So this is how an assassin gets work: You know someone who knows someone, who then knows someone that needs something done. Said people-who-know also tend to happen to know that a certain person (whose name or even face they do not know) is quite good at solving the problems of other people. Then, along the whole long line of knows-someones goes out the word that certain people need certain problems solved. If you are lucky, you are fast enough and good enough to get the contract. Fulfill it and survive. And then, if all goes well, collect payment. All those steps are in themselves ripe with danger, like some pretty bulbous red thing hanging from a succulent vine. Red. Ripe. Poisonous.

Or, like me, you join an organization that is quite good at taking over foreign countries, work for them and have that pay the bills. Not quite as fraught with danger as the SOP, but still good enough for any mutant assasin-for-hire. Only that, apparently, my employer was taken over by my least favorite group of mutant zealots. In case you wonder: No, I do not like any of them. But The Order takes my professional dislike to a new Level. Yes, The Order. Or, as some might recall I christened them, the smash-up-boys. Why that is, you, my dear unsuspecting intruder ask? Well... take three good guesses. I'm quite sure you will get there shortly. If you are lucky, you will do so, before the Order gets to you for knowing about them. And then making sure you never tell. Preferably by extracting both teeth and tongue. And then sewing your mouth shut for good measure.

Yes, with regret I must say that such methods are not what I would call either inconspicuous or even mildly effective in most cases. And still. I got myself a job from them. That is why I am currently sitting in an unfurnished apartment that is conveniently situated nearly exactly across the street from my current target. That Is why I have not slept properly in three days. And that is why I carry around with me enough armaments to break the gun laws of Texas. Not to speak of New York.

And yes, hear my mental sigh, I still took that job. Because, as you might know, something has to pay your bills. Also: Something has to keep me – and that is a rather personal problem – from getting bored with eternity. As it so happens that is what you are looking forward to when you are an immortal timemancer. With three eyes currently locked on the only viable entrance and exit to the building across the street. The fire exits are, quite conveniently, currently inaccessible.

And so I smile, once, a thin-lipped smile without amusement, because three days have been long and are coming to an end. Why? Because Someone is going to die today. Swiftly. Cleanly. And disappear. Without a trace. Because that is what the real bucks are paid for.

For everything else, you have groups like the smash up Boys. They might even sing and dance.

There were other ways to get assassin work. In Mina's case it usually started with a referral from a past client. A friend of theirs needed someone taken care of and would she oblige them? Mute was asked for by name among her circle of clients because they knew her. Rarely did they know her face, most meetings she attended in her mission gear or a disguise so as to save her identity. Mute was asked for by name because she got the job done and did so with a certain amount of discretion. As she had mused many a time before her ability to cut off sound made her job many times easier. Today's job was another assassination. Mina was good at a little bit of everything that her job required and so could do a lot more than kill. But most people seemed to view it as a waste of talents to put someone capable of assassination on any other job. It was why she had so many contracts for deaths instead of bodyguard work, theft, and what have you.

Today was yet another prime example of that way of thinking. It was yet another contract for a kill. Frankly she couldn't even remember why the person was wanted dead anymore. Not that the reason really mattered to her. The pay out was worth far more than the effort she'd expended to this point. So far Mina was coming out ahead. She had infiltrated the building some days ago. A few drinks with the landlord and some sweet talk had been that she'd needed to swipe his keys. There was even an empty apartment just down the hallway from where the target resided. It was a good enough place to wait for her best opportunity at the target. After she'd made the landlord disappear of course. Loose ends were for amateurs after all.

Today was the day, or so she had decided. Mina had learned her targets routines. It wouldn't be long before her chance to strike. Soon enough she would finish the contract, get her pay, and go back to her penthouse. The place was still new to her. Mina was not yet comfortable within it's confines and that was something she needed to remedy. It was her home ground after all. Knowing it like she knew her own body was just par for the course in her line of work. She carried out one last check on her equipment. Everything was ready.

Maximilian Johnson. Martin smiled tentatively, his lips curving into an illusion, an allusion to friendliness, to humanity, some last salute, as he recalled the name of his target. Removing himself from the window from which he had been watching he looked over some printed pages that rested on a bleak wooden table. A table, which should have gone to the dumping ground years before, marred surface patterns only broken by the white-and-back of the sheets stacked in neat little carton boxes. Oh so pretty boxes. Yes, it was time now, would be shortly.

