Post by mildofthewild on Jun 7, 2020 16:16:42 GMT -5
The air is heavy. Thick and cloistering, it overpowers and clogs any attempted breath he takes with the smell of resin and worn leather, both of these attributed to the rather peculiar tastes. Slick from his own sweat and breath, the man known widely as Mr. 58, spends several moments debating whether he should relieve himself of his trademark mask or to simply bear the discomfort.
Truly, there was no risk should the client see his face; Remulo’s past was barely worth knowing to begin with and he had no one truly close to him that could be used against him. The only real advantage one could obtain would be to turn him in to the proper authorities, but even then the amount was so paltry that it would hardly be worth the effort. The actual price tag on his head garnered a fair bit of ridicule, but Remulo had always taken special care to never let it grow too high. The power of a bounty was one that was often overlooked; for Remulo, it was better to be a blip on the radar of the World Government than to be playing in the constant game of cat and mouse found in the Grand Line and the New World. Let the Harley Riots and the Slayers enjoy their popularity; it only makes work much easier for him.
Regardless, he decides to bear through the sweltering heat and perspiration that even know presses his thick, scarlet hair to the base of his scalp. No matter how uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the calm of keeping his face unreadable.
A door swings open on the other side of the waiting room, creaking loudly on its worn hinges as a woman, decked in a full pinstripe suit, steps through to join him. With a long, thin cigarette held daintily in her gloved hands, she adds to the already suffocating waiting room with a puff of thickly veiling smoke. The shade from her wide brimmed hat, along with the darkened lenses of her sunglasses, left her visage just as cloaked as his in the smoke, save for one key feature: a pair of ruby red lips with the hint of a smirk.
“Mr. Atla will see you now. Hope the wait wasn’t too long,” she says lightly, almost chuckling as her drawl hangs on each word, almost as if to enunciate how long he’s actually been kept waiting. Remulo had been waiting for 2 hours, in fact, but he hadn’t minded. He knew this was a ploy of dominance from Mr. Atla; his reputation for such displays were well-known and documented. He had even considered letting the contract go, but he had worked with Mr. Atla for far too long; it would do well to play nice with him, as transgressions could impede future work considerably.
“It’s no trouble. Thank you.”
Equally as cooly, Remulo brushes past her, leaving the woman in pinstripes smiling as she pulls her shades down. Blue eyes, crystalline in their vibrance, follow after him. With a small chuckle, she closes the door after him, closing him off from the world outside of the dark business ventures that see human life given a paltry price.
Remulo walks along a tight corridor, walls continually pushing in around him, constricting and trapping him within the slowly encroaching stench stench of decay. He keeps his eyes trained on the door ahead, the ticket out of the ever tightening space and the stranglehold on his senses, but the walls begin to show him the fruits of his own labor. The results of his own treks on the whim of Mr. Atla, as if to remind him of his heinous deeds in the name of blood money profit. Remulo’s eyes hang on each trophy before him, unable to muster said guilt. Though a twinge of disgust still lights on his tongue as he looks at the display that fills his central and peripheral view:
Fishman heads.
Faces twisted into expressions of mutilated agony stare back at the one that delivered them to such a fate. Fishman from all over the blues; Remulo hadn’t brought them all, but he can’t escape the truth that he was responsible for a majority.
Some of the shark Fishmen had their teeth pulled out, their biology leaving them toothless while their collector no doubt held the pearly jaws in a separate collection for appraisal and profit. Their scaly hides glisten under the dim lighting from above, shining not from the waters of their home, the great blue sea, but from the preservation and fresh paint splashed upon their bodies, meant to keep their “brilliance” intact. As he gazes upon them, he sees not the eyes of the proud warriors that he engaged with, but the glass replacements of those unfortunate enough to have lost. Remulo didn’t feel any sort of resentment or disgust; after all, there was no particular attachment to Fishmen as a concept. He wasn’t one to judge what his clients liked to get up to. As long as they could offer the money for such services, it wasn’t his place to judge how he was used.
Remulo finally reaches the end of the long, tube-like hallway filled with his “victories,” turning the knob and walking through into a further extension of the opulence of one Mr. Atla: a rather large office space, one with a full view of the town square of Loguetown. Globes sit in nearly every corner, with charts and markings of trade routes and further territories owned by extensions of the Atla family. Cabinets of antiques and treasured loot from across the Blues and Grand Line stand on display, with the odd fruit every now and then; seems like the rumors were true. The bay windows behind the large oak desk even offer a front row seat to the sight of the legendary execution grounds, where the former Pirate King had met his end.
“Have a seat, Mr. 58. I’ve been eagerly anticipating your arrival.” A voice calls from behind the large, leather-bound chair seated at the front, the back turned to the occupant’s esteemed guest and facing the streets of Loguetown. Smoke wafts from the concealed mouth sitting behind it, the voice itself even thicker than the incubating heat of the “waiting room.”
Pulling out one of the guest chairs, Remulo takes his own velvet cushioned seat, arms folded in his lap as he awaits to speak in return. There were certain precautions one had to take around Mr. Atla. NEVER speak out of turn unless directed to do so. Mr. Atla has a pet peeve for being talked over, so much so that Remulo got a first-hand look at this peeve in action the first time he had met his esteemed client. The former had shot one of his underlings 12 times in the back, shattering his spine and ensuring he would never walk again. The crime? Agreeing with Mr. Atla before he was “allowed” to do so.
“So, how’d it go? You have a safe trip, my friend? Good travels? I tried to have my men provide you only the best of comfort as you sailed to Goa. No expense was spared, I assure you.”
Remulo waits a brief moment to ensure it was his turn to speak, unzipping his mouth piece and clearing his throat to signal.
“Yes. Very comfortable. Thank you.”
“Good…that’s good. I try to take care of who works for me; a happy worker is a productive worker, wouldn’t you agree?”
Remulo waits once more, daring not even to breathe too loudly as he counts out the seconds in his head to make sure he took no longer and no less time than before.
“It provides a sense of importance to the task at hand.”
“Ooooh...I like that. ‘A sense of importance.’ It does, doesn’t it?” With each word, clouds of smoke balloon out from behind the chair, wafting like sluggish, grey clouds towards the ceiling, only to rest once more amidst Remulo’s already burning nostrils. “And this was a very important task, my friend. Very important. So, this is why I’m perplexed. Help me out with this one: I send you out with the finest sailing someone in this business can afford. Again, like I said, I spared no expense. I offer nothing but the most pertinent and detailed of information; weeks upon weeks of documentation and studying of Marine ships to try and tackle this Fishface. I help you to track down Buckethead or whatever the hell his name is, triangulating where he might strike next to give you the easiest opportunity of capture and securing. I’ve been pretty damn generous, wouldn’t you say?”
It was a leading question, this much he knew. But Remulo didn’t stay productive in this field by acknowledging the micro-displays of power people like Mr. Atla tried to demonstrate. The easiest means by which to get by was to play along with them.
“Yes, Mr. Atla.”
“Well, then you can understand why I’m confused because I see you back, alive and well thanks to me....but no Fish head. You better have it shoved up your ass, ‘cause I’ve been told twice by my associates that you do not have anything with you. Nothing in a satchel, nothing in your pockets or coat. The only logical explanation outside of your mouths would be in your ass. So, do you need to bend over?”
Remulo watches the chair, hoping to catch some brief glimpses of movement that could help him establish Mr. Atla’s state of mind and adjust accordingly. The chair, however, moves barely an inch through the semi-tirade, with the only betrayal that the mob boss was present was the shifting of his arms to puff on his cigar. No change strength, no facial twitch to read. Remulo was left powerless by his very own tactic.
“I do not, no.”
The air grows heavier, smoke seeping evermore under his mask and clogging up passageways, as if Atla was pressing the man further through his bad habits. Remulo could feel the ash mixing with the sweat beading on his forehead, smearing across and giving him a mask made entirely of his own trepidation.
“I see. So, please correct me if I’m wrong, but we did indeed sign a contract for your capture of this Fishman, correct?”
Remulo had much to explain, but he realizes enough of previous dealings to simply follow the client’s lead. At this point, they were never interested in the specifics; only the results.
“Yes.”
“And yet, you do not have a Nautilus Fishman head. Would you like to explain to me what the hell you’re doing showing your face here?”
“I came to return the contract in question,” Remulo says, pulling a scrap of paper along with the slightly worn wanted poster for Bukbuk the Bucket. The rustling of the papers keeps Remulo tethered to the illusion of strength, but he could have sworn that he saw the chair shiver before it was still once more. His fingers fidget, struggling against the instinct that attempts to wrestle full control of his motor skills in its attempt for survival. Kill. Kill. Kill him now.
“Return your contract, eh?” Mr. Atla says, his chair rocking back and forth, horizontally, as he mulls over Remulo’s words.
“That’s right. I failed, and I don’t suspect I’ll be able to complete my end of the transaction at this point of time. Bukbuk the Bucket is far too powerful and has accomplished techniques thought impossible to me. You would be better off finding someone stronger. In that sense, I express my deepest apologies.”
Silence consumes and deafens Remulo’s hearing as he keeps his ears perked for any disturbance that might alert him to Atla’s intentions. It seems almost like hours wasting away as he waits, though it was mere seconds that pound against his chest with every passing tick from the mounted clock above.
Finally, a sigh heaves from behind the leatherback chair.
“You’re a weird one, you know that? I’ve had hitman and contract killers try to trick me by killing someone else or just straight up dodge me rather than just come back and tell me that they can’t do the job. ‘Course, I’m grateful, because tracking those guys down and slitting their throats is a real pain. I appreciate you not making me go through that hassle.”
“I guarantee you, slitting mine right now would be an even greater one.”
Another pause. Both client and assassin’s breath keeps held as they size the other, attempting to see who might fold first. In a sign of concession, the man behind the chair sighs as he turns to face his guest. Mr. Atla is not one to show his face often; in fact, he considers it a matter of prestige for anyone to see it. Remulo would consider it an honor were he not consistently keeping his senses sharpened for the slightest betrayal of the mob boss’s true intentions.
He was a short man. Stocky of build, but where most people could tower over him, Mr. Atla could certainly rival their widths. His shoulders were quite broad and his neck thick with coiled muscles underneath. A mole rests on his right cheek, a single blot on the alabaster, sallow skin. Jowls quiver as he pulls his cigar away from wormy lips, blowing a ring of smoke in Remulo’s direction and lighting his nose once more with ash. Thick sunglasses cover his eyes, their exact purpose a bit mysterious, but Remulo can only chalk it up to wanting to keep his power through hiding any and all intent. Besides that, he wore a form fitting pin-stripe suit (perhaps ‘a little too form fitting’ would be more apt here) along with a thick fur coat thrown over his shoulders, adorned with an assortment of gold chains and pocket watches.
