CSSSA B (2003)

The last time he had accepted a job that had been presented to him like this he had died. Had been shot twice in the chest and once in the back. The last shot had pitched him forward to the ground, leaving him to slowly lose his grip on reality as a pool of his own blood blossomed around him. Only a matter of feet away from him had been Allen Solder, the man that he had killed in exchange for his own death.

His heart had stopped beating a full two hours before he had been found and dragged out of the building. After a few bodily repairs and some weeks in recovery, he had been declared good as new and all but kicked out of the dank, hospital-like building he had been in for the months it had taken to bring him back into functional use. For nearly twenty minutes he had stood outside the locked steel door, looking up at the purple and orange splattered sky that overlaid the rotting city around him. Shouts from a bar fight out the alley and down half a block had snapped him back to reality and he had efficiently split town. After that he had lost himself, supposedly, to train in private. He had known that there was no way for a person like him to survive any other way than he did. Since his death, it had also become painfully apparent that he had not been as good as he had believed.

Obviously, his previous employers had not forgotten about him. Who could forget about an investment as expensive as his repair had been? That realization was just coming over him now as he was being confronted, in his own crumbling apartment. He seated himself on the decade old, brown stained couch after walking in to find a light-haired, dark eyed man attired in a crisp, dark suit sitting in the crinkled leather chair that was older than the couch. No words were exchanged; none needed to be. The intruder's blankly stiff features clearly told Malcolm what was happening. A job was being delivered.

"Whose the target?" Malcolm asked expectantly. He forced himself to relax into his chair, trying to look as though he wasn't forcing it. As dark brown, nearly black eyes scanned over Malcolm’s gracefully folded frame, he found himself relaxing in truth, as a chilled calm of familiarity settled over his body. It wasn't until the full transformation had taken place that the stranger spoke, sliding an envelope across the charred and miss-shapen oak coffee table.

"That's everything you need," he stated, voice cold enough to match his dark eyes. After that he stood, his body held almost as stiffly as his pressed suit. He shot Malcolm one last glare before he turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Malcolm stared at the crisp envelope that still lay on the dark table. The paper was perfect, not a single wrinkle to reveal the fact that it had been in a pocket, or as to lead the curious observer as to what it held. "Curiosity kills the cat," the dark-haired man on the couch snorted, reaching for the envelope and turning it over in his hand a few times before letting it settle, back facing up at him, already opened. Cautiously he flipped the tab all of the way up and slid out the contents. There was a single slip of paper folded in half. When he opened it a silver plastic card slipped into his hand. His eyes scanned the unmarked or identified shining card and turned his grey eyes back to the paper. A single name was written.

"Allen Solder"

The silver card in his hand glinted in a non-existent light, seeming to smirk up at him mockingly.