Before him the last bits of Mr. Johnsons' life were dumped into the gray box, Martin seemingly glancing over them only in fleeting instances – reality being something deceptively different as he was quite able to process a whole page of words in a mere glance thanks to his rather disconcerting ability to alter his personal timeflow – and recognition only shimmering at baremost in his eyes. The contact killer gathered up the last of his things and put them on the old tabletop before bending down to grab under it. He produced, quite normally, a big bottle of household bleach. The chlorine variety that had a tendency to make eyes water by mere presence. The kind that said extra strong on the outside and warned the user to not let in come in contact with anything you wished to keep colorful. Not even your own skin. Another bend and a big rug appeared, as well as a pair of rubber gloves.

Humming the outwardly young man proceeded to liberally dump bleach all over the apartment, barely sweeping behind, coating most surfaces. Coating everything in reach with the water-clear substance that should soon dissolve any biological trace of his existence. Should investigators come this far, they might find their processes slightly hampered by the careful destruction.

Finally, as he was enveloped in a sea of fumes even he would not stand for a long time – having three eyes sometimes was much of a disadvantage – the bottle and rag were added on top of the carton and a pair of final items retrieved from a pouch that was slung across his chest. Two small vials, glass or plastic, they were clear as day, he emptied at two carefully selected locations. Blood and hair. From some gangbanger who had had an unfortunate accident a few days before. Yes, he was humming, despite the chemical burning in his nostrils.

Some people do take pride in good work.

Outside he took the box. Outside in a small metal garbage can it was dumped. Behind came a standard lighter, a burning one a that. And soon there would be smoke and crackling and even worse air than inside. Burning plastic had a tendency to do that.

It was time. Preparations complete. The toneless tune disappeared into the day as if it had never been. His smile disappeared into the sands of his face faster than water in a desert, evaporating. No longer: Here. Mercy has taken a vacation.

Casually he walked to the entrance of the apartment building across the street from the one he had just cleaned a room in. Casually with an air of practiced disinterest. Only his hand, seemingly scratching his back under the sweater might belie the fact that a long knife – a very long knife indeed, was hidden there in a sheath. It was time. Time to dance with death.

With her gear check completed Mina was ready to get her mission underway. One Max Johnson, or Maximilian if you preferred his full first name. Mina stuck to Max because it was shorter and politeness was wasted on a dead man. Glancing around the room Mina ensured that the last traces of her presence were gone. Mina ensured her mask was in place and took a second to settle silence over herself and her weapons. All was ready. Mina slipped out into the hallway to make her way to the target's apartment. Possibilities of complications as well as memories of past jobs flickered through the woman's mind as she walked slowly toward the correct door. There was no need to rush. The target was, to her knowledge, unaware of the price on his head. He wouldn't know she was coming so Mina allowed him a few extra moments.

In this persona of Mute, Mina was entirely confident in her mission. Max Johnson would die and she would be paid for his corpse. So seldom had her missions gone wrong that conceiving of defeat beforehand was difficult if not impossible. Logically she knew it was possible and was thinking of ways to compensate for any issues that might arise. However she didn't think that she would not succeed. Call it confidence or arrogance but that was the way of things. Why even if another assassin showed up Mina was confident she could deal with them. There would be no sharing of a reward this time. If there was competition then that competition would die along with the target.

Given the relatively few times that she had flubbed a mission Mina had no reason to suspect that this one would do anything but run smoothly. All too soon she stood at the door to the target's apartment.

The target

Max had had a good day. Nothing much of anything bad had happened - he even had gotten to lunch with that particularly impressive secretary from the office next door. Not that she had eaten much. Andshe had not filled the empty spaces with much talking either. Which was also good. He was not impressed by her brains. Oh he supposed she had some - after all she was working in a manhattan office and not in some brookly backwater - but this was not the reason he was happy for the luncheon. (You might guess to the reason for his happiness at your leisure. You will not be wrong.)