“You really think I can’t kill you?” He says, pressing the subject further as he likewise leans in, no doubt attempting to ascertain any notable twitch in Remulo’s eyes. The assassin remains tight lipped, staring back without so much as a straightening of posture as he hides the real answer within his mind: No.
“It would be very difficult. That’s all I meant.” Remulo states again, simply, not wanting to set off any impromptu fury, even knowing full well even such an innocent answer could be likely to do so. A slight chuckle from behind Remulo breaks through his concentration, however, the assassin jerking his shoulders slightly as he turns to look. The woman from outside saunters into view, her arms draping the back of his chair, her ruby lips pulling up in a soft smile as she pulls another drag from her cigarette. She came in without a sound; he would have to keep note of that.
“I’m not so sure,” Mr. Atla continues, leaning back in his chair and motioning for the woman to move away. His point having been made, she simply shrugs and walks towards one of the many globes, tracing the fine markings with a single indent finger as the boss continues.
“But, being as it is, you have been quite a bit of help to me in the past, there’s no denying that. Wouldn’t have gotten that Angler Fishwoman head if not for you. So, it wouldn’t feel right killin’ ya. Call it a gesture from my bleeding heart.
“However, I can’t let this pass either,” He says, punctuating this with a pointed jab at the documents Remulo had set before him. “I’m afraid any and all business endeavors between us are over. If you ain’t strong enough for this, I doubt you’re strong enough for whatever else I got for you. So hit the road. You’re done. Consider this lucky.”
The words didn’t exactly cut at his feelings; just his pride, but he could accept such an outcome if it meant he could still draw breath. Remulo curtly nods to the resolution, making his way for the exit, all too aware of the woman’s eyes tracing his every movement. She seems to have a great deal of pleasure in watching Remulo being forced to retreat back like a dog…
` ` `
The trip back outside was not nearly as painstaking. The second he was exposed to fresh air, Remulo made sure to take a long draw of it. Freedom in the most minor of senses; it was enough to embolden him, but only for a moment. After all, things just became complicated.
He wasn’t exactly penniless, but this blow to his reputation would make finding work considerably difficult. Mr. Atla was a heavy influence in the criminal underworld; his personal network currently only extended into the East Blue, but there were so many branches in the larger world he had a hand in. So much so that pirates and marines alike were well-versed with his name, with many seeking him out for the services he could provide. Business loans, artifacts, treasure maps; whispers were abound about his small Devil Fruit trading pipeline, though the means of confirming such a thing would be next to impossible if you were not part of his family.
Mr. Atla had a number of clients that came to him with assassination contracts, and it had been steady work for a fledgling Remulo. His own demand even picked up once Mr. Atla started advertising his Devil Fruit ability (thankfully he hadn’t received it from his trade line, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to walk away quite so easily.) He owed much of his success to Mr. Atla, but he came with his own…eccentricities. The Fishmen heads were only one of several depraved “personal ventures” that he forced his employees into carrying out; Remulo was well-versed in a number of Fishman species from these tasks alone. No one quite knows why he likes to collect them and no one dared to learn. It was much easier to keep your nose down, after all. Remulo had no sights on moving up the ranks of Mr. Atla’s ladder; it was just a network to receive jobs, really, but he hadn’t stopped to consider just where he would be without that network. Going freelance would be tough, especially if he had to compete with Mr. Atla himself. It seems like he would have to try and build his name up alone somehow. Whether that meant bigger targets or simply having to resort to pirating himself, he would have to consider. He had enjoyed his relatively small bounty, as it kept him out of trouble with the World Government and often had targets underestimate him, making his job easier. Still, this recent setback meant that such luxuries likely wouldn’t allow him to eat anymore...
Walking alongside the restaurant faces, Remulo waits in line to order from a French-style café, staring at the menu and cringing a bit at the exorbitant prices. Normally not an issue, he now couldn’t help but sigh in relief at seeing a more...affordable option. After all, he could use something greasy to distract from the taste of complete and abject aimlessness.
However, even in the midst of trying to take a simple breather, he couldn't switch off the senses that hounded him so. He was being watched. Without even a turn of his head, his eyes scan the plaza, taking note of the crowd passing by. Everything seemed in order...exactly what a stalker would want him to believe...
In the periphery of his vision, he spots a flash. It was for just a brief moment, but he caught it. Wide. Bright. Blue. Crystalline eyes, likely of a child, practically flashing at him from behind the swaths of cloth and the bustle of boots as people passed in front of them. They looked...frightened. Child of a former target? It’d be a pain to deal with, especially as a reminder of what funds he would soon be lacking in. However, this wasn’t something to worry about, at least not at this current juncture. If they were to make a move, he would just have to deal with it, simple as that...hopefully. At any rate, fried meat was calling his name…
That’s him. I know it. Sure, he doesn’t have that weird mask on, but it’s the same shoulders, the same lanky build. That’s Mr. 58. Remulo Bogs. The assassin for hire...
I can’t trust anyone else to do the job…that bastard would just pay them off. He’s the only one that’ll stick to it, I know it. Just gotta work up the nerve to ask...just gotta wait until he’s alone...
2 Hours Later…
This was starting to get annoying. No matter where he turned, no matter where he ducked, those fleeting eyes were on his tail watching his every move. They followed him everywhere; into the clothing markets, the grocer stands, the general stores. He could swear they even watched him in the bathroom, which even he would never stalk into. Some things had to be sacred...
At this rate, he wasn’t going to be able to slink away. He had to nip this problem in the bud before he sailed off; the longer he stayed in Loguetown, the more he was getting the suspicion Mr. Atla would arrange for his stay to be permanent.
So, when the crowd was riling up at the height of noon, he made his move. Shifting from one stream to the other, Remulo made quick on his footwork and dove into one of the darkened alleyways along the city streets, hoping to put some distance between his would be stalker. And the docks. The farther he could separate them, the harder it’d be to trace anything to him...
The young girl had done well to keep her distance, always sure to have a quick escape should the assassin’s gaze fall anywhere near her. She was certain that he would catch in the bathroom, but luckily she had maintained her cool (as well as cover her eyes. Some places had to be sacred.) However, she didn’t expect the quick escape by him, the man quickly ducking away and leaving her frozen in shock, a few denizens bumping into her and exchanging some angry glares. Collecting herself, she runs forward, forgoing her carefully laid plan to stand before the mouth of the alley, only to be met with the obscuring shadows within. Remulo was nowhere to be seen!
Impossible! She thought, looking about while taking a few tentative steps into the shaded path, placing her hands against the walls for any sign of trickery or escape. He dove in only a few moments ago! There’s no way he could’ve gotten away! He has to be hiding, he has to be…
Yesterday’s rain left a sheen along the brick walls, the young girl sliding her palm across them as she searches through the penumbran dusk within. How could he have disappeared so quickly? The question hangs poignantly on her thoughts, her hand continuing to trail along the stone, collecting nearly a puddle of moisture along her fingers...sticky moisture...
Before she could take the time to investigate, a thin hand reaches around her cheek and clasps itself around her mouth, stifling the scream that was just about to belt out. Another snakes around her shoulders, squeezing tightly, constricting her movements and leaving her as little more than a rag doll. Still, she wasn’t one to give up, and still squirmed within the vise like grip before a hushed voice tickles her ear. Her heart beats against her chest, blood gushes through her veins and the noise of it all stifles her ears so much that she almost misses the very grave warning that the corpse-like voice gives her:
“You shouldn’t follow dangerous people.”
Remulo’s fingers dig into the sides of her cheeks, claws plying into the soft skin and certain to leave a mark should he choose not to be careful. She muffles out a reply, strained by the sensation of her own mouth being ripped away as well as the steady pressure being applied to her ribs.
“I’d stop writhing if I were you. One small squeeze and I could break several of your ribs.” She freezes, realizing how close to the truth this was as the pain seeps deeper and deeper into her bones, tension being applied steadily in case he needed to break something. She steadies her breathing to comply with his wishes, a small whimper being muffled by his hand as she can hear the slight creaking emanating from her ribcage.
“Now, I’m going to let you go,” he says, each word emphasized and stressed with utmost gravity. She can feel his grip lessening, but she remains still, knowing full well that he could just as quickly snap her in two as he could relinquish his hold on her. “I’m going to let you go, and when I do, do not scream. It won’t take me but a second to snap your neck, and I can leave just as quickly, too. Nod if you understand.” She does, not wanting to scream either way. She came here for a reason, and she would see it through.
Nodding himself, he releases her and backs away, not so far that he couldn’t silence her should the need arise. A momentary pause fills the space between them, both attempting to discern what the other has planned. Eventually Remulo sighs, leaning against the wall and taking a minute to collect himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. She wasn’t going to cry for help. And she couldn’t harm him, even if she tried. Such vigilance would only serve to give him a headache...
“So, why are you following me?” He asks, his cold eyes piercing the top of her head. She refuses to look him in the eyes just yet, her courage mustering as she balls her fists while catching her breath. “It’s clear you know who I am, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken such care to try and tail me.”
“I do know who you are…” She says softly, looking into his eyes, a soft but emanating warmth staring firmly into his icy glare. “Remulo Bogs. Mr. 58.”
“Good, so you’re not stupid. So, you must know that it’s not a good idea to tail someone with a 58 headcount—”
“Please, listen to me!” She says, raising her voice slightly, looking away as she uses every ounce of her built up courage on that outburst. A chill runs down her back as she realizes what she’s done. She shuts her eyes against the forthcoming hand that would cut off her breath, waiting for the man to end her life in one simple motion. Would she make him Mr. 59? No…no. People like her don’t count as bodies...not to people like him.
“Fine.” He says, simply. She lifts her eyes, startled by the blandness behind his retort. Was he not insulted by her impetuousness? Did he not seek to curb her tongue? His eyes weren’t even trained on her any longer; he had averted them out of sheer boredom it seems, looking out to the light at the end of the alley to the world outside their dealings...
“What do you want?”
She struggles to think of any answer that could be satisfactory, not in the face of something as calculating as that. How were these deals even typically done? Do they shake hands? Do they present money up front…a picture? How does this even work?!
The best thing to do would be to just come outright with it. There was no sense in prolonging things any longer...
Taking a deep breath, she raises her head once more, brushing the strands of brown hair away and doing her best to keep her stomach down. “I…I want you to kill someone—”
“No.”
They were barely speaking above a whisper, but it almost seemed to reverberate around the very walls, the flat denial echoing in her ear and drilling itself into her brain. Her arms tremble, trepidation and indignation in battle as she considers whether she should just leave right now. Would he let her leave? Surely he must if he was so quick to refuse her...no. No! This wasn’t up for debate. She spent too long planning for this...lost too much...
