A day after the assassination attempt on Edward Meitner, the hallways have been filled with curious and skeptical recruits. A wave of paranoia and intrigue grows as the rumors pile up on one another, thickening with each passing second.
Kiara stands tall but awkwardly in the cold sterile room, between her grandfather and the glass panel that separates them from the assassin. Edward looks over the reports from yesterday, raising his eyebrow from the contents within. The Reaper's hands and feet are bound with a cold metal as he stands smugly in the interrogation room.
The heavy door opens with a loud creak, Zhang walks in, stretching and yawning. He raises his gaze to see Kiara standing in the room they are in. The walls were clinical, painted over with neutral grey and off-white. The furniture is minimal with a couple of wooden chairs and angular tables under the flickering lights. He raises his eyebrow as he shifts his attention towards Edward.
"What's she doing here?" Zhang questions with an annoyed expression. "Shouldn't she be training in the courtyard or studying?"
"I'm showing her the ropes of how we deal with dangerous criminals like this guy," Edward motions his head at the assassin behind the glass window.
"You sure it's okay to have a kid to oversee an interrogation," Zhang inquires, making himself a cup of coffee.
"It's called a learning experience," Edward remarks, pointing to Kiara all the posters and images plastered on the walls.
"Nothing says learning experience than to see people interrogate your grandfather's potential killer," Zhang dryly says
"We need to find a way to get some information off this guy," Edward cautiously says, "He is reacting very well against interrogation spells, we need something different."
"I have an idea. I learned this special technique in one of my travels," Zhang steps forward, his voice calm yet commanding. "This might work but I haven't tried yet."
"Okay big boss? What are you going to do?" Kiara questions, walking a few steps closer to the glass. "Are you gonna threaten him? Like good cop bad cop."
"No. I'll use an ancient Buddhist technique I learned on one of my travels," Zhang says bluntly, "I'll put him under a trance, where I'll guide his consciousness to revealing answers."
Kiara and Edward just stand silent and bewildered. The only sounds that echoed in the room were some flies and the dilapidated lights.
"What the?" Edward utters, his eyes widened in shock and confusion.
Edward and Kiara look at each other bewildered at what Zhang just said 2 seconds ago.
"Buddhist monks?" Kiara says bewildered, "Not even Shaolin monks. BUDDHIST? Why do they know this… how do they know this"
"Never in my 72 years living would I ever hear those words come out of your mouth," Edward explains calmly, trying to reason the situation.
"Who are these menaces that these Buddhist monks are fighting?" Kiara stares dumbfounded, putting her hands around her hips, "When did they teach you this?"
"I was traveling to Uzbekistan with an old colleague of mine, and we met up with Buddhist monks in an area," Zhang explains calmly, "They were very kind and served good food as well.
"Uzbekistan?" Kiara screams out, her voice high-pitched, "Not even China, Mongolia, or Tibet. UZBEKISTAN?"
Was Zhang the same stoic man who kept giving everyone the same countless boring drills? The idea that he studied something so…jarring. Unexpected even. Kiara is even more determined to see what Zhang's deal is.
"So you know your geography but not when America was founded?" Zhang's brow furrows, crossing his arms.
"I got overwhelmed by the questions okay. I actually do know when America was founded," Kiara waves her finger in Zhang's personal space. "But can you teach me and my friends how to do that?"
"No," Zhang says in a blunt dry tone. He adjusts his collar before entering through the buzzing security door. Walking over to the restrained Reaper, Zhang places two fingers on the assassin's forehead.
From behind the tinted glasses, Edward and Kiara could see the assassin's expressions though the Reaper couldn't see them back.
"What are you trying to do?" the Reaper remarks, his breath full of decay and tobacco. "All of your interrogation spells have failed? What are you–"
"Ooom," Zhang suddenly chants, closing his eyes and keeping a steady rhythm. Edward leans over next to Kiara.
"What the hell," the Reaper genuinely utters, utterly confused by what's happening.
"You think he made this up?" Edward whispers, "I don't remember Zhang's friends ever telling me he could do this."