With a particularly happy smile it therefore was that he ignored the usual grubbers and slouches in the Subway. Some of them found the smile encouraging and actually stepped up to ask for money. He re-packaged the smile and went back to his usual blank riding-a-train expression. One needed to make concessions, but not too many. This was one of the reasons he was so good at accounting. Efficiency was paramount. (This was also the reason he was quite well off for an accountant in general. Employers valued efficiency.)

A sigh of satisfaction was probably warranted. He permitted himself one as he got out at the appropriate station and turned to walk down the street that would lead him to his space of living. His apartment. His little kingdom.

Martin permitted himself a sigh of satisfaction as he turned into the entranceway of the apartment complex. Such was his average normalcy - an illusion carefully constructed and projected - that no one would remember him beyond the immediate. He was one of the faceless, the many, a formless entity that sent its many tentacles through the streets of the city like a disease. Nobody knew each other. Everybody wanted to be known. A paradox he had solved for himself quite a while ago. He would be - and was - known under so many different names that he himself lost track most easily.

Loosing oneself in a plethora of identities also enables the most ready dissociation from such notions as fame and role. You simply acquired another one for the purpose at hand. In this case he was just an extension of the many fingers streching through New York. That was until he had stepped through the entrance.

Here Martin shifted into a shadow, something that hid and was silent, giving up on pretense, loosing illusion. Why? It would have been much easier to carry on while the target was kept in utter idiocy of his motives - the inane never comprehending their nearing end. It was because Martin had sensed something most unbecoming was going to happen soon. And his line of work scarcely permitted the discarding of such intuitions. Something was - to use the colloquial term - up. And he did not quite know what way he would proceed. Hide and strike from the shadows. But at what? At whom?

Mina quickly picked the lock and let herself into the apartment. The target wasn't present yet but he would be soon and she'd be waiting. The waiting wasn't precisely Mina's strong suit but she got by. The woman turned and locked the door back before moving further into the apartment. It was a nice enough place. Definitely didn't have the charm of her own penthouse but this man did not have her assets. She glanced about but made sure to keep clear of the windows. Being seen was not an option. In order to get to the bedroom she would have to get a lot closer to one such fixture than she'd like.

With the target approaching there was no time for hesitation so she made her way as quickly and unobtrusively into that room as she could. Having no witnesses would be ideal so the less attention she garnered the better. It was always best when she had to kill as few people as possible. This wasn't the sort of remote ill policed place that she could afford to allow bodies to pile up in after all. Smart killers didn't leave large body counts in their town of residence.

The dramatic thing to do would be to sit on the bed and wait placidly for the man to enter the room. Mina picked a spot that was blind from the doorway and hide herself there. Her gun came to the ready and a silencing field sprang up around it. She was ready. No theatrics and hopefully no messy fight. Quick, clean, easy. A routine kill.

Max entered his home without so much noticing the shadowed man that crept behind him. Keys jingled lightly against one another - door chimes different - metallic the noice that preceded an entracne floating over the linoleum floors. Martins step was light and secure. Hiding was not difficult. The shadowed man must be a cleaner, worker of some kind, must he not? So easy to overlook, easily misread. His eyes lowered in deference, as was his head, as he walked towards the victim - object of desires - that had just opened the door to his sanctuary.

VICTIM... his mind made no sound, encased the word and face in ice. VICTIMized...VICTorious....VICTuals... murals, murals for the dead just silence... in my head.
And in that icy silence...you are...

"What?...!" His gray eyes were cold enough to freeze water as he stepped behind the man. His one hand rested but lightly on his shoulder as he guided hin into the room beyond. The other was conveniently placed on the long knife that threatened to enter the left kidney. At an angle of course. It would be death quite soon. Come now, Max... Martins voice was warm and friendly. So nice of you to invite me in...

Pleasant voice. Pleasant company. Pleasant death. Martin made ready. He lied.

Mina heard the sound of the front door opening. So it would soon begin. A predatory smile drifted across the woman's features for the barest of moments. So soon. Only a scant distance away. It wouldn't take long. One bullet, placed properly and entirely silent. The man would likely not even see it coming. Her confidence was absolute until it was shattered by a voice that ought not be there. This man was supposed to be alone! Thinking a streak of obscenities Mina came to the conclusion that, based on the sound of the target's voice, she wasn't the only one after this contract. With a few suggestions as to what the interloper could do with himself made within the confines of her own mind Mina put on a smile and stepped out of the bedroom.

