Deadly Connections: Leviathan Short Story
Jul 12, 2016 14:26:27 GMT
iCaramelBird, VirtueNco, and 3 more like this
Post by AlexJ on Jul 12, 2016 14:26:27 GMT
In preparation for her debut in the RP, I figured I'd work on a 5-part short story Leviathan: a poison producing, knife wielding assassin with a hatred for her employers. Hopefully you like what you read, and always feel free to post here with questions or criticisms.
{Deadly Connections: Prologue}The warm orange glow from the majestic, setting sun embraced the red-brick exterior of a narrow corner-building of an inconsequential Capital City street. It was a Saturday, so the pavements were emptier of people than one would expect on a weekday: some electing to spend their time at home, others waiting to spend it come nightfall. Lena Gardner did not fit into either bracket.
Dressed in casually in a white t-shirt and black hoodie, complemented by blackish grey jeans, the seventeen year old’s white trainers landed softly on the pavement as the walked. In her hands was a brown paper bag, and her orangey-brown eyes were locked on the street corner building. Though she spent a lot of her time in that cramped apartment, it was not her home. It was a safe house; a base of operations; a tool.
She swaggered up to the entrance of the safe house, and seemed unfazed as she removed one hand from the bottom of the bag to find it stained with blood. Rather than doing what an average citizen would do - check for any wounds, and potentially call an ambulance - she instead produced a key from her back pocket; nonchalantly unlocking the front door.
The safe house's interior was sparse to say the least, offering only the essentials: a bed, decent plumbing, heating, and cooking apparatus. As she took off her shoes, the exposed beech wood floorboards inflicted a little discomfort on her feet as she slowly approached the lounge, bloody bag still in hand. The room was a testament to the every expense spared mentality of the apartment's tenant. No chairs or sofas invited any potential visitor; no table, fireplace, or television was in sight, and of course there wasn’t even a carpet. In place of this, was three padded dummies placed at random spots across the otherwise empty room, creating a makeshift training space. For Lena, this was all business as usual… all except for one little thing. A gentle breeze crept up her neck from behind, and with a quick glance, she spotted the back window partially opened. It was this same window that she had closed before she left in the morning.
She stiffened her posture, turning her head to face the interior of the longue once more, except this time more directly to the window. It had been partially boarded up, except from a little pocket of space that allowed the vibrant red and orange light to seep its way into a fraction of the room. On this occasion, the light was blocked by figure that leant upon the windowsill. He spoke with a deep, whimsically scheming voice; the patronising tones all too familiar to her,
“Figured you’d work outside of uniform today? Did you suffer a recent blow to the head?”
As the figure approached her, Lena was able to make out the features of the intruder. His posture was straight and proper; wearing an impeccably clean tailcoat tuxedo, with a perfectly aligned bowtie to boot. His face was clearly middle aged; as wrinkles found themselves exaggerated by his fixed frown, as well as a possibly receding black hairline hidden by the slicked back nature of the style. This was a guise she knew well, and one that quietly disgusted her.
She threw the brown paper bag to the butler lookalike, and he in turn spared no time in revealing its contents: a limp hand, the sever mark as cleanly-cut as it was bloody. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the gift, and only barely seemed more engrossed in what Lena had to say,
“There was no need for it, so I figured I’d save time and notoriety by wearing a hood. Is there a problem with that, Reggie?”
“There are a lot of problems I have to deal with, girl. Those you make for yourself are right at the bottom of my list.”
She would have been lying if she said Reginald’s unimpressed demeanour disappointed her a little, though over her many years of knowing the ruthless taskmaster, she had come to expect it. He was the director of her operations, answering only to the Norwood’s who ran the whole show. As such, she had to be careful around him, despite the fact she bore him no love. In keeping with this, she folded her arms and responded curtly,
“You don’t usually visit me at the end of an assignment. What do you want?”
“What you are expected to do. Your job,” from his interior coat pocket, Reginald produced a neatly folded light brown envelope, and handed it to Lena. She opened the contents, and began to read as he continued to speak, "A new target, high profile in the criminal underground, and famous for her ruthlessness in -”
“In close quarters combat. I’ve got the dossier for that information, Reggie, but tell me this: why do you want her dead?”
“...Ignoring your callous disregard for your betters, I’ll answer you that out of the goodness of my heart. See, our friend here has decided to target a lucrative operation our superiors are interested in partnering with. Usually ventures such as these would be told to fend for themselves, however in this case only one figurehead remains. If this assassin gets her way, then our employers will be very upset.”
“So I’m going to stop her. Should be simple enough,” without batting an eyelid toward Reginald, she placed the relevant documents back in the envelope, and placed it under her arm, “Arrange a faux-meeting with your potential partner, and the target will likely show up. Promise I’ll wear my gear this time.”
He did not respond instantly, instead walking past Lena to the backdoor of the safe house. He produced a personal master-key, and unlocked the shabby wooden fixture, and only then speaking a final word,
“Do be careful, Leviathan, or she will eviscerate you without a moment’s notice… Actually, don’t be careful, that would be a very entertaining death to hear about.”