"Could work…could not" Kiara shrugs her shoulders. "Who knows?"
They both stare behind a tinted glass window separating them from Zhang and the Reaper. Their voices are played loudly through a speaker.
"Oh, it works. Most of the time," Zhang cuts back, surprising the two. "It only fails when these types of people have strong mental blocks or trauma."
"Still we need to make sure everyone is ready for this new threat," Edward remarks, looking cautiously at Kiara. "We ain't facing Elusives no more. We're facing trained killers."
His statement lingers in the air.
"The Elusives may have been stronger, but this is different," Edward explains with a calm yet firm tone. "These enemies–they think, they plan, they will kill without hesitation. They won't hesitate to use anything or anyone to put their target into the ground. So we need to do the same."
"How do we prepare the recruits against this kind of threat?" Zhang inquires.
"We need to grow stronger. They need spiritual techniques," Edward explains with a low tone, crossing his arms together. "They need power that resonates within–whether manipulating nature, controlling matter, or honing skills from the spirit. They will need it to fight and win."
"How do you manifest a spiritual technique," Kiara questions, curious. "All I know from Anby is that it needs to resonate with you the most."
"You put your hand on a magic orb–it shows the abilities you can manifest," Edward explains half heartedly, rubbing his forehead. "I picked elemental and chemical manipulation. My other options were telekinesis, illusion creation, blood manipulation, and I think shapeshifting."
"Those were cool powers, Grandpa," Kiara raises her brow with skepticism. "Why did you pick something so simple? Telekinesis is very badass."
"You can only pick one technique out of the list given from the orb," Edward says in a flat but unserious tone. "I picked the most simple one."
Zhang, always the strategist, leans forward. "It's a long process, Kiara. Not every power is good in every situation. You have to train extra hard to harness it. Only then will it manifest in its final form."
"Each option is different for each person," Edward added. "It will always reflect your potential."
"Not just your potential," Zhang shifts his posture, eyes narrowing if pondering to himself. "It's like picking the right sword."
"He's saying that its a long term commitment," Edward's voice cuts through Zhang's monologue. "Every ability has its growth. Think about how it serves you long term."
Kiara felt her heart race at the idea of being given a choice like a kid in a candy store. Who knows what kind of powers she could see that could be gained? It's like standing at a crossroads with no map. The list could seem endless. Which one is best for her?
"Well. For some people, they just pick a technique because it's cool," Edward smugly points at Zhang behind his back. "Zhang here? This kid really picked wind manipulation because it was cool. Wind."
Zhang angrily groans under his breath.
"It did not pick it because it was cool," Zhang mutters defensively, glancing sideways at Edward. "It has many versatile battlefield applications. Now stop distracting me."
Edward ignores him pushing the point across. Kiara's gaze flicks from Edward to Zhang, then back at the glass. Each second with them felt like a new unheard lesson.
The two of them stayed quiet, exchanging glances with each other as Zhang closed his eyes. A long silence plays over them as Zhang continues his chant. The faint buzz of the overhead light breaks the silence. Zhang's fingers twitch against the Reaper's forehead. His fingers press harder against the assassin's skin as he continues the rhythm of his chant.
"These are strong mental blocks," Zhang mutters under his breath. "Whoever trained him knows what they're doing."
"Yeah. Of course they knew what they were doing," The Reaper laughs, enjoying the discomfort in the room. "They had to train assassins to be immune to all kinds of interrogation techniques, even the weird ones."
Kiara, frustrated, shifts in her hard wooden seat. "This ain't going nowhere if he keeps mocking us."
Zhang remains focused, his chant steady but the pressure against the assassin's forehead seems to loosen. He rubs the back of his neck, a bit irritated, but not showing it too openly. He slowly rises from his seat, rejoining Edward and Kiara behind the tinted glass.
"I have never encountered anything like this before," Zhang remarks cautiously. "He wasn't joking that he and maybe more like him were trained to negate all forms of interrogations."
