The Assassin and The Thief

Chapter 2

With the false passports and 3- month working VISA I acquired from Kaiba, I make my way to the US-of - A! I've never been to America before, but nothing about this feels like I'm a tourist. I have very limited funds, at least until I get paid, and Kaiba spared every expense by putting me up in some dingy apartment, just a few streets from where Bakura supposedly lives. The pipe drips and my bed sage like a busted sack. It's, what I guess you'd call a 'ghetto' neighbourhood so I'm not entirely out of place. I blend in here.

My apartment's got a couch bed, a TV, a kitchenette and a bathroom and that's about it. The only damn light switch doesn't work so I have to waste thirty whole dollars buying a lamp, which I also have a carry all the way home. Like wow. Japan is dirt cheap compared to here. I'm used to living the wealthy lifestyle but really? Thirty dollars? Whatever.

It's noon, so I figure why not sample some traditional American street food? Spontaneity really. I walk around, skirting aimlessly through the streets until I find a hot dog stand, waiting absent-mindedly in line when someone bumps into the back of me. I turn around to tell them to excuse themselves when I realise it's the fucking asshole I'm supposed to whack!

He's skinnier than his pic, and his face is hollow; cheekbones sharply protruding. His white hair falls around his face, trench coat hanging off him. Wait, he's in school uniform. Have I been hired to kill a kid?! His lithe body is smaller than mine, but slitted eyes and menacing snark make him terrifying to behold. Like a quick necromancer. "Watch it," he mumbles, shuffling backwards and settling himself in the line. Right behind me. Fuck.

I've never had intimate contact with a target before, other than the stalking process. Never a syllable exchanged outside the pleads and screams which echo through distant hallways and high-ceilinged basement dwellings. I've never been afraid, always cautious, but never apprehensive. So I must exercise my extrovert nature. "Sorry, man," I reply, my weird and static accent making he other man frown. He's one to talk; his voice is distinctly British, but I can sense some Asian influence there too. Half English, half Asian? I've seem more obscure. Hell, I am more obscure!

Unfortunately he doesn't reply to me, and I'm stuck facing forward until I reach the front of the line. In somewhat broke English, I awkwardly order a hotdog with mustard. Plain and simple, right? Apparently not, since the guy ends up trying to charge me five dollars.

"This is an outrage!" I complain loudly, drawing everyone's attention. Yes, not the smartest move for an assassin, but I've been in this country less than a week and I'm sick of it already! "Who do you think you're fooling, huh?!"

This actually works in my favour as my target leans forward, rolling his eyes pompously. He pays the man in a distinctly new and clean five dollar bill. "You clearly haven't been here very long," he comments, ordering and paying for his own with ketchup. "You have no idea how to behave in Brooklyn,"

"Well can you blame me, the guy ripped me off?!"

I don't know what I'm saying. I shouldn't be saying this. I shouldn't even be speaking to him. I sense how intently his crimson-amethyst eyes are staring at me. Like they're boring past my skin, it's my skill and burying into my brain to pick me apart. Is that sweat on the back of my neck? My future victim shouldn't make me feel this nervous.

"What's your poison?" He growls, almost right into my ear. Holy shit! When did he get that close? "Coke? Amphetamines? E?"

So he's a dealer then. Or at the very least a solicitor. Someone's foot soldier; a lackie. These guys aren't worth anything. Just dirt clogging the shoes of the big time drug lords. So why then, am I supposed to kill him? He's clearly just some junky himself. "Char," I reply. That's right Marik. Infiltrate. And stop acting so damn anxious! He'll think you're a NARC. "You can hook me up, right?"

"Of course. Apartment 493 West 4th Street. Four o'clock tonight,"

Obviously I already have his address memorised. I was planning to scout it out tonight, look for possible entry and exit points. Observe how close it was to the main road, security camera presence etc. But now I've been handed a first class pass! I never expected this to go so smoothly. He's already sauntering carelessly off, lightly swaying his hips.

"Wait, how will I know who to ask for?" I call back.

He bites from his hotdog, ketchup dripping thick down his chin, like clotted blood. "Call me Florence,"