It wasn't long before rumours about the recent gas explosion in St. Petersburg spread like wildfire in the underworld.

Though it was said that Shelly de Killer had died in the blast, there was speculation on how he was still alive when a few assassins disappeared in various parts around the globe. The latest piece of miscellaneous gossip floating around was his acquisition of a new pet, a tiny animal which some had argued was either a lion cub, a piglet, or a komodo dragon.

No one knew what de Killer looked like apart from the photographs taken of the man in various disguises. Those who had come after him were also never heard from again.

Who was this de Killer? What was hidden behind that anachronistic code of honour and old world sensibilities? De Killer's victims were from diverse walks of life, but he had a particular taste for killing men of great influence. Various accounts regarding the chronology of his clientele mention his very first client had been a Russian diplomat in 1921 who ordered the killing of a dozen political spies. Rumours wove tales of him disappearing in one country and reappearing on the other side of the world the next day. Hushed voices spoke of him as an undying phantom who lurks in shadow to terrorize the next great leader of humankind. He'd been most prolific in the following decades, demanding exhorbitant fees before he'd begun taking on fewer requests during the early 1950s.

While many had puzzled over de Killer's slip-up in the recent murder of a television actor, another rumour that he might have been an imposter had become rather widespread. The wealth and prestige his name alone could bring was incentive enough for some assassins to test its authenticity, for it was said that one could become a de Killer by first killing him.

...

In all honesty, there was nothing extravagant about being a de Killer. Having lived most of his life in hiding, Shelly had become accustomed to a frugal lifestyle despite having amassed enough wealth to live several times over. Though he was well-versed in the ways of the world, he'd never been one to indulge in materialism; the pursuit of earthly delights can dull one's survival instincts. He made it a point to take no pleasure from the unflattering aspects of his trade, even if it involved the slow, righteous punishment of a traitor.

Getting the job done properly was his professional mantra.

Shelly de Killer always had a strong tolerance for loneliness thanks to the emotional conditioning he received from his training; as a result he developed a habit to help him cope with the accumulating stress before it affected his performance. On rare occasions he would always take the time to recall the faces of those he had killed. In each of their last moments alive he had watched over them so that they didn't fall into Death's embrace alone. Although de Killer had no one who would grieve for him once he died, the thought his victims would at least remember his face until their eyes rolled back in their sockets reassured him.

When the kitten came into his life, he somehow found yet another outlet for his repression. He had begun to confide in his new feline companion as if it was the only thing that proved he truly existed in this world. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was grateful for the return of affection Shoe had given him despite having dragged the cat through many dangerous situations. Perhaps someday he would find it in himself to believe that Shoe would remember him long after he's gone.

One evening, Shelly had the kitten curled up in the crook of his arm and stroked its back with his free hand as he murmured in a forgotten European dialect, recalling his own life story to pass the time.

Shelly's life was but an ordinary one, as ordinary as anyone else living in the frozen farmlands of Northern Europe. They were their own little country with no ties to the rest of the world; that was until he and all the village's children were forcibly abducted from their families and put into military camps to fulfill their sacred responsibilites of serving the Motherland. He had endured the harsh training and watched all his friends die in the process. Any survivors that remained were recruited into a small enforcement group, codenamed "De Killer", that obediently eliminated any and all threats to the Czar's rule. Although they had been integrated into a bigger organization called the Cheka, De Killer had existed long before the Cheka was created in 1917.

After killing so many of their former allies over the years, the De Killers had been discarded by their own country as a potential threat when it had been officially decided that a government should rule the people instead. Angry and upset at having been denied their rightful place in history, the enforcement group went rogue. They travelled the world as mercenary assassins, gathering funds from their clients to attempt a coup that ultimately led to the deaths of many of its members in an ambush. Their plans for invasion had been intercepted by the latest in Cheka intelligence-gathering methods, wire-tapping. Rather than directly eavesdrop on the rogue assassins themselves, the Cheka spied on their clients and all others they had contact with to extract - at times extort - information.

Two members remained, a young Shelly and his mentor were left behind in the bloody aftermath. Russia's winter storms had done well to hide them from their enemies. Hell-bent on avenging their former comrades and rebuilding their ruined organization, they continued to kill at the behest of those willing to pay top dollar for their talent and murdered those who had sold them out to the Cheka. For the young assassin, the training had become harsher than usual now that the future of the De Killers rested on his ability to master each skill his teacher insisted he learned.

Many years later, Shelly had matured to the point he had tired of the old man's petty delusions of grandeur. He was grateful for his lessons but not for the expectations that had been placed on him, thus he sought independance by taking on smaller contracts alone. The strain of performing additional reconnaisance and long-ranged sniping deteriorated his left eye to the point he had to wear a corrective lens disguised as a monocle.