“Please, I’ve-I’ve heard about your skills, I know you can help—”
“You can’t afford me.” He says once more, heaving sigh and folding his arms as a sign of firmness, like a parent reprimanding a child, something that sent a hot flash of resentment through her body. His eyes weren’t exactly cold now; she can almost see a slightly soft, but resolute will behind them, mocking her plight. “I don’t work for free. You must know that, and I doubt a 13 year old—”
“I’m 14!” She says, indignantly, garnering the strength to look back into his eyes to reaffirm the fact.
“Right. I doubt a 14 year old has the money to pay for what I can do.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, persisting, feeling that same heat of shame turning to bravery as she throws her weight against the indomitable wall that is Mr. 58. “I’m willing to pay everything I have for this, I’m good for it, you can’t just refuse—”
“No, you don’t understand. Everything you have isn’t enough-”
“You don’t know that!” She screams, and before she can push on, a gust whips her hair across her face as the man crosses 3 feet in a single step, hands twitching slightly as they circle mere centimeters from her gangly neck, almost begging to dig into her windpipe which threatened to draw unwanted attention from the world outside their dealings.
“Do not shout. I will give you one warning. That’s it.”
She nods again. Slowly, lips trembling and the breath caught in her throat as he pulls away, his intent ringing true just from the even nature of his voice. She could make only one more mistake. Anything after, and she would be dead.
“…You don’t know how much money I have…you can’t say for certainty whether it’s enough.”
“I can.”
His words pierce through, cutting her off as he looks back towards the streets of Loguetown and folds his arms once more. He needs a respite from this tired conversation, so he might as well end things here. “10,000 beli? Am I near the mark?”
She stiffens, mouth forming a thin line as she does her best not to tear away from his visage at the mere mention of so much money. The trembling of her fingers, however, betrays her.
“Even less? I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. But even so…my rate for a single death is 3,000,000 beli. And that’s if they’re without any sort of bounty or status.”
3…million? The staggering height of that number ultimately makes her lose the battle with her neck, eyes cast down as she contemplates what she could do with a sum that large...
“I’m willing to bet who you want dead is worth much more than that, as well. Am I correct?”
Again, no response as she fights back stinging tears from welling up in her eyes. Don’t you dare wipe them away, she thinks to herself, her throat closing up as her vision smears.
“So, once again, this is a waste of time. I apologize if those rates are high, but how much do you really think a human life is worth—”
“…Please stop…” she says, relenting and wiping at the tears streaming down her face, gagging on her own words while he dashes her hopes.
“I’m not much for tears, or sniveling. Like I said, a human life—”
“Please…their life…their life…their life was worth more than that...” she says, stumbling over herself now as her voice goes hoarse, her whole body racked with a terrible shaking as she falls to her knees. “Their life was worth much more…and I can’t…I can’t even pay for it…”
He’s caught off guard, never really expecting someone to show such vulnerability. Was this a negotiation tactic? Surely she didn’t think something like that would work on him...
She was mumbling somethingunder her breath, staring into the puddle of tears that was widespread enough to mirror her reflection, along with his own. A large, dark wall that seems to encapsulate her, consume her very being…
“…Who?” He says, voice lowering into a whisper himself as he lowers himself.
“sniff…M-my…my parents…my parents…” She says, Remulo immediately feeling a fool for not guessing so sooner. Of course it would be her parents; it was always parents. Sentimentality often takes control of rational thought, and it was enough to steel himself once again to her pitiful requests.
“I’m sorry, but I simply can’t—”
“It was all just cause they couldn’t p-pay for protection,” she continues on, ignoring his objections as the words begin to spill from her mouth, much like the tears from her eyes. She slides her back against the wall, taking a seat against the cooled concrete, exposing herself on an emotional level. “They come around for all the shopkeepers and merchants around here, make em pay—”
“I know how mobs work.” Truthfully he wasn’t that interested, but he could tell she wasn’t going to stop soon; the least he could do was try to skip the ancillary details.
“My parents couldn’t pay, and…and they burnt the shop down. They burnt the house down. And they kept coming b-back, acting like it wasn’t them. They said…they said they’d take me next.”
Remulo listens, his face looking intently at the girl, but his mind was already processing everything, understanding quite well who she was talking about…
“And my papa…my papa tried to…” She tries to continue, but her throat was catching again and all she could do was practically claw at it. She needed to say it, to make him understand, but the words kept spilling over each other, the memories bubbling to the surface like a great torrent of misery that threw her mind, and the more she pushed, the more they washed over and drowned her thoughts—
“That’s enough, that’s okay.” Remulo says, hardening his voice as if to silence an annoying rambling, but he simply didn’t wish to see the girl force herself under such pressure. “These people…they wouldn’t happen to be led by Don Dillamente?”
The girl looks up, her eyes glistening and her cheeks puffy as she wipes away at her nose once more, lost in his face as he looks to the opening at the end of the alley, a light that he was gazing towards, where the world away from this underbelly thrived. A world that paid no mind to the suffering of those unfit for it.
“Don Dillamente is a rather small member of the Atla family,” Remulo continues, watching the world pass by on the other side, unconcerned with the value of a human life and how quickly it can be negotiated. “However, killing someone like that is still enough to cause ripple effects. Something like that would fall into my higher price range of around 10, 000, 000 beli.” The words stab at the girl once again, causing her to whimper quietly and tug wordlessly at her sleeves. The world outside...a world like that has no concerns for someone like her. Someone who doesn’t have the same clout to pay for the value of someone’s life…
“But…”
She turns back, ears perking at the heightening of his voice. He continues to watch the people pass by, and she almost sees a level of contempt flash across his face for how no one even dared to look back here. No one dared to even glance at the world under their noses.
“Certain methods have their own prices. After all, the more I expose myself, the more I have to risk. I’d rather my bounty not rise too much; people associate a level of pride with it, but my job is much easier without the World Government looking for me. 4,000,000 beri is nothing to really glance at. I’d rather keep it that way.”
She wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but she manages to stop the flow of tears long enough to hear him out. From what he was describing…there was a catch…
“For someone like Don Dillamente, it’s not so much the World Government I’m concerned about. It’s who he’s associated with. I was a freelancer for the Atla family until only just today. The timing would be most suspect. I’m certain many would consider it a revenge killing, and It would paint a target on my back by the larger criminal underworld of the East Blue.I might have to flee for the Grand Line sooner than expected if that were the case. I wouldn’t be completely safe, but I’d be out of their immediate vicinity.”
The Grand Line? Was this Atla family really so spread out? She had never even heard of a family like that, but she knew just how untamed these waters could be…
“…M-mr. Remulo—”
“Don’t interrupt. Just listen. None of this has anything to do with you. So don’t worry about it. The client shouldn’t be concerned with the matters of who they hire.”
The voice was sharp, almost reprimanding, and immediately she knew to be quiet. After all, she could tell that the nature of their conversation was…different. They were negotiating. Discussing details.
Forming a contract.
“As it currently stands, you cannot afford the typical rate for a hired killing on a subject with no bounty, let alone one who is as high as Mr. Dillamente. You cannot afford an approach of subterfuge, and you cannot afford the “Berserker” rates: for those who want a lot of noise. These are off the table, so we won’t bother discussing them.
“However…there is another method…one that is considerably lower priced.” Her eyes widen as she listens, nails digging into her lap. Something considerably lower…that would still kill someone.
“Despite it being much lower in beli, it has a considerable price in one other regard,” he says, his voice slowing, placing due emphasis on each word. “It’s a price that depends on the person behind the contract. It depends on you.” She swallows once more, all manner of thoughts rushing through her head as she debates whether or not this truly was a good idea. Remulo Bogs…he wasn’t a traditional contract killer. It wasn’t just simple dealings and tasks he deals with…he makes a business…a technique…a profession out of the deaths of others. He steeps himself in the idea of how much a life is worth, something the world around him can’t possibly comprehend.
“It depends on whether or not you’re willing to accept that price. I will warn you now…it’s not something many people can pay. Do you see why the price is so low? It’s because it is the one that costs the most, depending on the person. And so while you have the beli to pay…can you afford the true cost?”
~ ~ ~
Don Dillamente, rosy cheeked and head swimming, steps away from his office at the publishing firm, freed from the shackles of poorly edited manuscripts and the predictable dregs of those that believe they understand the world at large. If there was one thing he hated, it was a would-be author that thinks they have it all figured out. A discernible glee could be charted with each rejection letter he sends out, with each slash of red ink that he drags across a page. He would even go so far as to burn drafts with the cigars he hides in his desk, chortling to himself as dreams and aspirations were reduced to no more than smoldering ash on his watch. It was the perfect cover job for someone like him; no matter where his attentions were lying, he always had his hand in someone else’s misery. With a puff from a freshly lit cigar, he savors the rich aroma and starts for his true job; one of the subsidary heads of the Atla Crime Family, the Dillamente gang...
“Ahhh…god, pain in my ass. Need a little relaxin’ at the real office...” he mutters, wobbling slightly on his crook feet as he turns down one of the many alleys that intersect onto Loguetown’s main plaza. Back alley passages and tunnels circle through the stopping place for many civillians, marines and pirates on their way to the grand line, making subterfuge all the more necessary for people like him. He makes his way down one particularly long alley, out of sight of the rest of the town as he begins the trek back to the world he’s all too acquainted to, steeping himself deeper and deeper. A world no one pays attention to.
“First thing is to slap some sense into Vinny, goddamn kid is burnin’ a hole in my wallet with all of these loud problems he’s causing around here. Bribes ain’t just a band-aid…eh?”
Dillamente stops, leaning against the wall not only to gather his breath (walks such as these were not meant for those that sucked so heavily on illegal cigars) but to garner a closer look at the other end of the alley. Standing, their back to the light of the plaza ahead, it was a figure most massive. Lanky of build, but with limbs that seem to stretch on and on as they rise to a pair of widespread shoulders. His dizzying state might have confused it for a goon if it wasn’t for the trademark mask…
“Oh geezus, Bogs, ya scared the crap out of me! Whattya want, I don’t got any work today! Go check with Atla, I’m sure he’s got another Fishman he’s eyeing…”
The figure doesn’t move as Dillamente speaks, the mobster himself moving towards him with a sense of calm while Remulo peeks out from the pits in his mask. Two eyes watching the mob boss’s every move…
“Oh thass right, ye got blacklisted! Hehehehe, guess that’s what happens when Atla keeps a rookie on. I tolds him, no I’m serious, I tolds him ‘that guy’s a no good bum, don’t even bother Atla!’ But does he lissen? Noooope! And now he’s down a head and yer outta work! Hehehehe, how do ya like that?!”
Dillamente shows no fear as he rebukes the image of hostility standing in front of him, going so far as to form a nasty smile as he reaches in his jacket. A moment later, a gun rests in his grasp, trained on Remulo.
