"Assassin? Scum is more like it." An old man took a sip from a wine glass as he watched the television. The he seemed stressed, his large frame silhouetted by the light of the TV and the fireplace. "He's probably just another two bit thug who got a hold of his fathers pistol." He brushed his white hair aside as a picture came up on the screen. A drip of sweat hung from his brow "I'm just happy that Mr. Berton is in good health." The the man being interviewed replied to a question. The old man, Mr. Dean Ethermore, pressed his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Unbelievable." He turned off the TV, reached for his phone and held down a number. The speaker rang once then was picked up. "Stuart's dead. We're going to have to pack up shop again." A voice on the other side complained. "Yes everything. Dispose of anything we don't need." The old man hesitated. "And find a replacement for the young man."
He hung up the phone without another word and sat there looking down at it for a moment. Then he picked it up and slammed it down again, again, and again before placing it nicely back on it's perch. leaning back in his chair he reached for his glass of wine again and spoke. "I'm getting too old for this." He downed what was left in the glass, stood and made his way over to his desk.
There he pulled out a key and opened a filing cabinet. 15 folders were inside. He picked one up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a young man sitting on a park bench all smiles. Below it read Stuart Gert. "He was a good kid. Too good for this job." Dean thought. He flipped through the pages of the file as he meandered his way across the room to the fireplace. The white haired man thought stopped and stood at the hearth of the fireplace till he reached the last page. "Guess your number 23 Stuart." He closed the file and threw it into the fire. The pages lit up and curled back turning to black. Then to ash. Dean turned, picking up his wine glass, leaving the room.
He was topping off his glass again when there was a knock at his door. He looked at the screen on his wrist band, pulling up the surveillance footage of the front of the house, Camera 18. It was his usual courier. A young lad. About 14 years old. He pressed a finger up against the screen and spoke, "Hold on, I'll be down."
He walked through the mostly empty halls leading to empty rooms full of memories. He walked down the ornate curved staircase, into the grand foyer, across the dark and light checkered marble floors and under that over sized chandelier. It was the only chandelier he had ever seen that seemed to give off a warm glow. He looked again at the camera view before opening the door. "Hello Christopher." The boy held out a letter. "Good morning. This was in the drop box today." Dean took the letter and pulled out the usual payment of 100$ cash for the young man. "Thanks, and here's yours." Every time the boys eyes seemed to light up as he graciously took it from the Director. He probably had no idea how dangerous these little chores were. He closed the door behind him after wishing the courier a good day.
As he started to make his way back to his office he pulled out his reading glasses and opened the letter. It was a basic contract. Nothing too fancy. A fine pay off with 75% in advance, as is the usual. He made a pass through the kitchen on the way to pick up the glass of wine he had left behind.
Arriving back in his office he took a closer look at the contract. He searched names and started to gather information on the marks. When he was satisfied with what he had gathered he selected three candidates and sent out the appropriate messages. "They should be more than enough." He thought as he finished up. He stood up and got ready for the company of his subordinates. When he had finished he took a seat in the grand foyer, propped up his bad leg and continued nursing on his glass of wine.

Cecelia had just left the music store, satisfied with her purchase of "CDs" or rather the CDs' download codes to put them directly on her phone. Bobbing her head to the beat of her newly discovered interest in Glitch Hop, she heads in the direction of her house- which isn't but a few blocks- which meant weaving her way through or around clusters of people- all whom she ignored, except for a muttered "excuse me/pardon me"- on the sidewalk. The catchy tunes made time seem to go by faster, and she was nearly home- about a block or so from her driveway- when her music was interrupted briefly by her text message chime. She unlocked her phone and went to her "SecureLine_MSG" app and read the text from the only contact that messages her on that secure channel: The Director. Pushing a lock of hair out of her face, she read the message- which was short, concise, and direct- that told her when and where to meet for her assignment.
Huh. Wonder who it is this time. It's been a while, and I could do for the cash. Deciding to accept, she sent her predetermined "ACCEPT" text and jogged the rest of the way home to change into her black sweatshirt, yoga pants- it's all she really has that's somewhat form fitting but not tights/leggings- and black sneaks- teehee, black sneakers for stealth work; just a perfect name for them. Once fully changed, she grabbed her keys and headed for the car and let familiarity drive her to the director's usual meeting place- or rather, his MANSION(!).