They? Edward's expression darkens, crossing his arms together. Is he affiliated with…
The tension in the room builds, the quiet intensity almost suffocating. Zhang takes a deep breath before composing himself. He glances toward Edward, a hint of frustration in his usual composed eyes. The lack of progress stung but it is nothing to the uncertain path in front of them.
"We still have plenty of time," Zhang assures, tapping Edward on the shoulder. "He ain't going nowhere with those restraints. We got some valuable information from the weaker assassins though."
Edward's eye lit up, satisfied by the news given. He rubs his forehead trying to clear his thoughts. Kiara shifted comfortably in her seat, unsatisfied by the turn of events. As each second passed by, they seemed to reverberate in his head.
"We will work on this guy later but for you Edward," Zhang utters, shifting the change in tone. "You got to talk to the Arbiter about teaching recruits like Kiara how to manifest a spiritual technique."
Kiara's eyes flicker like an amused child being handed candy. She can't wait to tell Evander and her friends about this turn of events. Edward chuckles to himself as he crosses his arms.
"Yeah like he'll agree with that," Edward dryly jokes to himself. "But I will give it a try."
"As for you Kiara," Zhang's eyes sharpen, as he looms over her. "Get back to the courtyard and start training. It may be the afternoon but that doesn't excuse laziness. I want perfect forms and stances by the time I'm out there this evening."
Kiara groans to herself, playfully acting tired and lethargic as she leaves the interrogation room. Still, there was something that pushed her forward–something to push her to get stronger and face her fears. Zhang and Edward look weary as the Reaper playfully mocks their efforts. The temple falls into the typical schedule of training and studying. The sounds of the recruits training vigorously echo in the stone narrow corridors.
The sun dip slowly, casting over the earth in its golden rays. The blue sky transitions into different hues of blue and purple. Each chirp echoes off the night as the crickets sing outside. The night sky hung like a beautiful canvas blinking with the constellations above.
Pedestrians stroll out of the sidewalks, walking alone or in groups. Looming over the city is a tall imposing structure of glass and metal. Lights trace over its exterior giving it an ethereal futuristic look.
An older couple at a table near the window notices the group of 4 sitting comfortably at their table. Their presence exudes a sense of unease and dread. The hum of chatter and clinking glass fills the room. Everything is pristine and sophisticated until eyes draw onto one table.
"Those four look kind of scary don't they honey," the older woman nervously clears her throat. She shakily drinks her water trying to ignore the group of people near her.
Their postures were too clean, their eyes too sharp. They didn't look like they belonged there yet they did.
"Let's just ignore them," her husband reassures, trying not to make eye contact with the group in front of him.
"What's wrong with them?" a messy black-haired man annoyingly says, twirling his bloodied surgical scalpel. He frowns at their presence.
"Imagine them as a fancy sous vide steak. Just the way we like it," one of the men quietly mutters to himself, licking his lips practically drooling at the thought. "Slow-cooked. Tender like a filet mignon."
"You already have steak on your plate. Enjoy it," the long-haired man reprimanded, cutting into his rack of lambs. "That's more of a you thing. Who wants some rack of lambs?"
"Do we have to spend this much money on fancy restaurant food," the messy-haired man begrudgingly mutters before trying to scoop up some caviar on his surgical scalpel. Suddenly with a flick of the wrist, the long-haired man's knife blocks the scalpel from reaching the caviar.
"Don't even try that," the long-haired man angrily warns.
"Look, our cash cow has finally arrived," a young female girl points at the man slowly making his way to their table.
"Nice to meet you all," the emissary walks forward to the table of 4. His vested suit is pristine and well-ironed. "You must be familiar with me. I am the messenger."
"Ah. It's Mr. Pocket watch," one of the men says cheerfully. He cuts viciously at his ribeye steak and savors the taste as he slowly chews. The steak juice slowly runs down his lips.
Hanger.
A hitman with a reputation that some consider to be quite disturbing. He has a total victim count of over 457. His crimes range from murder to cannibalism. His appetite is as disturbing as his mental state.
Hanger merely glances at the others at the table, licking his lips at one of the men sitting across from him.
"Who's on the hit list today," the messy black-haired man enthusiastically utters, pointing his surgical scalpel at the messenger.
