Miss Swifteh
(?)Community Member
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- Posted: Sat, 28 Apr 2012 01:01:11 +0000
MAKE ME COME ALIVE
c o m e o n a n d t u r n m e o n
TOUCH ME SAVE MY LIFE
c o m e o n a n d t u r n m e o n
I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE
c o m e o n a n d t u r n m e o n
███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
m a r c u sx x x x x
GLUTTONY < x x x x x
SUPER-SHARP EYESIGHT < x x x x x
REGENERATION < x x x x x
GLUTTONY < x x x x x
SUPER-SHARP EYESIGHT < x x x x x
REGENERATION < x x x x x
Two weeks had passed since Marcus took out his last target. He didn't much care for who they were; the details were irrelevant to his role as an assassin. His client paid him for his discretion and skills - their reasons were their own. His task was to exact their will by removing the target. The compensation for the taking of this life was in the amount of money he ordered and the amount that they were willing to give. At the end of the day it didn't matter if his target was a notorious murderer, a crooked politician or just someone who got caught up with the wrong crowd and pissed the powerful off. They were going to die regardless of his own personal views - and that, children, is what Marcus liked to call 'professionalism'.
Yet although the end result would be the same regardless (the death of his target) Marcus felt he had full freedom in the method of execution. Clients who found themselves in contact with Gluttony were often wary that they could be playing a risk. Of course, the Sins were prolific and known for their efficiency but there were some members who were better at 'discretion', and some that were a wild card. Marcus fell into the latter category.
He didn't always cause a scene. His skills at sniping were almost unbelievable, capable of delivering a fatal bullet to a target that, under regular circumstances, would be too distant. Occasionally, however, he wanted a little poetic license with his work. After all, he wanted to enjoy himself; it was fascinating how many interesting characters he met through his work. Sometimes he just wanted to indulge a little.
But then what else could be expected of a man dubbed 'Gluttony'?
Seated in his office the man leant over his desk, chin propped in his hand. He was dressed casually, comfortably. To one side of the desk was a cup of cold coffee, two days old, the milk from the beverage lifted to the top of the liquid in an unsightly scar. Absent-mindedly he hovered his hand over the cup before he remembered it's age and screwed up his face in frustration. He'd clean it up - eventually. It could wait for a while longer at least.
His attention turned back to the papers he'd spread over the wooden surface. Marcus' eyes scanned a pleasant face in a series of three photos, taken by a rather unskilled photographer. None of them seemed to give a good picture of his target, but at least he could get a feel for the man's appearance.
It was almost ironic that he was smiling in all three of them, considering the purpose for which they were taken.
He trawled through the collected data, place names and associations swarming his mind as he tried to recall them on a map. His clients wanted the target removed quietly before he could cause a stir - clearly they knew of Gluttony's difficult reputation. Shackled by his client's wishes, Marcus figured he'd have to find the perfect window to put a bullet in the man's head. Quiet, clean, no fuss. But just when would that opportunity arise?
He turned his attention back to the man's career, his interest piqued. Of course, he'd alreadyh skimmed over the man's role as a cafe proprietor but he'd paid it little heed. Now that he thought about it, he had yet to visit the cafe in question. The hedonist within him wondered about the standards of the food. They'd serve cakes, surely? The cafe was a private business, so it was possible that they would have some original creations. It would be a pity to bump off the owner before sampling some of the produce...
He glanced at his stale coffee, leaning back. His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, nose wrinkling slightly in doubt. Was it too late to get a coffee?
Only one way to find out.
- - - - -
Marcus raised his eyes to the cafe's sign, plucking a cigarette from his lips as he exhaled. The cafe looked the same as most: comfortable, warm and respectable. It practically shone like a beacon, appealing to his taste buds. With a flick of his wrist the cigarette butt was disposed of and the man stepped inside to the chime of the front door.