Double Or Nothing: A Coin Flip Away

An Eye for Perfection

The scorching sands of Wrath flickered in the blistering balls of fire that curled in the ashen gray skies above, cloaked by fierce wind and bone-infested sandstorms from the North. Through the heat and death of the lonely valley, footsteps trailed through the emptiness, marking a trail the way a pen starts a drawing. As the dust and wind subsided, the charred red fedora of the marked Sinner swept through the breeze. A large scarf, iron gray with specks of red and black, swathed the owner's face in mystery, although the chipped lens of a tarnished green glass eye blazed through the desert void of life.

Free from its shackles, the crackling blue static of its electrically charged wrist and shoulder snapping in cohesion, Diamond Jack flexed its tingling fingertips, the glove on its severed left hand frayed and tossing in the wind above a disgusting fusion of burnt flesh and stained steel plating. The clicking of bones and metal curled into a fist as the marksman strode across the dusty hue of Wrath's early morning skies. Dawn was the earliest it would ever look as pretty as Gluttony in Wrath, with the fire and flames spreading like beautiful washes of gold and amber on the rough outlines of the volcanic, desolate wasteland.

Diamond Jack knelt in the sand and spray of salt, removing a large case from behind its poncho. It removed the scope and barrel of a devilish rifle from the case. As its tangible right arm unloaded the case, its left arm moved for a deep black gun on its hip, a large, modified carbine of black steel and deep gray leather. The barrel and scope slid over the carbine's surface, clicking with natural ease into the extensions provided. Propping the rifle on an exposed skull(perhaps from an escaped prisoner?), Diamond Jack slid on the dunes to its stomach, shaking sand from its internal machinations and guts. It was time to strike, not a second to spare.

Flashes of its former life snapped in and out of focus, the sand and dust playing meaningless tricks on the marksman's synaptic lenses, wracking its sensory chip with jolts of false memories and troubling fusions of myth and madness. Still the Sinner paid its illusions no heed, sliding the stock of its rifle back into its right shoulder. With the rifle propped and the barrel tilted toward the edge of Wrath's borders with Lust and Pride, Diamond Jack's radio crackled with whispers from a forlorn tracking system, old code buried in the Lord's and Lady's ancient comms documents. A dead language to most nobles of Hell. Then again, so was it.

The scope fixed itself on the outline of a blurred image, but the image grew into view, brighter and brighter. A watch party for some sports show. Fifteen people, all dressed fancy, drinks and platters, drunk or too lost in each others' eyes to care about what the rest of Hell had suffered. Fourteen people failed to meet the target's gaze; lucky number fifteen fell right into the crosshairs of the rifle. They were a meek woman, slicked down orange hair, a sharp set of aquatic fangs, eyes so rich with green and aquamarine you could see the whole ocean in them. All of this flashed in Diamond Jack's lens as it calculated the bounty for this prize.

Bounty work was dirty, even for the marksman. But it needed money if it wanted any chance at finding The Sin Hunter again. Money could buy the strongest ailment in all of Hell, the cure to any sleep deprivation, depression, rage, bargaining, the rest of the stages of grief: an Angelic bullet. One shot could snuff out a soul, transfering what essence of being the soul held back to the unnatural chaos of an unknown realm. To be slain with an Angelic weapon meant death. Permanent, agonizing nothing. Diamond Jack knew this. Carefully crafted, custom round cartridges of explosive rifle rounds would work instead.

As the lights of the party in Pride clashed with the scorching sands of Wrath, the marksman shifted its shoulder, the scope lined up with the target's backside. A flick of the trigger erupted with a boom, marking a large dent in the dunes. Diamond Jack switched off its radio headset. No need to hear the screams of confused shock from over fifty miles away in Pride. The disconnected left hand reached for a keypad from beneath Diamond Jack's belt, swiping through contacts to send a photograph to an outside source. Through its scope, the marksman watched the life flicker and fade from its target's eyes, so full of life, gone in an instant.

As Diamond Jack began packing away the rifle components, strapping the scope to its belt with the barrel, a ping from the keypad brought its magnetic hand to its sensors. The screen buzzed as a sum amount of five million dollars wired into a private account. Diamond Jack shuffled in the sand, shaking its head. The things people were so desperate to have done for money; it made it sick. An automaton in the desert, doing the dirty work for the people too full of themselves to lift a finger. It was humorous, in an ironic way; one could root out the defenseless from the defensive with just a glance at their monetary priorities.

Packing away its carbine, Diamond Jack turned to the dune sea, sliding on the sand before navigating the trail back toward a dusty stone road. Before Diamond Jack got very far, however, a crackle in its radio setting sparked in its sensors. A voice hummed to life, a voice it recognized from several missions ago. "Nicely done, mechanical marksman. I've heard from some pals in Greed and Pride you're the guy to call. How do you feel about a job assassinating Demonic royalty?" Diamond Jack paused in the open road. Calculations flew past its chipped lens, a low risk to high reward ratio appearing victorious. There was no reason to decline.

Placing a glove to its radio box, Diamond Jack clicked out a Morse Code answer. 'My payment deals in two options: Angelic weapons or The Sin Hunter's location. You've heard of both, I assume.' The voice across the radio slickened with an intoxicating delight. "The Sin Hunter? Hmm. Maybe you and I could work out something after all..."