"But dad, Oi-!"

The Sniper leaned against the cold wall helplessly, holding the side of his head as he begged for it not to explode as he repeated the same thing for the umpteenth time. The voice on the other end of the telephone was strong and determined, seemed alert even though everything the Sniper had said to it bounced off straight back at him. It was like talking to a wall, and paying three dollars to do so.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but only a hoarse, cracking sound came out, not too different from the sound of the phone line, being occasionally broken up. The connection would come back, and a string of criticisms from the wall-father with it.

"Listen, Oi-!"

Of course, one might only assume that those two words would drag on another long rant, during which the Australian would grunt and lightly bang his head against the surface of the wall. He would repeat the action until his forehead was sore, or until his father ran out of breath, whichever came first.

But his forehead seemed to tire out quite quickly that day, even though his father hadn't stopped talking for even half a second, not even to catch his breath, not even when he dropped the phone in anger. The marksman closed his eyes, trying not to say something he would later regret dearly. At this point, it was futile to try and negotiate with this man.

"Dad…" he said through a sigh; "p-put mum on the phone, would ya?"

"And another thing!" Lawrence Mundy spoke sternly, clutching the phone handle tightly in his veiny, liver-spotted hands. His voice was croaked from all the talking he had submitted himself to, and he had trouble sitting up due to his aching back. He honestly had no idea what he was going to say next, but he couldn't have his son have the last word.

By the tempo he had set for himself, one would assume that he wouldn't let his son have any kind of word at all.

"If you don't leave that ungodly job I swear I'll leave you out of the will! When I die, this land is going to the sheep! You have one more chance to get off that high horse of yours and come back home, or else I'll disown you faster than a dingo tears up a baby!"

His son was trying to tell him something about that argument repeating itself several times over the course of a little bit over an hour that they were talking, but his father had no intention of listening too carefully. Instead, his old mind spewed out the most parental remark anybody ever thought of.

"Don't you get snippy with me, Victor! I know damn well I'm repeating myself! I bleedin' have to, seeing that you ain't listening to anything me or your mum say! But of course you don't care about that, being a crazed gunman an' all. You'd probably want her dead! If ya get enough money for a first-class plane ticked, you'd probably fly over here and off us yourself!"

His son was beginning to convince him how he would never do such a thing. But then again, who could possibly take his word now? An assassin, of all things! Lawrence's glasses were becoming foggy to a point where the old man could practically see his son standing before him as he scolded him. He stretched out his index finger, raising the tone of his voice for an octave.

"No, you listen! Me an' yer mum are tired of this charade of yours! Unless you want to come back and make your life as a decent human being, you might as well stop calling us here! Last thing we want is to get involved in one of your killing sprees!"

The door of the bathroom opened, and out came the sound of a flushing toilet. A small, round face peered out of the made gap, surrounded by frizzy, silvery hair.

"Is that Vicky, dear?" The old woman asked. Her husband did not need to respond to that question. He looked at the wall their bed was facing, and seemed angry enough to kick off the mushroom-colored blanket he was covered with. She slowly walked out, rubbing some ointment on her dry hands, the motion consisting of cupping her hands repeatedly.

"Listen, Vic, when I was your age, I-!"

The man suddenly stopped in time, his eyes looking into the distance much like a ewe looked at the slaughterhouse door. His lips moved to the side, his nose followed reluctantly. His wife sat on the side of the bed, her eyes shifting from the displeased look taped on her husband's face to the telephone he held in his hand.

He closed his eyes tightly and released a sigh, putting his middle and index finger together and gently rubbing the middle of his forehead. He did so briefly, before he spoke up again.

"You want to involve her in this? You want to anger her as well?"

Muriel's eyes widened, a glimmer of hope in them, a want to hear her son's voice. Lawrence furrowed his brow as he stretched his arm out to her; as though he were trying to demonstrate something to the person he spoke with over the phone.

"Well how the hell do you think she is? She's livid! And who could blame her? Having a murderer as a son, wouldn't you be?!"

