by Jack Porter
In addition, he was bound to obey my every command.
Despite all this, there was something about him, the way he spoke, that annoyed the shit out of me. Perhaps it was the lack of respect with which he spoke to me. The ongoing sense of suffering that he had been saddled with someone like me instead of, well, anyone else.
I knew objectively that even Chad would have been a better option. Tall, good-looking, capable, and full of himself, he wouldn’t have had any problem getting laid, and Azrael’s progression would have been that much faster.
That said, Azrael’s attitude toward me was no different from that of most people in my life. I should have been able to ignore it.
But then, it was probably that very fact that annoyed me. I had resurrected him from nothing but dust. After maybe thousands of years clinging to mere survival with the very last of his strength. Surely a little gratitude wouldn’t have gone amiss?
“Or are you waiting for the right moment?” Azrael said, his voice tinged with derision.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grunted at him. “Keep your panties on. I’m getting to it.”
In truth, part of what irritated me about Azrael just then was that yet again, he was right. I was putting off checking out what Rachel had sent me.
I had reached a crossroads. Before this moment, I was just a low status dweeb, a wannabe Ascender whose existence made barely a blip in the greater scheme of things. But the moment I took the first step along the path we’d mapped out the night before, that would no longer be the case. I would be making a choice to be something different.
Something more.
I would be leaving my former life behind and stepping into the new.
You might think that was exactly what I’d been looking to do all my adult life. And you would be exactly right. That was the whole point of being part of the Ascender community. None of us were happy with what we had. All of us had looked at the possibilities dangling just in front of our noses and conceived a desire to reach out and grab them.
But there is comfort in familiarity. And I’d been a low status nobody for so long that I was used to it. It was like an old coat that had become part of me, one with which I was deeply familiar.
Despite my best efforts, I was at home with it. ‘Low status nobody’ had become my identity. And despite my desire to leave it behind and become something new, the actual reality of doing so was scary.
It was like the first time I’d ever had sex. It was what I wanted more than anything else, but when faced with the prospect, I’d been so nervous it had almost all gone awry.
“I’m not seeing a lot in terms of action,” Azrael observed.
I let out a snarl of anger. Not at him so much, but at my pathetic, low-status self.
“You’re not going to hold me back anymore,” I said out loud. “It’s time to nut up or shut up. And I don’t feel much like shutting up anymore.”
I could sense Azrael’s confusion, and knew he thought I was talking to him. But I ignored him entirely and headed to the one place I’d always felt reasonably safe. My gaming set up wasn’t the fastest—I’d never had enough spare cash for that—but it was still pretty good. I had a bank of screens two high and three across, giving me an arc of vision that was almost immersive. It was all connected to a beast of a processor that, if it was no longer the latest generation, then at least it was boosted by a top-of-the-line graphics card and a turbo hack that meant it still did pretty well.
I sat in my well-worn command chair, thinking about all the hours I’d spent immersing myself in different worlds, often playing single player first person shooters, me against the whole world, but also dipping into anything else that caught my fancy.
If my real-world status matched my online prowess at all, then I would have at least been far closer to the middle than I currently was. But the way these things worked, it was only the top end of the gaming world that could also claim a decent real-world status. The guys who won the international competitions. Those who did run-throughs for others to follow. The gurus who always seemed to know the latest cheat code or how to mod a character for the coolest effect, or even how to exploit a glitch.
People like me, freelance trainers working to give wealthy kids a status boost they didn’t need or deserve, weren’t very high on the ladder.
Nevertheless, there were other measures of a successful life. Fun, for example. And I had always enjoyed my time in the chair.
But this time, I didn’t bring up my favorite game or the training portal through which I coached those snot-nosed kids.
Instead, with a deep breath, I brought up my messaging application and clicked on the message Rachel had sent me. It contained the username she’d mentioned on the phone, a randomly generated password twelve digits long, and a link.
I stared at that link for long minutes.
“This is it,” I said to myself, and clicked it.
The window that opened up on my screen was labeled innocuously enough. Syndicate Contracts, it said, and at first glance it looked like nothing more than an old-fashioned dating site, with a list of targets that included names, faces, and, interestingly, the value of each target and a button for more information.
On closer inspection, I noticed that there were multiple tabs, including ones that read ‘Syndicate Targets,’ ‘Vendettas,’ and ‘Completed Contracts.’
As well, each contract on the Syndicate Contracts and Vendettas pages was color coded, either highlighted green or a neutral grey. Those that were green showed a field labeled, ‘Awaiting Contractor,’ with a line of text beneath giving more detail. “If you wish to take on this contract, enter your username in the field provided. This contract is open to one contractor only.”
As I glanced down to those contracts that had been greyed out, I saw that this field had been filled in. Someone called Megadeath#4 had taken on the contracts to take out two city officials, a witness in a forthcoming court case, a random old woman, and a gambler who had racked up a substantial debt. There were several other contracts that had gone to Doingitforfun, and someone called ManoEMano, and Ladykiller. But it was Megadeath who interested me most because his name turned up the most often.
