Intermission: The Hitman

A hitman stood by the bar counter, calmly observing the very unusual scene that had unfolded in the black market salon. He had seen many strange things over the course of his career, but this took the cake. They were small, but very fast. And strong, too, if the wounded patrons that had made the mistake of attacking them were any indication.

“Heh,” a shaking patron muttered. “I c-called the cops. They’ll put you down.”

The hitman’s immediate thoughts were voiced by the white-clad intruder: “this is an illegal bar,” he said. “We’re people with wings. Who’s gonna believe you?”

The black-clad intruder cackled somewhat maniacally, then stabbed the patron in the thigh. “We’re just having fun,” she said. “I bet half of you won’t even remember what happened here.”

Ah, but what had happened…? The hitman closed his eyes for a second. They had smashed through the front door in a burst of odorless smoke, stared everyone down with their glinting red eyes, then attempted to order milk. Why milk? It was strange to think about. Just how old were they?

Somehow, the hitman figured that they didn’t know either.

Then the bartender had snapped, threatening them with his rifle…

The hitman could tell right away that these inscrutable entities had received intense training, possibly for much of their lives.

They flew with bulletproof wings, swung artfully designed swords, and bantered with each other as if this was just a jolly little jaunt. What were they? Where did they come from? Why did they exist?

The hitman pulled his hood over his head, stepping past the stunned group of people still standing.

Leave if you’re leaving, they would always say. If you hesitate, you have already failed. As a fresh wave of concealing smoke rolled past his feet, the hitman pulled out a journal and marked something on his list.

This ‘city of dreams’… perhaps it was worth revisiting at some point.