“-eautiful day. It’s an excellent time fo-“

The radio droned on, filling the quiet office. It sat atop an oaken desk, its gears and wires whirring and humming. A shuttered window lay behind the desk, letting in soft, warm light. The desk was adorned with various supplies; a mechanical typewriter, a stack of worn, leather bound books, a glass of amber liquid. A teenager sat behind the desk, his eyes focused on the typewriter in front of him, tapping away at the keys. His black suit was neatly folded, fresh and pleasant, his loafers resting on plywood flooring.

A neat, pressed stack of empty manila folders lay to his right, smelling faintly of wine and ash. The typewriter contained a paper, of which he planned to slot into a manila folder once he had successfully completed it. By the desk, a disheveled filing cabinet sat, its pull-out drawers opened and messily stuffed with manila folders, almost to the point of bursting. Each manila folder was labeled with a name. The names were members of the metahuman population of the city, organized in an A-Z system. 

The manila folders each contained a detailed dossier on a metahuman within the city, accompanied with photography and notes. The more popular metahumans contained more detailed descriptions and photography, while the lesser known contained little information or notes. They all contained power information and a threat level, however. Thomas Wick took his job as a mercenary seriously; he made sure he knew all of his potential victims and/or co-workers. He made sure there was always another plan to refer to. He never panicked or broke in the middle of a job; that was what unprofessional mercenaries would do.

He sighed, pulling the paper free of the typewriter’s clasps. It had become almost an obsession of his to be professional; he countless stacks of notes, plans, and backups. He had become accustomed to spending long, late nights, sipping from a glass of Scotch and typing away. Thomas reached to his glass, sipping lightly at the smoky, oak liquid. As a mercenary, he made sure he could be prepared at all times. Even now, sitting at his desk, drinking Scotch, he had a plan of escape and action. He always did, in either jobs or daily life. If he was given a job, he would not stop for anything until that job happened to be done. He usually suffered from insomnia, in fact.

A few metal filing cabinets adorned the office walls, some dented, and others corroded. One filing cabinet contained plans of how to kill each metahuman. While some were easy, such as D-listers, others were slightly more difficult and costly. For example, Ruby Greenfoot would be a costly and dangerous metahuman to kill. She wasn’t afraid to put a bullet in someone’s brain if needed be, and controlling technology was a potent skill, considering she had essentially mastered the ability. He tried to keep little electric technology in his room, but it was near impossible to live without it, unfortunately.

The boy began finishing up the paper, scrawling in green ink, “low threat level.” As he began to straighten it, tucking the photos in, he felt a crawling, burning sensation in his skin. A low plume of fiery smoke wafted by. He quickly strapped his gas mask back on, the black rubbery material bending around his skin as he took a breath of filtered air. He still needed to keep that on, unfortunately. One day, he’d be in public, he’d start leaking smoke, and he’d end up killing someone without intending to, which would be an embarrassing death. Killed by accident. He made sure all of his victims were assassinated were finished cleanly and dignified. 

He tucked the finished manila folder under his arm, tucking it in with a thin smile under his mask. Another profile finished, another metahuman documented. He intended on meeting with several of the ones he documented; Elijah Craig, Ruby Greenfoot, Light. They were all particularly interesting ones.