On the Trail of that Infamous Assassin

The room in that orphanage was stained with blood. A kindly lady, who was one of the caretakers, was slowly bleeding to death. Needless to say, she wasn’t getting up any more. Despite the gunshots, there was little screaming. They didn’t have a chance to. None of them did. But this boy, sitting sideways on his bed, he wasn’t screaming. No, he was staring listlessly at the wall opposite his. The barrel of a gun prodded his cheek and then his clenched teeth. The gunman, still expressionless after his grim work would ask the boy,

“What is your name son?”

“Marchosius Daw,” the reply came monotonously.

The boy was staring at the gun man with the same blank eyes that would be unnerving to a normal man. But now was not the time, there would be no sirens, only more men and women who had been alerted by his activities and who also had ammunition, more than he did. A choice was to be made now.

“Do you want to live boy?” he asked.

The boy still sat on the bed as the heavy pitter-patter announced the arrival of rain. Whether it be lead or water, the gunman had always disliked the rain. By the wrists was the boy grabbed and hastily the gunman and the boy would eclipse themselves in the rubble strewn streets of Gate. Had the boy wanted to live, the gunman wouldn’t have asked. The man was a killer and the boy, already dead.

-

A day of relief, not that it mattered, was just another day. Carrying the groceries from the local market was Marchosius Daw. This was not his usual routine. He would put supersonic lead in an unfortunate by day and would stare into the barrel of his loaded gun by night. Walking in his laborious fashion, he would stop in front of his little apartment building. A gun shot rang out. It was followed by more, barking away. The locals had learned to tune it out, such things were common. It was just another part of their daily struggle. Marchosius however, did not struggle to live. Rather, the conflict was whether it was a good idea to die. How many years ago since the event that erased his family and home, he would ask, not allowing himself to lose count. It would have been so much simpler, had his mentor killed him then and there many years ago, when he still had a blank look about him. Alas, he was a blank slate no longer and could not just throw himself in front of the speeding vehicle that was fast approaching.

He was in front of his apartment now. There was no need to fish the keys out of his pocket neither. The door was gone and he stepped inside, almost slipping on the linoleum, coated with blood that had yet to seep between the cracks. He would sigh, more work for him to do. Stepping over a male corpse, he put down the groceries on the kitchen counter. Again, more gunshots, and he made his way to the source, the master bedroom. There was a conclusion of a struggle to be derived from it. Still, he wondered why there were even female bodies lying about. Propped up against the bed, was his mentor, a blade stuck in his abdomen, sitting in a pool of his own life. A day off meant there was no need to carry a weapon and Marchosius picked up the older man’s pistol.

“So you’re finally back,” his mentor started.

His head was slow to arise, meeting the downwards stare of Marchosius.

“I guess I am just another weak ass.”

Marchosius remained silent.

“So what’cha gonna do now huh?”

The locals did not even notice that last gunshot.

-

It was highway robbery. Empty apartment buildings were ideal, as his subject ran in to one. This building, it seemed, was ready for demolition in the coming day. The blood trail led to a room at the far end of the corridor. There were no lighting and Marchosius took off his sunglasses and hung them from his mauve coat’s breast pocket. The polished leather loafers splashed on a puddle and a cold sensation emanated from his left leg. A mild discomfort, he told himself and stepped in to the room.

It was not a big room, no more than a dozen square metres big but it at least had a window with sunlight shining through. His mark was hunched in a corner, a scruffy young man a little younger than he was. Marchosius saw the blood red hole he made in his mark’s thigh. To have come this far, that was at least impressive but it had to end. Sooner or later, Vigilantes would arrive and he’d have a fire fight on his hands. That was something he did not want to be troubled with. His mark looked up at the executioner’s weapon.

“Please, I’ll pay you money,” the man pleaded.

“5 million, in cash, up front,” Marchosius replied, holding up the contract with the figure highlighted, “That is how much your life is worth.”

“That’s highway robbery!” the man protested.

Unfortunately for him, the man did not carry around such a large sum. It was truly highway robbery.

-

A beautiful wedding reception, a beautiful day, the sun was shining and the guests enjoying themselves. Even her parents, still alive and kicking, were no less jubilant. The only person missing at Mary Daw’s was her brother. He would never come of course. She was born many years after he was supposedly lost in the Awakening. Then she silently chided herself, her name was now Mary John Cynis.

All of this was happening in a rented open courtyard in the Lofty Heights district. Mary could not help but notice a coated woman by the entrance. It was not formal attire. Rather it seemed the woman was prepared for war. A Vigilante present at a wedding was not uncommon, but they were usually off-duty and better dressed. Mary looked on as the woman signed the guest book and put an envelope inside.