With her gun held at the ready she emerged from the room.

"Hmmm, now I was hardly expecting any extra company. Maximillian...you aren't cheating on little old me with other...people are you?"

Mina put on a pretty pout before her lips settled into a genial smile.

"I believe the saying is that two is company and three is a crowd, my dear competition. So perhaps you would kindly consider leaving? For me?"

Any assassin that fell for that bit wasn't worth her time and effort. Therefore while Mina reason that the interloper was a man and he would be affected she wasn't quite counting on it to work. Her gun remained trained on her prey and the other predator that had enter the equation. She wasn't disposed toward sharing a kill with another again. He had to go.

>>> "Hmmm, now I was hardly expecting any extra company. Maximillian...you aren't cheating on little old me with other...people are you?"

Things were, apparently, not as simple as they had appeared to be. Martin's grip on the sholder of his victim tightened visibly. Oh not that the whitening of white knuckles was much visible. It rather was the face of good Maximilian, who, after the appearance - sudden that it were - of a second killer, and with a gun no less, now seemed quite ready to embrace Somnus. (In other words: he went from slightly green to nicely ashen in his face.) Completely frozen he stared in obvious horror at the lady coming from his bedroom. His bedroom! Things were not quite working in his mind, for the strangled sound coming from his lips was more a groan than any kind of happiness.

Martin was not much in for a happy party either. The smile blooming quite suddenly on his face might have fooled most people, though. Nice, unassuming - and completely innocent, quite unlike the one Mina wore. It carried the weightlessness of youth and hinted quite severely at the age of the apparent second killer. (It was, as a matter of course, a calculated notion to throw the woman off her tracks. Who expects a near-teenager to be a killer after all? And whoever does, he has to be a bad, bad cynic...)

The knife in his other hand - yes, Martin was indeed such a bad, bad cynic - now rested out of her sight at Max's back, where it might fall shortly. Hopefully. People were such a nuisance sometimes, Martin assessed coldly. Especially if they fall in on good plans and ruin them. How inconsiderate. Also: He might have to kill that woman. It would make a mess. He blinked twice and the unassuming smile became something a mite sharper upon hearing the womans second sentence. Things fell like snow, lightly only his words touching.

"But my dear, I do not even know your name. How then could I consider leaving Max to your assuredly tender mercies?"

His voice was a bit older than he appeared, yes? So sometimes dealing in masks was a good thing. Confusion paramount. And no, his eyes did not wander from the figure from the doorway. Note: her figure. He ignored the gun with an ease that hinted at darkness and screams. He was used to the sight it seemed. Or of much more solid composure than good Maximilian, who now started shaking a bit.

Neither man seemed particularly thrilled with Mina's appearance. Poor Maximillian simply looked like death warmed over and her nameless competition didn't show his annoyance on his face but Mina caught sight of the tightening of his fingers on Maximillian's shoulder. The nameless intruder on her kill looked young. Some might think too young to be in the business but considering how young she had been when she started Mina found it all to easy to believe that the altogether angelic smile hid a monster. How often had she herself used the same gambit after all? Youth and beauty were two of the most useful tools. The way his smile sharpened at her request made apparent that she wasn't simply imagining things.

After all, life and death being what they were, who would turn down the sums of money one could amass for simply ending a few people?

"Mmm, my name? A trade then. My name for yours."

Raising her gun just a little bit, as though she were readying to use it, Mina paused in her reply. Getting something for nothing was an impossibility and Mina was not about to give him even her professional alias without some return of the gesture. If he was good then the exchange of names wouldn't matter for they both would have hidden their truths so deeply as to be impossible to find. If he wasn't good then he'd be dead. Not that she intended to let him walk away from this apartment anyway.

"Come now. I won't walk away from this without knowing the name of such a handsome interference."

If she was going to kill him then she needed to be aware of his face and name should he decide to exact a little revenge later. Mercenaries and assassins were touchy that way. So sensitive about murder attempts.

