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A Letter to Edward Teach.
By the time Francis handed two bronze coins and got out of the carriage, the streets returned to their characteristic quiet. It was only natural, however, as the area had certainly seen better days.
Nevertheless, he was a changed man now.
One who didn’t need a ring to survive.
The blonde woman made it abundantly clear that her associate wasn’t going to be out in the open. And so Francis remained exposed instead.
The awkward move must’ve made him look like a common thug, as the few people who passed by instantly averted their gaze and went on their way.
Except for one.
“Edmond, I take it?” the young man said.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Francis replied calmly.
“I work for Miss Stacey. I believe she told you to come here?”
Stacey? Quite the Irish name.
“That’s right. She did indeed instruct that,” Francis said, deciding to stop patronizing the man.
“Very well,” the stranger said. “Name’s Roberto. Could you please follow me?”
Any sane person would’ve refused on the spot. Except he had Substitution and a Deacon’s Rejuvenation. Making an assassination as plausible as a fairy tale.
One could only hope that said fairy tale isn’t that of Rumpelstiltskin.
The two walked along the empty street until eventually reaching a bar containing a little more than three patrons, all of them drunk.
“Did Miss Stacey give you the details of the assignment?” Roberto asked.
“No,” Francis replied flatly.
To his credit, Roberto appeared rather collected. “Very well. I shall fill you in then.”
The man then pulled out a parchment containing a sketch, then put a flintlock next to it. “You’ll be assassinating this man tonight.”
Of course. What else am I good for?
Francis grew indifferent to the act, but some details had to be divulged, lest he kill an innocent. “Mind telling me his identity at least?”
“That won’t be important,” Roberto replied dismissively.
That, in turn, irritated Francis. “Either tell me his identity, or I walk away.”
Stacey’s goon appeared to weigh his options before sighing in defeat. “Very well. He’s the leader of a rival gang. Avoid further bloodshed, if necessary.”
“Could’ve said that from the start,” Francis said as he grabbed the sketch. “Where can I find the lowlife?”
“The bar across the street.”
Of course. Why else would you want us to meet here?
“Anything I should take note of?” Francis asked.
“He appears to possess a Supplicant-level artifact. But I’m sure that poses no threat to someone of your stature.”
“I appreciate the flattery,” Francis replied as he got up.
“Aren’t you taking the weapon?” Roberto asked from behind, evidently perplexed.
“No,” Francis confirmed. “I won’t need it.”
Especially not after he retrieved his artifacts.
Roberto said nothing else, prompting Francis to exit the establishment and head to the one across from it.
Truth be told, the job was as easy as they came, at least regarding the task.
What wasn’t easy, however, was determining if said leader deserved it. And desperate as Francis was, murder was a line he wouldn’t cross.
The words sounded hypocritical as soon as they crossed his mind, but he quickly reminded himself that he didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it.
And he had to make sure today was no exception.
The moment he entered the bar, the street’s eerie quiet was replaced by an unrelenting vibrancy.
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Mugs were refilled, bets raised, cards played. It was… surreal.
He was no stranger to bars. He essentially lived in one. But Valentina’s place was never as lively.
Is this their base?
The answer came swiftly, as half the bar began eyeing him in suspicion.
“Are you lost, boy?” one of the strangers said.
Must be a gang member. No reason why he’d have such confidence.
“No,” Francis replied, feigning awkwardness. “I’m here to make bets.”
The man, in turn, chuckled heartily. “Well. You came to the right place.”
The stranger then ushered him to a random table where both men and women were playing cards.
Francis appeared grateful on the outside, while relentlessly scanning for the boss.
And sure enough, he was there.
He didn’t know why the potential owner of the establishment would gamble. But it was certainly not because he lacked liquidity.
And liquid he is, all right.
Francis couldn’t fathom why a few women circled him either, and it didn’t matter. He was there to end the man, not write his biography.
As Francis was handed his cards, he realized that… he didn’t know how to play the game.
What was obvious enough, however, was that everyone was handed three cards, and that the deck got reshuffled after every single game.
“How much are we placing?” one of the strangers asked.
“Two copper,” one of the women said.
“Make it three,” a second woman said as she placed her coins on the table.
The first woman merely sighed before quickly obliging. And soon enough, everyone placed their bets.
Francis finally got the chance to look at his cards, and they looked promising.
The first card had an Angel with the number two on it, a Carpenter with the number one, and a Wolf with the number three. He didn’t know if other cards had higher numbers, but he was about to find out soon enough.