On a whim, I clicked on his name to bring up his profile. There was no picture, just a short blurb. It read:
“I am the Syndicate’s number one contractor. Military background, expertise includes small arms, bladed weapons, explosives, hand-to-hand, heavy artillery, ETC. Specialties include “accidents” and “statements.” No target too big or too small.”
I read it twice with a sinking feeling that I had none of what Megadeath#4 had. I had no military training, and my only experience in actually killing someone didn’t really count. I mean, Chad had been barely alive at the time anyway. It wasn’t like he was in any state to fight back.
Out of nothing more than morbid curiosity, I clicked on the profile icon next to my name at the top of the window, to see what Rachel had put in there for me, if she had gone that far.
It turned out she had. My profile was no more than two sentences. “New kid on the block. Looking to make a name for myself.”
Hardly a threatening profile, I thought. If Megadeath#4 happened to see it, he might have laughed.
It was like comparing a newborn baby to a seasoned assassin, and I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing.
Surprisingly, Azrael chose that moment to offer unexpected encouragement. “You don’t have to compete with other contractors,” he said. “All you need to do is choose a target and take them out.”
He was right. It didn’t matter that Megadeath#4 was bristling with capabilities. That he was like a max level character in a game, and I was just a noob. All it meant was that while he could stand toe-to-toe against the final boss, I would have to be a bit choosier when it came to my targets.
With that thought in mind, and a little more confidence than I’d felt just a few moments before, I headed back to the pages displaying open contracts.
“W
hat the hell?” I said.
Where before there had been multiple possible targets, now there were only two. As I watched, one of those targets changed from green to grey, and Megadeath#4’s name appeared in the contractor field.
“He’s going through and accepting all of the contracts!” Azrael said. “If you don’t hurry, he’ll get that last one as well.”
For what must have been the hundredth time in just a matter of hours, I panicked. If I’d stopped to think, maybe I would have just waited until more contracts appeared and picked one that best suited my skill level. Instead, I went for the last open contract, and, without even stopping to see who it was, I entered my username in the field and hit enter.
Instead of turning grey, this contract turned orange, and a message appeared at the top. “Congratulations! You have been awarded this contract.”
At the same time, the full details of my target opened on the screen.
With my heart in my mouth, I scanned the text in front of me.
“Fuck me,” I said as I realized what I had done.
Chapter 17
“Fuck,” I repeated. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead and on the palms of my hands. My breathing became quicker and filled with anxiety. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I had thought to choose an easy target. The old woman, for example, whatever her story might have been. I didn’t know how she had wound up on the wrong side of this Syndicate, nor did I particularly care. All I knew was that unless she had a whole host of hidden skills, it would be a lot easier to complete her contract than some of the others.
If not her–and the idea of murdering an old woman in cold blood didn’t exactly appeal–then maybe the guy who was struggling with his gambling debts. Someone like him might even face the prospect of a long good night with relief. Even if not, he was just one guy. Someone normal, ill-equipped to deal with a threat to his life.
But no. I had reacted on impulse and signed up for someone without checking them out.
There’s an old saying, I’d rather be lucky than good. That expression had defined my whole life, but not in a good way. Sure, I couldn’t really claim to be good at much either, but when ill luck was there to pull the rug out from under your feet at any moment, what did it matter?
I’d been unlucky right from the start. Bad genes, bad timing, bad everything. It’s how I’d got to where I was, a grown-ass man struggling to make an impression on the status rankings.
I thought it might have changed with the advent of Azrael, but it seemed that my ill luck was still with me.
My target wasn’t the old woman or the gambler. Instead, my target was a mini boss, a young man in his prime, maybe five or so years older than me, a mid-level mover and shaker making his way up the ranks in a rival crime syndicate.
Marcel Marionetti. Six foot one, one-ninety pounds, the photo showed him looking angular and fit, with a smooth, handsome face showing clever eyes and a well-maintained moustache. Part of the Marionetti family, he oversaw their protection side of the business, which suggested he had an army of thugs at his command.
The online file came complete with Marionetti’s address and a detailed report into his daily activities. But, really, none of that mattered. I was out of my depth, and I knew it.
“Fuck me,” I said once again.
“Interesting target,” Azrael said. “Look at that. He is apparently worth thirty thousand dollars.”
“Yeah,” I said. I’d seen that as well, along with the need to make a statement. I didn’t know who this Marionetti guy had pissed off, but he must have done a good job of it.
I didn’t know how much status such a windfall might bring me, but it didn’t matter anyway. “I can’t do this,” I said. “How do I open the job back up for someone else?”
“What do you mean?” Azrael demanded. “This is perfect! You want to make a splash, don’t you? Do you think you could do it by taking out no-risk opponents? This one will get you noticed! Isn’t that what you need to give your status a boost?”