Stitch.
A surgeon with a victim count of over 370 people. His most twisted gift is his imagination. His list of crimes ranges from mutilation of bodies. Murder. Illegal disposal of bodies. Working without a medical license. Finally maiming and injuring others.
"It must be important if you had to call us to such a fancy restaurant like this," Stitch inquires, stabbing the piece of his meal with his surgical scalpel. The bloodied stain surface of the scalpel mingles with the juices of the steak. The messenger narrows his eyes, his lips curling in disgust.
"Now. Now. Let's handle this like civilized men." the long-haired man orders, spreading the caviar around his lamb chop.
"Do you not know how expensive caviar is?" the messenger questions, his tone filled with sarcasm and unamusement.
"Unrealistically expensive," the long-haired man says calmly, chewing intently on his lamb chops.
Thomas Maloum- The Acid King.
A man with over 1200 total victims. A quick and efficient man tasked with missions with eliminating groups of hundreds of people. His crimes include murder and the illegal disposal of bodies.
In a previous mission, Thomas enters the building to eliminate a powerful politician on his hit list. With swift precision, he dodges many guards in the corridor. With swift blows to their heads, Thomas eliminates every single guard in the area.
"Who are you?" one guard frantically says, rushing over to the hit men. In a blur, a couple of claw marks slice his neck. Thomas appears behind the man leaving him to bleed out to death on the sterilized floors.
Thomas' metal claws started to glow a radioactive color before he barged into the politician's safe room. Everyone inside the room stares wide-eyed as the hitman swings his hand at the people inside. The politician and his closest guards—stood trembling, their hands raised in surrender.
The cabinet members were boiled, bones disintegrated, smothered in a bright green light. A horrific crackling sound filled the room as Thomas closed his clawed hand seeing the disintegrated ashy remains of his victims.
His spiritual technique is the ability to create an acid that can melt and disintegrate steel and human flesh.
With only 25 missions to his name every year, Thomas Maloum can make over $2 million per assassination. His total income ranges into the hundreds of millions.
"Okay cash cow. Let's hear about the cash reward already," the young girl enthusiastically says. She looks intently over the hit lists the emissary is carrying. Her eyes tug on the corners of the lists.
Stitch rolls his eyes as the eccentric blonde hitwoman beside him with her electrifying turquoise ends giving his eyes an eyesore to look at.
EMP
A hitwoman with over 170 confirmed kills. She is the newest and youngest member of the Carnal Requiem being only 21 years old. Her specialty is more covert operations than direct assassinations. A quick thinker and a master in coding and technology.
"You must have heard about the latest news about the Reaper's defeat," the emissary explains, handing each of the hitmen their specific hitlist, "Each of you will be given specific targets to make sure this plan goes correctly."
"These targets look quite young," Thomas says brushing aside his long hair, his fingers stuck on the corners of his partner's lists, "Care to explain why my colleagues are going to take out or incapacitate a bunch of children?""
"You don't need to know the specifics," the emissary says calmly, "The temple plans on sending a bunch of recruits out to survey the city after the failed assassination attempt with Edward Meitner."
"Sounds like a terrible plan from the High Council," EMP coldly jokes to herself while eating her lobster risotto. "They're going to end up splattered on the wall."
"Exactly," the emissary utters, grabbing and sipping on Stitch's wine cup. Stitch stares annoyed at the emissary stealing his drink. He stops spinning his scalpel and points it directly at the emissary.
"That was mine," Stitch threatens, showing the emissary reflection in his bloodied scalpel.
"Hey! Stop that," Thomas warns sternly. He points to the waiter to ask for one more cup of wine. Stitch looks annoyed as he waits patiently for his drink to arrive.
"Those with the hit list will need to eliminate their targets as soon as possible," the emissary explains, pulling out his pocket watch, "They are deemed as threats by the one in charge of the mission."
"Thomas, you will be the one to retrieve Reaper while the rest of you distract everyone and eliminate your prime targets," the emissary says.
