The Reckless Assassin

Chapter 1

It’s dark outside, the only light coming from nearby neon signs of various colours, illuminating the bare minimum and with a thick smog covering the city providing the cover Valora needs. There are little to no street lights here in the slums. There is also no visible moonlight. The buildings make sure of that, each and every one of them tower over us, at least forty floors. They make the overpopulation issue a little less severe though – key word being little.

That’s what happens when we live in a ‘High-tech, Low-life’ society, the saying plastered all over the buildings in the slums, it’s the peoples’ only way of rebelling against their oppressors. There’s not much else they can do. They are powerless.

In the world today, the rich don’t die. This is why we have such a severe overpopulation issue. The rich don’t die and neither do their friends or family, at least anyone they deem fit enough to live on. Whilst that’s the case for the rich, the poor have to struggle through their daily lives, living like beggars. Our economies’ most favoured profession is prostitution. Men and women sell their bodies to make a living for themselves and their families.

Mortem Technologies was the first corporation to create a piece of technology that technically stops people from dying. They started off specialising in cryogenic freezing experiments and AI development, but later created a device that can transport one's consciousness into another body. The rich have clones of themselves made, so that their consciousness can be planted into a body that looks just like their own.

I shake myself from my thoughts. I can still hear the shots going off and I can smell the gunpowder in the air, but I refuse to turn around. I keep running, away from the chaos ensuing, despite my aching feet.

These heels were a real bad idea, I think to myself. Internally scoffing at my own stupidity. I know that I technically caused the shenanigans down the street, but that doesn't mean I have to stick around to end it.

I take a turn down one of the back-alleys near the Whistling Pig, the bar I frequent, almost sliding on the mud on the wet ground and I take the oppurtunity to slow down. Laughing hysterically; I do love it when my marks turn on one another. It makes my job so much easier.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

I finally tracked my marks for the day, Malyk Inepta and Hecate Iniuria to a greasy club in the centre of the slums. It’s busy here tonight, men and women of the night walking up to anyone that looks able to pay for their services. The street smells of cigarette smoke, mud and the signature dampness that has settled over the slums like a veil, totally over-riding my senses before I manage to bring myself back to my natural, unwavering state. The darkness of the street and the eerie glow of the neon signs overhead make this the perfect spot to conduct the usual dodgy business of the slums.

Both Malyk and Hecate are drug lords in different territories in Perditus; both are total idiots, neither has two brain cells to rub together, but they are two of the most intimidating people I've ever met, even scarier considering I'm an assassin – I've met some terrifying people.

They both stand over six foot five inches tall, Malyk has black, straight hair that cascades far down his back, lifeless brown eyes that appear almost black and he's built like a wall, just solid muscle. Hecate is blonde, but he keeps his hair buzzed. He has piercing blue eyes that flicker with excitement whenever trouble comes knocking at the door, again he’s heavily built but not as buff as Malyk, but what makes him so scary is the expression he keeps on his face, a constant sneer. He looks like he wants to turn everyone inside out – literally – because he thinks it would be fun. Psychotic.

So, I find myself in the middle of a Mexican standoff with two of Perditus' most famous drug lords, in the middle of Neon, the grimiest club in Perditus' slums. Multicoloured spotlights swinging down and around us, a heavy bass thudding beneath our feet. Everyone else within the vicinity scatters as our weapons are drawn.

I have been hired to kill both Hecate and Malyk, another rival drug lord is paying me an awful lot of money to bury them so he can take their territories for himself.

I try to slow my breathing, the excitement of the adrenaline rush working my brain into overdrive, I can smell the excitement in the club mixed with another few questionable smells. The people who stayed in the club, waiting for pandoras box to open. I have to think of ways to get myself out of this alive. Thinking of my strategy, I get to work carrying it out.

A Mexican Standoff is a three person gun duel. According to standard game theory, the first person to shoot is most likely to lose. The person they shoot at is also likely to lose. The third person has the best chance of winning; I have to make the third person myself. Or maybe I can take myself out of the equation all together. A knowing smirk covering my face.

"So, Hecate, have you seen Vilis recently?" I whine with a pout, knowing full well that Vilis is Malyk's woman. He smirks at me.

