King Of Spades

Malcolm Callahan was no villain, looming in front of the doorway of a single story house with a pistol. In fact, he was quite the opposite.

Recalling his client’s request upon arrival, his black gloved hands rapped harshly on the white fiberglass door six times.

A crushing stillness fell onto the night air, the dying house struggling to breathe. The muffled tapping of feet on hardwood drew near as the metal doorknob jingled and a man in his mid-thirties opened the door. He was pale and skinny with short, greasy brown hair. His green eyes were sunken in with a dullness Malcolm was familiar with.

“Oh, Thank God!” He rasped, his voice nasal and brittle. He gaped at Malcolm with eyes of desperation as he stared back, emotionless behind his white mask. A dark red spade sat prominently on the forehead of the mask, a symbol widely known in New Calview; the emblem of death.

He ushered Malcolm into a disheveled living room. The thick scent of burned tobacco wafted into his nose. A stained leather couch and a white end table sat in the middle of the room, the table covered in ash as dozens of used cigarettes poked their butts upward. A framed picture of a man, a woman, and a small girl grinning ear-to-ear perched on top of the messy table, dusted in soot.

“Give me a moment.” The client sat down on the couch and outstretched his arm, grabbing the picture frame.

“God, why… Why must you have been taken away from me?” He whimpered as he brought the photo up and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The man choked back sobs as tears welled in his eyes, rocking himself back and forth as he muttered to himself.

“...I’ll be with you soon, I promise. Claire.. Luna..” He choked. “We’ll all be in heaven together..”

Malcolm took the liberty to peer around the house as he waited for his clients episode to end. The entire place reeked of melancholy and cigarettes, and the only light was a small lamp sitting in the corner of the room. As he looked back at his sobbing client, pity struck his heart. This man was truly miserable, an empty shell of perhaps a once fulfilled life. Not even the most rotten of sinners deserved this.

A few moments later the crying subsided as the man regained his composure and sat up, wiping the dirt and grime off his forehead with a sniffle. He gripped the photograph tightly as he turned to Malcolm and nodded to him, his eyes gleaming with a new-found hope. From across the room, Malcolm whipped his pistol out of his black trench coat and pointed it at the man’s head. The silencer gleamed in the faint light.

The feeling of cool metal on his finger and the kickback of recoil as he pulled the trigger made him grin. A bullet casing dropped to the floor in a hollow rattle as blood splattered over the walls and couch, bathing the leather and sickly yellow plaster in rich crimson. The body crumpled to the ground, accompanied with a CRASH’! as the photograph fell to the floor, the picture frame shattering.

Silence finally killed the dying house as there was finally peace. The man’s pained eyes Malcolm had once seen was now replaced with an eternal bliss, a sweet dream that he would never wake up from. The look in their eyes in every of his clients was something Malcolm never got tired of. It gave him a swell of fulfillment to be a part of something greater than himself; a savior for the broken and the damned. He was the kindest overseer of them all, granting pity to hopeless lives who could never be fixed. He was the one true God Of Mercy.

He stole a quick glance from his wristwatch before he leaned down to pick up a small shard of glass on the floor, inspecting it before he tucked it into one of his pockets.

Digging into another pocket inside his coat, he pulled out a small black playing card. He set the card down on the blood-soaked sofa, gazing down at the corpse of his client.

“Rejoice, my friend.” He smiled. “There is no death more honorable than by the hands of the King Of Spades.”

...

Bitter cold stung him as he flew through broken suburban backstreets on a dark motorcycle, the tail of his coat skittering through the wind. The roads were empty except from the occasional broken-down car and tumbleweed-esque trash bag, dingy street lights scattered irregularly throughout the side of the street.

Being on the outskirts of town, the Upper Aeryx district wasn’t always neglected. It used to be a rather popular shopping sector that advertised overpriced food, clothes, and bars until a local gang showed up and marked Upper Aeryx as their territory. A feuding with a rival family started up not long after that, and most of the businesses either moved to East Waterside or went bankrupt. Both gangs were long gone now, simply faint notes of the past. Driving through he speculated that there was power in only half of the district - the rest of the residences lay hushed in a blanket of darkness. The only people who lived here were squatters or criminals in hiding.

