The Marvel of Underworlds

10: Bad News

She sat upon some sort of throne, grinning at her followers with such obscurity, not even her right-hand man could figure her out. She sat in the dim light of the belowground, somewhere unknown to normal pedestrians. Who knows where she was? Only she, her followers, and the man who gave her the seat. She swept her calloused fingers across the velvet. She gazed upon those calluses; calluses she gained from the trigger of a gun and years of a life of crime. But these calluses did not cause her pain. They granted her pride, achievement, and confidence. They made her feel alive.

Her twisted eyes fell upon the new arrival, a lone wolf returning without its pack. She felt her mouth curve into a grin but shot back to disapprovement when she realized the luggage he lacked. The prize he didn't bring back to his owner. A failed game of fetch.

"Bjorn... You return empty-handed and alone."

"I am so sorry sir, I tried all I could, but the little runt had friends."

"And?"

"Um..." Bjorn began to twitch with nervousness, "Sir, their magic was far too powerful for me to handle on my own. When I got there Hildebrand and Jeremias were already dead."

"Which is why our organization invested in those damn pistols..." she groaned, crossing her legs.

"Sir, I-"

"You know Bjorn, I don't like hearing bad news. I can't worry about this mission myself, I have greater things to focus on."

"I'll try again, sir! I just need more time!"

"Hmm... But I can't risk another failure. It's bad for my health. So... it seems like you're unfit for this job. Which is why I may have to let you go."
"No, please, I'm begging you, sir!" His body trembled as her eyes bore into him. The few people in the room stood at the border, silently observing their little meeting. Such fear was normal in the hideout. No one ever brought her bad news.

She loaded her gun, taking it out of the holster on her belt, and pointed it at the shaking man. "You should know by now. Don't fail me. I don't need dead weight."

"Please!"

A single gunshot silenced his cowering.

"Ah... that takes care of that. Now, who will take this fool's place?" she scanned the room, an ocean of blood pouring out from the corpse's head.

"No one? Oh... then I guess I can't trust any of you pigs," she spat, "Let's see... Who can I rely on?"

Silence followed.

"Oh, I know!" She lit up, but suddenly turned back to harshness, "Kuzma! Get your ass over here!"

At her call, a tall skinny man, decked in a long beige trench coat, ran into her view. His longish brown hair was a chaos of curls that sprung in all directions but still seemed to look somewhat neat. He wore an unbuttoned, pinstripe vest underneath, and a red button-up shirt underneath that. He wore fairly torn up tuxedo pants and black combat boots. The whole outfit was topped off with his signature detail, a black bowtie. With a single laugh and a gleam in his hazel eyes, Kuzma Petrov answered her, "A'ight, you better calm yourself, doll."

She squinted her eyes with disapproval and anger, "Do not address me as so."

He waved his hand nonchalantly, "Fine fine, Gwyndolyn, sir," he laughed, "I'll bring him in."

"And don't disappoint me..." Gwyndolyn growled, digging her long nails into the velvet armrest.

"No worries, heh heh."

"Petrov!"

"Sorry, sorry."

And with one final nod, Gwyndolyn Havel watched Kuzma leave the room.