Roman — Roleplayer Guild

Featuring Lester Sullivan, the World's Luckiest Assassin

Lester was breathing hard as he hit the sidewalk, blood oozing past his eyes, down the bridge of his nose and into his mouth. He savoured it, for a moment, spreading it along his teeth before spitting it onto the concrete he was face-down on. He whirled around to face the black car again, where The Kingpin stared at him. Lester gave him a toothy, unhinged grin, and the sight - the newly-carved ring on his forehead dripping blood across his face, seeping into the cracks and wrinkles, and through it all burnt two fierce pin-prick eyes and a tainted smile - almost made him recoil. Instead, Wilson Fisk stared on, steely and unforgiving.

"Disgusting."

The door shut. The car drove away. Lester fished a rag from his coat pocket and pressed it to his forehead, before managing to stand and stumbling away.

-

Lester Sullivan had spent only an hour in that terrible car, trapped between the most powerful and threatening man in the city and his aide, a smartly-dressed and well-spoken man who, nonetheless, was all too eager to carve up Lester's face at Fisk's mere mention. Lester had met plenty of men like him; sociopaths who hid it well beneath a thin veneer of courtesy and wealthy taste, skilled at the seedy sides of life while walking in the penthouse light. Undoubtedly loyal, viciously sadistic, exceedingly calculated. Almost as dangerous as Fisk himself...but there was something else that The Kingpin exuded. An unknowable quality that proved Wilson Fisk undoubtedly and overwhelmingly qualified for his position in New York's underground. Many crime lords before Fisk were adept at ruining the bodies of men; few managed to ruin the businesses of men like Fisk. None managed to ruin the lives and futures of men like The Kingpin did. 

Lester had made it back to a safehouse; an old loft apartment in a forgotten and condemned building that, somehow, had never been demolished; he stood in the bathroom now, a propped up sheet of mirrored glass in front of him and a liter bottle of water sat on the box beside him. 

Carefully, he pulled back the rag, wetting it and wringing out as much blood as he could before he used more water to wash his face and rinse his mouth, before grabbing another rag and wetting it to wash the wound itself. Fisk had talked at length about debt, about owed payments, about setting examples. He had spoken about Lester's ill-fated attempt to extort arms from one of Fisk's dealers; how to take from his employees was to cut into the flesh of his empire. Then he had spoken of 'what goes around', and Lester had suddenly found himself pinned, the knife working into his forehead. He'd screamed, filled with pain he'd never felt before, and Kingpin had just sat across from him, his face not even making a single micro-movement. When the knife was done, Kingpin had offered him a deal: exile from his city, and a black mark across his name forever, or a chance to make reparations on his debt. Lester had chosen his shot at redemption.

And now, here he was; wounded, pride beaten, but with an assignment and a lead; a generous gift from Fisk's aide. Lester Sullivan was to find the Devil of Hell's Kitchen - the first man to cause The Kingpin to worry in ten years, and the first man Sullivan had missed - and to bring him, dead or alive, to Fisk's feet. Fisk would prefer alive. Another hour went by as Lester tended to his forehead and prepared for the coming night, a faint ring of blood seeping through the bandage as he busied himself.

-

Early before the sun fell on Hell's Kitchen and night began its descent, Lester hurried through the city to the projects: large plots of construction The Kingpin was anonymously pouring money into in a rigged investment ploy, bringing international opportunities to his empire, and massive revenue to his wallet. In the middle there was a lower building, mostly empty save for drywall and timber forming the basic layout of what would end up an office block flanking apartments. Bottom floor, dead center, was Lester's meet - with the arms dealer that he had begun this foray with. She was less than pleased to be working with him; the trained guns that kept their barrels on Lester's body at all times ensured the feeling was mutual. Regardless of any strife between the two, however, they greeted each other politely, and Lester was quickly lead deeper into the building, where the dealer's van sat, back doors wide open, and the single most beautiful array of armaments Lester Sullivan had ever laid eyes upon arranged out in front of him upon a portable wooden table.

"He said to set you up with whatever gear you needed - the job will cover the cost. Assuming you complete it." Said the dealer, and Lester ignored her, instead pausing to examine each and every article, picking each piece up deftly and admiring the artisan manufacture and graceful workmanship. Three rifles, two assault and one heavy-caliber, all made to the most cutting-edge military standard; sub-machine guns all polished, oiled, capable of delivering bullets at rates Sullivan had only dreamed of; pistols of various sizes and power, ranging from denting wood to putting holes through several sheets of metal; and then, among all the high-powered, high-caliber gear, sat the only weapon Lester cared about. A single, hand-crafted, custom-made knife, with perfect balance and a divine blade. He took it from the table, spinning it in his hand, flicking it this way and that, testing the weight, the speed, the feel of it cutting through the air. Yes, he thought, this will be my weapon to take the Devil's heart. This, and only one other thing...

Sullivan turned to the dealer. "I'm taking the knife. You can keep the rest; but I need a custom piece. And it has to be ready by tonight." 
The dealer met Sullivan's gaze, and the giddy ferocity there sparked something inside her - she wasn't sure if it was admiration or fear, but she knew she couldn't ignore it.

"Sure. I'm listening."
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