“I’ll bet that burns ya, don’t it? Only thing yer good at, I reckon, is makin’ people suffer, and now ye can’t even do that! I’ll bet…I’ll bet you’d even want me to put ya out of your misery. Yer just a dog, after all, chasin’ bucks. Besides, it’d be a way for you to be useful.”
The outside world fades away as the two stare at each other, Dillamente mere feet away from Mr. 58, eyes glowering with some crazed lust for murder while Remulo simply stares back with two vacant holes devoid of anything approaching hatred or sympathy.
“So c’mon…jus’ make it easy. Be a good dog…roll over…”
“…Mr. Dillamente, I don’t think you understand what’s happening here,” Remulo says, almost confused at the perception of power on display. Was he truly that delusional...
“I understand plenty, ya here to beg for yer life and to work fer me!”
“…That…couldn’t be farther from the truth…”
It was here Dillamente’s eyes open in a brief moment of clarity, realizing just how dark the walls on either side of him were, almost as if he weren’t looking at walls at all…but rather deep chasms…
Hot breath rolls onto his face along with the slime of spittle. In a burst of what could only be survival instinct kicking in, the mobster backpedalsl, barely dodging a fist flying through in what surely would have been a blow to knock his head off.
Taking aim, the gangster fires three rounds, the sound echoing off of the narrow passageway as the slugs punch through the darkness towards their target....at least, they should have been. Remulo was nowhere to be seen, the man having escaped by way of the mouths that were planted on the walls.
“Remulo!” Dillamente shouts, casting his eye around, watching the two giant mouths on either side of him as he backs away slowly. “You think this’ll win you favor? Atla don’t like seeing members of his family killed! You know what that reflects? Weakness! He’ll hunt you down! Think about what you’re doing!”
He receives no answer, Dillamente casting his gaze around the darkened alley once more, eyes darting left and right to catch sight of his assailant. This…wasn’t ideal. Remulo Bogs…sure, he wasn’t a high ranker as far as assassins go, but that’s just because the guy didn’t know how to market himself. Dillamente knew as well as anyone that he had the skill to back himself up...
A dampness wells up in his socks, Dillamente cursing to himself as he lifts his leg up to get a good look. Damn puddles...now of all times was the last moment he had to worry about designer shoes being stained by such thick...viscous...rainwater...
He takes a second glance below, noting just how warm the puddle was, realizing all too late the telltale spring in his step. Something large, pink, and undulating lay below...a tongue, with the mouth it protrudes from grinning behind him. A moment later, another fist shoots forth and catches the gangster square in the gut, sending him flying towards the rooftops. As he soars, he tries to catch a glimpse around him, his vision blurred from the pain balled into his chest, when another hand shoots forth. Another mouth had been planted above, below the lip of the building’s roof, grasping the fattened bulge of his neck and squeezing.
Remulo himself slowly oozes from the hole, his arm extended outward and straightening as he continues to apply pressure, the gangster’s eyes bulging along with the fat from between the assassin’s fingers. His breath caught and becoming a series of short gasps, Dillamente tries to level his weapon, which miraculously had stayed in his grasp, at Mr. 58. Between a plummet back down and being strangled to death, the choice was clear. Of course, his trade for broken legs was taken from him as Remulo just as quickly shot another fist forward, breaking his fingers and throwing the gun back down to the alley floor below to clatter against the concrete.
Dillamente’s face turns purple, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he claws at Remulo’s hands, even managing to leave reddened streaks in his wake, but the assassin will not release. In fact, he only manages to squeeze tighter, Dillamente’s oxygen cut off completely as he squirms in place like a hunk of meat hooked to drain.
“Just to clarify, this has nothing to do with Mr. Atla excluding me from the family,” Remulo says, bringing his other hand to bare, holding it in front of Dillamente’s face. “I’d be a poor excuse for an assassin if I let such things get to me. This is just a simple contract. Nothing more. You understand, of course.” Was that…irony?! The gangster’s eyes roll in his sockets as he tosses even more violently, refusing to let his end come at the expense of a punchline! His ever darkening vision turns onto the assassin’s palm, noting the pair of lips that were slowly opening in its midst.
“Grrrk…w-waaaaaa—”
“Stop.” He says, bringing Dillamente closer to his hand, close enough that a tongue was able to snake out and lick at the gangster’s hooked nose. “I’m of my word. If the contract can be complete, I’ll complete it. No matter what it entails…”
Dillamente can feel a forlorn sense of regret…not that he couldn’t kill Remulo, but that he hadn’t just killed himself. What he was going through...a racking of his soul accompanied by the degradation of his body, his mind going blank as his brain starts to rot. This couldn’t be it…everything he worked for, accomplished…all coming crashing down just because of a simple agreement?!
“Look at me.”
What…what was that? That wasn’t Remulo. The hard, flinty voice of the assassin had been replaced by something else: something built on anger and pain. Remulo’s eyes are listless as he waits. Who else could be up here…
Dillamente’s eyes roll once more, the man summoning every ounce of remaining strength to look for the voice, searching around the rooftops before glancing back to his demise…and seeing something on the other side. The mouth was open, tongue lolling out to provide proper view of what awaited within the maw. All he could see was some broken-down room, moonlight beaming in and illuminating the cracked walls and dusted over upholstery. A kitchen that had seen better years, with a table on its last literal legs, serving one last occupant, their face hidden by the blanket of shadows offered outside of the moon overhead. The gun in their trembling hands, however, was all too clear as it punched through the veil of shadows, it’s gleaming barrel trained on the spot between his eyes. If he could focus, the distinct sheen of tears was visible…
“He will die in a few moments,” Remulo says simply, his grip only tightening further.
“I know!”
“You won’t be able to afford it if he does.”
“I KNOW!”
The voice on the other side of the hand breaks, body shaking as the sheen becomes a flowing trail, glowing beneath the glare of the moon. Pulling itself forward, the body breaks through the veil to look Dillamente in the eyes, to look the man that had taken so much from them into a world that they were never prepared for. A young woman peers out, but what stared back into him was not someone prepared for the worst....it was someone that didn’t know how they could continue...
“…I thought…I thought I’d be strong enough…I thought if he were here, it’d be easier, but…but it’s so hard. It’s so hard Mr. Bogs…I just…I just…”
The words were lost as her body shakes once more, the woman laying the gun down flat on the table and burying her head into the safety of her own hands. She couldn’t keep looking into those bulging, reddened eyes anymore...even if it was his death, it wasn’t any easier...
“….It’s never easy.” The voice gives pause to her trembling, her whimpers subsiding as Remulo interjects once more, though without the grit of the trained assassin and dealer in human life. Now, it was that same, underlying softness she heard before...the voice of someone willing to look into the difficulty of it. The pain that comes from having never stolen a life. “The first time, that is. That’s why it’s such a high price to pay. Because you never get that moment back.” The girl stops shaking, looking down at the table…Dillamente feels a cold chill of relief sitting in his gut…
“You can never return to the moment where it would be hard to take someone’s life. It’ll only become easier each time you do it.” That was it, wasn’t it? She didn’t want it to be easy...and he knew how easy it could be. How quickly she could fall...no, she didn’t want that. She could get vengeance now, but where would it leave her...
“But,” he continues, searching inward with each passing moment, knowing that the window for a choice was steadily leaving them both as Dillamente slipped further and further away from consciousness, “that doesn’t mean you have to test how easy it is. Several people will tell you otherwise…but you don’t have to keep going. You can stop at just one. But for this…you have to pay the price.”
Dillamente’s ears were starting to lose their hearing, Remulo’s words fading into nothing as his eyesight was following suit. This was really it…this was the end. He has no idea who this girl is, what the hell they’re talking about prices…but he knows deep down that this is in fact the last thing he’ll ever see.
The girl raises her head, looking back into his eyes, and his struggling stops. Her eyes…there was nothing in them. No fear. No pain. Her tears had dried as she levels the gun, taking aim right between his own eyes, which had long since gone bloodshot. She took aim…
And she fired.
~ ~ ~
News had spread all over Loguetown about the mysterious shooting; according to numerous cases of people with “inside knowledge,” it was nothing more than a stick up by some crazed robber. It was as if Dillamente, one of the major chess pieces of Mr. Atla’s crime family, had no more importance than that of anyone else not affiliated with that seedy underbelly. As if Dillamente was just a human life that could be wagered and sold for the right price. It was the talk of the town, and citizens of Loguetown had no idea what to make of the news. If anything, it provides the perfect cover for Remulo as he sits at one of the many café tables with Reina, biting languidly into a sandwich as the girl drinks from a cup of tea, counting out some beli on the table.
“And…6,000. There. That’s all I have.”
Remulo’s hand slides forward, counting the money a second time before nodding his approval, pocketing it and looking away, casting his glance towards the docks.
“And with that, the contract is complete. I wish you well, Reina, in whatever you do.”
“…thank you Mr. Bogs…I…I’m very grateful that—”
“None of that is necessary. It’s a job I fulfilled, it’s what I do.”
“What will you do now, though? Sure, no one suspects you, but you said Mr. Atla…”
Remulo’s lips purse up as he takes another bite of his sandwich, looking around the town marketplace. He didn’t see any of Atla’s mercs or family members…which didn’t necessarily mean much, but it at least gave him a clear view of the civilian ship that was soon leaving.
“I’m going to head for the West Blue, set up some freelance work. It’s about time I started taking this career seriously…” he says, sipping from his cup of tea, draining it in one gulp. Reina’s eyes follow his own, almost lost.
“I see…”
“It’d be more interesting to hear about what you plan to do. You’re practically out of funds.”
“Yeah…but, somehow, it doesn’t feel so hopeless. I mean…I feel safer. I feel more vindicated…”
“I wouldn’t get to attached to that,” Remulo says, taking another sip before taking a look at a nearby clock. It was almost time for the civilian ship to depart.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he continues, rising up and dusting his suit off before buttoning up, “you shouldn’t become attached to those feelings. You might start to think that’s the only means of feeling that way.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true.” Reina says, now earning Remulo’s gaze as she gets up herself, smoothing out her shirt. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done…the hardest thing I imagine I’ll ever do. And yeah, I’m sure it would get easier…but I don’t think I could ever get over how hard it was the first time. I just…I don’t think I can be like you, Mr. Bogs.”
Their eyes lock, a pool of brown mingling with grey as they each understand the crossroads being laid out between them. The point where they both realize one truth: they’d never see each other ever again.
“I don’t think many people can be like you…”
“…No. No, I guess they can’t.”
“…Are you mad?”
“No. It’s probably better that way.”
