ding, Ding, DING: Agent Slate, Agent Absinthe, proceed to ACM Floor 13 for your assignment.
Slate was already in a bad mood when he came to work this morning. It was Monday, and it was raining, and the streets were crowded, and the sky was gray, and he no longer wanted to be a villain. Not an Ataxic villain, anyway. His check from his last assignment should’ve been in his mailbox. His check from the last three assignments should've been in his mailbox. But they weren't. Which was the only reason he came back to this goddamn building. Slate wanted his money, and he wanted to get the hell out of here and never come back. He inhaled anger into his lungs, and exhaled impatience, and stood slowly from the gray leather sofa.
Blue and purple light from tall, black wireset windows glinted off his black eyes as he passed. The gall of these motherfuckers to hand him another assignment instead of his money. And an assignment with a woman? None of the women here were worth a damn- all stupid emotional bitches. Fuck no. Slate had a healthy appreciation for women; he loved women, just not any of the ones that hung around here.
Absinthe watched him pass on his way to the elevator. An assignment with him? That piece of shit? Had she not made it clear to the bosses? She didn’t work with men. Ever. Her goal was to kill men, not work with them. Men were all worthless pieces of shit, from top to bottom, and if anyone needed proof they could dig up her dead husband and the lanky-ass whore he was buried with beneath the doghouse in her back yard.
She had made it very clear to these goddamn Ataxic bosses- I work alone; I am here to kill men, and steal from men, and destroy men. Not work with them. What part of that was confusing? She walked towards the elevators, and as she did every goddamn man in the lobby looked at her, and watched her, and she was tempted to gut each and every one of them.
Slate watched her come- jiggling breasts, swaying hips, black hair with blue-purple highlights. What was her specialty? As a villain? Stealing hair dye from Walmart? Sleeping with married men? He pushed the button for the 13th floor, hoping the doors would shut on her.
But they didn't. Absinthe entered the elevator, stepped away from him, and folded her arms.
Slate leaned against the opposite wall and looked at her, and as the elevator climbed the floors, his eyes climbed her body: black leather high-heel boots up to her knees, pale thighs, a pleated black leather skirt with belts at her waist. Black-wired corset that pushed her breasts up. Black nail polish. Black leather collar. She looked like a rat exterminator, or a high-school dropout. She looked like a whore who was spanked a few too many times by her father. He lowered his eyes- this seemed about right for a Monday: cold rain, no paycheck, and a goth skank.
“What’s your problem, asshole?”
“I’m not here for an assignment; I’m here to get my check and leave.”
“Good for you. Neither of those require looking at me. Put your eyes somewhere else before you lose them.”
Slate felt like cussing her, and mocking her. There was even a small part that felt like killing her, but they were already on the tenth floor. His specialty was assassination, but even he would struggle to kill this woman and dispose of her body in the span of three elevator floors.
The doors opened and they both stepped out at the same time. The thirteenth floor of the Ataxic Headquarters was a large open room with thick-paned windows and low lighting. The pale blues and sparkling yellows of the city smudged the floors and bottoms of the windows. And at the end of the large room sat the five Ataxic bosses in five oversized leather chairs. They had hoods, and the lights shone on their feet, not their faces.
“I’m not-“ the agents said at the same time, and stopped, and glared at each other.
Slate continued- “I’m not taking another-“
Absinthe continued- “I’m not working with-“
They turned to face each other, ignoring their bosses.
“I would say ladies first,” Slate said, “Except I’m not sure that applies in your case.” Black-leather, fake-purple, paperclip whore.
“And here I thought all neutered men had high-pitched voices. You can-“
The floor in front of them was painted with red numbers, one through five, for each boss. Number Five stood in the darkness, and darkness fell around him. “Agents, you're not here to argue. Finish your discussion on your way to Houston. Now-“
Slate turned. “I’m here for my money, not an assignment. You owe me for three jobs, and you have a lobby full of villains eager to work with this skank.”
