A single bullet was fired, a crisp sound following closely behind. The sound faded seamlessly into the pattering rain meeting concrete. The man who continued to live stood still as water began to drench his long coat. His arm remained in place with the gun now aimed at a blank spot on the wall where his victim once covered. Small droplets of water caught themselves between the man's hand and the gun, mimicking the feeling of sweat. It simulated the body's natural reaction of remorse after taking an innocent life. This doubt was irrelevant, he thought. Dead people were never innocent, especially not this one.
As a light rhythmic buzzing made itself present in his left coat pocket, he was brought back from his moment of reflection. He stepped closer to the body in front of him, taking in the image of it soaked in its own pool of diluting blood. He took out a glasses cloth from the man's pocket and wiped down the waxy feeling gun. He then returned both the gun and the cloth to the corpse.
There was a flat silence, no sound that took shape. The sensation of the ringing phone had ceased. A few extra seconds managed to roll into existence before the second sequence of ringing began. To this, the man reached for his phone and rested it against his ear.
"Thank you for answering. It's quite lovely out, isn't it?" It was a voice that sounded like that of a smiling news anchor. "Unless my memories lie to me, I recall that you enjoy this kind of weather. Cold and dreary, some might say it suits you."
The man narrowed his watchful eyes as he walked away from the corpse. He kept the cold glass of the phone screen pressed on his ear while continuing to listen.
"Right, I've been blessed by the downpour of rain," he said while descending down the echoey chamber of a parkade's concrete stairs.
The sound of distant traffic mixed with pouring water bled into the intermissions of silence, both parties of the call refused to speak too soon.
"I'm just checking up on you, though I know you've completed your job without complications as usual. I'm well aware of your capabilities, and I figure you're not one for friendly chats anyway."
The man carrying out the orders hummed in acknowledgment, thinking how his Boss was the only person in his contacts list either way.
"Your next event isn't too far from where you are, it should be about a ten minute walk." His fingers lightly tapped the table as he leaned into his phone. He paused. "Unless you're tired of course, then I can call someone to drive you instead." He paused briefly mid sentence, then continued knowing the other wouldn't respond to that. "Walk with purpose, you're representing our company."
The underling's walking pace slowed, puddles of water swished from his movements. He held back a small sigh and tilted his head towards the phone. Networking and social events in general were not his favourite kind of work responsibility.
The man shoved his phone back into his pocket and began to stare at the puddles, watching the ripples collide with each other as he walked through them.
The church says God's son walked on water, was that part of scripture supposed to be taken seriously? Unless you were supposed to read it using the allegorical or… Anagogical sense, the lake must've been frozen. The wonders of God and his miraculous ability, but such great power is restricted to humans. No matter how many desperate hands reach for Heaven's throne, that power is unknown to humankind. Those hopes of dragging it down to Earth and demand that all men truly be made equal are nothing but fantasy.
The clouds swirled and rain continued to pour, regardless of whether the people below walked with umbrellas or not. The man would look as if he swam fully clothed before arriving at the event, drenched fabrics clinging to his skin like how sculptors make marble seem to drape over statues. This wasn't too much of a bother; he had learned to know his Boss wouldn't allow one of his subordinates to show up in public looking anything less than refined. This caution and consideration urged him to travel faster, especially since his coat was soaking.
The coat he wore was a product from the company he worked for. It was a black ulster coat especially designed for him, lined with navy coloured Habotai silk. It was certainly unconventional, but not at all short of high end quality. His Boss had picked out what he thought suited his student the best, however naturally the boy himself had no deep understanding of the clothes he was wearing despite it being part of his job on paper. Regardless, he undoubtedly appreciated how perfectly tailored it was.
