AN: I am on semi-hiatus status mostly because of the inordinate amount of cringe in my previous works. Enjoy this little thing in the meantime. Cheers!
-Duckie
I
It has long been argued over what kills better. The bullet, the blade, the machine, the chemistry—the list goes on. If killing were necessary, murder wouldn't exist, but history remembers the true killer that never changes.
Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. A bullet to the head, or a full life lived. Death is always scheduled, but no one knows the schedule, only the time of the incident.
It was the 18th of August, around 2 a.m. According to the files, Perseus 'Percy' Jackson was born to Sally Jackson in that hovel of a vacation house. Everyone kept pestering about the father, then drew clues from the little boy as he grew up. Problem is, no one stuck around long enough, leaving the father of Percy a mystery until much later.
You couldn't blame them, the mother and son left Montauk in search of a stable life. According to their old friends, there was only one place where even the world had its eyes on. It just so happened to be a ferry away.
In a time where you settle for half and go bye on lies, the City always offered more than you wanted whether you liked it or not.
Broke, hungry, and practically homeless, the Jacksons did what they could in the harbors of New York. Work was plentiful, and so were the workers. Persuaded by some undergrounds, Sally took to the typewriter by day and subway seller by night. Percy, in his love for the water, found work cleaning up the dark alleys and sewers of New York City.
Honestly, it wasn't honest. They weren't angels who did things by the books. They were New Yorkers.
Still, $2.75 at the end of the day wasn't half-bad despite their half-pay. They had enough for food and fare. With a bit of corner-cutting here and there, they might have enough for a new car everyone keeps riding in. Until then, the bricks of New York would forever be out of their reach in the hands of big business and boys.
December was when their American dream was cut precisely in half. A confrontation between the Industry Titans and the Hunters happened by a favorable chance when members of both gangs ran into each other at a subway station. Things escalated when the New York Police Department was called
I was the last one there.
"Ey Percy, youse heard the pops down the line?" Travis asked, grinding the blackened concrete floors with a crumbling sponge.
While the city life carried on, it was hard to miss the influx of freshly-cut pine trees shipped from the northwest with snow still melting, or the sprinkling of calm December snow dusting all surfaces with impunity. The blind recognized the bright lights in the night, stores stocked up on thick overwear and fancy wrappings, and the children were unmistakably loud with their playtime in the snow.
Christmas was right around the corner, and possibly a holiday bonus. After years of letting the years go by, Percy had struck a magnificent deal through a few shady clean-ups. Starting next year, they could take a trip to Montauk at a fraction of the cost!
"Tram Whizz said they were doin' work on the rails," Percy dismissed, stabbing any trash that foolishly stayed within his failing eyesight.
No matter how many night shifts he took, exhaustion always followed. Fortunately, demand for backstage work never turned away stragglers seeking endless working hours. He shouldn't sleep for four and work the other twenty, nor should he be forced to pay those Greek families that own everything little living space and square inch with their hot influence—Green Houses he called them.
What was he to do about it? Start a crime syndicate? Join one?
The chilling drafts that flowed through the tunnels battled what body heat his caked collar shirt could retain. Long hours and closed shops meant no breaks, allowed or not. And his assortment of cleaning toys? A little rust never hurt anyone, except for the last Torpedo. Long story short, Percy had a body bag to dispose of.
Harming anyone wasn't his style, but he picked up a few tricks last time he was sent to a Green House. One of the spiflicated girls tried to flirt with him, leading to a massive bar fight centered around him. Percy escaped to politely ask the Boss never to send him to that Green House ever again.
Thankfully, the Boss found other lambs to sacrifice. Percy tried to give them advice if he knew someone was 'tending the plants.' Some Green Houses weren't terrible, but others…boy do they know the right people for all the wrong reasons.
Right and wrong, those were opinions. Opinions don't matter when both time and money are not on your side.
