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JUNE 30, 2015
When day surrendered night, dark washed over the city, and criminals got ready to strike, Zachary Thomas found himself strolling the streets in his unfashionable clothing. It had been two years since he tangled up in mafia business, cleaning after the bosses' mess, meaning, slaying people, torturing to obtain data, and even infiltrating other headquarters in order to bring them down from the inside. He was just a puppet for them, a disposable man whose demise would matter to no one, always sent straight into danger. It was an amazement to everyone he continued breathing.
It had become regular to roam around, offer his help to citizens before he was called to do the dirty task, but there were also nights in which he discreetly did some work of his own. Independently, he'd track down certain cases, following the main purpose he and his best friend had chosen, protecting those who cannot fight back, while forced to do crimes. Fortunately, the gang hadn't found out, he did an amazing job covering his tracks, making sure no one recognized his wannabe vigilante dress-up.
That cold night illuminated by a full moon and trillions of stars, his dark figure stood on the edge of yet another building. Blood dripped down his nose from the prior fight with a Japanese dealer, who did not know how to defend himself but surely throw a hook. Muscles still tired, some even pulling, the man did not give in to exhaustion, he rolled his shoulders and stretched. There was still time before the truck with a special delivery arrived at the factory used to cover up another organization's mob.
His hand trailed down his suit made out of fine leather and stretchy cloth to allow mobility to the joints. Fingers brushing his machine pistol as well as the bullets around it, he kept going downward, ending before his knee to snatch a dagger from its holster. As always, a mark was left behind, an emblem of two darts shaping a cross and a whip wrapping them together, scratched down onto the building's foundation, like many in the city.
Finishing the small art that identified his cause, a rare smirk pushed up one side of his lip. Every since the alarm clock went off that sunrise, things felt unusual, there was no logical reason, it simply appeared, things seemed to go extremely well. Serendipity would be the perfect word to characterize the last sixteen hours.
But destiny seemed to often turn the table even the slightest and manage to steal any optimistic feeling and replace it with melancholy. For one short second, it appeared that his muscles, his entire body, had ceased, losing his grip around the blade as well as his balance. The sharp object clinked loudly as it fell from the rooftop, covering groans that escaped his mouth as he fell to the ground, over his arm.
Worse yet, none of these occurrences caught the few guards', standing at the factory's doors, interest. There was another sound more intriguing nearing, wheels screeching and a motor speeding up. The somber alley was lightened up by two luminous vehicle headlights. Guns were raised in the direction of the nearing truck, giving Zachary a clear number on weapons he would have to fight to save the 'package'.
