The Wanker Job
{ Late to the landing party. Fashionably late. }
{ Contains mentions of death, masturbation and a lil sadism. }
XII
An old man with a big, bushy beard drags a large sack across a dimly lit living room. It was the light coming from the lamp posts outside that brought any semblance of space other than darkness. While he appears to be thin in appearance, the weight of the sack proves to be a conquered field. That is, until he approached the window. The one behind a mounted spyglass that had been pushed to the side and redirected. Now, a finely crafted silk cloth draped over it's length, displaying the sewn figures of trees and white rose gardens. The scenery takes a second breath of life when it reveals fauna among the flora. Two in particular jump out due to it's folded edges and positioning. That of a scorpion. It stung the nearby rat.
The balding head shook, ruffling the simple brown robes as he kept pulling and tugging with a strained huff until he reached the window. There, the sack was positioned against the wall much like one would sit on the floor and with one's back against it. A gloved hand rose to the bushy, brown and fuzzy curls running down his chin. The old man with withered green eyes then moved the edge of the curtain aside.
He glanced to the street down below, spotting a passing Stormwind City guard with a long, black ponytail peaking out from the back of his helmet. The guard passed, and four minutes and thirty seconds later, the curtains were pushed all the way open. Same as the window. It was now that the sack's weight almost got the best of him --- but after a few more pulls and adjustments, half of the sack hung out of the open window.
And then it was dropped. The sack fell from the four story building and bounced on the street below with a gruesome thud and a few cracks. The old man then looked to the corner, towards the tunnel leading to the canals, and there he found another Stormwind City guard rounding the corner. This one lacked a ponytail but had an intense and sharp gray stare through the slit of his helmet.
Without a word, the dutiful guard picked up the sack from the ground and moved to the cart waiting behind a line of barrels. When his capable hands were free again, sack loaded on to the hand pulled cart that already housed several bags of potatoes, the guard turned around and swept over the street with his gaze, watching for others.
IV
Margharette sits up on a tree in a corner of the Dwarven District. Potent Shadows conceal her form from view. In the darkness of night, this was innately strengthened, for it meant she could pull from her surroundings with more ease, seamlessly blending into the textured bark and fluttering leaves. A group of four men swayed their way across the street, getting louder and louder with their boisterous levels of drunkenness. They are coming from the direction of a nearby tavern. Marge makes a note f their passing it on her journal, marking it as a rogue element to be careful of.
Just as they entered the tunnel on the other end of the street, the stealthy gatherer turned to the tall building. From a window on the fourth story, a man took a peek through his spyglass. A small line was traced near the bottom corner of her page, joining a dozen more already there.
The sound of a moving cart pulled her attention away soon after. It shifted back to the ground. A man was dragging a loaded hand-cart. They appeared to be potato sacks. Margharette made a note of this as well. It wasn't long before the flicker of a candle went out inside the target's apartment. She lingered in place and about forty minutes later, a guard with a long, black ponytail rounded the corner, exiting the tunnel. Another line was drawn. This one on the top corner. He made his round and took a right after moving past the building. Five minutes later, another uniformed guard came from the same tunnel. But unlike the one before, this one turned left after the right. His gaze was tired and harsh with no discerning hairstyle. Marge wrote down a name and continued to watch, knowing those gray eyes anywhere.
Several more guards passed, but none that she could write names for. With dawn fast approaching, Margharette climbed down from the tree and began her way home, hoping to make it before the sun did. Where she had once been nesting, a cat now nested.
I
There was a shimmer near a tree on a corner of the Dwarven District. It was early morning. Almost still night. Cloaked in Shadows and with a big bag of snacks and other goodies, Margharette climbed said tree. She found what would become her nest for the next two to three days. It could go no further than the fourth, or else she'd miss her ride at dawn on the fifth. Her destination had a name, but the woman only hoped for four words in specific. In sequence and all together.
'A whole new world~'
Once comfortable, Margharette pulled a journal from her bag. A pencil soon followed. Between the branches and leaves high in the air, she began to take notes about the area. Numbers in place of letters encrypted her information with a cipher she knew by heart. Now, it was used to notate the four story building across from her. To it's left, the road led to the tavern, fountain, bank and auction house. To the right, the short tunnel leading to the canals, towards the docks.
She was too high to be stumbled into by passing folk and too concealed to be seen. The added limbs and subsequent flora was a bonus. And as the city began to wake, she leaned back and watch the day go by. As it progressed, lines appeared on the corners of her pages. She was counting how many times a particular thing was seen. On the bottom corner, the count of how many times her target looked through his window. At the top, the count of how many guards passed by. And when the bulgy-eyed, brown haired target stepped outside and headed to the nearby tavern right at lunch time, Margharette took note of this too.