The crowd picks up once more as another lunch rush starts, Reina being pushed away as bodies start packing into the café area. With one last glimpse, she sees a tuft of scarlet hair walking off, and she can’t help but smile to herself. They might never see each other again…but she’d always be grateful for that man that visited her world in the shadows to pull her out.
Truly, there was no risk should the client see his face; Remulo’s past was barely worth knowing to begin with and he had no one truly close to him that could be used against him. The only real advantage one could obtain would be to turn him in to the proper authorities, but even then the amount was so paltry that it would hardly be worth the effort. The actual price tag on his head garnered a fair bit of ridicule, but Remulo had always taken special care to never let it grow too high. The power of a bounty was one that was often overlooked; for Remulo, it was better to be a blip on the radar of the World Government than to be playing in the constant game of cat and mouse found in the Grand Line and the New World. Let the Harley Riots and the Slayers enjoy their popularity; it only makes work much easier for him.
Regardless, he decides to bear through the sweltering heat and perspiration that even know presses his thick, scarlet hair to the base of his scalp. No matter how uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the calm of keeping his face unreadable.
A door swings open on the other side of the waiting room, creaking loudly on its worn hinges as a woman, decked in a full pinstripe suit, steps through to join him. With a long, thin cigarette held daintily in her gloved hands, she adds to the already suffocating waiting room with a puff of thickly veiling smoke. The shade from her wide brimmed hat, along with the darkened lenses of her sunglasses, left her visage just as cloaked as his in the smoke, save for one key feature: a pair of ruby red lips with the hint of a smirk.
“Mr. Atla will see you now. Hope the wait wasn’t too long,” she says lightly, almost chuckling as her drawl hangs on each word, almost as if to enunciate how long he’s actually been kept waiting. Remulo had been waiting for 2 hours, in fact, but he hadn’t minded. He knew this was a ploy of dominance from Mr. Atla; his reputation for such displays were well-known and documented. He had even considered letting the contract go, but he had worked with Mr. Atla for far too long; it would do well to play nice with him, as transgressions could impede future work considerably.
“It’s no trouble. Thank you.”
Equally as cooly, Remulo brushes past her, leaving the woman in pinstripes smiling as she pulls her shades down. Blue eyes, crystalline in their vibrance, follow after him. With a small chuckle, she closes the door after him, closing him off from the world outside of the dark business ventures that see human life given a paltry price.
Remulo walks along a tight corridor, walls continually pushing in around him, constricting and trapping him within the slowly encroaching stench stench of decay. He keeps his eyes trained on the door ahead, the ticket out of the ever tightening space and the stranglehold on his senses, but the walls begin to show him the fruits of his own labor. The results of his own treks on the whim of Mr. Atla, as if to remind him of his heinous deeds in the name of blood money profit. Remulo’s eyes hang on each trophy before him, unable to muster said guilt. Though a twinge of disgust still lights on his tongue as he looks at the display that fills his central and peripheral view:
Fishman heads.
Faces twisted into expressions of mutilated agony stare back at the one that delivered them to such a fate. Fishman from all over the blues; Remulo hadn’t brought them all, but he can’t escape the truth that he was responsible for a majority.
Some of the shark Fishmen had their teeth pulled out, their biology leaving them toothless while their collector no doubt held the pearly jaws in a separate collection for appraisal and profit. Their scaly hides glisten under the dim lighting from above, shining not from the waters of their home, the great blue sea, but from the preservation and fresh paint splashed upon their bodies, meant to keep their “brilliance” intact. As he gazes upon them, he sees not the eyes of the proud warriors that he engaged with, but the glass replacements of those unfortunate enough to have lost. Remulo didn’t feel any sort of resentment or disgust; after all, there was no particular attachment to Fishmen as a concept. He wasn’t one to judge what his clients liked to get up to. As long as they could offer the money for such services, it wasn’t his place to judge how he was used.
Remulo finally reaches the end of the long, tube-like hallway filled with his “victories,” turning the knob and walking through into a further extension of the opulence of one Mr. Atla: a rather large office space, one with a full view of the town square of Loguetown. Globes sit in nearly every corner, with charts and markings of trade routes and further territories owned by extensions of the Atla family. Cabinets of antiques and treasured loot from across the Blues and Grand Line stand on display, with the odd fruit every now and then; seems like the rumors were true. The bay windows behind the large oak desk even offer a front row seat to the sight of the legendary execution grounds, where the former Pirate King had met his end.
“Have a seat, Mr. 58. I’ve been eagerly anticipating your arrival.” A voice calls from behind the large, leather-bound chair seated at the front, the back turned to the occupant’s esteemed guest and facing the streets of Loguetown. Smoke wafts from the concealed mouth sitting behind it, the voice itself even thicker than the incubating heat of the “waiting room.”
Pulling out one of the guest chairs, Remulo takes his own velvet cushioned seat, arms folded in his lap as he awaits to speak in return. There were certain precautions one had to take around Mr. Atla. NEVER speak out of turn unless directed to do so. Mr. Atla has a pet peeve for being talked over, so much so that Remulo got a first-hand look at this peeve in action the first time he had met his esteemed client. The former had shot one of his underlings 12 times in the back, shattering his spine and ensuring he would never walk again. The crime? Agreeing with Mr. Atla before he was “allowed” to do so.
“So, how’d it go? You have a safe trip, my friend? Good travels? I tried to have my men provide you only the best of comfort as you sailed to Goa. No expense was spared, I assure you.”
Remulo waits a brief moment to ensure it was his turn to speak, unzipping his mouth piece and clearing his throat to signal.
“Yes. Very comfortable. Thank you.”
“Good…that’s good. I try to take care of who works for me; a happy worker is a productive worker, wouldn’t you agree?”
Remulo waits once more, daring not even to breathe too loudly as he counts out the seconds in his head to make sure he took no longer and no less time than before.
“It provides a sense of importance to the task at hand.”
“Ooooh...I like that. ‘A sense of importance.’ It does, doesn’t it?” With each word, clouds of smoke balloon out from behind the chair, wafting like sluggish, grey clouds towards the ceiling, only to rest once more amidst Remulo’s already burning nostrils. “And this was a very important task, my friend. Very important. So, this is why I’m perplexed. Help me out with this one: I send you out with the finest sailing someone in this business can afford. Again, like I said, I spared no expense. I offer nothing but the most pertinent and detailed of information; weeks upon weeks of documentation and studying of Marine ships to try and tackle this Fishface. I help you to track down Buckethead or whatever the hell his name is, triangulating where he might strike next to give you the easiest opportunity of capture and securing. I’ve been pretty damn generous, wouldn’t you say?”
It was a leading question, this much he knew. But Remulo didn’t stay productive in this field by acknowledging the micro-displays of power people like Mr. Atla tried to demonstrate. The easiest means by which to get by was to play along with them.
“Yes, Mr. Atla.”
“Well, then you can understand why I’m confused because I see you back, alive and well thanks to me....but no Fish head. You better have it shoved up your ass, ‘cause I’ve been told twice by my associates that you do not have anything with you. Nothing in a satchel, nothing in your pockets or coat. The only logical explanation outside of your mouths would be in your ass. So, do you need to bend over?”
Remulo watches the chair, hoping to catch some brief glimpses of movement that could help him establish Mr. Atla’s state of mind and adjust accordingly. The chair, however, moves barely an inch through the semi-tirade, with the only betrayal that the mob boss was present was the shifting of his arms to puff on his cigar. No change strength, no facial twitch to read. Remulo was left powerless by his very own tactic.
“I do not, no.”
The air grows heavier, smoke seeping evermore under his mask and clogging up passageways, as if Atla was pressing the man further through his bad habits. Remulo could feel the ash mixing with the sweat beading on his forehead, smearing across and giving him a mask made entirely of his own trepidation.
“I see. So, please correct me if I’m wrong, but we did indeed sign a contract for your capture of this Fishman, correct?”
Remulo had much to explain, but he realizes enough of previous dealings to simply follow the client’s lead. At this point, they were never interested in the specifics; only the results.
“Yes.”
“And yet, you do not have a Nautilus Fishman head. Would you like to explain to me what the hell you’re doing showing your face here?”
“I came to return the contract in question,” Remulo says, pulling a scrap of paper along with the slightly worn wanted poster for Bukbuk the Bucket. The rustling of the papers keeps Remulo tethered to the illusion of strength, but he could have sworn that he saw the chair shiver before it was still once more. His fingers fidget, struggling against the instinct that attempts to wrestle full control of his motor skills in its attempt for survival. Kill. Kill. Kill him now.
“Return your contract, eh?” Mr. Atla says, his chair rocking back and forth, horizontally, as he mulls over Remulo’s words.
“That’s right. I failed, and I don’t suspect I’ll be able to complete my end of the transaction at this point of time. Bukbuk the Bucket is far too powerful and has accomplished techniques thought impossible to me. You would be better off finding someone stronger. In that sense, I express my deepest apologies.”
Silence consumes and deafens Remulo’s hearing as he keeps his ears perked for any disturbance that might alert him to Atla’s intentions. It seems almost like hours wasting away as he waits, though it was mere seconds that pound against his chest with every passing tick from the mounted clock above.
Finally, a sigh heaves from behind the leatherback chair.
“You’re a weird one, you know that? I’ve had hitman and contract killers try to trick me by killing someone else or just straight up dodge me rather than just come back and tell me that they can’t do the job. ‘Course, I’m grateful, because tracking those guys down and slitting their throats is a real pain. I appreciate you not making me go through that hassle.”
“I guarantee you, slitting mine right now would be an even greater one.”
Another pause. Both client and assassin’s breath keeps held as they size the other, attempting to see who might fold first. In a sign of concession, the man behind the chair sighs as he turns to face his guest. Mr. Atla is not one to show his face often; in fact, he considers it a matter of prestige for anyone to see it. Remulo would consider it an honor were he not consistently keeping his senses sharpened for the slightest betrayal of the mob boss’s true intentions.
He was a short man. Stocky of build, but where most people could tower over him, Mr. Atla could certainly rival their widths. His shoulders were quite broad and his neck thick with coiled muscles underneath. A mole rests on his right cheek, a single blot on the alabaster, sallow skin. Jowls quiver as he pulls his cigar away from wormy lips, blowing a ring of smoke in Remulo’s direction and lighting his nose once more with ash. Thick sunglasses cover his eyes, their exact purpose a bit mysterious, but Remulo can only chalk it up to wanting to keep his power through hiding any and all intent. Besides that, he wore a form fitting pin-stripe suit (perhaps ‘a little too form fitting’ would be more apt here) along with a thick fur coat thrown over his shoulders, adorned with an assortment of gold chains and pocket watches.
“You really think I can’t kill you?” He says, pressing the subject further as he likewise leans in, no doubt attempting to ascertain any notable twitch in Remulo’s eyes. The assassin remains tight lipped, staring back without so much as a straightening of posture as he hides the real answer within his mind: No.