He squeezed the handlebars and clutched the throttle, the motorcycle roaring with energy as it accelerated. As he drifted to turn a sharp left a rush of adrenaline hit him, spurring him further as he raced down the road. For this short amount of time, nothing could bother him - not his snotty coworkers, not the boss, nothing. The smell of fresh air and freedom lingered in the night and he savored every breath of it.

A few minutes later he pulled up to a three story abandoned warehouse. Windows on either side of it were all blacked out, and the building itself looked worn-down enough to not even raise a glance at. In front of the building, part of the ground dipped down into a driveway and stopped at a gray garage door. To the left of the garage stood a rusted control keypad, the letters faded from the metal by weather and use.

He slowed down and pulled up to the keypad, muscle memory allowing his fingers to practically move on their own as he tapped the complex code in. As he entered the last digit, the keyboard buzzed with a mechanical whirr as the garage door receded up. Inside a small bright parking lot revealed itself, with a small booth stationed at the very entrance. He drove into the garage as the smell of gas and rubber hit him with a refreshing familiarity. He gave a friendly wave to the guard in the booth to confirm himself.

“Welcome back, Mr. Callahan.” The man called as he gave him a respectful but sluggish wave back, his movements and demeanor noticeably lethargic. He couldn’t blame the man for being tired - the work hours for the guards were twelve hours a day. He was surprised none of them had broken down yet. After all, that’s often how they received their clients. Overworked and underpaid employees would find a way to place a request to the Black Ace to take their lives because they were afraid to take their own.

Malcolm briskly parked his motorcycle and hopped off of it. He took off his helmet and rested it on the metal handlebars, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead. In a small burst of paranoia, he reached into his pocket to check if the shard of glass was still in his pocket. He sighed in relief as he felt the smooth fragment sitting exactly where he had left it. Very rarely did he bring back souvenirs from the crime scenes, but this case something had stuck out to him. The glass was living proof to remind him of that.

He sauntered his way to the very end of the garage, a sudden sharp turn in the lot leading to flights of dirty metal stairs. As he climbed up, his mind wandered to his client and the picture he held. Under the contract the client had signed before the voluntary assassination, there was a simple regulation that was to be followed by both parties.

IV. No questions asked by the Client nor the Agent.

Despite that, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to that woman and child. Perhaps they had been stricken with disease or famine. Maybe they were the victims of a hit-and-run or had been murdered. The endless possibilities dizzied him - Death was such a fun, spontaneous thing, but that wasn’t what he was focused on. The more important question floating in his mind was how the man got everything before he lost it. How, he pondered, could you get so close to other people without a reason or motive? How could you care about someone besides yourself when you knew they wouldn’t last?

He soon arrived at the top of the stairs, a metal platform connected to a steel door with another keypad and a deadbolt. He inputted the code and fished his key out of one of his pockets and inserted the key in the lock. A clicking noise sounded as he rotated the key and opened the door. He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.

The room completely contrasted the entire building, well-lit with fluorescent lights beaming down from the ceiling and polished steel walls. Blinking the glare from his eyes, he caught a glimpse of red; a small dart flying towards him at a rapid speed. Swiftly, unnervingly, he swiped his hand up, clasping his middle and index finger on the shaft of the dart and catching it in midair.

“My, my,” he smirked. “Such a warm welcome.”

He lowered his hand. In front of him, a gray couch sat against the wall to the left with a small table. There sat a well-built woman with long black hair in a white dress shirt, a blood-red tie with a white spade on it, and black blazer. She was holding a cigarette and tapping her boots on the stone floor.

Adira curled her lip. “Damn, I thought I had you for a second.” She crossed her legs together, propping up her elbow on the arm of the sofa and taking a hit of the cigarette. With a deep exhale, smoke wafted into the air in silky gray plumes.

