The Twilight Assassin welcomed another task, and this was right up her alley: 110% intensity crystal signatures, one extremely active and in use, located in the sewer of all places. The last signature was six hours ago, but her intuition deemed otherwise as she stared into the drenched outlet in the back of the Everlight Forest. While the place crawled with smaller, older, or less important signatures worthy of investigation, the Magistrate knew her time was precious, so they needed her in the epicenter of the event. She opened the lid and entered the sewer.
Fondling with her new cloaking kit, she vowed to never let anyone hold onto her stuff again as she was reminded by the lack of ergonomics her replacements had, annoyingly flipping the switch with her other arm to activate it. Her new wrist-mounted weapon, however, far exceeded her old crossbow as she eagerly steadied her right arm, splashing into the shallow sewer water in the dark. Gifted with her pointed ears of elven descent, the cloaks of darkness became a harking sensation, minimally weakening her perception. The pipe continued for a long time judging by the echoes of her splashes while the specialist wadded through shallow depths. It was a long walk, and she remained vigilant all throughout, never loosening against the potential attack from the crystal user.
An hour passed. The splashes' pitch decreased, the water now riding up on her calf. To her shock, she felt the firmness of broken wooden foundation, acting like the remains of some kind of wooden building. Soon after, she started swimming through large wet pieces of tarp, angrily moving them aside as a clearing with a dim singular lightbulb bouncing its weak light along the damp metal enclosure. Driftwood, tarp, barrels, molding rotten fruit, articles of clothing and… bodies… plagued the massive cavern, along with a sudden pulsating pink glow catching the corner of her eyes while observing the damage. Turning to face it, she appalled the open vault-like door of the flood shelter and the light inside. The assassin climbed onto a piece of driftwood to investigate the light, reading her wrist-mounted small-arm smg, channeling her shock with this horrific incident to strengthen her will against the potential mysterious force ahead. Drowned people of all ages floated in the shallow water as she waved by, tunnelling her vision to avoid revolting at the rotting bodies begging for a final resting place. Now sitting atop a rigid scaffolding, the flood shelter's door was wide open; something escaped, but, judging by the shallow water level, it must have been a while ago and, judging by the bloodied corpses, ensued massive conflict. The flood did have survivors, and the only thing that crossed her mind was the impeccable evil of the survivor as her once-collected demeanor issued an eyebrow raise, glancing at the slew of unfortunate although unique folk swimming in their own rotted blood. Few, scattered pink particles clung to life as they gently faded away from what appeared to be three corpses, one almost completely unrecognizable, bearing rotted flesh on his neck funnelling down to the bone.
"I'll take that." The assassin looted the corpse of what appeared to be a younger man, stealing the miniature cloaking device, realizing it as the exact model of her old one.
After further inquiry, there was no telling of what happened, other than to point blame on the Resistance and their new unorthodox methods of hideous guerilla genocide. The Magistrate's hunt for these now murderous crystal users seemed to never end.
. . .
Mirrors lined inside and out around the building like a maze; Al-Deer could witness everything in his excessively sized office. Although it split into separate rooms, blocking itself by excess walls and needless clutter, the mirrors curiously allowed Al-Deer to see everything only from where he sat. Leaning back on his leather chair, he admired the earrings, diamond rings, satchels, wallets, coats, and worn shoes that lay on his massive desk, each with their own piece of paper soaked with ink and stamps.
"She's here, boss," a man called from beyond his office. Adjusting his dark red tie and spinning his stocky neck, a massive grin couldn't help but pry out of Al-Deer's often stern nature.
"Bring her in!"
A door far from Al-Deer creaked open, lightly heard through the maze of hallways protruding side to side throughout his office. As Al-Deer peered at the mirrors facing ahead, a tall woman with chestnut short hair, a belt-buckle in the shape of a skull, and an extravagant yellow scarf navigated the hall. To him it was as if she had a long narrow walk to reach him; to her it was an obnoxious, wavy-like maze just to meet him. The woman turned a corner to Al-Deer's left, rounding off the walls, directing her attention to the man in the big leather chair. As she approached, Al-Deer couldn't help but notice a white stripe of paint lined beneath her left eye; it fascinated him, prompting a small, awkward silence.
"The necklace," Al-Deer calmly demanded, gesturing his hand at her to place it on the table. "Put it here."
