A Scholar's Affection

7

The next day, he decided to go for a walk. One walk was all it took for him to find the underground. It was down an alley on an empty cul-de-sac that was impossible to notice if not for the commotion going on. People were watching as a switchblade battle was going on. He decided that a little peek wouldn't hurt. It wasn't much more than a switchblade fight, so he went away. He walked around, looking at what little sign of authority there was around here. It was warmer here, so he unwrapped his scarf and left it to hang from his neck. He saw some posters of businesses (illegal, of course) that needed some hands.

Then he saw his ticket to his need.

"Help needed: Hitman. Will pay 190 gunam per day and probably with other means of currency. Go to 68th Boulevard into that old blue house on Tuesday at 0530. Bring whatever you need. –Slate."

His hopes skyrocketed again. But he knew that there was no way to take back what was truly his. He'd have to start all over with that relationship. It'd take a long time to redevelop their last point in the relationship, but it was the only hope for them. Whatever it took, Hansel will make sure that Slate never slips from his grasp again.

He was slightly offended how he was the only one who showed up. Slate was a lovable guy.

"Name?" Slate inspected the man.

"Ming." Hansiel stared at his feet, removing all voice and tone that could imply desperation. He spoke quietly.

"Experienced?"

"Some, yes." He remembered inflicting such damage to Bertha, almost smiling. He was also happy that Slate didn't remember what happened last night out of the amount of alcohol consumed.

"Well, I guess I don't need to ask for much more, do I? You're in."

Hansiel nodded. "May I question?"

"Shoot."

"Do I not need to prove myself to you?"

"Uh, sure? I guess, if you want, but you don't have to, I don't really got people begging-"

He knelt before him and took his hand firmly, as some sort of insurance more than a formality. "It is only right to give high respect to a master as mighty and powerful as you, my magnificence."

Slate just laughed. "That's flattering and all, but you don't have to be so fancy and all."

"Oh, but I must." He kissed the bottom of the other man's shirt, trying to slather all the desire onto it through his lips with a mere peck. He was close to his privates, which fueled him more.

"Okay, this is getting uncomfortable," Slate sighed and stepped back a bit, "If you can't help being like that because your parents were that big assholes, then fine. But don't get too close to this, alright?" He gestured at a general area between his face and torso. "I don't got problems with homosexuals, but don't get like that with me."

"If you wish, master," He stood and bowed, "But do you have anyone in mind so you could... test drive me, I believe the saying is?"

"Hmm... I suppose I do." He took out his tablet, searching. He turned it to the other man. "This is your target. Take as long as you need to memorize it, or do you need me to print it?"

It was a female adult with white hair and pink eyes. She looked happy in this picture. She wore a red dress and green leggings, and she sort of appeared to be an absurdly-colored ballerina with the outfit. She was holding hands with someone cropped out. The other hand was of a placid female's, but other details were unintelligible from the piece shown in this photograph alone.

"I could do with her name alone, of course."

"A name..." Slate looked at him curiously then decided to scrawl fifteen letters onto a flashcard, reading "ZEELU ZACHARHIAS". He handed it to Hansiel.

"Thank you, I shall attempt with my best efforts to please you." He bowed and commenced his exit.

"-Oh, and one more thing!" Slate handed him a hatchet. "Killing with your bare hands takes longer." He also took out two ribbons. He tied one around his neck like a sort of choker and did the same to Hansiel. "This way, we could tug it and get each other over to where the other is."

"I could speak otherwise, as my figure may not represent my strength very well, but as you are my master, I shall oblige."

"Stop calling me 'master', will you?"

Hansiel smiled with the memory of their mischievous teenage selves in reflection. "Master."

"Just go and come back with her head." Slate pointed to the door.

"As you wish."

Hansiel completed his exit. The weather's fury had dimmed, so he decided to take flight through the night. He sneaked into the record building to figure out just who was this Zeelu. He felt no pity, as he saw this as an exertion of his conflicted emotions. He found out that the target was twenty-four years old and that she could be found usually near the large stone building with the colored glass.

So he looked around it. At first, he didn't find anything. But after the hour and a half it took, he decided to trespass. He looked around the halls at night once the majority of its inhabitants had gone to sleep. He found a tiny orange remote with two buttons lying in the hallway. They had odd markings he didn't recognize from the several languages he had to learn pointlessly in his days in school. He pressed the left button. Nothing happened. He pressed the right button, and that was all the difference. He felt torn off reality in a more physical manner than he'd been feeling recently. He appeared stumbling in a room with orange walls and a white carpet floor with an equally white ceiling.

He looked at the index card and something led him to believe that the door to the left, of all the five doors in this room, was the right way to go. He didn't understand what had just happened, but he went with his instincts. He paced down the hall and saw someone else walking the same direction as he. It was her. It was the target. This was too easy.

Zeelu turned and opened a door with one hand, holding a sandwich with the other, and entered the room. He followed her in, cloaking himself with the darkness. She sat on the bed, he heard, and started to eat the sandwich. He got near the bed, remembering how he'd injured Bertha. He realized that this was exactly like the violent case against Bertha, for it had the same setting, a bedroom, and the same cause, the existence of Slate.

Hansiel raised the hatchet after getting close to the bed. He did not hesitate to bring it down and ending the girl's life. Oh, the things that Hansiel would do for Slate's love.