"Oh, give me that, Lawrence!" She said condescendingly. The spiral cord stretched over him, and he was forced to lie down on his pillow as the wife hugged the handle close to her pale face. Lawrence folded his arms and sulked as she talked in a tone more cheerful than livid.

"'Ello, Vicky? It's mumsie, how are ya?" She said, ignoring the stare her husband threw at her, the why-are-you-treating-our-murderous-son-as-a-five-year-old frown. Her son spoke something about him being fine, in audible shock for being able to get a word in edge-wise.

"Oh, well that's good," she said as she smiled brightly; "It's good to have you out in the sun."

"Out in the sun?" Lawrence spoke with a temper. "I thought murderers only met up in dark street alleys, like drug dealers or prosti-!"

Muriel shushed him, her face finally forming something that could be considered a frown. The lines smoothened up as soon as she returned to talking to her son.

"Oh, I'm fine, dear. Workin' 'round the farm, flower arrangin', you know 'ow it goes… oh and putting up with your father. He's been a grumpy old foagie, as usual."

Her husband mimicked her speaking, looking into the ceiling and moving his lips while making an incoherent, high-pitched noise. Muriel reached out her arm by an inch, shaking it at him as she concentrated on a yellowish spot on the blanket, listening to her son intently.

"Oh, don't say that! Your father is a lovely person! And frankly, he has every right to be upset with you, just so you know," she exclaimed in a voice not much louder than her coos were, but in a voice much stricter. Lawrence looked at her, grateful that his wife still had a grain of a brain ticking away in that little head of hers.

"You have to understand, Vicky, me and your dad are never going to approve of what you are doing. Not after how we raised you, anyway. We were always trying to give you our love… at the very least, I was," she said, her frown shifting to Lawrence for a mere second before it darted to the side.

"… listen, I'm saying that I don't approve. I don't understand, and frankly I never will. But after all that, I am your mother. And as your mother, it is my duty to help you if you ever decide to return to the right path. No matter what you do, you'll always have a cozy old homely home to return to, love."

"He won't be getting anything if he keeps up blowing the heads off every poor bloke he don't like!" Lawrence said, slowly standing up until the white cord touched the bridge of his nose.

"Lawrence, that's enough," his wife said.

"Tell him, if he don't fix his act, I swear to God-!"

"I said that's enough, Lawrence!"

The spouses looked deeply into each other's eyes as Lawrence slowly descended back into his pillow. He huffed, and only then did his wife uncover the bottom end of the phone.

"I am so sorry about that, love. Your father cares for ya, honestly! He wants the best for ya. And please, consider changing your career. There must be some other use of your talent that doesn't involve…" she bit down her lip, looking for a propped word; "… pest control."

Lawrence heard the muffled voice of his son saying that 'pest control' was the best euphemism for his profession he had ever heard. His father couldn't help but to smile at the notice.

"Yes, well, I did not want that to sound cool, I wanted it to sound like it is! Now please, Victor, you can't possibly do that all your life, it's too dangerous! You can get shot or stabbed or mauled… not to mention, being a hitman is very antisocial. You can't connect with people if they know you're going to fly a bullet in their heads."

Lawrence agreed with himself that his wife was the worst negotiator in existence.

"And, besides," she started; "what kind of example would you be setting for little Dolores-!"

She hit her mouth with the palm of her hand, and held it there for quite some time. She slowly slid it downwards, hoping for a second that her son wasn't paying attention. Sadly, not missing a single detail was in his job description, so he ended up asking her what she said, and she ended up telling him.

"Oh, I can't… I promised her you'd hear that from her…" A smile spread through her face as she let out an exhale that seemed to calm her.

"Horace and Lu had a baby girl. And they named her… well…"

Lawrence noticed that it was getting quite late. He should have been asleep two hours ago, and his wife and son's silly rambling did not help him sleep at all. She enthused about the news more than she should have.

