Broker

A few weeks prior, Blackrazor sat beneath an overhang atop a building overlooking one of the many public lockers set up in the more tourist oriented parts of Hong Kong. The shadows bent around him, his body melding with the very surface of the building and leaving his presence all but nonexistent. To the sensitive, he would be no more present than a bird or a mouse. Now all he had to do was wait. Merged with the shadows, he could tell that his biological needs were suspended, his organs slowing down to a near stop as they didn’t exist in a physical sense. He could wait as long as he needed, the only obstacle being boredom.

Fortunately, he had been trained to endure boredom.

He sat in silence for days, watching the same set of lockers as the sun came and went, the shadows shifting but never leaving this comfortable spot where he could keep watch. People came and went, people stopped at the lockers and got their things, but none of them went for locker 137. He’d felt another presence monitoring the locker for about a day now and was marginally certain that this person was the one he’d been waiting for. Still, he maintained his attention, not until they went to the locker would his suspicions be confirmed.

He had sent a message using the Adjunct’s phone, asking for the Professor responsible for the region to come and receive a dead drop message as a form of meeting. It was standard practice in the society that the members of the organization didn’t meet directly and should only contact one another in case of an emergency. The message had been carefully composed to trigger a sense of alarm and cause for immediate action. His target would have to report it to a Tenured immediately, following a similar method. 

Every organization has a weakness, and this method of indirect communication is it.

Of course, the practice wasn’t handled without caution. The person sending the message was forbidden from sticking around to observe whether or not their message was received and the receiving party would investigate the area before picking it up just to make sure. Unfortunately, it didn’t take into consideration a person who could literally turn themselves into shadows. So eventually, after nearly four days of waiting, the Professor stepped out of a nearby cafe and walked over to the locker, taking out a key and opening number 137. Blackrazor moved immediately, his body liquifying and sliding through the shadows that were cast on the building, down to the street level.

He kept his eyes on the target, patient as the sun was still beating down on the street between his perch and the target. They’d move eventually, though, and that’s all he needed. As if urged to action by his thoughts, the woman whose face he’d never known turned around and made her way back to the cafe to continue her meal as if nothing had happened. He slid across the ground like a serpent, darting through connecting shadows until he slid comfortably into her own cast image. The only indication of his presence being a darkening of her own silhouette. More waiting, more patience. This was only the first step in a longer journey.

Eventually she left and went to an expensive hotel, apparently her cover was that she was a local journalist, the same as himself. He wasn’t surprised, she had been the one to give him the cover story and he had picked up photography as a result. Still, it was interesting actually seeing her for the first time. A pretty woman in her forties with a nondescript face and long brown hair. She looked British, her accent nonexistent though. Professor Crane, a seasoned poisoner and specialist in the art of the quiet, time sensitive death. She could ‘kill’ someone and be miles away before their heart actually stopped. Her poisons are undetectable, lethal, and carefully crafted for each kill. A master of her craft and still only a Professor in the hierarchy.

The Night Society didn’t just employ murderers like Crane. While she was a remarkable specialist, she was a dime a dozen when it came to the standard fare of the Society, death. There were, in fact, other ways to assassinate people besides killing them, as strange as it sounded. The Night Society employed financiers, professional hackers, world-class information brokers, and even genuine journalists. They could destroy an individuals financials, spread their secrets across the globe, destroy their digital information or spread their footprint, they could engage in a smear campaign that would make an American politician blush.

Professor Crane answered to one of these unique specialists, Tenure Smallfoot was, according to what he’d heard, actually a rather well known financier who had grown adept at using specialized tactics to completely undermine a company’s financial standing and destroy their credit. In a matter of hours an organization could disappear off the face of the earth, their assets seized and the owners left penniless. This monster was who Crane called as soon as she finished reading the note from the adjunct that Blackrazor had left sinking to the bottom of the South China Sea.

“We have a situation,” Crane said before pausing, “It’s too sensitive to elaborate. We need to meet, sir,” She paused again, “I understand, I will see you then.”

What was the news? Blackrazor had used himself as bait. The note said that he had faked his death and was working towards exposing the Society and that he was fully compromised.