The man wondered how long it would take for people to find the lifeless body he left behind. He wasn't directly ordered to dispose of the body, and nor did he have to. It wasn't unusual at this time for the streets to be littered, but if there were just one officer who cared, more than half of the current cases could be closed by tomorrow morning. The city was a goldmine of evidence, and no one took the time to make use of it anymore. Anyone who committed crime, even those with moral sense, could continue to move with confidence that even if they did leave anything behind, it wouldn't be an issue. There is no fear of being caught, and certainly no room for regret; this, the man understands.
In the heart of the city, not only was there garbage lining the streets, but smoke trailing through the air. The mixture of excess fumes created a screen thick enough to daze every person under it without exceptions. The man passed through the stream of miserable people, numerous lines of them seemingly unable to walk in a straight line. Standing tall beside a suffocated tree was a torn orange tent. It was a vendor trying to advertise some useless product; he may as well sell rocks to people. If he did, the man had no doubt this street would be at the vendor's mercy, people lining up to get even the smallest pebble. This miracle of sales would only last a few minutes, the next people would take their rocks and hurl them at the people standing behind in line.
Mundane everyday city sights did not interest him. He saw them every day, and even if he didn't, there was nothing to miss. The man took a few extra steps past his destination, realizing he paid too much attention to the irrelevant surroundings that he said didn't interest him.
"Mortimer," the sound of someone saying his name clicked his brain into motion, habitually having him turn his head quickly to greet the person. After seeing who it was, he took one last glance at the replaced neon sign on a corner shop.
"Are you paying attention to where you're walking? You may as well get run over," a man with grimy slicked back blond hair called out to him near the entrance of a tall lit up building, he stood with his feet firmly placed on the ground. One hand loosely in his pocket, and the other holding a cheap cigarette.
He easily recognized the boy's appearance, Mortimer was just another victim of all black clothing. His ghostly pale skin made him look as if he were glowing in a translucent way, it's a jarring sight contrasted to the void of black fabrics absorbing all light rays possibly emitting from him. Castiel Mortimer, he may as well have been a trainee replacement for when the Grim Reaper wanted to slack off.
Many were told of his name, their Boss had a very obvious favoritism towards him. Castiel was like the teacher's star student; a favourite of the authority, but not of the people.
Castiel was vaguely familiar with the man who spoke to him. He was a simple personal driver, and yet he carried himself like someone with high authoritative status. The two of them often exchanged brief eye contact, but hadn't formally spoken before. His name was Rolf Baaiman. The younger man nodded and said a short apology, polite manners for mere convenience.
The boy's features gradually became clearer as he continued to get closer. He walked with an oddly reassured air, the type of confidence often mistaken for arrogance. To some, his behaviour was provocative, 'holier than thou' and seemingly uninterested with the people around him.
Baaiman already found it difficult to understand those who came from younger groups of people, this quality was put under stress in front of this one especially. Out of patience for the slow disheveled man, Baaiman exhaled the cigarette smoke "not everyone is willing to wait for you. Have some consideration," the older man then inhaled the city's air; which was just as polluted as the smoke in his lungs.
Castiel glanced at the old man, hearing his statement; he hadn't been referred to as 'kid' in a long time. It was strange to hear himself being called something he thought he graduated from a long time ago.
At the lack of response, the man sighed deeply and shook his head in unamusement. "The event starts soon and you look like that. Put on a nice smile."
That statement alone was infuriating and insufferable to Castiel. Before the boy could say anything, if he was even planning to, he was interrupted by Baaiman's assistant handing him a fresh set of clothes. Castiel's mouth flattened together. As assumed, he was presented with a solution to his problem of being drenched in rain water. It was never a real issue to begin with, his Boss was always knowledgeable enough.
Baaiman dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it with his shoe. The shoes had a stiff structure, no one seemed to like them even if they were an item of their own company. Whenever someone would try to move in them, the shoes seemed to resist any unnecessary movement. Definitely a white collar man's choice, it was too uncomfortable for a working person to wear daily. "Damn these shoes are rigid, God help me if I'll ever have to run in them."