“Why are you here?” He threw the dart back to her.

She lowered the cigarette, leaned forward and caught the barrel of the dart with her teeth.

“Hiding. All that damn paperwork tires me out. It doesn’t help that Eden is a hyperactive little shit, either.” She took the dart out of her mouth. “Anything fun happen while you were out?”

“It went fine. I followed protocol and it went without a hitch.” He paused as the broken photograph crossed his mind. “Except…”

She perked up. “Ooh, except what? Do tell, ”

He shrugged his shoulders, ambling across the room. “The client was in hysteria and made it take longer.”

“Did he not want to die?” She tilted her head. “Honestly, our clients need to read the contract more closely. In Section II, it clearly states that once you sign the contract you can’t change your mind.”

“No, that’s not it. He was just depressed.” Malcolm brushed the topic off quickly.

“They’re all like that. You out of all people should know that the most.” She narrowed her eyes. “Something else is bothering you. Don’t tell me the police were involved? Or somebody saw?”

He glared daggers at Adira. “I’m the best assassin in the Black Ace. If you think I would make a rookie mistake like leaving a witness or getting the cops even close to my trail, then you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

“You might be good, but your high-and-mighty attitude pisses me off.” She scoffed. “You think you’re the only one who works here? Eden, Harvey and I are working our asses off everyday, too. The boss might give you the special treatment, but we’re all on equal ground whether you like it or not.”

“You’re forgetting the fact that I’ve earned it. The title, the respect, everything. One hundred and twenty four people put to rest without a single clue or solid trail is something the likes of you could never do.” Malcolm snapped.

With that, he promptly left the room.

The next door led him into a long, cold hallway that stretched out before him. Out on the outskirts of town, the quiet was rare and something that put him at ease. Compared to the bustling loud noises of downtown, this place seemed to be in an entirely different city. His footsteps echoed throughout the empty corridor, the only noise filling the sullen silence. How fitting, he thought. It was a prominent reminder of how he had always been - by himself. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

As he turned the corner the hallway expanded into a large opening. Stone pillars were spread out evenly along the room, sprawling to the ceiling where corrugated iron beams were fanned out. A tall desk stood front and center in the room accompanied by the receptionist, a middle-aged man who hid his balding head behind a black ’I heart New Calview’ hat. As Malcolm entered the room the receptionist gave a respectful nod to him. “Er, welcome back, Mr. Callahan.”

Instead of returning the greeting, he grunted in acknowledgement and crossed the room. Holding conversation with Terry was like talking to a brick wall. Briskly he turned into another hallway and up a flight of stairs, reaching another corridor at the top. The hallway was lined with multiple gray doors, and he stopped as he reached the doorway of his office.

Walking in, a sturdy desk sat accompanied by a black office chair. Covered by a mountain of messy papers was a computer, the black screen reflecting the bright light that shone from the ceiling. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair before sitting down, brushing the papers off of his computer. He collected and stacked them into a neat file that laid quietly on his desk before he powered on his computer, taking in a deep sigh. How could he have let it get so messy?

Malcolm then spent the next ten minutes writing up his report, the keys clicking loudly as he typed away.

AGENT NAME: Malcolm William Callahan

DATE: 12/5/20XX

TERMINATION CONFIRMATION REPORT

CLIENT : FARRELL FRED WILSON

SERIAL NUMBER: 01708

DESCRIPTION OF EVENTS:

Agent arrived at 272 West Drive at 21:30 by DR650S. Client answered the door and let the agent into the home with no resistance.

Client sat down on the couch and held a photograph before issuing the Agent to terminate at 21:34. Client was shot once in the head with a suppressed FN 5.7 USG and body was left on the floor. No witnesses or other beings were in the vicinity. Agent Card-Marked and departed at 21:35 by DR650S.

RESOURCES EXPENDED: One (1) 5.7x28mm

When he finished his report, he slipped his coat back on and headed upstairs.