"One might think that you are jealous, Miss Angelus Mortis."

He's totally clueless, I think to myself whilst rolling my eyes at the name. I’ve become known as ‘Angelus Mortis’ – Angel of Death – all over Perditus, earned because I have yet to f**k up a job. It’s been a few years since I first heard the name, but it seems to have stuck. There aren’t an awful lot of people who know my true name now, only clients, close friends and family. Otherwise it’s been lost to the wind.

I glance at Malyk from the corner of my eye, not taking my eyes or my gun off of either of them for too long, he looks like he’s about to explode, his face going from red to purple. If this were a cartoon, he'd have had steam coming from his ears. It was the perfect way to get the attention off of me. If Hecate thinks I want to sleep with him, he won’t want to kill me, and I’ve got Malyk so angry, indirectly of course, that he seems to have forgotten that I am here. Malyk; looking like he’s about to charge at Hecate, I decide to keep Hecate distracted a little longer.

"So, how was she in the sack?” I ask, looking up at him through my thick lashes. He chuckles, but before getting a chance to answer, Malyk charges at him, fury struck on his face and all thoughts of me, gone.

Shots start ringing out all around me, neither man making any conscious effort to actually aim because of their rage. When their men burst through the doors, I use the opportunity to sneak out the back exit, knowing that neither of them will be leaving Neon alive.

Back to the present…

Walking into the bar, I spot my Dad straight away. As usual, he’s sitting up at the back in a booth, hidden away, refusing to socialise. Typical. I walk up and plop down opposite him in the booth, ignoring the usual smell of stale food from the back kitchen and beer, the floor sticky with it. I guess I’ve grown used to the smell here. I shudder at the thought. No one should get used to the smell here.

Maybe I need to find another bar to frequent, I think, suppressing another shudder.

“Hey Pops, you been here long?” I question, knowing he’s been here all day. He always waits around here when I’m working. He likes to make sure I get home safe, even though he’s taught me everything I know. He’s the reason I’m the best at what I do. I guess that’s what Dads’ do though.

“Yes, I have. I figured you’d be here soon, I could hear the gunshots from here. You couldn’t have been a little bit more discreet?” He scoffs.

“Dad, I didn’t even get to use my gun. They turned on each other halfway through our duel. They robbed me of my fun,” I say pouting sarcastically. He starts chuckling at me.

“Hopefully you’ll have more fun on your next job. Now, don’t pout Valora, it’s not ladylike.” He scolds me, whilst getting up out of the booth. I scoff at that, when have I ever been ladylike?

We start to head back home. Since I turned eighteen two years ago, we made it a tradition to have a drink together, curled up on the sofa while I tell him everything that happened on my job.

***

We get back to the apartment and I head into the bedroom to peel myself out of my catsuit. My Dad had it made for me for my eighteenth birthday. It’s supposed to be made of some really rare, indestructible material – it makes me basically invincible. The indestructible quality has never been tested though, I never give anyone the chance. I always pair it with my thigh-high leather, heeled boots and my daggers. It all gets topped off with my gun holster, that leaves two handguns resting by my chest.

Of course.

I feel sexy and powerful when I wear it. Confidence definitely helps when I’m on the job, I make less mistakes, and my targets – mainly the men – make more mistakes because they get distracted by my figure.

I stop in front of the mirror before getting into something a little bit more comfortable, taking in my appearance. I have waist-long, pin-straight black hair, it’s a huge contrast against my pale skin. I’m of average height for a woman, five-foot eight-inches, my figure is trimmed, from the daily training that my dad makes me do, and my legs are long and slender; muscular but slender. Most of my skin has been crowded by intricate designs, most of them sweeping up my body like vines, twisting and twirling around other. I’ve been getting tattoos since I turned sixteen, only my face and neck are free of tattoos. I have full lips, a button nose and almond shaped eyes, the most noticeable feature on my face is the colour of my eyes. One is the palest shade of blue, almost white; the other is a rich green colour, my Dad always says they look like the greenest grass, though that’s something I’ve never seen. Nature isn’t what Perditus’ is best known for.

