It was already dark at the western docks of the seventh district. The thudding of rain hitting against asphalt was strangely soothing.
But it was cold outside.
I sank deeper into my coat, seeking warmth, pulling down my hat.
The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows, my steps firmly thudding against the cracked pavement.
A long exhale. I let out a thick puff of smoke.
Today was a special day.
I walked past the broken streetlamps and shadow-veiled commie blocks alike. Always feeling their eyes on me. Somewhere under those shadows. Somewhere in between those narrow alleys.
It was a far shot from the image sold about the utopian megapolis.
I paid them no mind, for now.
They were irrelevant.
Only another window at the spine of human misery that acted as lifeblood to the lavish inner districts. The unwilling pillars of Eden.
The harbor was especially poor.
The cost of electricity was prohibitive, despair was copious, and the cheap relief of drugs was intoxicatingly sensual.
It had spread like a calculated pandemic, turning every corner, shadow, and alley into an addict shelter.
Even years after the fact, I could still sense them.
Living under tents made out of broken bricks, rusted steel, and cardboard. Wearing rags, sometimes cheap clothes, if fortunate.
Some always died after a heavy downpour like this one.
It was a pitiful sight.
But not a rare one.
...
Still, I kept walking, inhaling another, longer puff of smoke.
The downpour was intensifying.
My eyes flickered to a silhouette standing my way.
The vague shape of a man, or what used to be one. Sitting on the pavement, leaning against the concrete wall.
He really wasn't standing in my way, actually
He was just… there, looking at the starless sky, his eyes glassy, his ragged robes drenched in freezing rain, yet he did not shiver.
He was not dead, as I could feel his heartbeat and see his chest rise and fall with breath.
He wasn't alive either.
We called them 'husks'.
Only god knew the kind of torture the gangs had done for the eyes of a man to look so empty…
My numb gaze lingered on him for a few seconds, but my steps did not linger.
I was incapable of helping him.
I had never seen a husk recover, I knew no one who had seen one recover, I long suspected it was impossible to reverse the damage.
The best I could do was ignore him. Maybe... The actions I would take today would be enough to give him peace.
Today was a special day, after all.
A special day, to murder a specially deranged, corrupt, ruthless man.
I turned the corner.
...
Through the thin fog, the chatter of conversation caught my attention.
There was only one establishment around this area that could afford to pay the electricity bills. So it was hard to miss. Impossible, even.
I kept walking, noting small details.
Three expensive SUVs were parked in front. I could spot metaglass windows and the subtle thickness of armor.
Few could credit, let alone finance, such vehicles. It was clear who the owners were; they were standing outside, in fact.
I could count five men with my vission, but I could tact nine in total. All dressed in matching three-piece suits and heavy overcoats.
There was a woman, too.
A couple of them, in fact. Though this one was the center of attention.
"C'mon, doll. You're comin' with us."
One of them had grabbed onto her, forcefully shoving onto his lap. Pressing his semi-erect crotch against her assets.
"Please, I... I."
She protested, trying to push her way back, but to no avail.
"I..."
The woman instantly stiffened, all color leaving her skin in a single heart beat.
I was unable to see it, but I could feel the gun pressed against her thin nape. Her teeth clenched with resigned hatred.
Her eyes nerviously darted around for a way out.
...
By that point I had cleared the fog, I could sense the men's attention turn toward me in unison.
Seeing me approach, the man faltered for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing. Caution aparent in his expression.
He continued talking, albeit in a lower voice.
"Dont move or your brains are out."
He muttered in her ear,
Never breaking eye contact with me.
It was clear they were more alert than normal.
I was a new face, after all.
By now, I was standing a couple of feet away from the tavern's door. The warmth, sound of laughter, and smell of spiced alcohol permeating through the wooden frame.
I was also standing next to the unwilling woman. Certainly a beautiful one. Almost shoulder to shoulder.
Her eyes locked onto mine, pleading. Alas cold, a tint of numbness visible in them, she knew I could not help her.
I talked first. Keeping eye contact with the talking head. The same man threatening the lady.
"I got some business with him."