The skyline of New Calview at night was always a breathtaking sight. Thousands of glittering lights spread across the city like stars scattered across the sky and towering skyscrapers stretched to the moon, which bathed the entire city in a soft white light. Malcolm leaned into the railing and set his elbows on it. In his hand he held the piece of glass, running his thumb over it and observing it with a child-like curiosity.

“What the hell are you doing on the roof?” A smooth, deep voice sounded behind him as a man stepped out from the stairs. He had shoulder-length dark brown hair, a long faded scar across his throat, and a good amount of stubble. Similar to Adira he wore a white dress shirt, a red tie with a white spade on it, and a black blazer. Resting on his shoulders was a loose black coat, its slack sleeves drooping down.

Malcolm didn’t have to look back to know who it was. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“What are you doing?” He joined Malcolm at the railing a few feet away, watching him examine the shard of glass before looking outwards to the city. Malcolm didn’t respond, and instead they both listened to the distant noises of the city as it hummed a quiet melody.

“Tell me something, Vincent. Why do you think someone can choose to value someone without a reason?”

“I don’t think they can control it.” Vincent paused. “Nobody can choose what they value. Why?”

“...A client I put down today was crying. He was holding a picture with his wife and kid in it. He kept saying he would ‘be with them soon in heaven,’ and it just made no goddamn sense to me.”

Vincent scratched his chin. “That just sounds like a grieving man who had no reason to live anymore. His family probably died and he couldn’t live without them.”

“I figured that much. I was glad to put him out of his misery, really, but that isn’t the point. How could you live in a world where you have everything you want and not expect something to happen?” Malcolm turned the glass in a way that would reflect the moonlight onto the surface of it. “Settling down with a wife and a kid is the average mans’ dream, but I just don’t understand it. How can you get so close to someone like that? Why would you, especially without wanting something? Humans are so, so very selfish. You and I both know everyone is out to get something.” “What are you out for, then?” Vincent asked as he turned his head to look at Malcolm. His cold blue eyes always had the same look in it - a twisted sense of righteousness.

“To put those who are suffering to rest. In this very city we are looking down on now, thousands of people are losing everything they have. Their jobs, loved ones, their wills to live. With their contracts signed, they have made their way to mercy in its purest form.” Malcolm spread his arms out as if he were embracing the city.

“I was chosen with this job for a reason. You saw something in me. That’s why you recruited me, right?”

“You’ve performed better than I expected you to, but you need to get your shit straight.” Vincent shook his head. “Everyone has their own reasons for joining the Black Ace and I ain’t here to judge them. But let me make something clear with you, kid. You’ve earned your success, but life and death are precious things. Don’t let the power to control them get to your head. You’ll kill yourself with it.”

Malcolm laughed as he lowered his arms. “I’ll kill myself with it? Oh, please! Don’t make me laugh. I’m nothing like those starving, dying animals in the city. I live for nobody except myself. The only thing I feel while putting clients down is the recoil.”

Contrary to his confident demeanor as he spoke, a sinking feeling settled into his stomach. Was he really that comfortable with killing so many people? Three years ago the guilt inside him weighed heavier on his shoulders each passing day. There were days that he was so haunted by their faces, their blood and the way their bodies crumpled that he didn’t fall asleep. If he did, he would see them again. He would see everything in vivid detail. However, the more he killed the more the guilt subsided and the more the dreams got less frequent. But did it ever leave?

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated. “That isn’t what I meant. One day I’m sure you’ll understand, though I’m not sure if you’ll even be human by then.”

The conversation fell as they both went silent for a few minutes. Finally, Vincent broke the silence as he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t come up here for nothing, you know. The boss is looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Said it was for a job or ’somethin. Anyways, you should get going. You know how she gets when you’re late.” He shoved his hands in his blazer pockets.

Malcolm ran his fingers over the edge of the glass and winced as it cut him, small drops of blood dotting the railing. He raised his arm over the railing and let the glass shard slip out of his hand. It plummeted from three stories to the ground below.

“Right.” He murmured.