He was right. At the same time… “That’s only if I can actually do the job,” I said. “I mean, look at him! How could I possibly get near him, let alone take him out!” I shook my head again. “This is a job for someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Azrael was silent for a moment. I expected him to come up with another argument, to try to convince me to go through with it. But instead, when he spoke again, he seemed resigned.
“You are right,” he said. “Look at you. You have no training, no experience, and no expertise. Sure, you have an increase in strength and reflexes that should give you an unexpected advantage, but I guess, when it comes down to it, you’re nothing but a dreamer. You’re not someone who gets stuck in and does what they need to do.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of eternity, joined to a low status loser forever.”
It was obvious he was trying to bait me. Yet, knowing that did nothing to lessen its effectiveness. Even though what he said was largely true, hearing him say it made me angry.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me like that!” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because you are my demon. I control you! You are here to do my bidding!”
So? What has that got to do with your being a loser?”
I almost snarled at him. “I’m not going to be a loser forever!”
“Prove it! It’s time to man up and show some balls. Are you going to take the contract, or not?”
For some moments, I just sat there and fumed at my demonic passenger. I thought he was done, but he decided to twist the knife.
“I’ll give you a clue. You already accepted it, and there doesn’t appear to be any way to back out. What do you think will happen to you if you fail to complete a contract that has been assigned?”
I didn’t like it one bit, but that was a very good point. Through gritted teeth, I asked him a question. “What do you suggest?”
“Go through with it. Do the job. Get the money and the status that goes with it. Move on to the next.”
Simple, I thought. But that wasn’t what I meant.
“How?” I demanded.
It was as if Azrael had been waiting for me to ask. “Use what you’ve got,” he said.
I found myself looking at my hands. They still looked like the same, pudgy hands I’d always had, but now they were stronger. Was that enough?
I didn’t know.
“What have I got?” I asked.
“Well, for one, you don’t look like a hitman.”
I don’t look like a hitman.
The words reverberated around in my head for some moments. I don’t look like a hitman.
They were just words, at first totally meaningless, like the distant murmur of a crowd caught by the wind. But then I understood what he meant.
I didn’t look like a hitman. Which meant I could probably wander right up to Marcel Marionetti and stick my knife in his guts before he even realized that what I intended to do.
For the first time since I’d entered my username in the fateful field, my panic was down to a manageable level.
I even managed to smile.
“That’s better,” Azrael said with grudging approval. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
Chapter 18
According to the background information attached to the Marionetti contract, Marcel Marionetti operated from the back offices of the Marionetti family bistro, a busy, lively restaurant in the South End.
But this didn’t turn out to be true. I’d taken a taxi there and arrived just in time for the lunch rush, and despite how busy the place seemed to be, Marionetti seemed perfectly content to take up the largest booth on the side, conducting his business out in the open while surrounded by those who could only be characterized as “his people.”
I sat at a small table nursing a plate of pasta and meatballs topped with Parmesan cheese, doing my best to study my target while avoiding the notice
of his men.
The meatballs were surprisingly tasty. I found myself wondering if Rachel liked Italian food and kept watching.
Today seemed to be the day when Marionetti’s thugs turned up to hand over their ill-gotten gains. Every few minutes, someone new would arrive, mostly big men who looked mean, and present themselves in front of Marcel Marionetti’s table.
Marionetti’s guards would pat the thugs down before admitting them into their boss’s presence. After brief greetings, the thugs would make their offerings, usually in the form of a role of bills.
Marcel Marionetti’s assistant, a squat, balding man who shared some of the unfortunate genetic traits as I did, would count the cash before secreting it away in a large container, and saying something to his boss.
I wasn’t close enough to hear the details, but Marionetti would respond in one of three ways. He would either nod curtly, accepting the offering with little comment as if it was nothing more than expected. Or he would offer a small smile of genuine but understated pleasure if the offering was greater than he expected.
But it was his third response that told me all I needed to know of the man. If he wasn’t happy with the offering, his face would grow dark.
Marionetti wasn’t eating a meal, not exactly, but he did have a selection of dishes laid out before him from which he would sample occasionally. When displeased, his fist would clench around his fork, and he would say something low and dangerous to the one who displeased him.
Such was Marionetti’s status and visible threat that each man he dealt with in this way would respond the same. They would plead with him, begging to be given another chance to show their value. I couldn’t hear them, but their body language made it very clear what they were doing.
And, mostly, it was enough. Marionetti would sit back as if in consideration, then dismiss the man with a gesture.
Except for once. Perhaps the greasy-haired thug who disappointed him had a long history of doing so. Perhaps Marionetti believed him to be holding back. Either way, instead of offering that same dismissal, he made a different signal, and his two guards immediately closed in around the man. They didn’t drag him away, but rather herded him between them out to the back of the restaurant.