She obliged, digging into her pockets and pulling out a strange necklace with a fascinating faint glow akin to a severely weak yet still very illegal crystal.
Al-Deer chuckled in glee as he watched it smack the table after the woman dropped it. "I always knew it was fake, that blond bastard," He leaned back in his chair once more as the woman's eyebrow raised, placing her hand on her hip.
The boss rested his head on his hands. "Took your time on this one," he jested to the imminent dismay of the woman. "Gone for seven days. That's six too many."
He lit his cigar. "Go see Ron, he has your money," his voice twitched into piercing arrogance. "You'll find it significantly lower than last time. Come back sooner, and that may change. Now get out of here."
Without notice from his men, the lights began to dim, encasing his room slowly into darkness as Al-Deer looked at his mirror to witness a leaping pink figure with leopard-like mannerisms navigating his office all while Al-Deer lost his sight, careening into black. All he heard after were slashes was the scuttle of a belt pouncing around his room before his sight regained, remaining perfectly relaxed in his chair as several men trained their arms at a pink-haired, blue tigron-eyed small girl right next to his desk, kneeling beside it.
"That was incredibly impressive," Al-Deer chimed, rising from his chair and clapping above two of his henchmen's motionless corpses. "Kinessa!"
Maeve felt the barrel of a long rifle stick to her back, gazing into a mirror to see the chestnut-haired woman's long sniper rifle meet her spine behind her coat and skin, allowing eerie chills to scuttle up to her neck.
"Why can't you be like this?" Al-Deer pointed his lit cigar at Maeve. "Why can't you do this?" He quickly turned around and opened a drawer behind his desk, pulling out a massive packet of paper.
"We're in the midst of a war, fellas!" He yelled to no apparent reaction. "Everyone's at each other's throats, boys!" The men started laughing, and Kinessa couldn't help but chuckle just a bit.
"We're very, very busy…" Al-Deer flipped through his packet. "Contract after contract after contract!" He slowed down as he lost his smile, setting the packet on his desk, kneeling down to face the defeated girl.
"What's your name, girl?" He snatched one of her daggers from her belt, analyzing it before handing it to one of his men who promptly ran out of the room with it in his hand.
The girl spat on the ground next to her and out snarled a sly grin as she sleekly responded, "Maeve."
"EVERYONE OUT!" Al-Deer demanded, and soon rushed out every other person in the room. The mobster pulled 16,000 credits out of this pocket, and held out the elegant slips in front of her. "Well, Maeve," he handsomely responded, "I'm so...so happy you're here."
Pacing the room with the money in his hand, he kept his eyes trained on Maeve. "I like to think of this office as the entire Trade District. As perceptive as you seem, you know that I can see everything from where I sit, even if there are walls. It's the mirrors, Maeve. Even if you can't see me, I can see you. Never forget that."
Now unrestrained, Maeve rose to her feet, comfortable in Al-Deer's office, but before she could interject, a knock on the door prevented her intrusion.
"Come in, Ron." Al-Deer allowed.
A proper, well-dressed man waltzed through his maze of hallways to comfort the two, holding a small case, setting it down on Al-Deer's mahogany desk before politely and timely leaving the room.
"Open it, Maeve."
She scrambled to open her final gift, but before setting her hands on the crate, she froze. Belonging? Not again. She didn't belong; she couldn't belong. Honestly, Al-Deer couldn't tell, and no one ever believed him for the rest of his life, but he will swear that he saw the faintest tear in her eye as her hands struggled and staggered to open that box.
"We're not a team, you know," Al-Deer settled, now feigning stoicism, his heart hidden to the world for sympathy for the girl. "You can kill me right now, but what will that prove? Nothing. You're still crazed, you think you're purposeless. You and I both know the truth. No one willfully kills, Maeve. Not people. That's why I don't have people work on my contracts. I have you. Remember: not a team, money for you, a sense of purpose. That's the way of a bounty hunter."
Maeve turned her gaze away from Al-Deer and the money in his hands, and turned her attention at the box. She opened it. The shiny, glossy daggers' perfectly jagged blades, grip lined in smooth silky cloth strips around it massaging her eyes, coursing into the primal yet alien feelings that clung to the girl. She took the two daggers, flipped them in each hand as whispers danced in her head, the smooth cloth galavanting in her hands as they twirled, all while pink particles encapsulated the ends of the blades, physically claimed by the girl forever.
"Good luck, Maeve of Blades."