The elderly mentor cursed at his pupil's resolve, called him a traitor to his own country. Shelly smoothly replied that he never betrayed anyone; since he never agreed willingly to serve a country he didn't belong to in the first place, instead it'd be accurate to say their country had betrayed its own people. As for the old mentor, he added, had been a traitor for a long time having served the country that permitted genocide to enforce law and order. The old mentor had seethed with vehement denial, but in a moment of reason relented before he could answer with a random rebuttal. Cursing his old age, he resigned to let his student determine the fate of the de Killer lineage. He then took it upon himself to teach Shelly one last lesson: the act of destroying the remnant traces of a past life with one's own hands.

That was when Shelley had earned his title as the third successor, and by then he had become truely alone in the world.

Melting out of his reverie, his senses finally registered the flickering embers in the fireplace and the brick walls he had been leaning on. He looked down and saw that the kitten in his arms was purring in its sleep. Stroking the tuft of brown fur on its forehead until it looked like a tiny mohawk, de Killer gazed at the peaceful expression the tiny creature wore before nodding off to sleep.

At least, not anymore, he thought.

...

For Shoe, nothing was more important than finding a place to live in peace, especially among good company. Thanks to the time he spent with his new friend, the old days in that empty mansion had all but faded.

His curious eyes had seen many things while he and Mr. Baseball Face travelled the world. About twice or three times a week Shoe woke up by the window to see new landscapes laid out before him. Life on the run was as thrilling as being in a game of hide and seek on a bigger playing field; however all that excitement wears down when one tires of running away from something. The rooms he stayed with the old man all looked different in their own way but were all just as dreary. There weren't many places Shoe was fond of staying; they were either too warm, too cold, too wet, too dry, too smelly or too noisy.

Sometimes curiosity got the better of the kitten and he would attempt follow his friend outside to help look for food. Since his friend always wore different faces and different clothes each time he went out, Shoe had to rely on his scent to track him down. It was a daunting task trying to keep up with the man's broad footsteps while avoiding the other pedestrians.

Shoe once lost his friend's scent in a sea of people at the local fish market and wandered desperately around the stalls. The owners always chased him out thinking he was out to steal their wares, a thought that had cross the kitten's mind more than once. Shoe tried to follow the elusive scent of lemon and metal and grew alarmingly confused by the sights, scents and sounds whirling all around him.

Just when Shoe began mewling in despair, the bemused old man could barely contain his laughter as he approached the feline stalker from behind and allowed Shoe to climb into his shopping bags. The both of them then took a pleasant stroll through many alley-ways, garden mazes, dark tunnels and rooftops. Exploring the unfamiliar surroundings that way became much more comfortable now that the kitten could rest his paws until they returned to their hideout.

On rare occasions an intruder or two had come by to chase them out, but he and his friend had worked together to drive them away. It helped that the kitten had practiced honing his senses so he could warn his friend ahead of time when to hide. Shoe eventually learned how to watch for the old man's hand movements so he knew when to ambush someone from his hiding places in the walls or the ceilings. He had to be very careful when attacking the intruders, sometimes they would grab and fling him off to the side. He was often thrown so hard that it hurt to land on his toes every time; it made running difficult when they aimed those fire-spitting metal tubes that made holes in the ground wherever he went.

Initially Shoe was quite afraid for the old man having seen how violently he fought with the other giants. The old man, as strong as he was, could never avoid getting hurt somewhere along the way. Naturally Shoe thought it was best to try fighting alongside his friend but it became difficult not to get himself hurt as well. The fights were usually loud and messy, they went by so quickly Shoe had trouble remembering exactly what happened each time.

On the floor, in the middle of strewn furniture and unconscious bodies, the kitten lay on his paws purring compulsively as the old man tended to his cuts and bruises. The man would try to speak to him in a reassuring voice while stroking his head affectionately in a delibrate slow motion. It made Shoe drowsy enough to ignore the nagging pain in his tiny body.

On some mornings Shoe suddenly found himself alone in their hideout. Even though it wasn't the first time this happened, he would constantly search the rooms until the old man returned carrying breakfast on a tray. As they ate the kitten noticed his friend had made black marks over some of the flat people on the wall again, a habit which made him a little nervous; it was a sign that they would soon have to move away again.

Whenever his friend wasn't looking, Shoe took down his favourite photo with his teeth and laid on top of it, trying to cover the entire glossy surface with his body as best as he could. Shoe hoped by doing so repeatedly the old man wouldn't make marks on it. As if the old man had already seen through the ploy, he usually tickled Shoe's belly until the feline rolled off to the side and calmly retreived the photo underneath, pinning it higher up on the wall just out of the kitten's reach.

