Young Writers Society

(Prologue by Jackson)

Our crew never consisted of “good people”, but Sean was different. Ever since he lost his sister, he wasn’t the same. The look in his eyes was hate and anger. The Royal Agency had never seen such bad blood. Such ill will and sarcasm. There was an unusual air about him, an air that made everyone stiffen when he walked into a room. Everyone knew him, and if you didn’t, you would soon enough.

They called him S.I.N., whether off by his name or his deeds, I can’t remember. By now, most of it seems a mystery. I haven’t seen my old partner in years. All I know is that he is out there, and wherever he goes death will follow him.

Chapter One: A Dead Preacher for A Dead God

As he walked down the long, dark hallway that led into who knows where, Sean Ian Northway’s shoes tapped against the polished, wooden floorboards. He could smell a fire, and could hear it crackling in a room further along. It lit up the opposite wall and the flames cast a roaring shadow. He may have felt at home, what with such a relaxing and quiet atmosphere, were it not for the dead bodies that were lining up and down this hallway, leading down to the dealer’s office.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You will never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away...”

He mumbled the song to himself, as he often did before leaving his young niece to head off to work. And softly adding to himself, of course, he said, “Goodnight sweetheart, I will be home soon.”

Then he jokingly said, again, to himself, “Ah, oh well. Time for a date with a dead man,” followed by a snicker.

He fastened the white collar beneath his suit snugly around his neck before running a hand through his jet black hair, leaving it unkempt and straggly just as he preferred it. With a few more steps and a roll of his broad shoulders, he brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles. Passing the room that had a lovely fire built, he arrived at a set of massive oak doors at the end of the hallway. Not even bothering to knock, he clicked his tongue and pushed open the heavy doors.

And as soon as they groaned open, a small, portly man who had been pacing back and forth for hours, was instantly scared stiff. He stood in the middle of the room on a fine carpet, his knees quaking and fingers wiggling.

“Well, well!” our dear agent barked loud enough that his voice echoed. “If it’s not the man himself, Michael Meltch! You are a very hard man to find. Why, if it weren’t for the trail of your dead bodyguards”—Meltch flinched—“I may have never found you, Big M.”

“Pipe it, S.I.N.!” Big M practically spit at him, yanking out a pistol from his coat and aiming it at him. “Damn you!”

S.I.N. held up his hands dramatically and just chuckled in that deep, profound voice of his, “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hiding from me.” Big M just stared at him, panting through his teeth. “But that’s absurd, I mean, you can’t even hide your own affairs much less your actual person. Isn’t that right, Big M?”

“That’s enough out of you!” Big M shouted, beads of sweat forming all over his chubby face.

S.I.N. frowned. "Excuse me, who are you to take that tone with me?” He shook his head. “You rat rolling in trash!"

There was a moment of silence before Big M began to huff and puff at the insult. He charged after S.I.N., his puny gun still aiming at him.

S.I.N. just waited, waited for the right second and then…

In the blink of an eye, he grabbed ahold of the sides of Big M’s face and he came to a halt, dropping his gun in surprise. In one swift move, S.I.N. shot up his knee, striking his opponent in the gut. S.I.N. stepped back and let Big M plop to his knees. He groaned and clutched his middle. Then, kneeling down to face Big M, S.I.N. pulled a handgun from his pocket, a 9mm engraved with silver. He gently caressed the weapon as he said, "This, my friend, is Pain." Big M’s big watery eyes looked up at him as S.I.N. whipped out another from the other side of his jacket, this one being silver and engraved with gold. “And this is Mercy. These are my partners in crime. I would let you say hello, but, frankly, it's going to be a very short conversation." S.I.N. smiled wickedly, pressing the barrel of Pain between Big M’s eyes.

"Half a moment!” Big M cried out, suddenly not daring to move. “Y-you don't have to do this! I-I can h-help you! I know of people and places! Things!" he blubbered, begging and pleading for his life as the beads of sweat began flowing down his face like streams, intermixing with his tears and snot bubbles.

"Sinners like you have nothing that I want." S.I.N. said coolly, nearly bored. He suppressed a yawn.

“We’ve worked together for years, Sean! Years!” Big M declared. “Don’t you trust me?!” He shouted angrily in S.I.N.’s face, his spit flying everywhere.

“No,” said S.I.N. after a long while of suspense.

That’s when Big M’s features went rigid and turned into a scowl. In a low, harsh voice, he replied, “Smart man.”

S.I.N. returned the scowl, letting the weight of this pathetic man’s betrayal sink in. That’s when the final gunshot was fired with a loud bang. Big M’s clunky body swayed and fell over, hitting the floor with a satisfying, wet thump. It wasn’t long before a giant puddle of scarlet was left all around the body, leaking from the forehead.

S.I.N put away Pain and Mercy, slipping them back into his coat pockets. He sniffed the gunpowder that was still aloft in the air and grinned, not at all troubled that he just took a man’s life.