I said cautiously, avoiding sudden movements.
I could tact the frown of the men behind me deepening, a few hands reaching for an arm, just in case.
My hands slid under the rain.
Fifty dollars pressed into the man's palm, his unreadable face turned from hostile to a twisted kind of amused. A green card.
"Have fun." - I said monotonously, saluting with my hat before sliding past the wooden door and into the tavern.
Much like the exterior, the interior reeked of expensive whiskey and smoke.
The superficial warmth and chatter on the inside immediately turned stale. Some eyes were on me, albeit discreetly. Especially the ones on the back, right next to the back door. I took note of that.
New faces were not welcome, not a surprise.
The chatter gradually eased; the clinking of bottles and glassware resumed.
I walked towards the counter, dodging side glances and hostile, discreet foot-sweeps alike.
Attending the counter was a fat man, he had sideburns and a receding hairline, dressed in the attire of a bartender. Much different from the pictures.
Bad habits still showed, he wore brute golden jewelry around his neck and arms, his face was cleanly scarred, with a blind left eye and a few gang sigils on the left section of his face.
There was no doubt that I was staring at the man in question.
"A glass of Jack Daniels."
I muttered, now leaning against the wooden counter.
Then the atmosphere tensed, not with quiet mutter, but with an unnatural, eerie, and guttural silence.
The only sound remained the thunder of rain outside.
The men are in the back of the crowd, their eyes narrowed, their hands tensed, their grips tightened around the cold steel of firearms.
From this perspective, there was no way I could see their faces, I didn't need to either way.
My other senses provided what my vision could not; I took the time to memorize their faces one by one, their guns, their attire, their movements... all their details.
They were the only protective assets inside the tabernacle.
If things went south, they would be my biggest obstacle.
My attention returned to the man. The owner of the tabernacle, the one standing behind the counter.
His face morphed into an unsolvable puzzle for close to an eternity.
Then he scoffed.
Without breaking eye contact he turned around, pouring a dusty bottle from the shelf behind him - of the wrong alcohol, might I add - serving it in an unwashed glass, smashing it against the wooden board.
Not before having spit on it. I drank anyway.
Only then did the tension ease, slowly but surely... The ticking of the wooden clock at the far end kept a steady rhythm. A couple of minutes went by. I spent them paying attention to the chatter.
"That coat of his looks good - "
"Mr Gerth can keep his head - I'll keep the coat. Hahaha."
One of the five men on the back bragged, his venomous eyes still locked onto me. He was speaking loud enough for me to hear.
"As I said - A that son of a bitch trying to snitch - "
" - Left him to the rats, he and his family. Those pests. "
One of the five men on the back muttered, drunk. His fingers nimbly playing with a lusterless black knife. His tone eerily unenergetic.
" These new faces are a problem - they take what is owed - they dont know the rules..."
" You break their knees. - Show them lesson, brother. "
Another one of them threatened in broken English, clearly too drunk, his russian accent flaring just as he gulped down one last glass of scotch.
His yellow teeth formed a crooked smile.
" - You are wise, and fair, Mr. - my daughter agrees we would love to offer her hand to the Carbone - "
" - the fifty-pounder of bliss will fetch a thick sum on the northern - the docks are already spent, I tell you - "
" - Join another round of poker? - "
Bits and pieces of conversation echoed in the ample room for the next few minutes.
There was not much else to describe about the situation, or rather, what it looked like, smelled like, felt like; it didn't matter.
It was meant to burn soon enough anyways.
It was still a few seconds early, though, so I needed some entertainment in the meantime.
I finished my spat-on whiskey in a single gulp.
Then I slowly leaned into the counter. Bold in demeanor, but never bold enough to make eye contact.
Lest it be a real offense and get shot dead.
"I do business with both of you. On both of your turfs." - I said, loud enough for the fat bartender to hear but not more.
"I believe a conflict is in no one's interest…" - I continued. Feigning something resembling a subtly drunken state.
The man's back was turned on me, but I could tell he was listening.
"How do you think it'll play out?" - I muttered.
He kept quiet, then he served himself a bottle of his strongest alcohol.