“It would be very difficult. That’s all I meant.” Remulo states again, simply, not wanting to set off any impromptu fury, even knowing full well even such an innocent answer could be likely to do so. A slight chuckle from behind Remulo breaks through his concentration, however, the assassin jerking his shoulders slightly as he turns to look. The woman from outside saunters into view, her arms draping the back of his chair, her ruby lips pulling up in a soft smile as she pulls another drag from her cigarette. She came in without a sound; he would have to keep note of that.
“I’m not so sure,” Mr. Atla continues, leaning back in his chair and motioning for the woman to move away. His point having been made, she simply shrugs and walks towards one of the many globes, tracing the fine markings with a single indent finger as the boss continues.
“But, being as it is, you have been quite a bit of help to me in the past, there’s no denying that. Wouldn’t have gotten that Angler Fishwoman head if not for you. So, it wouldn’t feel right killin’ ya. Call it a gesture from my bleeding heart.
“However, I can’t let this pass either,” He says, punctuating this with a pointed jab at the documents Remulo had set before him. “I’m afraid any and all business endeavors between us are over. If you ain’t strong enough for this, I doubt you’re strong enough for whatever else I got for you. So hit the road. You’re done. Consider this lucky.”
The words didn’t exactly cut at his feelings; just his pride, but he could accept such an outcome if it meant he could still draw breath. Remulo curtly nods to the resolution, making his way for the exit, all too aware of the woman’s eyes tracing his every movement. She seems to have a great deal of pleasure in watching Remulo being forced to retreat back like a dog…
` ` `
The trip back outside was not nearly as painstaking. The second he was exposed to fresh air, Remulo made sure to take a long draw of it. Freedom in the most minor of senses; it was enough to embolden him, but only for a moment. After all, things just became complicated.
He wasn’t exactly penniless, but this blow to his reputation would make finding work considerably difficult. Mr. Atla was a heavy influence in the criminal underworld; his personal network currently only extended into the East Blue, but there were so many branches in the larger world he had a hand in. So much so that pirates and marines alike were well-versed with his name, with many seeking him out for the services he could provide. Business loans, artifacts, treasure maps; whispers were abound about his small Devil Fruit trading pipeline, though the means of confirming such a thing would be next to impossible if you were not part of his family.
Mr. Atla had a number of clients that came to him with assassination contracts, and it had been steady work for a fledgling Remulo. His own demand even picked up once Mr. Atla started advertising his Devil Fruit ability (thankfully he hadn’t received it from his trade line, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to walk away quite so easily.) He owed much of his success to Mr. Atla, but he came with his own…eccentricities. The Fishmen heads were only one of several depraved “personal ventures” that he forced his employees into carrying out; Remulo was well-versed in a number of Fishman species from these tasks alone. No one quite knows why he likes to collect them and no one dared to learn. It was much easier to keep your nose down, after all. Remulo had no sights on moving up the ranks of Mr. Atla’s ladder; it was just a network to receive jobs, really, but he hadn’t stopped to consider just where he would be without that network. Going freelance would be tough, especially if he had to compete with Mr. Atla himself. It seems like he would have to try and build his name up alone somehow. Whether that meant bigger targets or simply having to resort to pirating himself, he would have to consider. He had enjoyed his relatively small bounty, as it kept him out of trouble with the World Government and often had targets underestimate him, making his job easier. Still, this recent setback meant that such luxuries likely wouldn’t allow him to eat anymore...
Walking alongside the restaurant faces, Remulo waits in line to order from a French-style café, staring at the menu and cringing a bit at the exorbitant prices. Normally not an issue, he now couldn’t help but sigh in relief at seeing a more...affordable option. After all, he could use something greasy to distract from the taste of complete and abject aimlessness.
However, even in the midst of trying to take a simple breather, he couldn't switch off the senses that hounded him so. He was being watched. Without even a turn of his head, his eyes scan the plaza, taking note of the crowd passing by. Everything seemed in order...exactly what a stalker would want him to believe...
In the periphery of his vision, he spots a flash. It was for just a brief moment, but he caught it. Wide. Bright. Blue. Crystalline eyes, likely of a child, practically flashing at him from behind the swaths of cloth and the bustle of boots as people passed in front of them. They looked...frightened. Child of a former target? It’d be a pain to deal with, especially as a reminder of what funds he would soon be lacking in. However, this wasn’t something to worry about, at least not at this current juncture. If they were to make a move, he would just have to deal with it, simple as that...hopefully. At any rate, fried meat was calling his name…
That’s him. I know it. Sure, he doesn’t have that weird mask on, but it’s the same shoulders, the same lanky build. That’s Mr. 58. Remulo Bogs. The assassin for hire...
I can’t trust anyone else to do the job…that bastard would just pay them off. He’s the only one that’ll stick to it, I know it. Just gotta work up the nerve to ask...just gotta wait until he’s alone...
2 Hours Later…
This was starting to get annoying. No matter where he turned, no matter where he ducked, those fleeting eyes were on his tail watching his every move. They followed him everywhere; into the clothing markets, the grocer stands, the general stores. He could swear they even watched him in the bathroom, which even he would never stalk into. Some things had to be sacred...
At this rate, he wasn’t going to be able to slink away. He had to nip this problem in the bud before he sailed off; the longer he stayed in Loguetown, the more he was getting the suspicion Mr. Atla would arrange for his stay to be permanent.
So, when the crowd was riling up at the height of noon, he made his move. Shifting from one stream to the other, Remulo made quick on his footwork and dove into one of the darkened alleyways along the city streets, hoping to put some distance between his would be stalker. And the docks. The farther he could separate them, the harder it’d be to trace anything to him...
The young girl had done well to keep her distance, always sure to have a quick escape should the assassin’s gaze fall anywhere near her. She was certain that he would catch in the bathroom, but luckily she had maintained her cool (as well as cover her eyes. Some places had to be sacred.) However, she didn’t expect the quick escape by him, the man quickly ducking away and leaving her frozen in shock, a few denizens bumping into her and exchanging some angry glares. Collecting herself, she runs forward, forgoing her carefully laid plan to stand before the mouth of the alley, only to be met with the obscuring shadows within. Remulo was nowhere to be seen!
Impossible! She thought, looking about while taking a few tentative steps into the shaded path, placing her hands against the walls for any sign of trickery or escape. He dove in only a few moments ago! There’s no way he could’ve gotten away! He has to be hiding, he has to be…
Yesterday’s rain left a sheen along the brick walls, the young girl sliding her palm across them as she searches through the penumbran dusk within. How could he have disappeared so quickly? The question hangs poignantly on her thoughts, her hand continuing to trail along the stone, collecting nearly a puddle of moisture along her fingers...sticky moisture...
Before she could take the time to investigate, a thin hand reaches around her cheek and clasps itself around her mouth, stifling the scream that was just about to belt out. Another snakes around her shoulders, squeezing tightly, constricting her movements and leaving her as little more than a rag doll. Still, she wasn’t one to give up, and still squirmed within the vise like grip before a hushed voice tickles her ear. Her heart beats against her chest, blood gushes through her veins and the noise of it all stifles her ears so much that she almost misses the very grave warning that the corpse-like voice gives her:
“You shouldn’t follow dangerous people.”
Remulo’s fingers dig into the sides of her cheeks, claws plying into the soft skin and certain to leave a mark should he choose not to be careful. She muffles out a reply, strained by the sensation of her own mouth being ripped away as well as the steady pressure being applied to her ribs.
“I’d stop writhing if I were you. One small squeeze and I could break several of your ribs.” She freezes, realizing how close to the truth this was as the pain seeps deeper and deeper into her bones, tension being applied steadily in case he needed to break something. She steadies her breathing to comply with his wishes, a small whimper being muffled by his hand as she can hear the slight creaking emanating from her ribcage.
“Now, I’m going to let you go,” he says, each word emphasized and stressed with utmost gravity. She can feel his grip lessening, but she remains still, knowing full well that he could just as quickly snap her in two as he could relinquish his hold on her. “I’m going to let you go, and when I do, do not scream. It won’t take me but a second to snap your neck, and I can leave just as quickly, too. Nod if you understand.” She does, not wanting to scream either way. She came here for a reason, and she would see it through.
Nodding himself, he releases her and backs away, not so far that he couldn’t silence her should the need arise. A momentary pause fills the space between them, both attempting to discern what the other has planned. Eventually Remulo sighs, leaning against the wall and taking a minute to collect himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. She wasn’t going to cry for help. And she couldn’t harm him, even if she tried. Such vigilance would only serve to give him a headache...
“So, why are you following me?” He asks, his cold eyes piercing the top of her head. She refuses to look him in the eyes just yet, her courage mustering as she balls her fists while catching her breath. “It’s clear you know who I am, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken such care to try and tail me.”
“I do know who you are…” She says softly, looking into his eyes, a soft but emanating warmth staring firmly into his icy glare. “Remulo Bogs. Mr. 58.”
“Good, so you’re not stupid. So, you must know that it’s not a good idea to tail someone with a 58 headcount—”
“Please, listen to me!” She says, raising her voice slightly, looking away as she uses every ounce of her built up courage on that outburst. A chill runs down her back as she realizes what she’s done. She shuts her eyes against the forthcoming hand that would cut off her breath, waiting for the man to end her life in one simple motion. Would she make him Mr. 59? No…no. People like her don’t count as bodies...not to people like him.
“Fine.” He says, simply. She lifts her eyes, startled by the blandness behind his retort. Was he not insulted by her impetuousness? Did he not seek to curb her tongue? His eyes weren’t even trained on her any longer; he had averted them out of sheer boredom it seems, looking out to the light at the end of the alley to the world outside their dealings...
“What do you want?”
She struggles to think of any answer that could be satisfactory, not in the face of something as calculating as that. How were these deals even typically done? Do they shake hands? Do they present money up front…a picture? How does this even work?!
The best thing to do would be to just come outright with it. There was no sense in prolonging things any longer...
Taking a deep breath, she raises her head once more, brushing the strands of brown hair away and doing her best to keep her stomach down. “I…I want you to kill someone—”
“No.”
They were barely speaking above a whisper, but it almost seemed to reverberate around the very walls, the flat denial echoing in her ear and drilling itself into her brain. Her arms tremble, trepidation and indignation in battle as she considers whether she should just leave right now. Would he let her leave? Surely he must if he was so quick to refuse her...no. No! This wasn’t up for debate. She spent too long planning for this...lost too much...
