Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.

This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.

STATE OF MIND

Amy actually rented out the spare room in her apartment to me. No, we did not fuck. And I can’t help but feel that paying $1000 a week for a fucking room might have been a bit too expensive. But at least it came with breakfast and the sight of watching her in bra and panties, that shapely ass of hers bouncing all through the house lifted my spirits alright.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in.” I said, alternating between arms, I continued with handstand pushups.

She click-clacked on her heels, and handed me a small bag. “Here.” I lowered myself to my feet and unzipped it, finding what I assumed was $40,000 in cash. I asked her to foot my bill for the destruction at the bar with the promise of paying should the contract clear.

I handed her $5000 for the month’s rent. Watching my money go as fast as it had arrived. Yet I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. I made a whole 50k in one night by just ending some guy’s life. Fifty-fucking-thousand dollars, damn.

How much could I make with better contracts and targets? How much more would I make as my fame rose? Heck the money was the secondary aim, people were beginning to whisper my name, I was actually getting rep as a brutal and swift killer. I could feel the adventure brewing, I could feel my legend starting. I was hungry for more, I needed more, I wanted more. Fuck! I was loving this shit.

“Do you still want the gear?”

“Yeah, I’ll start with the basic for now. I know I don’t have remotely enough for the special stuff.” Special stuff being the more advanced gadgetry, weapons and armor; I’m talking image inducers, repulsor guns, sonic scramblers, jetpacks. Those cost in the excess of tens of millions—she’d shown me a dark web site with the stuff listed on it. My eye was on a wrist mounted teleporter which went for a hefty twenty-five mil, and that’s without the upgrades and flavoring. Heck I even heard they held auctions for stuff like vibranium and still liquid molds of adamantium, only the heaviest of hitters could think to participate in such events.

Being the best didn’t come cheap.

“I’m glad you’re well aware of your financial situation.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I handed her the list of things I wanted and the money to pay for them which amounted to a sum total of $32,000, leaving me with $3000. I didn’t really care much about the money, I was the investment, the cash was just a means to an end but damn, I was burning through it like a Hollywood wife.

I handed her a $100.

“What’s this for?”

“Sex.” I smiled, she deadpanned.

“You’re hilarious.” She said, not finding it funny at all. Which made it all the more funny. I don’t know why annoying her was so much fun.

“I’ll need some spray paint cans and a portable welder.”

“You will not redecorate my room.”

“It's not for the house, I actually like the minimalist design you have going on, I’ll be customizing my equipment.” Branding is very important. I had to create and maintain mine. I thought up something that was bound to blow the competition out the water; 100% completion rates regardless of mission. Once I accepted it, I’ll see it through to the ends of the earth or you could have a refund or not pay me.

“I’ll be back with the gear and some new contracts.” She said, exiting the room and leaving me to my devices.

I went back to my one-arm handstand pushups, adding steps to my many plans. I wouldn’t just remain this way, I needed to become stronger, faster, more powerful. I wanted to kill gods if it came down to it. I’m talking real godlike beings, earth rumbling, reality warping, heaven breaking godlike beings. To do that, I’d have to be able to wield weapons capable of making them bleed, id have to be strong enough to not die in their mere presence.

With my metaknowledge, it was only a matter of time.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Amelia Chen was a hard woman to impress, she had been in the game of murder long enough to see things she could never tell another soul because they’d either say she was going insane or call her a liar. She had seen things bordering on being inhuman and then she had seen the inhuman in a bar.

The night ago was going to be an uneventful one. The assassin she managed had overestimated his abilities and chose to take the contract on Musclehead, the mutant gladiator with extra-human strength. She warned him of it, yet the obstinate man refused her advice, casting her well meaning words to the wind. She found his body in an open garbage bin, identifying the mushed up things only because of the relatively intact uniform.

She had gone to the bar not only for a drink, meaning to raise her spirits and to at least toast to the dead man, but to also to acquire information on contractors looking for work. She had, at first, assumed that the pretty boy by the counter was an escort looking for clients; that line of thought was thrown out when she heard his conversation with the bartender.

The teenager was adamant at being a killer and one in need of employ. It was a joke, how could someone like him, who looked like he belonged on the front cover of a modeling magazine, claim to be a prolific killer with the skills to stand amongst the best. How? When he couldn’t even suffer the taste of hard liquor.

She humored him as an outlet to be amused, that was how it began, yet the more she conversed with him, the more she found herself being swayed by the sheer immensity of his confidence and nonchalance. It became even more convincing when he threatened to kill her without a hint of emotion in his voice or a tremble in his eyes. Those eyes were too calm to be playful. He really did mean it.

She decided to present the contract to him. If this was all just pretense, if he was acting, he would either make up an excuse to choose not to do it, or he would do it and then die an excruciatingly vile death.