"Naturally, Dear. I would never presume to stop the games." More than it appeared to be? Still true. The ring was one of... disinterest? Yes. It was a note that was probably not the usual for a conversation like this. Nor was it quite the truth. But who expected to be handed the truth in such a meeting? And this, Martin thought, is precisely the reason I can actually answer her questions. Because, no matter what I say, she will suspect lies. Just as I would.

They were, after all, somewhat kindred spirits. Even if he himself was quite content in the knowledge that he would outlive her by centuries. Subjective for him as well as her that was. Time was a nuisance sometimes, was it not? If you manipulated it regularly it surely was. Keeping track of things... Making pauses. Just like now. The space between two breaths extended liberally, Martins mind leaving his body behind like an olympic runner a quadraplegic.

He noted things... the things in this room tha twould be of use, could be of use. It was a standard living room he had walked into. There was a remotely used couch sitting ina corner, a table standing in front of it, a chair to the side. There was a lamp and two windiws to the street, a rug underfoot. There was, in short, very little he could use in a shoot out. But a shoot out was nothing to him but an annoyance. Something not really dangerous. And she would not be able to shoot much anyways. people would take notice.

Back to talking... "My name is Martin." Disinterest. But his eyes were watching. Coldly watching.

Ah her dear competition recognized this for what it was. That was good. Playing with someone who recognized the game made for much more interesting playing. Would he tell the truth, thinking she'd think it a lie? Would he lie? Perhaps this game could carry on past this encounter. Provided, of course, that they both survived. There was only one time in recent memory that she could recall a game that she had been as eager to participate in. That had been driven by vengeance and the object had disappeared before the game had truly started.

"Hmmm, well I hope you play better than the last opponent I had. He disappeared far too soon. You won't disappear on me will you?"

Mina pouted prettily at him for a moment. She hadn't had a true challenge in so long that she did hope he survived today. Not enough to take it easy on him of course. That was foolishness. No Mina wanted the challenge of someone difficult to kill that knew how to play the game. She enjoyed her work and wanted to test herself.

"Martin. It's a good name. Mar-tin. Well, Martin, I hope you survive. There are so few truly spectacular individuals to play with these days."

With the split second speed and accuracy of someone that had handled a gun for years Mina fired on Maximillian. Talking was only foreplay for the real dance. Maximillian would end up dead. It almost didn't matter who did the killing. So long as the fellow ended up dead the survivor of this bout could profit from it. In the silence of her gunshot, because Mina always silenced her gun, Mina nodded her head at Martin.

"I'm called Mute. Shall we dance a little?"

He saw her finger beginning to tighten around the trigger of her gun. He slowed things down. Of course she shot. It was not unexpected. Talk, talk, talk the opponent into a false sense of security and then strike. Sound tactics, if a little boring for its predictability. Martin had actually waited for the shot to be taken a bit sooner. In his assessment the fact that she had not taken it, when he had been talking, was something that clarified several points for him.

First and foremost, if that had not been obvious from the start, that she was a professiona that was after his target. Secondly: She was utterly calm and therefore confident in her abilities to take him on. Something that illicited an icy sparkle from his eyes, hinting at the things that lay beyond. He was, after all, not even remotely what he appeared to be. Thirdly, and maybe most unsurprisingly: She had abilities beyond the normal. So usual in his line of work. most non-mutant Killers found it harsh to compete against the abilities of their genetically exceptional comrades. Or enemies. Natural selection allowed only for few of them. And natural selection favored, in case of equal training and experience, the ones with special abilities over those without. Laws of nature. Basal. Laws of killing.

The bullet spun out of the muzzle flash slowly advancing. To let her hit - or not to let her hit. It was not really a question. Maximilian was a corpse on legs. His death was only a question of who got to him first. And Martin considered himself a slightly old-fashioned someone. The lady had shot, and, if he judged correctly, quite on target, too. So... he let her shoot. In the split seconds between Mina pulling the trigger and the bullet hitting Maximilian, Martin managed to begin side-stepping the victim. Neither the exiting bullet, not any of the... mess... tocuhed him. He simply walked out from behind and got into a fighting crouch. The knife was loosely extended, ready to strike.