"Who is this?" Stitch looks over his hit list, seeing a young man with silvery black hair. The master.
"He has been on our radar for a while now. You will investigate then kill him," the emissary explains cautiously. "What we know about him is that he is not affiliated with Warden society. He is some sort of scientist meddling with Elusives and human biology. Successfully creating two Elusive and human hybrids."
"I might get along with this guy," Stitch jokes, crumbling the paper into a small crinkled ball. "I can't wait to dismember him and his creations and combine them into one perfect canvas."
"He is an anomaly," the emissary narrows his eyes, leaning forward with a warning. "We know nothing about him. Not even his real name. He just goes by as the Master."
The palpable tension is cut early by Hanger's jolly voice.
"Oh, who's this little girl? She has such cute short hair- a tomboy?" Hanger grins, wiping away the steak juices from his cheek. "Can I eat this one?"
"Yeah sure," the emissary sips on his cup of wine. "She is the granddaughter of Edward Meitner after all."
"Edward Meitner?" Thomas' brow furrows, slowly spinning the glass cup of wine. "He has a granddaughter? She's like a little rabbit–weak, naive. She'll be dead before she realizes what's coming."
He lifts the delicate glass to his lips with an elegance that seems almost rehearsed. It glistened ever so slightly. The wine swirls, catching the light with a seductive glow. His worn-out and tired fingers curl around the stem.
"I have to warn her potential is growing quickly," the emissary leans forward, fidgeting with his fingers. "It appears her speed and agility have grown stronger in just a couple of days."
"You think a bunch of schoolkids can kill trained assassins," Stitch leans back, shaking his head with disbelief. His eye twitches as if something fell into it."They don't have the experience of actual combat against us. You better stop overestimating them."
The emissary felt a sharp pain down on his hand–a faint slice. It was quick but not painless. He slowly looks down to see one of his fingers dismembered from his hand. The pain shot out of nowhere, causing the emissary to wince with pain. He swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure despite losing a finger.
"Aahh!." the emissary's eyes were wide open, staring at the affliction caused by Stitch.
"What a mere joke of our time," Stitch angrily warns, his voice growing colder with each passing second. He spins the metal scalpel in his hand, appearing like a grey blur around his finger. "You paid millions to fly us here to take care of little incomplete training wheels!"
"You're going to cause a scene," Thomas mutters, before locking his gaze at Stitch. "Please lower your tone and reattach this man's finger to his hand."
Stitch seems unfazed by the growing tension in the room. Pulling out sutures from his pocket, in a blur of motion, Stitch reattaches the Emissary finger back to his hand. The stitches around his finger were botched like a child's crayon scribble. It looked more like medieval torture than medical care.
"There," Stitch unveiled the Emissary reattached finger like it was a gift. "Good as new. Grotesque– just like you."
"Is this the surgeon's table or some kind of messed up cooking show?" EMP mutters, finishing her dinner. "Can't tell because of how whiny of a child you are." She refreshes her laptop checking her bank account every minute making sure everything is still intact. On a second tab, she looks over any available hit lists out currently.
"Oh, you got the whole table laughing," Stitch mockingly praises. EMP flicks her finger, shooting out a bit of electricity at her partner.
"Ow," Stitch winces, rubbing his arm. He tightly grasps his scalpel and points it directly at EMP. "You little…"
"Excuse them. They're always like this," Thomas calmly assures, slicing into his steak. The slow yet delicate knife cuts through the steak like butter, parting the fibers with a gentle motion. The interior is pink–not raw, nor rare. A perfect medium well.
Perpetuated evil, the emissary scornfully thinks to himself, messing with his reattached finger. Too bad for me. Thankfully Thomas is one of the good ones in this profession, such a saint.
"Give us a week," Thomas slowly places the fancy glass cup down on the table. "I promise my team will satisfy your needs. No matter the cost."
Hitlist assigned.
Hanger- Kiara Meitner. Reward: $250,000
EMP- Adam Lazarus. Reward $250,000
Thomas Maloum– Edward Meitner. Reward $5 million
Stitch– The Master. Reward $2 million.