Dean began to grow tired of waiting when he saw the bottom of his wine glass. The old wicker chair creaked under his weight as he shifted. The old director used to sit here. He could never push himself to replace the old things. There where many fond memories of playing in this place as a child. The cliched sliding down the railing and throwing his bouncy ball around where the most vivid memories. Every now and then when the old man was feeling spunky he would slide down the railing like old times. He lightly shook his head at the thought.
He looked around the room and spotted the old Baldwin piano sitting under the stairs, in front of the window looking out onto the gardens. He stood, walked over to it and sat down on the bench. It to squeaked in the defining silence of the mansion. Outside the window it was dark, but the dim light of the moon was still casting shadows. He looked down at the piano recalling the cords to an old Russian song "When We Were at War." (( Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOTD2KaAVjc )) Feeling nostalgic he gently place his fingers on the keys and started to play. His 'father' would always play this when he was drunk. When Dean was of age the Director taught him how to play it. Dean started to hum and rock back and forth with the song. Soon he himself broke into song singing with all of the gusto he could muster.

Cecelia's fifteen minute drive felt more like five since her muscle memory took over as one hand fidgeted with the key she was given the night she joined. Once at the mansion, she unlocked the door and entered, still amazed by how huge this house is, considering that the director seemed more like the kind of guy that would live in a small house on the Prairie or something like that. Still having one earphone in her ear, Cecelia found the director sitting in the foyer as her playlist of 8-bit-reminiscent electronic music was ending. Seeing the director playing his piano, Cecelia smiled. "'Ello sir. How are we today? I hear you have something for me?"

Dean stopped singing, "Nice of you to drop in." His fingers still danced across the keys for a moment longer before he held the last note. He released a sighed and closed the piano back up. Then spun around on the bench. "So, you feeling up to another assignment? It'll pay the usual. It's a pretty average mark. This guy's mad at this guy and needs him removed." He stood and started to pace. "That's all I'm going to give you until you accept. As you know, it's for your own safety as well as the safety of your comrades."

Cecelia pushed the headphones onto her shoulders and listened to the employer as he briefed her on what he could. Rolling her eyes, Cecelia responds in a much more polite tone. "Sir, you know that I wouldn't be here if I were to decline. I'm definitely accepting the terms and agreements of this contract and accept all responsibility and liability, blah blah blah. Who, where, when, and extras, please. I do enjoy a challenge, which I'm sure you know." Making use of the Android 'Terms and Agreement' things everyone hits accept without looking, Cecelia awaits the details of her assignment.

Dean cleared his throat and squared up to Cecelia. "I'm sure you've heard of a company called Vex Corp and how the son recently inherited the company from his father." He paused as if he was going to wait for a reply, but then turned away and continued talking. "It was indeed not inherited. In fact the son threatened his father. Details on that are a bit hazy, but that's not important." He paced around the room back to where his wine glass had been left. "All I know is that it wasn't pretty and the father now wants his son removed from the equation. How you choose to do this is up to you. The father however requests that it be messy and brutal." He picked up his wine glass and examined the last little bit of wine that had collected in the bottom of the glass. "He also said that he would pay a little extra something if it was public. One might think that he wanted to make an example." He tilted the glass back and sipped down what was left and set the glass back on the table. "His son will be going to a party... get together thing this next Wednesday to celebrate his new power. He should be getting there around 5:00 PM and leaving some time later that night. The get together will be ending at 9:00 PM." He turned back around to face her. "I would suggest that you take him down at the party. It's as public and messagely as you can get. Of course you can complete the contract on your own terms, but I'm handing you some nice stuff here." He cleared his throat again. "Any questions? You will have access to the arsenal as usual."

Listening and thinking of scenarios after every sentence started to work Cecelia up. "No questions come to mind. Though it's odd that he wants it public and brutal, which is opposite per usual for me, buuuut beggars can't be choosers. I'll make it quick, bloody, and public. The hard part is gonna be figuring out what tools I'll end up needing or using." Mumbling to herself about whether to act as a party guest and have a single, hidden weapon or to sneak in looking like an assassin, decked out in gear and appear before him, give him a short message about betrayal and using several tools to kill him slowly. All the different possibilities swirled in Cecelia's mind, spacing her out as she stared into the distance.

"Good, the party will be at the Museum of Modern "art"." He made little quotation marks with his fingers clearly showing distaste for the phrase. "As usual, the armory here will be open to you. Just try to return what you take this time." Since her last mission he had implied a new rule for the assassins. 'Anything not returned will come out of the users pay check.' "You have 3 days to prepare. Have a nice day Cece." He gave a slight and tipsy bow. After which he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He looked around and spotted his glass again. He scooped it up and lazily started to make his way to the stairs again.