VII
A chunky man dragging a cart loaded with potato sacks along the street reeked of fish. His beard was trimmed and his hair wildly curly. A dirty blonde for a dirty man. Though he was easy to mistake as big and round, strong muscles lay under the tanned skin that almost hid his freckles. It was for this very reason that pulling the cart was childsplay to him. Potatoes bounced in their sacks, space allowing for more if provided. He pushed his curls aside after he reached his destination, the cart being placed behind a line of barrels along the edge of the street in the Dwarven District. Across from the four story building at the corner. A little more pushing and a grunt later and the fisherman sighed with satisfaction and made his way through the tunnel, unaware that Margharette was watching from the top of a tree.
Twenty minutes later, and a wrinkled, lanky man exited the building. He was heading for the tavern around suppertime as expected. Knowing he would return in an hour or so, Margharette looked over the street and calculated her best route considering the innocents still going about their business. A second after that, she climbed down and made her way across, keeping a sharp focus on the trick keeping her form concealed. Marge reached her destination and stood to the side before she slowly began to open the building's front door. She peeked into it through the inch wide gap. So far, the coast was clear. The door creaked some when she widened the gap by several more inches. Just enough to let her slither in. Once inside, Marge began to make her way up the dimly lit stairway.
The third floor proved to be more difficult than the first and the second. There, an agitated and wide man was stomping his way out of his apartment and heading down the stairs. Unable to get to the spacious corner on time, Margharette held her breath and pressed her back against the wall. With one foot on one step and the other on the one beneath it, she had to improvise and strike a rather awkward pose in order to flatten herself. Hopefully, it would be enough to give the angry man the room he needed to make it out without discovering the snake in the garden.
He did, but not without pausing several steps down the road and rubbing his hairy right arm. Goosebumps riddled his skin. And while he did turn to look, the man found nothing and promptly took off, muttering something about a warm drink and a wench. The moment he finally turned to walk away, Margharette resumed her climb. Within seconds, she stood at her target's front door. A handle tool kit was fished from one of her back pockets, her form shimmering when she began to pick the lock. The fateful click of the passage opening made Marge take a deep and encouraging breath. She glanced over her shoulders and listened to the stairs. Nothing. The toolkit was put away and there was another glimmer on her darkened form. An empty and large sack cracked into view before it was flung forward, door opened with a light nudge of her boot.
Margharette readied herself for the triggering of boobytraps, but there was only the silent thud of the balled up bag landing on the floor. Her head poked inside and studied the darkening room from under the frame. Nobody there. No sounds. No barking dogs. It was empty. A sigh of relief cut the tension holding her body in place and allowed her to step inside when the door was closed and locked behind her. Her concealment then began to falter, reigns pulled back tightly.
She was revealed with a long braid tucked into her black shirt and sleeveless vest. Pants just as dark dressed the lower half. Trusted and simple black boots matches the rest of the ordinary and monochromatic ensemble. Margharette picked up the bag from the floor. Filtered moonlight caught a small edge of the simple kitchen knife clipped to her belt, right over looped rope. On the other side, a six short revolver securely fastened to a holster.
Margharette began to look around the home, rounding the corners and doors with care. The living room and kitchen exposed very little. Shelves were not stocked with food. By the window facing the shop across. a mounted spyglass sat. It was a pinned drawing that brought her attention to the right. She curiously approached, finding three stick figures. A big one and two smaller ones. The latter had dresses drawn over their little stick bodies. One blue and one pink, respectively.
Then came her study of an office where several plans, scrolls and books were housed. Through a quick search, Marge was able to pick up on common themes and topics such as blacksmithing. Weapon design and construction. Then there were the books. While some were spiritual, a lot consisted of animals. Particularly, rats.
Gloved hands traced a line along one of the spines before she exited the office and made her way to the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary there. And so she moved to the bedroom. Ordinary as well. And mostly barren. A table with some folded sheets on it. A chest on the foot of the bed and then there was the bed itself. Margharette tried to open the chest, happily surprised to find it unlocked. Inside, several changes of clothing and a weapon hid. She picked it up, recognizing it was loaded, and returned it to it's hiding spot.
Margharette then rolled the empty sacrificial sack and crawled under the bed. It was used as a pillow after she drew her knife and settled in for the long wait. Keeping track of time did not come as difficult as finding a happy thought with which to occupy her mind and maintain sanity during the upcoming hours of silence. But soon enough, Marge did just that.