Satisfied that the bait had been taken, he settled in. From what he overheard from Crane’s shadow, they would be meeting the next day. It was a little surprising but it showed just how seriously Smallfoot took his job as upper management, maybe it was his business background, it didn’t really matter. Blackrazor knew this kind of information had to be handed off directly with the higher ups and more importantly, only a Dean could give an execution order for a member of the Society. That meant the note would have to arrive at headquarters one way or another.

So he waited, clinging to her shadow for every second. When she showered, when she ate, when she slept, as she dressed the next morning, as she left and got into a car to head to a restaurant. He observed as she sat down at a table near a window, overlooking the city below. He listened to what she ordered and he felt a bit of tension uncoil within himself as another presence approached, sitting down across from her.

“Mister Caldwell, thanks for coming for this interview, sir,” Crane said.

“Please make it quick,” Smallfoot said.

“First, here’s a bit of an overview of the questions I’ll be asking,” She said quickly and handed the note over to him. There was a long pause and Blackrazor took a moment to shift from her shadow to his. 

“I’m afraid these questions are a bit outside my usual realm,” He felt Smallfoot check his watch, “More importantly I have a call. We’ll reschedule.”

“I understand sir,” Crane said and inclined her head.

With that, Blackrazor left with Smallfoot, the Tenured’s path taking him through the hotel where the restaurant was stationed before entering a limousine and departing for the airport. It only took an hour for the plane to get off the ground and the man to get comfortable enough to make a phonecall. Blackrazor didn’t know which Dean was the one that Smallfoot answered to, but it really didn’t matter. The Deans were the primary instructors for the Society and the core leadership, there was only one place they would be unless they were on assignment. Headquarters.

Blackrazor didn’t know where it was, but apparently it was rather out in the open which was appropriate given the secretive nature of the society. Maintaining a effective cover story was essential and something that he as Park Beyol failed at repeatedly. His desire to simply confront the next challenge and improve himself had led to his downfall, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t taken the time to learn the other tricks of the trade. He understood the how, more or less, of many of his peers. His craving for improvement pushing him to seek out avenues that knife play simply didn’t cover. 

Did he use them? Not really. He hadn’t found a challenge he couldn’t overcome with his knives. Until Sonya, until Mistress Ishtar. His overconfidence at the time and reckless mistakes notwithstanding, he hadn’t been a match regardless.

Today he was going to try something new.

“It’s me,” Smallfoot said as he got on the phone. Blackrazor slipped deeper into his shadow to listen in more carefully.

“Tenure Smallfoot, what is it?” The voice at the other end said.

“We have a problem, I’m coming for a meeting,” Smallfoot said.

“Elaborate.”

“Academic discharge, sir. Plagiarism.”

“I see, I will see you soon, do not delay.”

Blackrazor found the use of code phrases to be a bit amusing, though he supposed it made sense giving the thematic nature of the society. He assumed that academic discharge meant a request to have a fellow society member eliminated while plagiarism was the threat of divulging information about the society. Good to know for the future. He packed the information away and returned to a more stationary position in the man’s shadow, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

When he had completed his training, the society had taken him to a secret room and used various forms of brainwashing to wipe the information about where the headquarters was out of his mind. Only if he rose to the rank of Tenure would he be allowed to know and even be present at headquarters, by then, he would have been in a teaching role, creating a new generation of professional killers for the society to use.

A carefully curated, self perpetuating system controlled by the Headmaster. A man whom Blackrazor had only seen once. They hadn’t wiped the memories of his training, the torture, the endless days of misery as his spirit was broken down and rebuilt into something they could use. He remembered the man’s dispassionate eyes and wizened features. He was old, much older now, and cold as ice. He had watched Blackrazor kill a friend, ordered it, so Blackrazor could prove that he was worthy of continuing forward.

Now was his homecoming and he had every intention of skipping a few spots on the ladder.