"Who knows?" - He answered, his voice raspy and hoarse.
I was genuinely interested in answers, but I did not press further.
...
His expression deepened. A frown, one hiding emotions as black as the night. His voice grumbled.
"It was a setup from outside."
Maybe he was drunk, perhaps he was just having a good day.
Either way, he did keep talking.
'Well, that much is obvious,' - I thought.
"They'll figure out a... lucrative solution." - He finished.
After that, he didn't say anything else.
...
I lit a cigar.
The last five minutes burned in introspective silence.
The night breeze filtering through the old door was moist, heavy rain poured down.
Every one of them was in position.
It was as good a moment as it would get.
I let out a long sigh and snapped my fingers under my drenched coat, the sound was barely audible and further silenced by the chatter.
No one noticed it, and nothing happened. Not for a few seconds at least.
Unbothered, using those last few ticks of the clock to finish my cigar.
Each second heavy, but time continued steady, as it always did.
…
Then the smooth, wet rhythm of tires crawling under the torrential downpour echoed.
The quiet chatter coming from outside died down.
It was clear something was about to happen, the sharper ones in the room and outside had noticed by now, but no one moved.
Seconds stretched.
...
Then the thump of a window sliding down, muffled thwips. The sound of five suppressed shots in deadly succession. Each hitting its target dead on.
Soft, sickening thuds followed as five lifeless plops echoed on the wet pavement. The air tightened, the silence screaming now.
Then chaos.
The sudden crack or gunfire hammered. Return fire, unsuppressed and wild. Tires screeched, the vehicle's engine roaring to life, accelerating in a snarl.
The five men at the back of the tabernacle moved first.
Their hands reaching for the firearms inside their coats.
Three ran straight outside, kicking and pushing away anything in their way. The other pair stayed inside. I could their attention momentarily weight on me.
One of them suspected me.
Sharp one.
Before he could act, however, a deafening boom interrupted the brewing chaos. An explosion ripped through the night, its shockwave rattling the tavern's bottles and shaking the wooden walls.
The fading echo of death and the patter of debris. Invigorated by the frantic survival instinct of the mass of people inside.
Everyone came to life in violent mayhem.
Everyone wanted to get out, me included.
I follow the maddened herd, melting right in with their erratic behaviour.
They reach for the back door.
Adrenaline-fueled sweat, rubbing shoulders, I can see fights break out in the corners of my vision.
The shots outside do not cease.
Another three dead thuds echo outside. The three acting as reinforcements are still struggling to escape the frantic crowd.
They begin firing shots to open their way outside.
I stay cool.
I do not act like I am, though.
A few seconds in, half of the crowd has already made it outside.
Not me, though, I was the farthest from the exit.
The pulling and pushing seem erratic, it is anything but; through the back and forth, I discreetly draw closer to the two armed men who stayed inside.
One is mounting a carbine, the other an automatic rifle, and a Welrod pistol with a suppressor attached.
I lock eyes with him.
The closest one, the one with the carbine.
At this distance, I can grab his wrist, so I do. I grab it with predatory strength and don't let go
In an instant, my mark is deployed.
Layers under my skin rattle in ecstasy.
The gaze of the man, full of shock, terror, a miriad other emotions I dont understand, becomes glassy, eerily cold.
With practiced ease, the man's brainstem dies at the critical spot.
The corpse stays eerily rigid.
However, I do not stay to watch the light in his eyes fade.
I keep walking in fake turmoil and lock eyes with the remaining one.
The look of terror in his eyes… it looked like the paranoid one had noticed. Not good.
He gives an unconscious step back, pale as a ghost.
I'm extremely lucky his terror overtakes his rationality.
That is sufficient to draw close enough for the kill.
Realization hits too late.
He is dead. Much like his friend.
Once more, I prevent him from collapsing by forcing tension on his muscles.
Though not for long. I have seconds now.
By now, the gunfire outside, much like the crowd, has faded into an ominous stillness.
The two are gone, and everything is eerily quiet.
I take a second to confirm.
There are no remaining heartbeats outside the building.