V
Dawn was but twenty minutes away when Margharette quietly entered her seaside cabin on top of a rolling hill. The door was closed and locked behind her before she tip-toed any further. Purple, blue and golden clothing made up her casual ensemble. By the door, a staff with a crown of books, pages and runes floated. The sound of a page flipping made her pause halfway across the room. Margharette stared at it --- and somehow, she felt it stare right back. But when it settled down, Marge turned her narrowed gaze away and focused on making it to the orc sized mirror beside her best, where someone slept.
The night clung to the cabin, obscuring most features from view. But what Margharette did see was the slumbering body of a Kaldorei with silver hair. A deep breath replaced a shot of rum in her quest for courage, feet quietly shuffling in order to bring her closer to the mirror. Still, the man did not seem to wake. An ungloved and scarred hand rose and ran a line over the top of the mirror's frame. Several clicks ensued when she found and pressed the hidden button.
And where she would have heard the sound of stone grating against stone, there was only silence. A quiet and practical modification now that her home was being shared. Tonight was it's final test. The Kaldorei rolled over after the clocks, making Margharette freeze and hold her breath with anticipation as she readied to open the door.
With a snore, the silver haired and shirtless man rolled some more, but he did not appear to wake. Margharette counted to ten in her head before daring to move again. She was convinced that he was fully awake but respecting her privacy. The door was opened and she ventured into her lightless office. Once she began to walk down the stairs, she started to count her steps instead.
Eight steps later, she stood in front of her desk, the flicker of a lighter exposing mahogany wood. A lamp was brought to life, revealing neatly stacked files, books and a few small, closed boxes. Margharette shook the lighter away and carried the lamp to the other side of the room. It was there that the Red Sea splashed ashore. A map of the city and it's surroundings, but not the geographical type. It was here that Marge mapped it's people. The players of the game called Life and Death/ But most importantly, how they all connected. That was where the red string came in handy. Some threads were thicker than others. Some were so far out, they were dots. Standing alone. Rogue elements.
Margharette stared at the wall, each nail holding the strings labeled with either a picture, a sketch, names or whatever she could use to identify them. Having gathered her information for the upcoming job, she began to plot. The map provided an easy to follow visualization in order to better predict how far the ripples would travel. What it was likely to rattle. What it may consume. The lamp was placed on a table after a thorough and up close inspection of the board which spilled over to the walls and ceiling.
A brief glance to the dark stairs over her shoulder later, Marge pulled a slim journal from one of her vest's huge side pockets and began to run over her list of possible inventory. Her attention evenly divided between this and the Red Sea. Outside, the first rays of light stroked over the edges of the sky.
Margharette weighed her pros and cons of having to go into it without another night of recon, the debate not lasting for as long as anticipated. She had already agreed to take the job. Once the word was given, it could not be easily taken back. Now, she was on a shorter time limit than the fortnight provided. The woman had a ride to catch if she was going to keep all of her employers happy. Two weeks became four days.
Satisfied with her decision, Margharette placed her journal on the desk and blew out the lamp. The stairs did not feel as dark anymore, but the cabin was still shielded from direct contact. The first step into ascension was taken, head dragging along with the rest of her tired form. Not enough coffee and too much thinking was likely the cause. But it was on her last step that Margharette received a heavy dose of wake-the-fuck-up.
There were long, thick and elvens legs in the way. Her gaze snapped up, finding the brilliant glow of Uzothan's stare bearing down on her. The fright brought a surge of adrenaline strong enough to make her gasp in surprise. Her reaction was met with a smug grin. No words were said. Margharette was quickly swept off her feet and carried into the bed where she bounced in place, secured to the pillow by a strong but gentle hold. A few tickles and giggles later, and she finally closed her eyes, welcoming a sweet slumber.
VIII
Margharette opened her eyes with disbelief, finding nothing but the darkness of night to greet her. There was also the matter of her current position to take into account. Under a bed and holding a knife. She had been readying to spring when a shake and a rump unnerved her paranoid senses. When moans and groans followed, Marge rolled her eyes and bit her tongue.
Laughter threatened to give away her position. It was why she bit down harder the longer it went on for. Margharette found the situation far more humorous than she should. Hilariously so. Not because she thought he sounded awkward. She didn't. The woman also didn't find it offensive either. Just something people did for pleasure -- and pleasure was nothing to be ashamed of.
It was morbid humor and the test of patience that greatly amused her. The clock had been ticking ever since she broke into this apartment. And now, it appeared she might have to pick up the slack for a few minutes. That much, Margharette was certain she could do. It was with this confidence that Marge forced her humor to disperse and waited for him to finish. It would be his last after all. Her grip on the knife loosened some as she played a song in her head. Patiently, she made it through six minutes and twenty nine seconds of grunts and shakes from the bed above.