"Tram Whizz's gone to the bible belt." Travis finished his power scrubbing, keeping one of his ears aimed down the tunnels at all times.
Percy found a rat hidden under the pages of an old gnawed newspaper. He was tempted to catch it, but by the time he thought of rat recipes, the vermin had scampered down the underground. Perhaps he should prioritize his health first, but that deal was enticing.
"So? These are tracks, remember? Trains run here." Another scrap went into the trash bag
Water spilled over the smooth platform, washing soap scuds into worn steel rails. "No trains run this line until the Whizz gets back."
Percy was reluctant to keep this conversation going. Their shift was ending. The faster they finished, the faster they could beat it to base for the holiday bonus, an amount he'd need to seal the lucrative deal. Math always eluded him, but rough finger addition told he'd have—
More pops filled the subway, and was that…a typewriter?
"Hey Travis, did the Whizz move his desk down here?" Percy asked, recognizing where it was coming from.
"No, the only desk down here is candy. Doan-cha mom work there?" Travis was answered with a pile of trash and a missing Percy Jackson with his skewer.
Not every Hunter was a morning person. While senior members learned alertness at first light, one persistently hoarded sleep by seconds.
"We're here," the driver said, turning off the calming radio. "Get out."
"Nooo…" the ruffly-haired woman cooed, lightly smacking the other passenger out of petty spite
"How did you ever become Lieutenant?" the driver chided, modestly glaring at the offender through the rear-view mirror.
"You're retired, I'm not." In the early hours of the Eastern Seaboard, a glow lit up the damask cabin as she accepted the inevitable and opened her eyes. Many times those startling, bright blue eyes guided souls to their afterlife. They were miniature spotlights that she could not control.
Two tall figures, one more so than the other, left the insulated car for the subway entrance. Their padded winter suits kept them and their 'tools' warm. Morning traffic was unusually light, with these two strutting away like they owned the block—they probably did. The crowds, if you could call them that, paid no heed as they shoved their way through. Any poor fella who didn't dodge was lost to the sounds of crunching snow.
These two were the wildcards of the Hunters, crazy enough to disguise as men and paint the men's restrooms crimson. Today, they felt merciful.
Thalia loved punching. There's something satisfying about the human hand sinking into skin before contacting bone. Sometimes she wished her fist could do more damage, that's why they were out shopping.
Their family was not connected, to say the least. The best gear in all of New York came from their Greek family. With a favor or so, the Houston family would provide free of charge; without, expect a hefty bill. Money wasn't too much of a problem, it was what they requested instead of money.
Thankfully, the price was only one crate full of candy.
"Lieutenant, how many crates did the Houstons want?" a Hunter asked, keeping step with the fast-moving second-in-command.
The clacks of the Lieutenant's black penny loafers echoed off the stone environment. "Four crates. One standard, three holidays."
Darkness briefly covered them down the stairs, revealing the dim platforms of the rapid underground transit. The leaching odors from the scattered manholes contrasted the apartments up top. All was concrete, except for the small patriotic Sweet on America store in the old office.
They stopped short of the entrance, patting themselves down one last time. Over-precaution never hurts anyone. Heartbeats accelerated, pounding their ears. Humans walked passed, suspicious men flowed through, and dodgy boys kept their eyes trained.
Appearance was everything. Blend in but stay distinctive. Avoid Confrontation, but fire the last shot. Make concessions, yet draw the line. Keep it cool, but torch everyone. In the world of mafias, gangsters, and families, confidence was everything. You have a job to do, no matter the odds.
The public was fair game. That was the only exception.
Ding! Went the doorbell.
Someone left the lights on interrogation intensity, blinding the Hunters momentarily.
Sweet scents brought back memories of spring, or maybe it was just the candy. Apart from red, white, and blue, the rest of the rainbow adorned bin-fulls and walls. The sign said they were open, so where were the employees?
