Noah left Sister Margaret's with a black card tucked into his jacket pocket like a ticket to moral ambiguity. The target was Jeff Mond, a mid-level enforcer for the Russian mob, worth exactly one thousand dollars dead. In the grand scheme of professional assassination, it was basically an entry-level position.
Kill a gang member for a thousand bucks, Noah thought as he navigated the narrow alley behind the bar. Either I'm about to become a budget hitman, or I'm about to discover that being immortal doesn't make you automatically good at murder.
The card came with basic intelligence courtesy of Weasel's information network: Mond's usual haunts, his daily routine, and the encouraging note that he was "prone to violence and carries multiple firearms." Just the kind of detail that made Noah question his life choices.
The problem was logistics. Mond operated out of several locations across Brooklyn and Manhattan, none of which were walking distance from Sister Margaret's. Noah needed transportation, but his current financial situation could be generously described as "completely broke."
He'd made it about halfway through the alley when two figures stepped out of the shadows like they'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
"Yo, Asian dude!" The first guy was young, maybe early twenties, with gold teeth that caught the dim streetlight and the kind of swagger that suggested he'd seen too many movies about gangsters. "Let's make this easy. Wallet, phone, whatever else you got. Nobody needs to get hurt."
His companion was taller, with dreadlocks and the nervous energy of someone who'd rather be literally anywhere else. Both of them looked like they'd chosen crime as a career path primarily because they'd failed at everything else.
Noah looked at them with the weary expression of someone who'd survived two months of systematic torture and wasn't particularly impressed by street-level intimidation.
"Seriously?" he said. "Right now?"
Gold Teeth grinned wider, apparently interpreting Noah's question as fear. "Dead serious, man. This is a stick-up, so—"
Noah's foot connected with Gold Teeth's crotch with the precision of someone who'd learned that the most effective combat techniques were also the simplest.
The would-be robber's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream as he collapsed to his knees in what could generously be called the "prayer position", though he was probably praying for very different things than most people.
Dreadlocks stared in shock, apparently unprepared for his victim to fight back with such immediate and targeted violence.
"Oh, shit," Dreadlocks said, reaching for something under his jacket. "You just made a big mist—"
Noah's fist caught him in the solar plexus, doubling him over before a follow-up uppercut sent him sprawling across the alley floor.
Two months of getting my ass kicked by Francis, Noah reflected as he patted down Gold Teeth's unconscious form, turns out to be decent preparation for dealing with amateur criminals.
His search yielded a .38 revolver, which he examined with the interest of someone discovering a new tool. The weight felt solid in his hand, and the basic mechanics were simple enough, point the dangerous end at things you wanted to stop existing, pull the trigger.
America, Noah thought with genuine appreciation. Where even the street-level criminals come equipped with firearms. The loot drop rate in this country is incredible.
He pointed the gun at Dreadlocks, who was groggily trying to sit up.
"Stay down," Noah advised. "We need to have a conversation."
Dreadlocks took one look at the gun barrel and immediately flattened himself against the ground with his hands behind his head. The movement was so smooth and practiced that Noah wondered if muggers had to take classes in proper arrest position.
"Look, man," Dreadlocks said, his voice muffled by the pavement, "this is all just a big misunderstanding. We were just playing around, you know? Street theater. Performance art."
"I appreciate creativity," Noah said, checking the gun's safety mechanism. "I'm something of a performer myself. Now, I need you to tell me exactly how bad of a person you are."
Dreadlocks lifted his head slightly, confusion replacing fear in his expression. "What?"
"Your crimes," Noah clarified, kneeling down so the gun was closer to Dreadlocks' head. "I need a complete list of every illegal thing you've ever done. Think of it as confession, except with more immediate consequences for lying."
Come on, Noah thought, watching his talent system interface hopefully. Surely at least one of these idiots qualifies as a 'dangerous criminal.'
"Uh," Dreadlocks began uncertainly, "we've robbed some people? Took their wallets and phones and stuff?"
[TARGET DOES NOT MEET CRITERIA]
The notification appeared in Noah's peripheral vision like a cosmic rejection letter.
Seriously? Noah thought. Muggers don't count as dangerous criminals? What kind of standards does this system have?
"Not good enough," Noah said aloud. "Keep going."
"I... uh... I don't pay for parking meters?"
"Still not impressed."
"I've stolen cable TV?"
"Weak."
Dreadlocks was beginning to sweat. "Man, I don't know what you want me to say. I've shoplifted, I've sold some weed, I've gotten into fights—"
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
"What? No! Jesus, man, we're just street hustlers, not psychos!"
[TARGET DOES NOT MEET CRITERIA]
The system's judgment remained unchanged, and Noah felt a growing sense of frustration. Apparently, his talent acquisition system had higher standards for "dangerous criminals" than he'd anticipated.
Great, Noah thought. Even my supernatural power set is judging my target selection.
"You know what?" Noah said, standing up and dusting off his knees. "I'm disappointed. You two call yourselves criminals, but you're basically just annoying teenagers with commitment issues."
Gold Teeth had recovered enough to speak, though his voice was notably higher than before. "What the hell, man? You want us to be worse criminals?"
"I want you to have some professional pride," Noah replied, beginning to search their pockets with the thoroughness of someone who desperately needed startup capital. "If you're going to choose a life of crime, at least be competent at it."
He relieved them of their phones, cash, and various personal effects, including Gold Teeth's distinctive dental work and a pair of expensive sneakers that looked authentic enough to resell.
"This is robbery!" Dreadlocks protested.
"No," Noah corrected, "this is irony. Also, it's practical resource acquisition from individuals who were attempting to illegally acquire my resources. Think of it as a tax on poor life choices."
As he walked away from the defeated muggers, Noah reflected on the bizarre turn his life had taken. Less than an hour ago, he'd been concerned about the moral implications of becoming a mercenary. Now he was robbing street criminals and complaining that they weren't criminal enough for his supernatural standards.
At least now he had transportation money and a gun. That was progress of a sort.
The real criminals, it seemed, were going to require more effort to find.
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