By the seventh minute, Margharette had already sharpened her gaze and began her silent slithering to the surface. He had returned to a relaxed position after cleaning up. And though she gave him a moment to relish the bliss, she was now intent on ruining it. The woman lingered over the side of the bed after making her way out. Blue eyes swept over it's surface.
Face up. Arms on sides. Eyes closed.
That train of thought made her coil before she sprung into action, jumping over the bed and pinning the man in place. Her knees held his arms down by the wrists, ass in the air like she just didn't care. A hand sank over his mouth, silencing the startled prey. It also helped to support her weight. The other held the knife to his throat, reinforcing her goal -- which was to subdue him. "Hello there!" Margharette whispered with enthusiasm, happily staring at the horrified man.
X
Knock. Knock. Knock.
BAM. BAM.
Margharette narrowed her gaze, staring down at a sobbing man with bulging eyes. Steve. His name was Steve. That much she had learned. Now, she'd learn if he would try to break free or remain under her command for a little while longer. There was an angry man beating on the door and he was intent on coming home.
"Let me in, you treacherous wench!" He billowed through the door, knuckles rasping on the door in between beatings. Marge stared Steve down. Steve was staring back, a snot bubble blooming. It burst soon after, as if struck by the sound of the angry drunk trying to break down the door. She sighed with annoyance, still counting down the minutes until showtime. It wasn't the knife that she gripped tightly, but the pillow beside his head.
"You will shoo him away and not say a damn thing, understood?" To press her point further, Margharette leaned down until the tip of her nose grazed his. Another tip also prodded him. It was the end of the kitchen knife sinking into the small cut on the side of his neck. Steve whimpered his way through a nod. Marge ten used the pillow to clean and wipe away the tears from his face rather than kill him with it. A leg swung over before Marge dragged him out of bed by the arm.
The knife was now pressed on the crook between the arm and the shoulder -- right up his armpit. Margharette led him to the rocking front door, positioning herself behind it. A foot was firmly placed, three inches behind it, meant to stop the door from opening any further than that. "Nice and easy. Deep breath." She quietly whispered to Steve before her free leg slid back, body soon following. Half-extended arms held the man in place.
"You have the wrong floor again, Mikael." Steve nervously stuttered after opening the door. Drunk Mikael swayed back but recovered, shaking his head with disbelief. "Youuuu... are no wench..." Mikael slurred, attempting to focus his blurred vision.
"ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH MY WIFE?!" Mikael roared, wobbling forward and using the door and the frame to catch himself. Slobber ran down his shaven chin. Margharette grit her teeth as she fought to hold her ground under the growing weight of the intoxicated neighbor.
"Mikael, your wife is downstairs. Where you live." Steve pressed his point harder, big eyes rolling to his side in hopes of calling for help. Mikael stared at the space around him, trying to decide which Steve was the real one amongst the three or four. His response came in the form of a loud and stinky belch. The scent of old bear and cheese filled the doorway. Margharette's nose wrinkled, same as Steve's . "Ah. Yeh. We toss pig tomorrow." were Mikael's following words before he turned and began to stumble his way home. Marge nudged her head to the side, giving Steve's arm a quick squeeze. The boot acting as a door stopper began to retreat when the man began to close the door. And that was when everything almost fell apart. Again.
Margharette felt the sting of his elbow striking across her cheek. It wasn't enough to make her topple, but she wobbled, with only one foot still on the floor. Her head turned, the knife held against his armpit sliding to the side by a few inches. Steve, in his glorious moment of courage, used this brief window of opportunity and followed up with a hard punch to her side, right over the ribs.
The knife fell to the floor just as Marge stumbled back. Steve pushed past her, the wave of courage crashing and stinging his eyes with panicked tears again. His punching had twitched with pain. He began to make his way to the bedroom, but Margharette was soon quick on his heels, having been able to shake off the stun. There was a gun in that room, and letting him reach said gun was going to be very bad news for her -- or so Marge reasoned. She now endured the pain, reaching for the rope clipped to her belt and unrolling it. Agile feet brought her to her destination. Steve made it all the way to the bedroom's doorway when looping rope wrapped around his neck.
Opposite ends were held with either hand as she noosed the man and pulled back. Hard. Steve's dream of reaching his weapon before she reached him was shattered. A shocked and breathless grunt burst when he took a step back, hands reaching for the rope. But Margharette only tightened her grip and turned around. The rope was given a bit of slack, giving Steve another glimpse of a better tomorrow. One were he was still alive. A glint caught in his eye as he stepped forward, seeking escape from the noose. It was a glint Margharette was happy to snuff out by getting down to one knee and fiercely pulling on the rope again.
