Wade left Sister Margaret's with the focused determination of a man who'd found his purpose in life, and that purpose involved creative violence against people who'd wronged him. The bar felt quieter without his manic energy, leaving Noah alone with Weasel and the weight of career decisions.
"So," Weasel said, settling behind the bar like a guidance counselor from hell, "you seriously want to become a mercenary."
"I seriously need money and documentation," Noah replied. "Everything else is negotiable."
Wade had already filled Noah in on Weasel's role in the ecosystem of organized violence that surrounded Sister Margaret's. Information broker, task distributor, and equipment supplier rolled into one morally flexible package. Essentially, he was an RPG vendor who dealt in bullets instead of healing potions.
Weasel studied Noah with the calculating gaze of someone sizing up a potential investment.
"Alright," he said finally. "For Wade's sake, I'll give you the full orientation."
He produced two stacks of cards from behind the bar, one gold, one black, and spread them across the scarred wooden surface like a dealer at the world's most dangerous casino.
"Two types of contracts," Weasel explained, picking up a gold card. "Gold level is your basic, low-risk assignments. Intimidation jobs, minor surveillance, delivering messages to people who don't want to be found. Risk factor: minimal. Pay scale: laughably small."
He flipped the card over, revealing details about teaching some cheating husband a lesson for exactly fifty dollars.
"Black cards," Weasel continued, his tone shifting to something more serious, "are a different animal entirely. Higher difficulty, higher stakes, higher pay. Also higher chance of ending up as an obituary in tomorrow's paper."
Noah picked up a black card and immediately understood the difference. The target was a mid-level enforcer for some Russian gang, and the job was listed as "permanent conflict resolution" for a thousand dollars.
Permanent conflict resolution, Noah thought. That's a euphemism with some serious weight behind it.
"Before you get any ideas," Weasel continued, "I need to make something crystal clear. When you take one of these contracts, you're on your own. I provide the information and take my commission, but if you end up on the wrong end of a gang war or federal investigation, that's your problem. I'm just a middleman."
"Understood," Noah said, continuing to flip through the black cards.
The assignments read like a catalog of urban nightmare scenarios: eliminating gang members, kidnapping businessmen's daughters, surveillance jobs that would definitely violate several constitutional amendments. Each card represented someone's life being fundamentally altered, and Noah would be the one doing the altering.
Jesus, he thought, staring at a card that offered a hundred thousand dollars for kidnapping some rich guy's daughter. This isn't mercenary work, this is organized crime with better marketing.
"Having second thoughts?" Weasel asked, noting Noah's expression.
"I'm having thoughts, period," Noah replied. "These aren't exactly 'help old ladies cross the street' type jobs."
"Welcome to the real world, kid. In case you hadn't noticed, we're not exactly operating a charity here."
Noah set the cards down, genuinely conflicted. He needed money and documentation, but he wasn't sure he was ready to start murdering people for cash. There had to be some middle ground between starving to death as an undocumented immigrant and becoming a professional killer.
That's when the familiar interface materialized in his mind like a neon sign announcing happy hour in hell.
[NEW ACHIEVEMENT AVAILABLE]
[Title: Ultimate Marksman]
[Unlock Condition: Eliminate fifteen dangerous criminals (0/15)]
[Status: Available for Unlock]
Noah blinked, staring at the notification that had appeared with the timing of divine intervention, or diabolic temptation, depending on your perspective on cosmic justice.
Fifteen dangerous criminals, he thought. Not fifteen innocent people. Fifteen criminals.
He looked down at the black cards scattered across the bar, each one representing someone who'd chosen to make their living through violence, extortion, and exploitation. Gang enforcers. Drug dealers. Human traffickers. The kind of people who wouldn't be missed by anyone except their accountants.
Maybe there's a middle ground after all.
"Actually," Noah said, his hand moving to cover the black cards just as Weasel started to collect them, "I'll take the gang-related contracts."
Weasel stopped mid-motion, his eyebrows climbing toward his receding hairline.
"Wait, what? Thirty seconds ago you looked like you were about to throw up at the thought of intimidating a cheating husband. Now you want to go after organized crime?"
Noah arranged his features into an expression of noble determination that he hoped looked convincing.
"The more I think about it," he said with all the gravitas he could muster, "the more I realize that someone needs to stand up to these criminals. They're poisoning our communities, corrupting our youth, destroying families."
And conveniently providing me with exactly the kind of targets I need to unlock superhuman marksmanship abilities, he added silently.
Weasel stared at him with the expression of someone who'd just watched a Sunday school teacher volunteer for a demolition derby.
"Are you serious right now?" Weasel asked. "Because five minutes ago you were worried about provoking gang members, and now you're channeling Batman?"
"Justice doesn't sleep," Noah replied, trying to keep a straight face while internally cringing at his own dialogue.
"Uh-huh." Weasel looked down at the Coke bottle in Noah's hand, then back up at his face. "And this sudden attack of civic responsibility has nothing to do with the fact that gang contracts pay significantly better than gold-level assignments?"
"Money is just a means to an end," Noah said piously. "The real reward is making the streets safer for law-abiding citizens."
The silence that followed was so complete that Noah could hear his own heartbeat. Weasel continued to stare at him with the fascinated horror of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion.
"Okay," Weasel said finally. "I'm going to pretend I believe that load of patriotic bullshit because, frankly, your motivations are none of my business as long as you don't get me killed. But let me ask you something, do you actually know how to use a gun?"
Noah considered lying, then decided that honesty was probably the better policy when discussing his ability to commit violence professionally.
"I shot at someone once," he admitted. "Missed."
"Jesus Christ." Weasel buried his face in his hands. "You want to take on organized crime, and your total firearms experience is one missed shot?"
"I'm a fast learner?"
"You're going to be a fast corpse if you walk into a gang war with that level of preparation."
Weasel pulled out a different set of cards, these ones were red instead of gold or black.
"Training contracts," he explained. "Basic weapons familiarization, tactical awareness, conflict resolution techniques that don't involve getting immediately murdered. Consider it remedial education for aspiring vigilantes."
Noah looked at the red cards, each one offering practical skills in exchange for relatively modest fees. Gun safety, hand-to-hand combat, surveillance techniques, the building blocks of a career in organized violence.
Learning to shoot people professionally, Noah thought. My parents would be so proud.
"Alright," he said, selecting several of the training cards. "Let's start with the basics and work our way up to the morally questionable stuff."
Weasel nodded approvingly. "Now you're thinking like someone who wants to live long enough to spend their ill-gotten gains."
As Noah arranged his new career path on the bar, he couldn't help but reflect on how dramatically his life had changed in just a few days. Less than a week ago, he'd been strapped to Francis's table, wondering if he'd live to see another sunrise. Now he was planning to become a professional crime fighter with a flexible moral compass and superhuman healing abilities.
_________________________________________________________________________
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