"Oh, I know! Everything's coming up roses for those two, isn't it? I mean, first they open up a small diner of their own, then they have a baby… I just saw Lucy three days ago. She looked absolutely fabulous! You know, keeping in mind she gave birth two weeks ago. Poor thing insisted that she looked like the victim of a bus crash. Nonsense, she looked fine! Anyway, she was asking about you. I didn't tell her where you worked at, I told her to tell you when you visit us over the holidays…" She stopped for a moment, listening to her son's question. "Well, if she is going to make you Dolores's godfather, you better tone it down with the murders, alright? I wasn't comfortable with Uncle Wallace being your godfather, and he only committed a bit of arson!"

"It's late, Muriel…" Lawrence said, bringing the blanket over his face as his eyes slowly closed under the lenses of his round spectacles. She ignored him.

"Oh and you must know, there is nothing people dislike in a crowd than a violent person. If you absolutely have to do that, do it until you raise enough money to live a decent life. This can't be your calling, it's too introverted!"

"It's late, Muriel!" He repeated in a sterner tone.

"Oh that? Your father sends his love. Anyway, if you ever come to your senses, please know that…"

"It's late, Muriel!"

His wife slowly ticked her nose to the side, huffing.

"…right. Well, love, I will be hearing you soon… love you, Vicky… kissy, kissy, mwah, mwah, mwah," she began, hugging the phone close to her before her husband snatched it and slammed it against the stand. It dinged as it made impact. Muriel placed her hands on her hips, frowning at him.

"That was not very nice, Lawrence."

"Oh, pipe down, ya old bat! Listen to ya, goin' on and on about Lucy and givin' 'im kisses whattsit...Why do you have to baby him so much, Muriel?" he asked, taking off his glasses and putting them on the nightstand. "He is a crazed gunman, don't let him tell you otherwise!"

"Well," she began, picking up the covers and shoving her legs inside; "you have to have a little fate in the boy. He sounds right in the head."

"All lunatics sound right in the head just before they blow your off! I can't believe some poor kid will have him as a godfather…"

"Come on, Lawrence! Lucy knows the man as much as we do, and-,"

"Not as much as we do, Muriel!" He insisted, extending his index finger and wagging it towards her. "She doesn't know he's insane. Besides, the girl is not the sharpest tool in the shed."

"Say what you want about Lucy, but she is a nice girl who knows what she's talking about!"

"Alright!" Lawrence said, throwing up his arms in faux agreement. "Out of the four people he ever had real contact with, he gets along with her well."

"Oh come on, there were more people…"

"Yes. Yes you were right. There were we, for example. There was Larry, his best mate. Oh wait, he's dead. There was Caroline, his girlfriend… also dead."

"He didn't kill 'em, Lawrence!"

"He might have!"

Lawrence sighed, turning off the lamp sitting at the nightstand as he pulled a small metal strand. It clicked itself off and left Lawrence's side of the bed in darkness. His arms fell limp to each side.

"I… I don't know what to make of him anymore. It's like he isn't even my son."

Muriel reached out her arm and coiled her finger around the metal strand on the red lamp on her own nightstand, sitting on the left. She looked at her husband, patiently awaiting something else he's say.

He didn't, and that's when she spoke.

"He will be alright. He'll find someone. He'll find something decent to do," she concluded as she turned off the light.

Her husband laid in the dark, looking over to her before she made herself comfortable in their bed. He gulped.

"And how do you know that? Huh? How do you know he'll change?"

"Because…" she smiled sweetly; "because you did. Goodnight, Lawrence."

She gave him a goodnight kiss on the cheek before falling in the middle. He put his arms around her, embracing his muffin of a wife.

"Yeah. G'night, Muriel."

Meanwhile, halfway around the world, Victor Mundy dropped the phone back into its base, the conversation he just had seeming mentally exhausting. His eyes closed shut as he leaned his head against the wall. Solitude. Why was it such a bad thing again?

Footsteps echoed through the base, and the Sniper suddenly felt the urge to shoot whoever disturbed his peace. The urge only became stronger as a soft sound flew through the halls, which seemed like humming.