Steve stumbled, falling right on the crouched and anchored Margharette with his back pressed against her own. Feet flailed but never regained their footing. The rope had been twisted once on the back of his neck, opposite ends extending over her shoulders and pulled towards the floor.
Margharette continued to twist and pull, big and blue eyes staring at the floor intently. Toes curled in her boots as the man began to spasm, desperately gasping for air. She kept her body in it's defensive position even though she was being nothing other than offensive. This was to keep her limbs away from his reaching and flailing own by staying out of their range. Marge weathered the tempest coming from the man who so dearly wanted to live. Her eyes closed when a tingling sensation ran along her spine. Then another. One by one, they turned into two, spreading across her form with both potency and speed. Everything bounced and echoed under her skin. The heavy boom of Shadows was the drop of a sick and twisted beat.
And then came the last breath. It connected the dozens of bouncing thrills and unified them under a single banner.
Peace.
For now the threat had been eliminated. Victory forged through conquest. Silence blanketed the soul as it's hymn. Steve's arms lost their fighting spirit before, but now they loosely fell over his sides. Margharette held her position for a little while longer. She reached into her vest after maneuvering the two ends of the rope over one of her shoulders, keeping a hold with her other hand. A chained pocket watch was pulled from a pocket, studied with slight worry.
However, it was revealed that she still had ten minutes until she could make like a tree and leave. Steve was coming along for the ride. Margharette allowed herself twenty more seconds of peace and bliss before her mind drifted into dark and dangerous places.
III
Margharette sat on her kitchen table. Sunrise was still a couple of hours away, but the seaside cabin and it's occupants were wide awake. A steaming cup of coffee in a saucer sat near a potted cactus before her, accompanied by some moonberries. A couple of mangoes and some half eaten pastries. She had woken up from a nightmare, soothed by Uzothan's warm embrace.They came before any job of this nature.
Fears and worries were discussed, for Margharette could not shake off the nagging sensation that something was off. The origin could not be discerned, but she managed to narrow down the suspects. Between her target, Mister Reigns and her upcoming voyage, Marge began to imagine possible ends to possible means with possible purposes. One after the other, she chased down every train of thought until it's destination was made clear.
Now, she mulled over said thoughts while the Kaldorei mauled his breakfast. Margharette watched him with a smile, taking a sip and a bite between changes of imaginary scenery. She made an important note of the fact that she has yet another reason to succeed in her dangerous endeavors.
Eventually, her gaze drifted to the silk cloth laying on the other side of the kitchen table. Candlelight revealed the sewn scenery, but her gaze focused on the owl perched on the leafy tree, just above the rat being stung.
XI
Margharette sought to complete one of the objectives on the list, and with only about six minutes to spare, the woman was quick about it. The mounted spyglass was turned on it's side, no longer targeting the building across. A gloved hand reached deeply into her vest. Carefully, a folded piece of silk cloth was drawn. It was unfolded, revealing the picturesque scene and placed over the long body of the spyglass. The scorpion stinging the rat was centered with the point of the glass' mount, sides folded back in order to bring the scene to the forefront. With a sigh of relief, Margharette took a step back and studied her work before she hastily took off again.
The empty sack still hiding under the bed was rescued. Margharette also took one of Steve's unused sheets along. But it wasn't until the bed was straightened and the would-be lethal weapon fluffed that she exited the bedroom and dashed across the living room to the office, having hopped over the corpse yet again.
While the large sack had been dropped next to the man formerly known as alive, the clean sheet was taken with her to the small office. There, she tied it's corners with knots, leaving but one undone and creating a whole new bag for a whole new load. It served as storage for her stolen goods. Tonight, the merchandise was papers, scrolls, blueprints and books. As many as she could fit in there. The room looked vastly more barren by the time she was finished with it. The makeshift bag was a lot heavier now.
Margharette tied the final corner and dashed to the living room. There, she collected her knife and holstered back to her side. The noose was also uncurled from the corpse's neck, joining the weapon by her side. Marge ripped the stick figure drawing from the wall, stuffing it into one of her pockets. It was the empty sack that gained her attention next. She had a bit of difficulty at first, but her persistence paid off when she managed to bag Steve. The sack was tight around his form but still had enough room at the top to be closed by it's built in heavy string. A final shake was given to settle the body in place before she straightened her form and huffed.