Now he was out of visual range, the assassin clenched her fists, and smirked wryly. Reginald’s death would be more of a spectacle than the day she would fall.
“Oh please, Reggie; with a name like Reaver, I’m sure she’s not to be taken as seriously as everyone usually does.”
Dressed in casually in a white t-shirt and black hoodie, complemented by blackish grey jeans, the seventeen year old’s white trainers landed softly on the pavement as the walked. In her hands was a brown paper bag, and her orangey-brown eyes were locked on the street corner building. Though she spent a lot of her time in that cramped apartment, it was not her home. It was a safe house; a base of operations; a tool.
She swaggered up to the entrance of the safe house, and seemed unfazed as she removed one hand from the bottom of the bag to find it stained with blood. Rather than doing what an average citizen would do - check for any wounds, and potentially call an ambulance - she instead produced a key from her back pocket; nonchalantly unlocking the front door.
The safe house's interior was sparse to say the least, offering only the essentials: a bed, decent plumbing, heating, and cooking apparatus. As she took off her shoes, the exposed beech wood floorboards inflicted a little discomfort on her feet as she slowly approached the lounge, bloody bag still in hand. The room was a testament to the every expense spared mentality of the apartment's tenant. No chairs or sofas invited any potential visitor; no table, fireplace, or television was in sight, and of course there wasn’t even a carpet. In place of this, was three padded dummies placed at random spots across the otherwise empty room, creating a makeshift training space. For Lena, this was all business as usual… all except for one little thing. A gentle breeze crept up her neck from behind, and with a quick glance, she spotted the back window partially opened. It was this same window that she had closed before she left in the morning.
She stiffened her posture, turning her head to face the interior of the longue once more, except this time more directly to the window. It had been partially boarded up, except from a little pocket of space that allowed the vibrant red and orange light to seep its way into a fraction of the room. On this occasion, the light was blocked by figure that leant upon the windowsill. He spoke with a deep, whimsically scheming voice; the patronising tones all too familiar to her,
“Figured you’d work outside of uniform today? Did you suffer a recent blow to the head?”
As the figure approached her, Lena was able to make out the features of the intruder. His posture was straight and proper; wearing an impeccably clean tailcoat tuxedo, with a perfectly aligned bowtie to boot. His face was clearly middle aged; as wrinkles found themselves exaggerated by his fixed frown, as well as a possibly receding black hairline hidden by the slicked back nature of the style. This was a guise she knew well, and one that quietly disgusted her.
She threw the brown paper bag to the butler lookalike, and he in turn spared no time in revealing its contents: a limp hand, the sever mark as cleanly-cut as it was bloody. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the gift, and only barely seemed more engrossed in what Lena had to say,
“There was no need for it, so I figured I’d save time and notoriety by wearing a hood. Is there a problem with that, Reggie?”
“There are a lot of problems I have to deal with, girl. Those you make for yourself are right at the bottom of my list.”
She would have been lying if she said Reginald’s unimpressed demeanour disappointed her a little, though over her many years of knowing the ruthless taskmaster, she had come to expect it. He was the director of her operations, answering only to the Norwood’s who ran the whole show. As such, she had to be careful around him, despite the fact she bore him no love. In keeping with this, she folded her arms and responded curtly,
“You don’t usually visit me at the end of an assignment. What do you want?”
“What you are expected to do. Your job,” from his interior coat pocket, Reginald produced a neatly folded light brown envelope, and handed it to Lena. She opened the contents, and began to read as he continued to speak, "A new target, high profile in the criminal underground, and famous for her ruthlessness in -”
“In close quarters combat. I’ve got the dossier for that information, Reggie, but tell me this: why do you want her dead?”
“...Ignoring your callous disregard for your betters, I’ll answer you that out of the goodness of my heart. See, our friend here has decided to target a lucrative operation our superiors are interested in partnering with. Usually ventures such as these would be told to fend for themselves, however in this case only one figurehead remains. If this assassin gets her way, then our employers will be very upset.”
“So I’m going to stop her. Should be simple enough,” without batting an eyelid toward Reginald, she placed the relevant documents back in the envelope, and placed it under her arm, “Arrange a faux-meeting with your potential partner, and the target will likely show up. Promise I’ll wear my gear this time.”
He did not respond instantly, instead walking past Lena to the backdoor of the safe house. He produced a personal master-key, and unlocked the shabby wooden fixture, and only then speaking a final word,
“Do be careful, Leviathan, or she will eviscerate you without a moment’s notice… Actually, don’t be careful, that would be a very entertaining death to hear about.”
Now he was out of visual range, the assassin clenched her fists, and smirked wryly. Reginald’s death would be more of a spectacle than the day she would fall.
“Oh please, Reggie; with a name like Reaver, I’m sure she’s not to be taken as seriously as everyone usually does.”