"Wonderful." - I muttered.
I turned around, locking eyes with the man in question.
Gerth Carbone.
The man posing as bartender, his face remained frozen in the numbing detachment one would expect from a calloused murderer.
Grim, dark, and insidiously feral.
The druglord responsible for the single synthetic drug that had decimated the lives of my family.
And had grinded the people of the seventh district into hopeless dust under poverty's heel.
The willing complice of the human market that ran below these streets.
And also the one screw-up that had forced him to rot in this slum for years, quietly raking in blood-soaked profits from the shadows.
Blood brother to the tyrant who lords over this cursed hellhole.
The reason today was special.
Is because today I would get to kill this man.
Even if the pain that motivated me had already grown numb.
I focused away from my thoughts.
My eyes darted to the shotgun over the counter.
I knew it was loaded. I also knew Gerth was capable enough to nail both shots in the blink of an eye.
I held my own gun with a grip of steel. Tightening.
No one made the first move.
…
Too slow to react.
A single muffled thwip from my suppressed pistol knocked the firearm far away from him, a clean hole rendered it unusable.
He crouched under the counter, but not before I emptied the full mag on both of his knees.
"AGHR!!!!"
A short-lived shout of guttural pain.
Clank.
I fail to notice the ballistic strength with which he launches a whiskey bottle over the counter. It knocks my weapon away. To a distant corner, much like his.
By the time I came back to my senses he was already closing the distance.
I could feel something alien move and seethe under his skin.
In an instant, it ignited in fierce incandescence. Flowing like a snake of deadly scorching might. His dark irises turned fiery white.
Gerth Carbone had deployed his mark.
Thick clouds of scorching steam emerged from his arms, with the violence of firecrackers, two scorching hot brass knuckles glistened in his hands.
If I let myself be grabbed hold of, I'd die.
I backed away into a wall.
My heart ran wild, but my head stayed cool.
Tables flipped and crashed against the wall as he pushed. Shards of glassware were flying everywhere. Ricocheting on the walls.
Even after his knees had been turned to bloody paste, the mix of grit and adrenaline inside him managed to keep him moving.
My vision narrowed.
Resolute, I leaned on the wall and pushed a table against him. The wood cracked and bent under the strain, flying towards him with inhuman strength.
He shattered it to splinters without batting an eye, by the time he did, however, I had already moved.
I continued drawing distance, and he kept crossing it.
Glassware, bottles, anything sharp I could find. No matter what I threw or how hard I threw it, I could not stop him. Not even bruise him.
By this point, it was clear I would not be able to defeat him without a firearm.
I clenched my teeth.
With my back pressed against the wall, my eyes darted around one last time. The cold pond of alcohol at my feet, sharp shards of glass, a silver knife.
There was nothing to throw anymore.
To my dismay, I had been too focused on surviving the seconds of brutal onslaught to have made use of the two firearms dropped by the gangsters.
Quite a mishap, for sure.
I locked eyes with Gerth.
His eyes glinted with cold and twisted malice. I heaved. Even at this distance, the intensity of the scorching steam was excruciating.
I could not take him out the same as the others.
'Damn.'
It felt like I'd tried everything I could.
And still lost.
…
With difficult breaths, my hands rose in the air.
"I admit defeat."
...
The puzzlement on the druglord's expression lasted for a second.
"I can not win against you in a fist fight. Gerth."
My numb, cold eyes betrayed any impression of such a feeling.
They were not the eyes of a man about to die.
A sly smile emerged on my face, and I triggered my mark once more.
The incandescent steam Gerth wielded prevented me from direct contact.
The layer of spilled alcohol that soaked the floor, however…
My grin widened.
Gerth stopped smiling.
His face turned pale. A loud gulp stuck in his throat. His cold sweat frozen in time.
"You will regret this." - For the first time, confidence felt absent in his words.
His eyes looked treacherously spiteful. Even in his last moments.
I shrugged.
Lighting a new cigar.
"Sure."
Then his head cracked.
Like a watermelon.
Clumps of brain, blood, and brain splattered everywhere.
His body fell loudly. Limp and dead.