Margharette looked at her pocket watch again. With only a minute to spare, she began to focus on her weaving skills. More specifically, her recent ventures into magics regarding illusions. Some of it was already there. The rest, she had to navigate her way through. Thankfully, her scuffle had not taken her out of the race just yet. Stored energy was drawn from the beautiful purple stoned necklace hiding under her shirt, fueling the spell-weaving at work. Within moments, Margharette's slender form began to melt into another. One with wrinkled skin, a bushy beard and simple brown robes.
VI
Margharette smiled as she looked through one of the side facing windows in a small and humble apartment near the corner of Old Town, facing the watchtower protected by the canals. A young mother with bright, red curls sat under a tree nudged between stones. She was playing a round of peek-a-boo. The child was pleased with every reveal, but when the mother dramatically displayed her fright after the child attempted to mimic her movements, the giggling took a bouncy and infectious turn.
"Miss Grimwald! It's good to see you again!" The frail voice from her side made Margharette turn away from the serene scene, only to find another. Her smile widened. "Mrs. Jackson. I see you are as ready as ever." And she was. The elder woman leaning on a cane was dressed to impress. An equally old garment adorned her short and hunched figure with faded shades of green and blue. The details along the seams had suffered time's passing, but the intricate patterns of braids were as tightly woven as they day they were crafted.”Apologies for letting myself in. I didn’t want to make you walk more than you have to.” Marge added. Blushed reds and puns colored the old woman's face. "Oh, thank you, dear. Uh. Please -- sit!"
Marge nodded and guided the old woman to the kitchen table, acting as her second cane. She was helped into her seat as a question was posed. "How is Frank?" Mrs. Jackson asked with a wrinkle of her nose. The cane was leaned against the table. "A bit temperamental these days -- but I am hopeful for a bloom very soon." Margharette calmly responded as she refilled the half empty glass of water on the table with a nearby pitches. Beside it, a piece of cloth Mrs. Jackson had been sewing a pattern into, interrupted by the Professional's visit.
"That's good. Temperamental is good." Mrs. Jackson replied before picking up her needle and thread. Margharette placed the pitcher on the table close to the old woman and nodded. "Agreed, though I hope Jay doesn't share this trait in a couple of moments. I need to talk to him." Marge responded with an apologetic smile.
"Is he in trouble again?" The old woman with bright white curls asked with worry.
"No. No. None at all. I promise to make it brief." Margharette softly answered, placing her hands over her chest, palms pressed against each other in a pleading manner.
Mrs. Jackson nodded and offered the woman a smile. Margharette dipped her head with respect and thanked the old woman before she made her way out of the kitchen and into the short hall. Out of three doors, Marge picked the first to the right. There was no knock. Only the silent opening and closing of said door.
Once inside, Margharette made her way to the small bed on which a handsome man of dark brown hair lay asleep. Piece of armor neatly sat by the wall, over tables and hooks. The Stormwind City tabard was draped over the back of a chair. Marge sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the pale man's shoulder and giving it a gentle shake. "Jaybird~ Wake up~" she half sang in a gentle, quiet voice.
A cute, button nose wiggled as arms began to stretch. A yawn and a roll later, Jay opened his eyes and focused on the figure looming over him. When Margharette's features finally registered, the naked man jumped back with a startle, pulling his blanket over his chest and clutching it tightly. "M-Miss Grimwald." he breathlessly exclaimed, the treble of fear rocking his shoulders. "What's going on? Is Mamaw.." Jay's words trailed off, gaze looking over the room with worry.
"Mamaw is fine. She is in the kitchen, sewing. Everything else is as it should be. Settle down. I am here to talk, not to collect." Margharette calmly explained, placing a hand on the man's shoulder and guiding back to the comfort of his pillow. Jay hesitated to go along at first, staring at the woman with panicked eyes. They soon began to soften as yet another yawn managed to interrupt the thrill. Jay nodded and exhaled with slight relief. "Thank you, Jay. Now. I understand you work the night shift now and require sleep during the day, so I will try to keep it brief. At some point in your shift, tomorrow night, not tonight..."
Margharette fished a folded piece of paper from her breast pocket and placed it over his covered stomach. "... at precisely the time and place it says there, someone is going to drop a bag from a building. I need you to pick up that sack and put it on a cart behind the barrels. You'll know them when you see them." Marge now dug into her pant's pocket, three pieces of gold joining the piece of paper over the sheets.
"Three more will be given upon completion by the person. And I will send over a few dresses for Mrs. Jackson. Her visits to the clinic have been most pleasant -- yet we cannot escape from natural causes. But you and I can certainly make her last days pleasant and comfortable." Margharette smiled brightly, head tilting to the side and hands folded over crossed knees. Jay looked between the items given and the patiently waiting woman. A few moments later, he nodded. "How bad is this one?" Jay asked with innocent curiosity.
