to make sure you're paying your dues."
Junior breathed heavily as he looked between everyone present, from the guards, to the girls, and finally back to his supposed assassin. He collected himself and dropped his bat, instead opting to grip his wound to try and slow the river of blood.
"Alright, alright. Consider it done, but I swear to god if even one of my guys ever sees you again the coroner is going to have to find which part of you wasn't turned into a bloody mess." He growled, jabbing a finger at the man.
The Professional just shrugged before walking out the door as if nothing had ever happened, and, in the distance, sirens began to wail...
0-0-0-0
Back at Beacon a figure sat alone in the rec room, watching the TV as it played the morning news. No one else was up yet so she had plenty of time to be alone with her thoughts.
Perhaps she was panicking, perhaps she was overreacting, or maybe she wasn't...
"In other news a local establishment, The Red Room, was suddenly under siege last night by an unknown, masked assailant. Witnesses described him as wielding an axe and brutally wounding the owner of the bar and club. Said bar and club was the epicenter of..."
The rest became static as the figure bit her thumb in concern, looking at the grainy picture of the masked man swinging an axe down onto someone...