Once I’m finished looking at myself, I put on some black cycling shorts and an oversized white t-shirt, the epitome of comfort.

I head back into the sitting area, where my dad is pouring us a couple of drinks from the fancy crystal decanter at the side of the room. I head over to the sofa and throw myself down, waiting for him to come over and get comfortable before I start.

I spend the next hour or so telling him every detail about the job, nursing my glass, before deciding it’s time to head to bed. I have to get up in a few hours to start training.

***

My alarm blares loudly as a stir awake, I have to scrunch my eyes up to stop them from stinging before opening them wide. I look to my left and the clock on my bedside table shows quarter past five, I quickly turn the alarm off. I have no time to waste, so I swing my legs round and my feet land on the floor. I head straight to the bathroom to start my morning routine.

Thirty minutes later and it’s time to head out the door. I always start with a morning run, fifteen minutes to get my blood pumping and my heart racing. Then it’s time to start weapons training.

I start down the dull street towards the city centre. Looking around, there’s not one single person in sight, normal for this time of day. The slums’ inhabitants are drunks, druggies and men and women of the night. They make up around sixty percent of Perditus’ population. Since overpopulation became an issue, the employment rate has plummeted, there aren’t enough jobs to go around. To make a living, people around here have had to resort to lives of crime; thieving anything they can get their hands on to make a few quick coins, or selling their bodies to anyone willing to pay.

The slums are in a constant state of darkness on street level. There are few working street lights, and the ones that do work flicker constantly, about to live the last of their usefulness. The only lighting comes from either the sunlight or moonlight above, but the tall buildings still cast shade down onto the street.

I get to the city centre, where it opens up, the muted sunlight streaming down into the centre of the round opening. I can see there are a few people opening up their shops, including Maxen. He’s the best tattooist around. He’s a few years older than I am and has been tattooing since he was sixteen. He’s done all of my ink.

“Maxen!” I shout, grabbing his attention from the open/close sign. He smiles over at me before waving me towards him.

“Hey Val! Out again this morning I see. I shouldn’t be surprised anymore,” he says, shaking his head and chuckling at me.

“No Maxen, you shouldn’t be surprised anymore, I’ve been running by your shop for the past two years,” I state – jogging on the spot – getting ready to head back off again.

“You should be out having fun, Valora. Staying up really late at night, making friends, and being free. You’re so closed off from the rest of the world.” He sighs. I ignore his worrying and start off back towards the apartment, waving goodbye.

***

I walk back into the apartment heading to the training room, when my phone starts ringing. No Caller ID. It’s most likely a new job, so I answer after letting it ring a few times.

“Angelus Mortis?” A deep baritone voice asks from the other end of the phone.

“Yes, who might this be?” I say, throwing a question back at him.

“My name is Orion Aemulus, I am phoning to ask if you can do a job for me. I’d like to discuss the details in person. Can you meet me this morning? Nine o’clock?” He asks. After agreeing to meet, he hangs up and sends the address by text a few minutes later.

I go into the training room, reminiscing in the smell of sweat and the old leather of punching bags, and get started on blade training. Knives and swords are my specialty, the katana being my favourite, but if you throw any weapon at me, I can use it. My Dad has trained me with every weapon under the sun, as well as in hand-to-hand combat.

***

I’ve had to cut training early today, so I have time to get ready for my meeting with Orion. The humidity made me sweat more than usual, so a shower is definitely necessary before I head out.

After a shower, I head into my closet to look for my outfit. I already know what I want to wear. I pull out a black, silky halter-neck, cropped top, with a matching black pencil skirt that sits just below my knees. I am pairing the outfit with a pair of black lace-up stilettos and a black clutch bag.

I sit at my vanity to dry my long locks, then curl it with my curling iron about half way down the long lengths, scrunching my nose up at the burnt hair smell wafting around me. I’m really not the girly-girl type, all this effort is purely for my clients. I then apply minimal makeup: a dash of foundation, some mascara, and a clear lip gloss.

I check the time; quarter to eight. I have to head out now before I’m late. Not before strapping a couple of daggers to the insides of my thighs and slipping my mini handgun inside my clutch bag. I’m always prepared for danger. It comes with the profession.