It came to an end eventually and most of the guests filed out. Mary picked up the guest book as her parents were about to leave. They had yet to sign it. Opening it up thoughtlessly, the envelope she had forgotten about slid out as well as the signature left by the Vigilante earlier. A gasp of surprise would escape her lips. Both her mother and father peeked over her shoulder. She read it aloud now,

“Congratulation, and my condolences, Questa Inocentia.”

Mrs. Daw picked up the letter at their feet. Inside was a letter informing them of the death of a certain Marchosius John Daw. That he was alive at all came to a shock for them all. It was normal that a criminal’s family would be aware of their activities only after their death. It was not tears of joy that flowed thereafter.

-

Mary had to know what had befallen her late brother. Who he was, what life he led in solitude, those were the questions she needed answered. The Red Light District, a place she had only heard about was where she was directed to by the letter. Marchosius Daw was previously employed as a musician at the Dark Horse, a jazz club. It wasn’t open for business yet, as the man in a mauve suit standing out front informed her. Her insistence was only met with a pistol to her face and a warning,

“Dude, it’s not polite to point a gun at a lady you just met,” another voice came.

A darker skinned man in the same mauve suit had just come out of the door. Reluctantly the man who was standing guard put his firearm away and Mary was led inside.

“So Ma’am, what brings you to the Dark Horse?” he asked.

“I was told to come see a man called Boss,” she replied.

She was led to a table with a seat. The Dark Horse was not yet open as the chairs stacked upon the tables indicated. Other men in mauve suits were going about their business, some sweeping the floor, some righting the chairs and the rest tuning instruments. The man who led her in left to get who she was looking for. Though it was brightly lit at the moment, Mary could not help but feel uneasy. If Marchosius was a murderer and a hitman, who were the Dark Horse, and what were they to him?

A portly man in the same mauve suit as the others joined her. Though he may have looked a bit pale, the gelled back black hair spoke of his immaculate nature. He introduced himself as Boss, simply Boss. Mary had no intention of wasting time however,

“Was Marchosius Daw in your employ?”

“Ah, you must be his family, my condolences, Mrs. Daw,” Boss said.

“His sister, Mrs. Cynis, actually,” she corrected.

“My apologies Mrs. Cynis,” he quickly apologised, “to answer your question now. Yes he was. A fine violinist if I have ever met one.”

“Was there really nothing out of the ordinary? He was separated from his parents during the Awakening and we’ve only just learned that he was alive that whole time.”

“Well, yes, he was a bit independent but I don’t think it was a cause for concern.”

“Were you aware of his, activities?” Mary tried.

“If you meant that he was a criminal, then yes, I am now, but not before the notice of his death,” Boss tried to sound as polite as possible.

“Thank you for your time then,” she finally said, knowing got nothing more than she could have knew.

“Before you go, I would like to return his personal effects, it’s the least I can do,” Boss said.

He got up and went to fetch a violin case from somewhere backstage. Marchosius was etched neatly on the lid. Thanking him once again, Mary left the Dark Horse. Next stop was Downey Lane, but how to get there was beyond her. The same man standing guard noticed her plight, raised his right arm and snapped his fingers thrice. In response a black sports car slid around the corner and came to a screeching halt in front of them. The man opened the passenger door and gestured. Hesitantly she entered. A private taxi, yet another thing she had yet to experience first hand.

-

Another name for Downey Lane was Red Brick Road. On both sides, save for the occasional play ground or park, was built of red concrete bricks. Some of them exuded a warm and cosy air. It was natural of course, since many vigilantes held residence in the district and it was probably one of the safest in the neighbourhood and that saying a lot of a city divided in to a quarter of law and criminals with the rest flying a more or less neutral colour.

Mother star Raon was setting as Mary arrived at the doorsteps of the address on the letter. So this was where the vigilante who had apprehended her brother lived. She didn’t blame anyone, no; it was because her brother walked that path that he ended up with grass growing on top of him. Knocking curtly thrice, a kindly and mature-looking woman greeted her.

“My, my, we have a visitor,” the woman spoke.

“Excuse me my intrusion at such a time,” Mary started, “I have been told that I can speak to Mrs. Questa Innocentia if I came here.”

“Ah,” the woman expressed in mute surprise, “That would be my sister. She’s feeling unwell at the moment but she can still receive you. Please, come in.”

The woman gestured inside and hesitantly Mary stepped in. It was not much different from outside, warm and homey.

“I am Marly Innocentia, please make yourself at home, erm, Miss-”

“Mary, Mrs. Mary Cynis.”

“Then make yourself at home Mrs. Cynis, I will get Questa for you.”

This was it. This was where the trail ends, the end of the trail of that infamous assassin Marchosius Daw. The woman that was at her wedding, Questa Innocentia, came in and sat next to her. She looked worn out, sleep deprived and generally in a mess. All that needed between them was a good deep look in to each others eyes before they cried on each other’s shoulders.