Margharette chuckled softly. "He's a real wanker." She happily lied, unaware of how badly these words would come back to bite her.
XIII
The big, bushy beard ruffled in the wake of a cool, night breeze. After tossing the sack over the window and giving the apartment a quick glance, the brown robed old man climbed out the window and closed it behind him. A bit difficult to perform while carrying a sack of stolen goods, but after a bit of teetering, it was done. His descent was fast, focused on letting gravity do most of the work by finding flat and wide enough surfaces on which to gracefully land. A few risky moves later, and the old man finally landed on firm ground. The sheet-turned-bag over his shoulder was moved aside. It was almost dragged as he made his way across the street and to the awaiting guard.
Uniformed Jay held out his hand, shifting uncomfortable in place. Dull, green eyes locked on the guard's own for a brief moment before the surprise bag was thrown into the cart, landing over the top half of the larger sack. The old man reached into his robes carefully, or else the robes would shimmer and Margharette would give herself away. But the spell endured the light turbulence.
A frail, gloved hand reached forward, placing three gold coils in Jay's gauntlet. The patrolman nodded and wordlessly carried on with the rest of his route. And so did the old man. Once the body in a sack was mostly hidden beneath smaller sacks of potatoes, he gripped the front facing handles of the cart and began to make his way around the barrels. The brown robed form was slouched and slow paced. He made his way into the tunnel leading to the exit route. At the other end, another appeared. It was yet another old man. He was missing his left arm. And as he walked past, the sad and desperate expression in his eyes caught her breath. Still, the man with the cart moved along with his business.
II
The chatter of leaves dancing in the wind sent a pleasant chill down Margharette's back. She was nesting on a tree, watching the corner of the Dwarven District with interest. But said interest diverted to the two books over her lap during the paused in flow. Two slim journals were there. One blue and the other leather bound. Though she was concealed from the world, a cat laid and purred by her resting feet.
While counting passerby's, she also ran over dirty numbers. The Hudson Shipping Company made it's fortune in both the legal and the illegal kind of trade. It was part of her job description to keep the latter's books balanced -- and so she did. Margharette always did enjoy her work more when performed outside of her office. Everything was neatly organized and coded. A few words for drugs. Others for weapons. Then there was everything in between. Before and after. These seemed to be no limits so long as it could be fit into a crate and shipped. That she could work for more than one person simultaneously was an opportunity she was not about to slack on.
On the corner of the leather journal, Margharette struck a short line when her target took yet another peek through the window when he returned home after dining at the nearby tavern. Beneath her, two people approached the planter surrounding her nest. It wasn't until the focal point of her spying retreated that she turned to investigate. An old man with a missing arm was helping a younger but wounded man make it to the corner of the planter where he was then seated.
The young man's head was mostly bandaged. Only one half of his angular face was visible. He had one crutch. The old man had been using his only arm to act as the second. Injuries appeared to be numerous, but it was his incoherent mumbling that struck her the hardest. Something about the world breaking. Though the old man sought to calm his bewildered son, nothing he did or said could combat the broken state of the wounded soldier.
Margharette's heart sank, touched by the gravity of the situation. She paused her work, flooded by question. Nonsensical, trivial and deep queries all came together, igniting the flame of a moral debate. These came more often than she cared to admit. Marge heard the young man's name, writing it on the leather journal. After the old man caught his breath again, he guided the blinded soldier to his feet and made their way down the street. She returned to the blue book, finishing the last page and carrying on with the rest of her work.
IX
Margharette pinned an ugly as sin man down on the bed, holding a good old fashioned kitchen knife against his throat. The kind that could be found in any ordinary home. Her knees kept his hands from moving. "Shhssh. There, there..." Marge whispered in a cool and sweet tone. The gloved hand over his mouth relieved some of the pressure but did not relinquished it's oppressive stance in full. Blue eyes were intently bearing down on his matching own, demanding his full and undivided attention.
"I am going to move my hand away and you are going to take a deep breath. There will be no pointless screaming." She continued before pressing the tip of her knife against the side of the man's neck. The flat end for the most part. A detail carefully hidden from his view with a downward tilt of the weapon. Margharette wasn't about to complicate her life with a heavy mess. "You are just going to breathe and answer some questions. Nod if you understand."
His expression wrinkled even through the shaky nod. The man's fear was palatable, forcing her to swallow the lump in her throat. Sinister Shadows rippled across and beyond her form in protest of this submission.
"Thank you. Once you are ready, tell me your name." Marge calmly whispered, uncovering his mouth and moving her hand to the pillow beneath his head. He did as instructed, taking a deep breath and finding his voice.
