A plotted starter for @sionismask
‘No one of importance’ - that’s what Samuel had been told when he’d been handed the dossier and ushered away like an obedient blood hound. That however, seemed merely to be Roman’s assessment of the target, rather than a reflection of the man’s actual standing – most people would consider the Assistant Mayor of Gotham to be someone of relative importance. In this case, ‘no one of importance’ seemingly only means that he is not someone Sionis sees the need to deal with personally, that ‘personal’ touch usually being something horrifically violent and prolonged, at least in Sam’s experience anyway. The Assistant Mayor’s death is not intended to send a message, it seems, nor to shock and horrify the Gotham press, no; this is merely ‘pest control’ and presumably that’s why Samuel’s been sent; because he’s quick, efficient and discreet and more importantly, knows not to ask too many questions.
In hindsight, he probably should have asked some questions at least, because he was not prepared for the man to be travelling in an armoured car with armed escorts – a sign that his target had perhaps been alerted to his precarious position, prior to Samuel’s arrival. A block of C4 and an entire clip of saboted light armor penetrator bullets later and the job was done, but Samuel has not, on this occasion, escaped unscathed and by the time he returns to ’The Black Mask Club’, he is already beginning to bleed through his bandages.
Quickly moving into the restroom, Sam attempts to clean himself up, force of habit really; he likes to look his best around Roman, and knows that blood stains are the best way of making it look like the job went bad and while it certainly didn’t go according to plan, it is complete. In truth, he hates himself for seeking a pat of the back for a job well done, but the impulse is there, he can’t deny it; the need to be considered a valued part of Sionis’ operation. He may not be Roman’s right hand man, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t set his sights on the position in some regard, though there remains a part of him that worries that while he definitely has the loyalty required, he may not possess the pre-requisite sadism.
Adjusting his shirt collar in the mirror, Samuel exits the restroom and moves through the club, ascending the stairs towards Roman’s office. Once inside, he puts down his duffle bag of explosives and weapons, removes his leather gloves and spreads an array of photographs across the crime boss’ desk. The photos, shot in high resolution colour, show, in visceral detail, the grisly, gory sight of so much death, spread across the stained, smoking tarmac. Beside the chassis of a burnt-out Mercedes, lies what is left of the Assistant Mayor, propped up against the car, his burned face clearly cleaned to allow for a positive identification by Sionis.
Sitting down, Samuel tugs at the fresh bandage around his wrist; he’s already beginning to bleed through it.
“Planned to make it quick, bullet through the brain, but he was prepared, well armed and well protected, this was the best I could do, given the circumstances, Roman.”