Yet, for an undisturbed second, he focused entirely on Musclehead, it seemed as though he was dismantling the gladiator behind those predatory sharp eyes of his.

He stood from his seat and handed her his cigarette. To Amelia’s surprise the teen actually approached the gladiator. She questioned his mental state. Musclehead was a very powerful man, one strong enough to grind a person to paste with just his hands. She had tried to make it clear to him before he walked off.

She watched him seamlessly play the role of a fan, herself almost convinced that he truly was, she still couldn’t decide if he wasn’t. She saw a flash of light, a blur, and then the teen with both his blades stuck in the gladiator’s neck. He moved faster than she thought was humanly possible at that range.

He then proceeded to systematically destroy the gladiator, moving past the offending strikes like water, lethally stabbing into the muscle bound man’s body with such smooth grace and poise that it appeared to be a performance instead of a thing of death. He turned murder into a literal art, one that, to Amelia, deserved a standing ovation.

The teen was a natural born killer, one put on this earth to do the impossible with death, to turn demise into beauty. He was Da Vinci with a canvas, Michelangelo with a pick, Van Gogh with a brush, a heavenly prodigy before her very own eyes. One she would absolutely bring to her side by all means necessary.

She maintained her posture as he returned, a smile on his face as he claimed his cigarette. She shook his hand at the start of their partnership and wondered, if she was on the other side of his blade, how stunning he would make her demise, would it be a masterpiece in blood or a grand opus in gore? Would others cry at the utter magnificence of it all?

She composed herself and withdrew her arm, realizing that the shake had gone on for longer than necessary.

She offered him a spare room in her apartment upon learning that he had nowhere to stay, she of-course demanded rent, nothing came for free, not in Madripoor. It was a principle she operated by.

“I think he’s the one.” She whispered to herself. He possessed the skills and ambition to accomplish the goal, one she held since she was but a child sold to slavery and a molesting master. She however decided to observe him for more time, she couldn’t make another mistake, no, another failure would cost her more than just her own life.

She entered the nondescript storefront and whispered her code to the menacing guard who stepped aside. Allowing her to proceed past racks of second hand clothes, to the back where she pushed through a metal door, going down a subsequent flight of stone steps, reaching the underground market, an entire subterranean network of sellers beneath Lowtown.

Amelia approached her frequent vendor who welcomed her with a familiar smile. She presented him with the list of weapons and gear her assassin needed and a few things she decided to gift him with as a show of good faith.

…

When Amelia entered the house, she found him still exercising, sweat trailing down exquisitely corded musculature as Daken pushed himself up, ramrod straight, with nothing but his fingers. She heard him mutter something, pushing up and down with insane fervor, sweat puddling beneath his fingers. Faster still he went, as though charged by insanity, faster yet he went, he was almost beginning to blur, it was mesmerizing.

“Wooh.” He said, halting. Amelia snapped away her trance. She presented him with the case which held all he requested. He snapped the clasps open, eyes shining as they roamed over sleek weaponry and gear, he noticed the extra armaments and raised a brow. “Wow. You got me these? Thanks.” He said, sincere gratitude in his tone. He knew how expensive they came.

“I have the contracts here, we’ll look over them after you clean up.” Daken agreed. After mopping the room and taking a long overdue shower, he dressed comfortably in shorts and a white tee and exited the room, moving past the white walled hall to meet Amelia in the dining room, where she’d spread out dossiers on targets over the table.

“I suggest we pull at least one every three days. Since you’re new, we’ll need to build up your reputation, it might be intensive at the start but it’s necessary to take on a heavy workload to get things started.” Amelia explained. The most optimal plan for contractors was to complete a contract a week at maximum, or threaten to adversely affect their health. The work was truly intensive both logistically, physically and mentally and as such, contractors were advised to be well rested or risk botching a mission where a single variable could spell the difference between life or death.

“What?” Daken frowned. Amelia expected the protest, a contract every three days was still taxing.

“I know it’s a bit too much but it’s—”

“No, I’m saying that’s too little.” He interrupted. “If they’re all in Madripoor and accessible, we do five, possibly more, in a single day.”

“Are you insane? Do you know the effects that would have on you?” She questioned.

“Amy, this isn’t amateur hour. Don’t doubt my capacity and skill. I’ve done much more in even less time. Five a day is even conservative.” Daken had gone on many missions for the Hand; some of those missions required the elimination of a multitude of targets in absurdly short timeframes.

“Listen to me, you’re starting out, you’re cocky, I get it. Reality, however is a very different place.”

“I can only blame my age for all this doubt in my ability. Lady, let’s just go over the contracts and pick one, if you feel I’m unable to continue after a mission, I’ll return.” Daken compromised. He could only ease her stance by demonstrating his abilities.

“Very well.” Amelia acquiesced, pulling a file over. “I suggest we begin with…”

*.*.*.*.*