"Morning, who's on the hit list?" the sweet lady asked, returning to the counter. The shop was owned by a small Swiss mob and manned by anyone desperate. Naturally, other organizations caught wind of company confectionary
"A coffin and three coal sacks," Thalia whispered, leaning across the counter with crossed arms. For dramatic effect, she stared into the American Blue eyes and flashed a smile. She did not expect counterplay from the worker.
"English, please." The worker mirrored Thalia's attempt at persuasion, challenging her to a battle of nerves.
Thalia's confidence won, with the worker glazing at the other Hunter before disappearing into the back rooms. Out came the woman with a loaded trolly of roughly-built boxes.
"Thanks Miss. Phoebe, the cash?"
Stacked above her head, Thalia carried all four packaged goodies out the door, bumping into the frame and nearly spilling the contents.
Whew, that was close! Good thing there's nothing else to bump into.
She bumped into nothing else. The over-engineered crates withstood the drop, and Phoebe withstood a falling crate to the head. The same couldn't be said about the colliders.
Recovering quickly, the pair of Hunters had run into a pair of Industry Titans, a rival mafia with slightly worse qualities than their newer hand of Greek families.
"Ey watch it, I'm walkin' here!" her obscene obstacle yelled. Thalia called him Lackey 1.
"You think I can see? Get outta my sight before I set my sights on you!" Thalia retaliated, reaching for her old reliable. Not a full second had passed and four guns were aimed point-blank. "Phoebe, get the standard one."
"Which one's that?" Thalia forgot all the crates looked the same, they probably should've asked before they left.
"Doesn't matter, youse coming with us," Lackey 1 announced.
With his gun focused on Phoebe, he moved to take her by the arm. Both Hunters retrained on the moving mafia.
Lackey 2 fired his gun at Thalia, the important looking one, and missed. How could he miss? She was three feet in front of him!
Both sides emptied their first magazines, the Hunters proving superior in marksmanship thus ending the lives of Lackey 1 and Lacky 2. However, the short distance between them ensured several hits on the Hunters, wounding both. This wasn't their first time at either end of a confrontation, or in dealing with the aftermath.
"I hate Titans," Thalia announced, discovering a bullet wound in her thigh for the umpteenth time. Yes, there was blood. Yes, it could be fatal. No, Thalia didn't wait to die.
"Lieutenant—"
"Drop the highness,' I'm not in a good mood," Thalia interrupted, annoyance taking her face.
"—We should leave. It's our lucky day they couldn't hit the broad side of Broadway," Phoebe stated, picking up the crate without snowflakes. They knew they had seconds before something else came up. Confrontations never ended one-sided—there was a reason this station was closed down.
The walk to the stairs took longer. Pain slowly snaked its way through their bodies. Until they could get to safety and treatment, they'd have to suck it up and power through.
Lights from the rising sun touched the steps like a halo announcing their angelic escape. Not far away was their ticket to safety and the Hunter's most experienced driver, experienced in getting the heck outta dodge.
"Hey Echoles! I didn't think the esteemed Hunters would skip paying fares!" a voice called from above, descending with a small band of instrument players.
The orchestra fanned out along the exit, blocking it off with their bodies and creating distance with their instruments. Thalia stifled a giggle at their matching typewriters from a few states over. All five Thompson Sub-machine Guns promised to empty their drum magazines. Knowing the Industry Titans, each Lackey had at least two more magazines.
"I see you boys are ready to make headlines tomorrow," Thalia noted, taking the time to publicly change to a magazine that had cartridges to spare.
"We sure are, miss."
"What gave it away?"
"Your eyes. Boss keeps a photo of ya on a bull's eye."
Another section of gangsters appeared behind them with similar heavy weaponry. Their numbers doubled, totaling more bodies than the number of shots in Thalia's pistol. Phoebe had enough to square the difference, but only if they had the upper hand.
So much for a quiet and clean pickup. Good thing they had a contingency plan.
"Phebes, hand me your gun."