Absinthe nearly knifed him; she grabbed the dagger under her skirt and spun and leveled the blade at his face, then turned to the bosses, and leveled the blade at them. “I’m not working with this piece of shit, or any other man. Have I not made that clear?"
Number Three stood, slowly, and smoothed his long dark robes. “Agent Slate- your lack of dedication to this organization has recently come into question. Prove yourself a dedicated villain- a dedicated Ataxic villain, and you will be paid. Agent Absinthe- we decide your assignments and your partner. You failed your last two assignments, and-“
“I’m not-“ they both interrupted, again, and that was the last time they interrupted.
Number two was seated, listening, watching, mildly amused, and then he wasn’t. In the blink of an eye, from the second they finished one word and started the next, he went from in front of them, to behind them. He had a revolver in his right hand, and a revolver in his left, and he shoved both barrels into their backs. “Be good a boy, and a good girl, and pick up your assignments. Now.”
They hesitated, and he brought his thumbs up, and pulled the hammers back. Click. Click.
Slate was damn tempted to spin around, break the man's wrist, then arm, then jab the barrel of his own gun down his throat. But he didn't.
Absinthe was tempted to spin around and slit the bastard's throat. It didn’t matter to her that he was her boss; what mattered was that he was touching her, and threatening her, and that he was a man. But she didn’t knife him, or poison him, because, in truth, it would be much easier to kill her partner and complete the assignment on her own.
Slate and Absinthe stepped forward together, at the friendly suggestion of two revolvers, and both reached their hands out for the same folder. Number Three stood, and handed the black folder to Absinthe. “Your flight leaves in six hours. I suggest the two of you pick up a copy of the Ataxic Codebook on your way out. It appears you need a refresher in what it means to be a villain.”
Slate was done with these assholes. Fuck them, and the money they owed him. Fuck working with this skank of a woman. He turned and walked off. He would go to Houston alright- go there, steal, and from there fly to Brazil, and leave her to hang on another failed mission.
Absinthe didn't speak, and didn't look at the bosses. She slid the black folder under her arm, turned, and followed her piece of shit, soon-to-be-dead partner, to the elevator.
Number Two holstered his revolvers and watched as the elevator doors closed on them, then waited a moment longer. “Well, gentlemen?”
Number One stood, and walked to the windows, and looked down at the busy, sprawling city below him. Agent Slate was an excellent villain. He excelled at murder, was a damn good thief, and could destroy a city block in an hour. But, as happens with the good villains, he thought he could do better on his own. They had been watching him- he was saving money, he was reading books on running businesses, retirement- it was clear he was planning on leaving soon. The problem, though: villains don’t leave, and they don't retire- they die. And as for Absinthe, she was simply becoming too difficult to manage and failing too many assignments- her only skill was killing men; she failed at everything else. To add to that problem, she had broken the rules and married a man at nineteen. And so they paid him to cheat on her, ending that marriage. She remarried at twenty-one, again forcing them to step in. It was no wonder the woman hated men at this point because, as far as she knew, they were all cheating scum. However, like Slate, if she’d simply read the codebook she would’ve known not to date or marry. "Number Five,” he said, over his shoulder, “Send one of your men to watch them.”
“Man? Or woman?”
Number One considered as he watched civilians and their umbrellas move along the street below. Rain ran down the glass and broke the city into gray and purple stained glass. “Woman.”
“Understood.”
Number Two walked to his chair and took his seat and pushed a red button by his side- time to hand out assignments to the next agents. He scratched his chin, in thought. “Well, one thing is fairly obvious,” he mused.
“What’s that?”
“In all their time here, neither have made it past the first page of the code.”
The bosses agreed. Refusing partners, taking outside jobs, demanding paychecks, marrying civilians, ignoring assignments, failing assignments, trying to leave- they were both fucking up and breaking the rules. And allowing any villain to fail, and to break the rules, set a bad precedent among all the villains. This assignment was a test for both agents, and they would either succeed, or die. They would either learn to follow the rules, or die.
It was that simple.
ns3.148.194.168da2