“Please, I’ve-I’ve heard about your skills, I know you can help—”
“You can’t afford me.” He says once more, heaving sigh and folding his arms as a sign of firmness, like a parent reprimanding a child, something that sent a hot flash of resentment through her body. His eyes weren’t exactly cold now; she can almost see a slightly soft, but resolute will behind them, mocking her plight. “I don’t work for free. You must know that, and I doubt a 13 year old—”
“I’m 14!” She says, indignantly, garnering the strength to look back into his eyes to reaffirm the fact.
“Right. I doubt a 14 year old has the money to pay for what I can do.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, persisting, feeling that same heat of shame turning to bravery as she throws her weight against the indomitable wall that is Mr. 58. “I’m willing to pay everything I have for this, I’m good for it, you can’t just refuse—”
“No, you don’t understand. Everything you have isn’t enough-”
“You don’t know that!” She screams, and before she can push on, a gust whips her hair across her face as the man crosses 3 feet in a single step, hands twitching slightly as they circle mere centimeters from her gangly neck, almost begging to dig into her windpipe which threatened to draw unwanted attention from the world outside their dealings.
“Do not shout. I will give you one warning. That’s it.”
She nods again. Slowly, lips trembling and the breath caught in her throat as he pulls away, his intent ringing true just from the even nature of his voice. She could make only one more mistake. Anything after, and she would be dead.
“…You don’t know how much money I have…you can’t say for certainty whether it’s enough.”
“I can.”
His words pierce through, cutting her off as he looks back towards the streets of Loguetown and folds his arms once more. He needs a respite from this tired conversation, so he might as well end things here. “10,000 beli? Am I near the mark?”
She stiffens, mouth forming a thin line as she does her best not to tear away from his visage at the mere mention of so much money. The trembling of her fingers, however, betrays her.
“Even less? I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. But even so…my rate for a single death is 3,000,000 beli. And that’s if they’re without any sort of bounty or status.”
3…million? The staggering height of that number ultimately makes her lose the battle with her neck, eyes cast down as she contemplates what she could do with a sum that large...
“I’m willing to bet who you want dead is worth much more than that, as well. Am I correct?”
Again, no response as she fights back stinging tears from welling up in her eyes. Don’t you dare wipe them away, she thinks to herself, her throat closing up as her vision smears.
“So, once again, this is a waste of time. I apologize if those rates are high, but how much do you really think a human life is worth—”
“…Please stop…” she says, relenting and wiping at the tears streaming down her face, gagging on her own words while he dashes her hopes.
“I’m not much for tears, or sniveling. Like I said, a human life—”
“Please…their life…their life…their life was worth more than that...” she says, stumbling over herself now as her voice goes hoarse, her whole body racked with a terrible shaking as she falls to her knees. “Their life was worth much more…and I can’t…I can’t even pay for it…”
He’s caught off guard, never really expecting someone to show such vulnerability. Was this a negotiation tactic? Surely she didn’t think something like that would work on him...
She was mumbling somethingunder her breath, staring into the puddle of tears that was widespread enough to mirror her reflection, along with his own. A large, dark wall that seems to encapsulate her, consume her very being…
“…Who?” He says, voice lowering into a whisper himself as he lowers himself.
“sniff…M-my…my parents…my parents…” She says, Remulo immediately feeling a fool for not guessing so sooner. Of course it would be her parents; it was always parents. Sentimentality often takes control of rational thought, and it was enough to steel himself once again to her pitiful requests.
“I’m sorry, but I simply can’t—”
“It was all just cause they couldn’t p-pay for protection,” she continues on, ignoring his objections as the words begin to spill from her mouth, much like the tears from her eyes. She slides her back against the wall, taking a seat against the cooled concrete, exposing herself on an emotional level. “They come around for all the shopkeepers and merchants around here, make em pay—”
“I know how mobs work.” Truthfully he wasn’t that interested, but he could tell she wasn’t going to stop soon; the least he could do was try to skip the ancillary details.
“My parents couldn’t pay, and…and they burnt the shop down. They burnt the house down. And they kept coming b-back, acting like it wasn’t them. They said…they said they’d take me next.”
Remulo listens, his face looking intently at the girl, but his mind was already processing everything, understanding quite well who she was talking about…
“And my papa…my papa tried to…” She tries to continue, but her throat was catching again and all she could do was practically claw at it. She needed to say it, to make him understand, but the words kept spilling over each other, the memories bubbling to the surface like a great torrent of misery that threw her mind, and the more she pushed, the more they washed over and drowned her thoughts—
“That’s enough, that’s okay.” Remulo says, hardening his voice as if to silence an annoying rambling, but he simply didn’t wish to see the girl force herself under such pressure. “These people…they wouldn’t happen to be led by Don Dillamente?”
The girl looks up, her eyes glistening and her cheeks puffy as she wipes away at her nose once more, lost in his face as he looks to the opening at the end of the alley, a light that he was gazing towards, where the world away from this underbelly thrived. A world that paid no mind to the suffering of those unfit for it.
“Don Dillamente is a rather small member of the Atla family,” Remulo continues, watching the world pass by on the other side, unconcerned with the value of a human life and how quickly it can be negotiated. “However, killing someone like that is still enough to cause ripple effects. Something like that would fall into my higher price range of around 10, 000, 000 beli.” The words stab at the girl once again, causing her to whimper quietly and tug wordlessly at her sleeves. The world outside...a world like that has no concerns for someone like her. Someone who doesn’t have the same clout to pay for the value of someone’s life…
“But…”
She turns back, ears perking at the heightening of his voice. He continues to watch the people pass by, and she almost sees a level of contempt flash across his face for how no one even dared to look back here. No one dared to even glance at the world under their noses.
“Certain methods have their own prices. After all, the more I expose myself, the more I have to risk. I’d rather my bounty not rise too much; people associate a level of pride with it, but my job is much easier without the World Government looking for me. 4,000,000 beri is nothing to really glance at. I’d rather keep it that way.”
She wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but she manages to stop the flow of tears long enough to hear him out. From what he was describing…there was a catch…
“For someone like Don Dillamente, it’s not so much the World Government I’m concerned about. It’s who he’s associated with. I was a freelancer for the Atla family until only just today. The timing would be most suspect. I’m certain many would consider it a revenge killing, and It would paint a target on my back by the larger criminal underworld of the East Blue.I might have to flee for the Grand Line sooner than expected if that were the case. I wouldn’t be completely safe, but I’d be out of their immediate vicinity.”
The Grand Line? Was this Atla family really so spread out? She had never even heard of a family like that, but she knew just how untamed these waters could be…
“…M-mr. Remulo—”
“Don’t interrupt. Just listen. None of this has anything to do with you. So don’t worry about it. The client shouldn’t be concerned with the matters of who they hire.”
The voice was sharp, almost reprimanding, and immediately she knew to be quiet. After all, she could tell that the nature of their conversation was…different. They were negotiating. Discussing details.
Forming a contract.
“As it currently stands, you cannot afford the typical rate for a hired killing on a subject with no bounty, let alone one who is as high as Mr. Dillamente. You cannot afford an approach of subterfuge, and you cannot afford the “Berserker” rates: for those who want a lot of noise. These are off the table, so we won’t bother discussing them.
“However…there is another method…one that is considerably lower priced.” Her eyes widen as she listens, nails digging into her lap. Something considerably lower…that would still kill someone.
“Despite it being much lower in beli, it has a considerable price in one other regard,” he says, his voice slowing, placing due emphasis on each word. “It’s a price that depends on the person behind the contract. It depends on you.” She swallows once more, all manner of thoughts rushing through her head as she debates whether or not this truly was a good idea. Remulo Bogs…he wasn’t a traditional contract killer. It wasn’t just simple dealings and tasks he deals with…he makes a business…a technique…a profession out of the deaths of others. He steeps himself in the idea of how much a life is worth, something the world around him can’t possibly comprehend.
“It depends on whether or not you’re willing to accept that price. I will warn you now…it’s not something many people can pay. Do you see why the price is so low? It’s because it is the one that costs the most, depending on the person. And so while you have the beli to pay…can you afford the true cost?”
~ ~ ~
Don Dillamente, rosy cheeked and head swimming, steps away from his office at the publishing firm, freed from the shackles of poorly edited manuscripts and the predictable dregs of those that believe they understand the world at large. If there was one thing he hated, it was a would-be author that thinks they have it all figured out. A discernible glee could be charted with each rejection letter he sends out, with each slash of red ink that he drags across a page. He would even go so far as to burn drafts with the cigars he hides in his desk, chortling to himself as dreams and aspirations were reduced to no more than smoldering ash on his watch. It was the perfect cover job for someone like him; no matter where his attentions were lying, he always had his hand in someone else’s misery. With a puff from a freshly lit cigar, he savors the rich aroma and starts for his true job; one of the subsidary heads of the Atla Crime Family, the Dillamente gang...
“Ahhh…god, pain in my ass. Need a little relaxin’ at the real office...” he mutters, wobbling slightly on his crook feet as he turns down one of the many alleys that intersect onto Loguetown’s main plaza. Back alley passages and tunnels circle through the stopping place for many civillians, marines and pirates on their way to the grand line, making subterfuge all the more necessary for people like him. He makes his way down one particularly long alley, out of sight of the rest of the town as he begins the trek back to the world he’s all too acquainted to, steeping himself deeper and deeper. A world no one pays attention to.
“First thing is to slap some sense into Vinny, goddamn kid is burnin’ a hole in my wallet with all of these loud problems he’s causing around here. Bribes ain’t just a band-aid…eh?”
Dillamente stops, leaning against the wall not only to gather his breath (walks such as these were not meant for those that sucked so heavily on illegal cigars) but to garner a closer look at the other end of the alley. Standing, their back to the light of the plaza ahead, it was a figure most massive. Lanky of build, but with limbs that seem to stretch on and on as they rise to a pair of widespread shoulders. His dizzying state might have confused it for a goon if it wasn’t for the trademark mask…
“Oh geezus, Bogs, ya scared the crap out of me! Whattya want, I don’t got any work today! Go check with Atla, I’m sure he’s got another Fishman he’s eyeing…”
The figure doesn’t move as Dillamente speaks, the mobster himself moving towards him with a sense of calm while Remulo peeks out from the pits in his mask. Two eyes watching the mob boss’s every move…
“Oh thass right, ye got blacklisted! Hehehehe, guess that’s what happens when Atla keeps a rookie on. I tolds him, no I’m serious, I tolds him ‘that guy’s a no good bum, don’t even bother Atla!’ But does he lissen? Noooope! And now he’s down a head and yer outta work! Hehehehe, how do ya like that?!”
Dillamente shows no fear as he rebukes the image of hostility standing in front of him, going so far as to form a nasty smile as he reaches in his jacket. A moment later, a gun rests in his grasp, trained on Remulo.