"Master of the house, doling out the charm, ready with a handshake… something something hmm…" The Spy hummed as he walked into the room, unfolding today's newspaper. The Sniper shot him an irritated look.

The Frenchman quickly caught the gaze, silencing himself and placing the newspaper on the small dining table. He leaned on his hand, laying his palm flat on the smooth surface of the paper, only slightly caring about the ink imprinting itself on his gloves. Being of inquisitive nature, he assumed that the Sniper had been talking to one or both of his parents.

"Phoning the family, are we?" He asked, tapping his fingers against the table. One tap led to another, one descended finger ascended the next. It was an act often mimicked by his teammates, though most of them would give up after two tries, as their digits weren't in good enough condition.

"Uh-huh."

"I see you're bothered."

"No more than usual."

The masked man's hand fell flat on the table. He looked at the Australian before releasing a sigh of impatience. He stood up and began pacing around the room, hands tucked behind his back.

"Why do you go on through this mental torture? You often seem a little short of miserable after chatting with them."

The Sniper sniffed, scratching his upper lip as he shrugged.

"Well, it ain't all that bad," he said, letting his arms fall on his sides, limp as strands of spaghetti. "First year of this, me dad didn' even talk to me. And me mum is still…well… mum."

"You did not answer my question," the Spy said, unmoved by the statement. "I asked you why you put up with them."

"Well I have to," he said, like it was implied. Possibly because it was. "Look, my folks have been there for me all my life. If there are two people who deserve to meddle, it's them."

The Spy nodded, still not understanding the marksman. He grabbed a cigarette from inside his jacket, along with a lighter.

He felt the marksman's eyes fall on the icy-blue circle of the lighter's flame, slowly being risen up to the small nicotine stick. It disappeared when a circle of smoke filled the room, and the Spy's stern expression with it.

It soon reappeared, however, when he looked at the Sniper.

"What?" He asked.

"I take it that your folks aren't a bit intrusive at times."

The Spy spoke after a moment of silence. "I'd rather not say…"

"Oh, come on."

"I cannot speak ill of the dead, Mundy."

"Yeah, but, before that!"

"Look," the Spy snapped, craning his neck towards the nosy Australian he hadn't wished to speak to about the subject; "I had no trouble with my parents, now drop the subject."

And he would. The marksman would have gladly dropped the subject if he hadn't caught the man's eyes darting to the side, his cigarette being brought to his mouth hastily, disabling him to say another word. There was that look that not even the best actor could dare hide behind a cheery mask of peeling color. That was the look he saw. It was of grudge.

The Sniper smiled, taking a seat on the top of the table.

"You know what, Spook? Me mum used to tell me…" he said to the Spy who stood near him, smoking a cigarette with detached interest. "When a person has some unresolved issues, he tends to hide them. Like a child putting his broken toy behind the cupboard so his parents wouldn't find out, or like a politician placing a border between counties, not wanting the rich to mix with the poor."

The Spy barely grazed the man with his look. The cigarette burned away rather quickly.

"Ya see," he continued; "you put a brick over something you can't or won't deal with. That brick becomes two bricks, two bricks become a wall. And while you seem fine with it, the wall just starts to surround you, suffocate you, and pretty sure you're buried by a crap-ton of bricks."

The Frenchman snorted at the conclusion. But the man was now looking, asking for a response that he did not prepare. He gingerly turned towards him, ticking his head to the side.

"And what do you suppose I do?"

The Sniper shrugged.

"Just… take down a brick."

The man paid no attention to the man's philosophy. He shook the thought off, he left the room. He did not consider the man's words the next day, nor the day after that.

But one day, as he rummaged through his belongings, trying to find his beloved weapon, engraved with an image of his beloved, he stumbled across a box. He puffed on it, a cloud of dust rising up. And it was the contents inside that made him sit down and think. The grainy, black-and-white image made him realize what kind of wall he was dealing with.

He removed a brick that day. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.