"S-Steve." He nervously whispered.
"Steve~" she repeated. "Alright then. Steve. I am Margharette, and my first question is, why are you spying on Mister Reigns?"
"I don't know that guy!" Steve immediately replied, earning a raised brow.
His promptness was met with a harsh shake. The knife pressed harder, free hand reaching for the top of his head in order to grab hold of his hair and rough him up some. "The Kul tiran across the street. The one that sits in the room your spyglass points at, Steve. Why were you watching?" Margharette's untroubled tone was quite the jump from her threatening movements, hair pulled further back towards the end.
Steve began to sob, choking on his own watering eyes. He pleaded for her to stop. Margharette's high-in-the-air ass shook a bit when his arms began to move, but so far, her pin held.
"Please, don't! I have a family. I'm all my little girls have left!" Steve cried, actual tears streaming down reddened cheeks.
Margharette recalled the drawing nailed to the wall in his living room. Two dresses. One blue. One pink. And in between, a lone, tall stick man. She took a deep breath through her nose and let go of his hair, debating on how hard to push him and by which mean. The pillow was pulled out from under him, held beside his flattered head. Knife was lifted as well, showing him the obvious turn of the blade. Moonlight caught the metal and helped it reflect an image. That of a snot bubble growing over half of his nose. But now, it was clearly the sharp edge that pressed against his neck, nicking the skin by the tip by centimeter but exposing the red inside. Steve squirmed. Marge smiled. And outside, a cat watched the street from the top of a roof.
"Now, now, Steve. It is a simple question. And I will give you one last chance. Why were you spying on Reigns?" Margharette whispered after a brief but calm mental debate. "If you tell me, this can finally be over and we can all go home." She added with her earlier dash of sweetness in her tone. The hope was to give him hope and persuade him to speak. An empty promise given with a dead stare, for the decision had already been made.
Steve sniffled, the bubble momentarily collapsing before it was given another breath of life. "I-I was paid to. I don't know their names, but they paid me to watch and report. Please! I don't know anything more." He pleaded yet again.
Margharette stared at him for thoughtful moments, the stench of lies nowhere to be found in his words. They also evened the field a little. This man was only doing his job and now, she'd do hers. Marge was about to begin lifting her weapon of choice, a smothering pillow, when there was a clumsy bang on the front door.
XIV
Margharette sat by a lit lamp hanging from a pole, dressed in a purple shirt covered by a black and blue vest. Pants and boots completed the casual ensemble. The pole was part of the small fishing vessel sailing hours away from the city, far beyond it's horizon. She was trying to make sense of one of the weapon designs found in Steve's office, turning it this way and that way but nagged by a flaw she could not point at. In the dark and turbulent waters before her, sharks feasted on a meal.
"Why didn't you burn this one?" Thomas, the thirty something year old with dirty blonde hair asked. This was his boat. A bulky boat for a bulky man. The day previous, after visiting a guard, Margharette paid Thomas a visit as well. It wasn't the first time nor was it the last. But the man had a point. It was unusual not to dispose of a body in what they came to call Trash Island, a minute massing of dirt, sand and rock with a hidden burning pit.
"I've not the time. We have to meet with another ship in a couple of hours." Marge replied, placing the blueprint in a bag by her feet and reaching into a pocket. Once she lit a cigar and indulged in several puffs, the woman turned towards the water. She watched the splash and thrash of animals as they ripped. "This will be his final contribution. To feed a family since he could not feed his own." Margharette added with an amused tone.
"You're a monster." Thomas blurted, realizing the position he put himself in and quickly seeking to rectify it somehow. "Respectfully, Miss Grimwald."
Margharette's smile widened before she turned towards Thomas. "Yes. I am aware of what I am capable of. I am also aware that I enjoy morbid humor. But I promise, I'm still mostly human." She quipped with a teasing wink, taking another couple of puffs from her cigar and turning to watch the glory of mother nature for a little while longer, knowing that soon, she would be headed to an entirely different land where she could find herself in Steve's shoes.
Too many unknown pieces in unfamiliar territory. Her excitement coexisted with her fears, mingling and creating something new entirely. Something that could hardly be contained, but she managed. It wasn't until the sharks settled, leaving no recognizable pieces of Steve in this world that the pair sailed even further.
Margharette was off to discover a whole new world, hoping to bring quite a few valuable pieces back. Whether they were riches or less tangible valuables remained to be seen. She wondered what manner of folk she’d meet -- and what kinds of monsters.
____________________________________________
/cue music
{ To read story in chronological order, follow the roman numerals.}
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