“I’ll bet that burns ya, don’t it? Only thing yer good at, I reckon, is makin’ people suffer, and now ye can’t even do that! I’ll bet…I’ll bet you’d even want me to put ya out of your misery. Yer just a dog, after all, chasin’ bucks. Besides, it’d be a way for you to be useful.”
The outside world fades away as the two stare at each other, Dillamente mere feet away from Mr. 58, eyes glowering with some crazed lust for murder while Remulo simply stares back with two vacant holes devoid of anything approaching hatred or sympathy.
“So c’mon…jus’ make it easy. Be a good dog…roll over…”
“…Mr. Dillamente, I don’t think you understand what’s happening here,” Remulo says, almost confused at the perception of power on display. Was he truly that delusional...
“I understand plenty, ya here to beg for yer life and to work fer me!”
“…That…couldn’t be farther from the truth…”
It was here Dillamente’s eyes open in a brief moment of clarity, realizing just how dark the walls on either side of him were, almost as if he weren’t looking at walls at all…but rather deep chasms…
Hot breath rolls onto his face along with the slime of spittle. In a burst of what could only be survival instinct kicking in, the mobster backpedalsl, barely dodging a fist flying through in what surely would have been a blow to knock his head off.
Taking aim, the gangster fires three rounds, the sound echoing off of the narrow passageway as the slugs punch through the darkness towards their target....at least, they should have been. Remulo was nowhere to be seen, the man having escaped by way of the mouths that were planted on the walls.
“Remulo!” Dillamente shouts, casting his eye around, watching the two giant mouths on either side of him as he backs away slowly. “You think this’ll win you favor? Atla don’t like seeing members of his family killed! You know what that reflects? Weakness! He’ll hunt you down! Think about what you’re doing!”
He receives no answer, Dillamente casting his gaze around the darkened alley once more, eyes darting left and right to catch sight of his assailant. This…wasn’t ideal. Remulo Bogs…sure, he wasn’t a high ranker as far as assassins go, but that’s just because the guy didn’t know how to market himself. Dillamente knew as well as anyone that he had the skill to back himself up...
A dampness wells up in his socks, Dillamente cursing to himself as he lifts his leg up to get a good look. Damn puddles...now of all times was the last moment he had to worry about designer shoes being stained by such thick...viscous...rainwater...
He takes a second glance below, noting just how warm the puddle was, realizing all too late the telltale spring in his step. Something large, pink, and undulating lay below...a tongue, with the mouth it protrudes from grinning behind him. A moment later, another fist shoots forth and catches the gangster square in the gut, sending him flying towards the rooftops. As he soars, he tries to catch a glimpse around him, his vision blurred from the pain balled into his chest, when another hand shoots forth. Another mouth had been planted above, below the lip of the building’s roof, grasping the fattened bulge of his neck and squeezing.
Remulo himself slowly oozes from the hole, his arm extended outward and straightening as he continues to apply pressure, the gangster’s eyes bulging along with the fat from between the assassin’s fingers. His breath caught and becoming a series of short gasps, Dillamente tries to level his weapon, which miraculously had stayed in his grasp, at Mr. 58. Between a plummet back down and being strangled to death, the choice was clear. Of course, his trade for broken legs was taken from him as Remulo just as quickly shot another fist forward, breaking his fingers and throwing the gun back down to the alley floor below to clatter against the concrete.
Dillamente’s face turns purple, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he claws at Remulo’s hands, even managing to leave reddened streaks in his wake, but the assassin will not release. In fact, he only manages to squeeze tighter, Dillamente’s oxygen cut off completely as he squirms in place like a hunk of meat hooked to drain.
“Just to clarify, this has nothing to do with Mr. Atla excluding me from the family,” Remulo says, bringing his other hand to bare, holding it in front of Dillamente’s face. “I’d be a poor excuse for an assassin if I let such things get to me. This is just a simple contract. Nothing more. You understand, of course.” Was that…irony?! The gangster’s eyes roll in his sockets as he tosses even more violently, refusing to let his end come at the expense of a punchline! His ever darkening vision turns onto the assassin’s palm, noting the pair of lips that were slowly opening in its midst.
“Grrrk…w-waaaaaa—”
“Stop.” He says, bringing Dillamente closer to his hand, close enough that a tongue was able to snake out and lick at the gangster’s hooked nose. “I’m of my word. If the contract can be complete, I’ll complete it. No matter what it entails…”
Dillamente can feel a forlorn sense of regret…not that he couldn’t kill Remulo, but that he hadn’t just killed himself. What he was going through...a racking of his soul accompanied by the degradation of his body, his mind going blank as his brain starts to rot. This couldn’t be it…everything he worked for, accomplished…all coming crashing down just because of a simple agreement?!
“Look at me.”
What…what was that? That wasn’t Remulo. The hard, flinty voice of the assassin had been replaced by something else: something built on anger and pain. Remulo’s eyes are listless as he waits. Who else could be up here…
Dillamente’s eyes roll once more, the man summoning every ounce of remaining strength to look for the voice, searching around the rooftops before glancing back to his demise…and seeing something on the other side. The mouth was open, tongue lolling out to provide proper view of what awaited within the maw. All he could see was some broken-down room, moonlight beaming in and illuminating the cracked walls and dusted over upholstery. A kitchen that had seen better years, with a table on its last literal legs, serving one last occupant, their face hidden by the blanket of shadows offered outside of the moon overhead. The gun in their trembling hands, however, was all too clear as it punched through the veil of shadows, it’s gleaming barrel trained on the spot between his eyes. If he could focus, the distinct sheen of tears was visible…
“He will die in a few moments,” Remulo says simply, his grip only tightening further.
“I know!”
“You won’t be able to afford it if he does.”
“I KNOW!”
The voice on the other side of the hand breaks, body shaking as the sheen becomes a flowing trail, glowing beneath the glare of the moon. Pulling itself forward, the body breaks through the veil to look Dillamente in the eyes, to look the man that had taken so much from them into a world that they were never prepared for. A young woman peers out, but what stared back into him was not someone prepared for the worst....it was someone that didn’t know how they could continue...
“…I thought…I thought I’d be strong enough…I thought if he were here, it’d be easier, but…but it’s so hard. It’s so hard Mr. Bogs…I just…I just…”
The words were lost as her body shakes once more, the woman laying the gun down flat on the table and burying her head into the safety of her own hands. She couldn’t keep looking into those bulging, reddened eyes anymore...even if it was his death, it wasn’t any easier...
“….It’s never easy.” The voice gives pause to her trembling, her whimpers subsiding as Remulo interjects once more, though without the grit of the trained assassin and dealer in human life. Now, it was that same, underlying softness she heard before...the voice of someone willing to look into the difficulty of it. The pain that comes from having never stolen a life. “The first time, that is. That’s why it’s such a high price to pay. Because you never get that moment back.” The girl stops shaking, looking down at the table…Dillamente feels a cold chill of relief sitting in his gut…
“You can never return to the moment where it would be hard to take someone’s life. It’ll only become easier each time you do it.” That was it, wasn’t it? She didn’t want it to be easy...and he knew how easy it could be. How quickly she could fall...no, she didn’t want that. She could get vengeance now, but where would it leave her...
“But,” he continues, searching inward with each passing moment, knowing that the window for a choice was steadily leaving them both as Dillamente slipped further and further away from consciousness, “that doesn’t mean you have to test how easy it is. Several people will tell you otherwise…but you don’t have to keep going. You can stop at just one. But for this…you have to pay the price.”
Dillamente’s ears were starting to lose their hearing, Remulo’s words fading into nothing as his eyesight was following suit. This was really it…this was the end. He has no idea who this girl is, what the hell they’re talking about prices…but he knows deep down that this is in fact the last thing he’ll ever see.
The girl raises her head, looking back into his eyes, and his struggling stops. Her eyes…there was nothing in them. No fear. No pain. Her tears had dried as she levels the gun, taking aim right between his own eyes, which had long since gone bloodshot. She took aim…
And she fired.
~ ~ ~
News had spread all over Loguetown about the mysterious shooting; according to numerous cases of people with “inside knowledge,” it was nothing more than a stick up by some crazed robber. It was as if Dillamente, one of the major chess pieces of Mr. Atla’s crime family, had no more importance than that of anyone else not affiliated with that seedy underbelly. As if Dillamente was just a human life that could be wagered and sold for the right price. It was the talk of the town, and citizens of Loguetown had no idea what to make of the news. If anything, it provides the perfect cover for Remulo as he sits at one of the many café tables with Reina, biting languidly into a sandwich as the girl drinks from a cup of tea, counting out some beli on the table.
“And…6,000. There. That’s all I have.”
Remulo’s hand slides forward, counting the money a second time before nodding his approval, pocketing it and looking away, casting his glance towards the docks.
“And with that, the contract is complete. I wish you well, Reina, in whatever you do.”
“…thank you Mr. Bogs…I…I’m very grateful that—”
“None of that is necessary. It’s a job I fulfilled, it’s what I do.”
“What will you do now, though? Sure, no one suspects you, but you said Mr. Atla…”
Remulo’s lips purse up as he takes another bite of his sandwich, looking around the town marketplace. He didn’t see any of Atla’s mercs or family members…which didn’t necessarily mean much, but it at least gave him a clear view of the civilian ship that was soon leaving.
“I’m going to head for the West Blue, set up some freelance work. It’s about time I started taking this career seriously…” he says, sipping from his cup of tea, draining it in one gulp. Reina’s eyes follow his own, almost lost.
“I see…”
“It’d be more interesting to hear about what you plan to do. You’re practically out of funds.”
“Yeah…but, somehow, it doesn’t feel so hopeless. I mean…I feel safer. I feel more vindicated…”
“I wouldn’t get to attached to that,” Remulo says, taking another sip before taking a look at a nearby clock. It was almost time for the civilian ship to depart.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he continues, rising up and dusting his suit off before buttoning up, “you shouldn’t become attached to those feelings. You might start to think that’s the only means of feeling that way.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true.” Reina says, now earning Remulo’s gaze as she gets up herself, smoothing out her shirt. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done…the hardest thing I imagine I’ll ever do. And yeah, I’m sure it would get easier…but I don’t think I could ever get over how hard it was the first time. I just…I don’t think I can be like you, Mr. Bogs.”
Their eyes lock, a pool of brown mingling with grey as they each understand the crossroads being laid out between them. The point where they both realize one truth: they’d never see each other ever again.
“I don’t think many people can be like you…”
“…No. No, I guess they can’t.”
“…Are you mad?”
“No. It’s probably better that way.”
The crowd picks up once more as another lunch rush starts, Reina being pushed away as bodies start packing into the café area. With one last glimpse, she sees a tuft of scarlet hair walking off, and she can’t help but smile to herself. They might never see each other again…but she’d always be grateful for that man that visited her world in the shadows to pull her out.