Marik Ishtar is used to taking out presidents, corporate executives and foreign spies. He's almost offended when his next job is simply whacking a small-time crook in N/E Brooklyn. But when he's offered a 5 million $ payoff, he can't help but wonder...
I've never done much research into my victims before. I prefer to remain detached until the point of death, yet ironically savour the feeling of a close, intimate kill when I can watch their eyes glaze over, their body going limp as blood runs from the puncture wounds I ripped open with my knife. Studying a victim like this, even having a conversation with them is completely new territory for me. I've never been shy of new experiences, but I'm not very spontaneous either.
Nevertheless, I can't back out of this situation now. I'm committed to learning whatever it is about this Bakura that makes him so enchanting. That makes me drawn to his so closely, the desire building to wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him close before I kiss him passionately and -
What.
The.
Actual.
RA?!
I can't be thinking of a victim in this context! Not only is it detrimental to my work, it's...sick! I'm not a fetishist, not a necrophile nor will I ever be! I force myself to picture Bakura dead, bleeding out with closed eyes, his once lithe body bloated and putrefying, left to rot days after my kill. It doesn't help. I still can't shake this feeling he gives me.
I'm dressed in the most casual attire I could find. A simple black shirt and khakis tucked in the tops of my Doc Martins, arm accentuated with my permanent gold bracelets. A golden dagger rests in my back pocket for safety. It's ceremonial; my father used it to perform religious rites, but sharp as obsidian and deadly if the correct force of applied. For now, it remains a precaution. I nip earbuds in and listen to 'This Is The Best' by USS as I climb the stairs to Bakura's floor, kindly allocated to me by the clearly alcoholic desk clerk.
I rap on the door a few times, checking my watch to make sure I timed it correctly. Exceptionally good timekeeping is a habit exercised by every assassin. Slowly the door opens, and Bakura is standing there in nothing but a hoodie and skinny jeans.
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The first thing I notice is that while he's scrawny, he does have subtle muscles built around his core, impressively so. The second and more interesting thing is the pendant around his neck. I know solid gold when I see it. Ancient, foreign gold. This has to have once belonged in a museum, or private collection of rare antiquities. Anyway, it's specialist. And extortionate.
His apartment contrasts the pendant like water does fire. It's a dump. Third-hand furniture circles around an ancient TV with bent transmitter, DVD player hanging off the coffee table. There's a hook up system to steal electricity from the neighbours, wire running along his carpet. The carpet itself is dark green and stained with blood and a goopey mixture of something less colourful.
"Nice...pendant," I comment. Bakura doesn't seem to notice. He hasn't acknowledged me at all, in fact. He just stares at my blindly, eyes glazed over and swaying slightly on his feet. Oh. He's high. He flops down on the cough, groaning as his back clicks. He leans forward and sorts through an old VCR tray stuffed with paraphernalia and a healthy supply of various drugs.
"Much?"
"Sorry?" I inquire.
"Much d'you want?" He sounds terse this time, irritated with me. I clearly woke him from his semi-conscious state and he's agitated to return to it. "Y'know...coke,"
"Uh, an eighth," I decide randomly, and he holds up a small baggie, throwing it on the table to inspect it.
"Quality's good. It's 50 bucks or 80 food stamps. I give discounts with food stamps; it should be 100. Oh yeah, an' ya also have to give me a bump,"
I survey him skeptically. "Uh, you sure? You seem pretty outta it already,"
"Just do some damn coke with me," he slaps the spot next to him on the couch, and I tentatively sit, pulling all my limbs tightly together, so I'm hunched forward in a ball. I can't think what's been on this dusty old wreck of a couch. But the possibilities are sending my once dormant OCD into overdrive. What else can I do but agree and hope this goes as smoothly as possible?
Bakura is clearly unstable. His little outburst proved that. I have no idea how dangerous he can be in this state. It gives me the shivers, to be alone and vulnerable with someone so unpredictable. Of course, I'm not vulnerable. I have my knife and could easily kill him now. However, people saw us talking at the hot dog stand today and that could arise some suspicion if the police decided to go snooping. Not that they'd bother investigating the death of some lame junkie.
No sooner has Bakura inhaled the stimulating drug up his nostrils that his eyelids droop. "Your name...what is it...?" He mumbles, struggling to stay awake.
"Melvin," I lie, using my most common alias (some others are Malik, Mariku and Kek) and leaning back to relax on his sofa.
"You got earphones..." He keenly observes. "Play somethin'..."
I turn on Nightcore's Let Me Die remix. In hindsight, I pick a really stupid song to play while he's sleepy, because it's slow and melodic. I don't even notice what it's doing to him as it lulls him into dreamland. He falls asleep fast and hard, head and shoulder drooping over my legs, so I become his duvet.
"Bakura, wake up man," I shake my leg slightly, urging him awake. He just mumbles, too encased in his sleep to be easily roused. Huffing angrily, I lean back and stare at the ceiling. Well, I guess I'm stuck.
I see his pendant shining from underneath his bright white hair, and have the epiphany of a lifetime. The only valuable or unusual or just not-pathetic thing in this loser's life is that pendant. It's the only reason Kaiba could possibly want him dead. But he never told me about it nor was it mentioned in the file. Did he steal it or something? Mug the wrong people? Or just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time? What an unfortunate situation if he did. I sympathise. After all, no kid aspires to be a damn assassin.
We sit here for a while. I try to keep awake myself by taking the cocaine I just bought, even blasting Breaking Benjamin with my earbuds, but it doesn't help. Bakura is ruining me. He's so warm, and at some point my finger wound into his hair, caressing it and massaging his scalp with the ancient techniques my sister taught me. He just looks so peaceful, still. Dead to the world, but strangely not to me. Not like a corpse, but like an angel. A fallen angel.
I fall asleep on his couch, accepting whatever consequences will derive from this tomorrow.