Maximilian fell to the floor. Martin stood. With one hand he removed his headcovering to reveal the third eye. His head crocked slightly to right and left. The disaffected smile never left his lips. "Dearest, I do tend to make other people disappear." His eyes changed. In one black started bubbling to the surface like something bad swimming up from teh depths of a pond. In the other white blotted out everything like a snowstorm building and finally blowing at full strength. The third one, finally, was encompassed by the expanding ring of his steely colored iris.

Breaking things down. Time. Space. Mine. Yours. Maximilina never twitched as Martin advanced lightly on with bent kneed to engage his opponent.

Martin could have moved Maxmillian out of the path of the bullet. It was a fact. His proximity would have allowed him to save the doomed man from her weapon's swiftly delivered oblivion. He did not. Maxmillian's head ruptured as the speeding lump of metal tore into it with the force provided by many years of human ingenuity at killing. Through a swiftness and economy of motion that Mina swore could only be provided by a mutation her fellow assassin emerged from the strike with nary a scratch or drop of blood to be seen upon him.

Mina took the moments after the target's death to observe her new quarry again in light of the oncoming battle. He looked young. However youthfulness could hide many things and Mina cautioned herself against presuming him weak based on that. Along with the aforementioned youth was a pleasant arrangement of features that made the young man easy to look upon. In fact, Mina noted with a curl of disappointment that vanished into the ether, it was nearly a shame they stood on opposite sides of that knife.

A lack of telling scars warned that he was either very new to this industry or very good. Mina assumed very good due to the icy and detached demeanor the young man had cultivated. He smiled and gave the outward appearance of humanity but it was only a ruse. A pretty mask to show the dull witted public that did not want to believe that someone capable of ending their life in a blink stood a few mere feet away. Mina used it too when she was not working.

On the subject of the knife wielded Mina was somewhat ambivalent. It told her that he preferred melee weaponry to guns. His movement, both with the weapon and in general, spoke of expertise. Yes, Mina would not take this one for granted. He stood no chance but Mina was sure he would pull off some spectacular attack or another before she put him down. They did say not to bring a knife to a gun fight after all. Perhaps his mutation would even the playing field, if he had one. Still, it only took one bullet to end a life.

The removal of the headcovering cinched the question of mutation. Where once the normal duo of eyes was now a trio took it's place. A trio of eyes whose coloration was swiftly changed in a manner decidedly unnatural to an average human being. The comment did make her smirk though. Her facial expressions weren't quite as effective as they could be when they were hidden behind her mask. Despite a small urge to remove said article of clothing Mina abstained. He would have her eyes and that was it. Said brown eyes sparkled at the challenge.

"Oh but darling that is a specialty of all our kind. You'll pardon me if such a threat from such a pretty face does little to sway me from my course."

With a little sigh and a quick movement Mina's gun trained on her opponent and four bullets were released in quick succession.

Speak to me! Says the man without
a mouth to speak to from
Whisper for me
sweet nothing in my ear
for no ear to hear
your sweet nothing
they cry
day and night
the twofold question
why
die

Snap. Gunshot. Powder changing natures, hot gas expanding, pushing outwards that little piece of metal, bullet. Shooting in your face. All it takes is a little pull, only your finger moves the ending into coming. It is such a little thing. Mayhaps it is the thing that fascinates us with guns. So little the action, immovable the reaction. With just my fingertip moving destinies. Can you give it to me? That little push?

Martin sees it happening, sees it all. The muscles of the arm contracting, one by one, milimetre by milimetre, bracing for the inevitable. The movement of the hand, just slowly incing the finger back, fighting the resistance. Until the point comes. Trigger moment. Snap. Hot gas expanding. A bullet leaving the barrel, spinning slowly around itself. Lazy almost it seems.
But Martin sees more: The hundreds of fragments, thousands, floating around them. All the little pieces that once were one. He can taste them on his tounge. Feel them on his fingertips. Times-a-wasting. Wasting time. Laying waste to it. Breaking. Hundreds of pieces of glass slowly moving, the fracture lines expanding. In your face.
The bullet crosses one, then a next one. It leaves parts of it behind as its own velocity starts ripping it apart. Snap. Nothing remains but smoke and mirrors. Nothing but a smile on a young boys face.

"You really can do better... I hope."

He announces the words, not speaking them. Just plainly: Making things clear for you. And then movement comes. One step. Two. Closing the distance. (What can be more intimate?)