And find out he did. The moment he revealed his cards, the group was taken aback. Francis examined their cards. And sure enough, he had the highest number.
The guy with the five in total was close, though.
“Is that some sort of trick?” the woman from earlier asked, indignant. “Did you come to our bar to steal our money?”
“No,” he replied, feigning nervousness. “I just… played the cards I was given.”
“Take it easy on him, Georgina,” the second woman said. “The lad looks like he’s going to wet himself.”
The symphony of ugly laughs made Francis want to roast both of them alive, but he composed himself.
Shortly after, the next round came. And this time, Francis wasn’t as lucky.
The Shaman card gave two points, but the two Serf cards gave none. Leaving him with two in total.
There goes two copper.
Thankfully, his third hand was much better, containing an Angel, a Shaman, and a Wolf.
“Seven points?” one of the men said. “That’s ridiculous!”
Truth be told, it was crazy.
Francis observed his surroundings for any abnormalities. And sure enough, the man responsible for the shuffling winked.
Oh. That explains it.
Francis quickly pocketed the twelve copper, then resumed playing.
His next half a dozen hands weren’t much to speak of. Yet that only served to highlight what came after.
Francis eyed his cards and was… amused. Whatever his ally pulled, it was far from subtle.
“Someone is getting cocky,” Georgina said, undoubtedly noticing the smirk drawn on his face.
“How could I not?” Francis replied before revealing his cards. “When I have two Wolves and a Shaman.”
“That’s… eight points,” one of the men whispered, before mayhem took hold of the table.
“I told you he was cheating,” Georgina said as she tried to shoot him with a flintlock.
Her companions tried their best to stop her, but the damage was already done.
“What’s going on here?” the boss asked, his voice akin to glass grinding on stone.
“He’s cheating, boss!” Georgina said.
Please, boss. Prove me wrong. Don’t make me kill you.
Francis expected his side to be heard, even a faint chance to defend himself. Instead, the bounty hunter was met with a kick to the stomach.
He thought the pain would linger for a few seconds. Yet it disappeared as fast as it came.
That’s the healing of a Deacon for you.
Still, the charade had to be kept. And so he fell to the floor.
The gang leader, however, wasn’t satisfied. He kept kicking Francis’s abdomen repeatedly, undoubtedly expecting a reaction of sorts. “You think you’re the first trash who tried to scam me?”
The large man then switched to kicking Francis’s head, a wicked smile signaling how much he relished it.
The relentless onslaught made it clear that it was no simple attack.
It was an execution.
One not preceded by a trial.
“You brought this upon yourself, fool,” Francis said from below.
“What was that?” the boss asked.
His answer was a shot to the head.
A shot that pulverized everything above the neck.
Suddenly, what was left of the man fell on Francis, painting him a deep crimson.
The scene was repulsive, but Francis had to put on a show. And so he pushed the corpse aside and stood.
To their credit, the gang members pulled out their flintlocks and aimed them at him.
“What… what was that?” one of the men shouted.
“A flintlock,” Francis replied as he flashed the weapon.
“What kind of flintlock is that?” the woman who caused a scene asked next.
“A powerful flintlock,” Francis mocked. “In all seriousness. Your gang is now under the control of Miss Stacey. Are we in agreement?”
The group of twenty or so exchanged a cacophony of stares and sounds, each more pleasing to the ears than the last.
“Are we in agreement?” Francis repeated, aiming his flintlock at a random gang member.
“We are!” one of the men shouted before kneeling.
Soon, a few followed, then a few more, until most of the outlaws were on their knees.
Except for one.
“Die, you piece of filth!” the woman who caused it all screamed before shooting him, landing directly in his chest.
His Rejuvenation was no longer a toy, however, resulting in his body expelling the lead and then mending itself.
The scene must’ve been harrowing, as most gang members either gasped or turned their gazes away.
“Everyone,” Francis said calmly. “Could you kindly keep your distance?”
None argued; every single gang member moved hurriedly to the far end.
Save for her.
“You’re willing to die for this?” Francis asked, her bravado cracking his fa?ade.
“Yeah, well,” she said as she looked at her fellow gang members. “Not everyone is pathetic enough to be bought.”
Francis shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He then unleashed a second shot, putting an enormous hole straight through her chest.
With the absence of her heart and half her lungs, Georgina collapsed instantly, before painting the floor with her own blood.
“Anyone else want to try their luck?” Francis asked.
None spoke.
Save for his conscience.