Hitman scene 3

so I keep submitting my work in scenes as opposed to chapters because they're shorter. so far we've found out there are some hitmen, a feme-fatale named miss smith and a collegue (a saditic nutter called markus) we've also been introduced to simon, a boy that markus has made a deal with and enjoys spending time torturing (it's just his way). here we separate from that to move onto a secondary story that will play into the plot later. there shouldn't be any swears but i apologise if i haven't asterixed them out. hope you enjoy

the last line of the previous scene was:

'Somewhere far away Markus snickered to himself, the thought of Simon torturing himself with his own marvelously misanthropic brain made him want to giggle. So he did.'

Scene 3

“What the hell are you giggling about?” spat Miss Smith. She didn’t want to be here. Then again, she rarely wanted to be anywhere except home. She assumed Markus was making a very sarcastic and obscene comment in return, but she was ignoring him.

It was a warm evening but the sky was hazy with foreboding clouds and the threat of downpour buzzed in the air. Miss Smith loved it when the job came with pathetic fallacy. The simple fact the weather outside was ominous made her job so much easier; it wasn’t hard to scare the shit out of someone with thunder and lightning backlighting you like Dracula.

Markus as usual was ranting cheerily about his new assignment, like a toddler who is ever so proud of his brand new toy, ‘Simone’ or something. What did she care? She only let him come along to this job because she needed his…expertise.

Markus was grinning happily. He knew what Miss Smith was thinking by the slightly unnerved furrow in her brow she always got when he tagged along. He knew his delight in torture was strange to say the least, or ‘psychopathically sadistic’ if he listened to the ‘therapists’ (who coincidentally were rarely ever seen again after an appointment with Markus). He didn’t see it as torture; it was a destructive expression of his creative abilities. He was Bosch with a blow torch, Botticelli with a bowie knife, Bernini with balisong and his skills with a scalpel were comparable to none. He couldn’t explain it but every fiber of his being yearned for pain and when blood was spilt he couldn’t resist and his hunger took over like a vampiric demon (please don’t compare this to the mopey solar-powered disco-balls that a certain tween fiction uses as excuses for monsters).

He couldn’t pause to savor the screams, he just let it flow.

However, he managed to contain his excitement momentarily although his psychotic grin was uncontrollable. Miss Smith liked things done professionally and properly and if he followed her rules, she would let him free to do as he wished with the pathetic verminous victims, or ‘clients’ as Miss Smith so naively referred to them as. As soon as she realized they were nothing but disgusting human savages, maybe she would begin to see the art in his work.

As soon as he realized they were only human, maybe he wouldn’t view his grossly inappropriate lust for pain as art, thought Miss Smith as her black heels clicked along the marble floor. The door was surprisingly easily unlocked for such a high-security area, if you could call it that. If people didn’t want others slipping through their infrared lasers, they should make them a bit more difficult to cross.

The house was grand and luxurious. It was modern, but not in the sparse minimalistic way, there were beautiful statues of Greek heroes and white silk drapes over every crystal-clear arched window. The floors were spotlessly un-chipped white marble and the walls were lit with artificial lamps so fierce, their whitewash appeared almost heavenly luminescent. There were intricately framed mirrors of silver lining the walls and portraits of elegant aristocrats so realistic you could almost hear the ladies tittering and the gentlemen quaffing as they sipped their watercolor vintage champagne. Finally the corridor ended and Miss Smith slipped the lock on the door with ease and stepped inside, her heels clicking in a lower octave on the varnished oak floorboards.

The distinctive pitter patter of rain on the stainless panes made Miss Smith smirk.

***

The man at the desk jumped up, confused and frightened he scrambled at a desk draw. A small dagger embedded itself in the wood between his middle and index fingers. Markus congratulated himself silently. Miss Smith sighed, it was a pity that handheld weapons were so rife in civilized society, and especially that it was excused in the higher classes, that their lives were presumed to be more valuable. She sat down in a large armchair, and crossed her legs. “Good evening *obsolete character*, my name is unimportant, but you may refer to me as Miss Smith” she spoke softly through a smile, but this only seemed to agitate him more. “I have a proposition for you, well, more specifically your daughter, but she’s too young for business right now so as her guardian, you get the deal” said Miss Smith sweetly. It took a long time to explain the simplest of facts to him; obviously a good education had been wasted on a man of very little brain.

“So…if I give you my daughter’s soul, you will make sure the business doesn’t fail and only continues to make large profits” stuttered the gentleman dumbly, obviously just paraphrasing Miss Smith’s half hour explanation. “And do not forget, you also get to choose the conditions on which we take her soul. Normally it is an age limit, but for such a treasured item, we are generously allowing you to decide” said Miss Smith, hiding her annoyance behind a business-like mask. There was no reply and he stood with a blank face, Miss Smith started to wonder if he had the mental capabilities to process so many words in one sentence. She might have to dumb it down a bit, maybe she could use that sign language that even primates understand.

The gentleman smiled. This shocked Miss Smith, but his apparent ability to comprehend her sentence shocked her more. “Right, if my daughter ever commits adultery, then you can take her soul” said the gentleman, slightly more confident than his previous babblings. What Miss Smith didn’t know was that his daughter was to marry prince **** and their love had been planned ever since their births. Every opportunity to get them to like each other had been arranged and even now, at the age of 16, they were already dating. She had also been brought up (or indoctrinated as some may say) to believe in love and romance and was punished even for mentioning sins such as adultery. The gentleman wanted to make sure the wedding went as planned as the prince would be a valuable ally, with an even more valuable fortune that could profit his business. If she ever committed adultery, all his efforts would be wasted and she deserved whatever fate the deal presented her with. It was a small understatement to say they never really had a strong daddy-daughter bond.

It was a strange request, but Miss Smith simply made the deal and wrote up the contract. She wanted to be home right now and couldn’t take much more of this idiot and the undeserved wealth he surrounded himself with. Even for a woman who murdered people and stole souls for a living, she knew his moral priorities were askew. Whilst his very own human race battled for survival in the war around him, he sat comforting himself in his mansion and even when presented with a deal that could be used to save his species, he chose not only to benefit himself instead, but also sacrificed his daughter’s soul for it.