The games Shoe got to play with his friend gradually grew complicated as they went from playing tag in their rooms to making thrilling chases on the rooftops in the evening twilight. Much to his chagrin, the old man won every game; Shoe ended up sulking around at home, having become bit of a sore loser over time. After being bribed with a tiny piece of juicy tuna steak for dinner he didn't mind his losses as much. On the other hand, his only real incentive for winning was a nice appetizing bowl of gourmet cat food and a much larger plate of tuna steak on the side.

There would be days the old man took Shoe with him to the places they previously explored to meet strange people who smelled of fear. The kitten had no idea what was going on but his friend looked like he was having a pleasant conversation with his acquaintances. The plethora of jumbled words bouncing around meaninglessly in his head, Shoe would pass out just as his attention span gave out for the nth time. When morning came he awoke in a daze of lethargy to see yet another new landscape through the window of a new room. Stretching his back and shaking his head to clear those pesky webs, Shoe waited patiently by the window for his friend to return again.

...

As he walked briskly through the bustling streets of New Delhi, de Killer paused briefly to purchase a copy of the morning news. Navigating the crowds while perusing the articles in the international section, he gave a little hum as he noticed the small tidbit of information that had caught his eye.

The authorities were puzzling over a series of peculiar murders they believe were performed by the same person. The victims' faces and upper torso areas were ripped to shreds before finally being shot square in their foreheads. The papers had dubbed this new criminal "The Scratch Killer", a handle which made the old man cringe at their horrible naming sense. Turning the page over, he read an article that mentioned another series of murders which had international police in a state of panic. Black cards bearing a white design, three long vertical marks superimposed on a face, had been discovered in each crime scene.

A copycat murderer, how quaint.

Folding and tucking the newspaper under his arm, Shelly de Killer made his way into a dilapidated apartment where the little kitten lay waiting by the window. A telescope sat to the side, aimed at an apartment room across the street, one he had rented out not too long ago. He gave a routine check through the lenses with his left eye before giving the feline a quick gentle pat on its head. It appeared the authorities might have found a small lead on his "successor", if it weren't for that tiny coincidence that is. No matter, his admirerers in the underworld would take care of the impersonator somehow.

For the past several months De Killer had been hunting down every last client who betrayed him in the past. He didn't bother leaving his calling card by their bodies. Right now it would make his retirement plan go more smoothly if the authorities had other distractions to attend to. There were still some small tasks left to be done, but with the kitten's help de Killer would be able to end everything nice and neatly. Shelly made his usual rounds gathering supplies and intel before taking the next flight to America.

It was around late February when Shelly and the kitten arrived at another safehouse in the middle of nowhere. Thanks to the recent blizzard that nearly covered the entire cabin, they spent a couple hours shovelling out the main entrance. As soon as they stopped shivering by the fire, Shelly spent some time to play with Shoe. So far the animal had been quite receptive to his hands and his voice which he used to coax it into executing various tasks after specialized training. With a word or a hand signal he could have it walk up the stairs on its hind feet if he wanted. The positive results of the last few trial runs was enough to convince Shelly that it was ready for its next test. As he carefully groomed the kitten, being particularly careful with its tiny paws, de Killer began feeling a little tug in the back of his mind as he applied a new set of nail caps. He was anxious over the notion that while everything had more or less gone to plan, something could go wrong down the line. Cleaning his monacle, he reassured himself he'll be well prepared whenever that happens.

Just one more test to go and everything else will fall in place.

In the early mornings Shelly had been surveying his next testing grounds, noting the extra obstacles and security details that would be difficult and dangerous for a lone man to bypass. Hopefully that wouldn't be a problem with a little animal. One evening Shelly fed Shoe a small meal and whisked it off in his car in a tiny cage before the kitten asked for seconds. When they finally stopped in a forest and stood outside to enjoy the winter moon, the old man felt a nagging tug on his leg. Teasing his assailant by dangling a sandwich bag filled with chunks of cooked tuna in front of its nose with his teeth, he commanded it to lay low as he tied a little package on its back. Satisfied with its obedience, he dropped the bag to the ground and watched Shoe tear into the thin plastic like a tasmanian devil. Before long, the kitten had been wrapped up in a scarf in Shelly's arms as they ventured to the edge of the woods. Vast snow plains stretched out beneath them and the night sky was illuminated by columns of white lights and tiny florescent flickers in the distance.

Feeling the kitten growing restless in his grip, de Killer whispered a few words of encouragement in its ear and let it roam free in the snow.

--

Author's note: The Cheka was a Russian intelligence organization that predated the KGB. I don't remember all the details about them per se, I only had a crash course in Espionage History last summer. But hey, if anyone's curious, there should be a bunch of articles about them online apart from Wikipedia.