The plane touched down and it didn’t take long for Blackrazor to figure out generally where they were. Switzerland. Secure, comfortable, safe, and largely kept at an arm's length from international affairs. From the airport, Smallfoot got into a limousine and they drove for nearly two hours before arriving at a village built around the outskirts of a lake, the snowy mountains in the distance still marked with white even this time of year. There, at the edge of the village was a sizeable campus that pressed up against a thick forest that he recognized. He’d gone through survival training in that forest.

The limousine entered the campus and drove up to the enormous administrative building set at the heart of the sprawling estate. The copper-orange roof bringing back memories as Smallfoot got out of the car and hurried up the steps. 

Finally.

It had taken some time, but he was at last where he needed to be. He clung to Smallfoot’s shadow a little while longer as the man made his way up the stairs, ascending to the top floor where, as Blackrazor understood it, the Deans met in the main conference room. When they arrived at the top floor, Blackrazor had to take a moment to appreciate the elegant marble hallway shrouded in darkness with only a few lights illuminating the treasures framing the path towards the enormous double doors that were the only barrier between him and the Headmaster.

Smallfoot approached the other set of doors in the hall and knocked twice. Blackrazor took that as his signal and broke free of the man’s shadow, sliding across the ground and darting beneath the door of the Headmaster’s office, his plan for how he wanted to handle the man already in mind. He willed a little bit of blood into the shadowy void that was his body and got to work.

–

The Headmaster was sitting in his chair, eyes fixed on the door. He glanced at one of the paintings on the wall and considered it for a moment before letting out a sigh. According to Dean Embers, there was a rogue adjunct out there. Park Beyol had faked his death. It would have been surprising how effectively he had done it, the corpse left behind had his genetic material and even his dentals matched. Yet somehow the man was still alive and was scheming against the Society.

He’d be dead eventually anyway, once the execution order went through. 

He sighed and shook his head. The boy had so much potential, it was a bit of a shame but he couldn’t control the young man’s decisions any more than he could control any of the other graduates. The training and brainwashing could only go so far before it interfered with an assassin’s capacity to do their work. Such was the way of things he supposed. He looked down at the documents in front of him and reached for his pen only to freeze as he felt a shift in the air behind him. He turned his head and blinked, “You.”

–

Blackrazor stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed. He leaned against the wall and smiled at the old man. He had really aged, his skin mottling. It was too bad he had to die, Blackrazor was sure that Ishtar could have given him his youth back and restored his vigor. Now, he was barely functional as a leader. Still, he hadn’t remained in his position for this long without reason and Blackrazor hadn’t taken any risks.

“I greet the Headmaster,” He said, raising his hand to his heart and inclining his head.

“Park Beyol,” The Headmaster said, turning his chair around to face him, “You look good for a dead man.”

“It’s Blackrazor now, sir,” Blackrazor said patiently, “I’ve been reborn as a supervillain.”

The old man’s lips twitched, “I heard you had abilities, but that they had to do with metal. How did you get in here?” The old man asked, sitting back in his seat. Blackrazor watched him move and raised an eyebrow at him. A shadow brushed against a book and pushed it over a small metal plaque that was embedded in his desk. He had sent his shadows throughout the desk and searched for any sort of emergency alarm devices, he’d found that the plaque was a button. The old man’s lips curled into a smile, “Oh, you’re quite serious.”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Blackrazor said.

“Your aim?”

“I want the Society.”

“I see,” The old man said with a slow nod, “That doesn’t sound like you, you were ambitious but not this ambitious. What changed?”

“I have a new master,” Blackrazor said, “The first supervillain.”

“Ishtar, I’ve heard of her,” The old man grunted, “She has the United States by a stranglehold and my people tell me she’s even reaching overseas.”

“You’re well informed sir,” Blackrazor confirmed with a nod.

“Well, what’s the plan, Blackrazor? How are you going to do it?” The old man asked.

“I already have, sir,” Blackrazor said dispassionately and nodded to the old man’s wrist. The Headmaster looked down at a miniscule drop of blood running down his wrist. 

“Ah, Crane’s trick. How long do I have?” He asked.

“Enough time to talk and for you to tell the Dean’s about the change in leadership, sir. I administered it just before I appeared to you,” Blackrazor said, holding his gaze.

The old man smiled, “Well done.”

 

---