It’s always the same in the Organization. An agent is hired for a job, informed by way of receiving a sealed envelope with their orders. Never too much detail; only as much information as they need to know. The jobs vary, but the equipment’s always the same: a long trench coat and plain suit, both charcoal black. White pressed dress shirt and black tie, with a fedora and balaclava to be worn when the job starts. Some of the agents mock the glaringly dated getup that seems more at home in pulp magazines than real life, but rules are rules. In the end countless matching foot soldiers of secretive causes march in and out of the Organization’s hideouts, furthering goals they’ll never know—and being paid handsomely to never ask. One such agent’s got his orders and is out the door, walking into a city that’s bustling during the day, and withdrawn into smoky rooms at night. He comes to the steps of a whitewashed building designed in classical style, his face veiled entirely save for his mouth, loosely holding a cigarette wrapped in cheap red paper.
His orders were simple: start smoking the cigarette when he arrived. Hand off another sealed envelope to his contact; once their meeting is over, he’s to throw his cigarette to the ground and leave. Simple, straightforward and above all, mundane. He sees the other agent approach, dressed exactly as he is. Perhaps this man’s also in the Organization, or simply a fan. He makes small-talk, passing the time for a spell before he hands the envelope off. It’s partly done so as to not arouse suspicion from potential hidden observers; but he also welcomes the chance to try and calm his nerves. He wouldn’t dare show it, but meetings like these can work him up. Even the soothing smoke filling his lungs can’t completely settle his nerves; perhaps his fidgeting feet will do the trick. Their meeting adjourned, he tosses his cigarette to the side, watching the glowing ember flare as air rushes past it for a moment. The sharp crack of a rifle’s report draws his eyes back up, just in time to watch his contact’s head jerk to the side, streams of crimson the same shade as his cigarette flying from the man’s head. The routine is broken now; delivery’s turned to death—and he’s not about to see if he’ll be joining his unfortunate counterpart.
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It wasn’t his fault that the job went sour. That’s what he told himself, and it’s apparently what his superiors thought, as when he went to his usual hangout the next day, another envelope from the Organization was waiting for him. The job? Find out who screwed up the last one. Give the gunman a taste of his own medicine. Easier said than done; but they wouldn’t have given him the job if he wasn’t up for it. It took time, tracking down leads and arranging a meeting with the assassin; the hardest part was not tipping his hand early. In the end though, it’s paid off.
He’s got a high vantage point—probably the same one the assassin used. Why the same spot? A gambit; a refuge in audacity. No one would be dumb enough to pull a trick from the assassin’s handbook on himself, right? His partner, a younger agent is down below, standing right where he stood before—ostensibly to hand off payment to the assassin for a job, but in actuality human bait. The new agent smokes a red cigarette, just like he did back then—a touch of sentiment he couldn’t help but request. This time the shoe’s on the other foot—he knows the true purpose, while his partner’s thinking he’s just supposed to smoke a cigarette because the Organization said so. Once the smoldering rod’s tossed to the side, it’s showtime.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Right when it hits the ground, the assassin is sent along by the merciless impact of a few grams of lead. An incomplete job avenged, and a potential threat eliminated. Even better, the new guy survived.
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Days turns to weeks; months turn to years. The agent completes many more jobs, making a fine nest egg for himself to enjoy when he retires. If he retires. For most, that might mean the threat of death. But for him? He just loves his job. The thrill of the hunt, the sublime bliss of holding another’s life in his hands…he’s grateful that assassin took out his contact so many years ago. It gave him the opportunity to show his mettle and get the Organization’s notice, letting him move up to coveted hit jobs. Countless people have fallen after being marked by his scope, their lives measured in paper bills handed off to him in yet more envelopes for another day’s work.
Truly, it’s begun to blend together for him. What’s one more dead; what’s another bulging fold of paper holding so many bills? He doesn’t think anything of it when his latest orders send him back to where it all began. For him, it’s just another job. He stands there, looking at a man who could be his mirror image if not for the way he shifted from one foot to the other, showing subtle nervousness that bares this other, lesser man’s inexperience. It reminds him of his youth, back before he got the chance to prove his worth.
Small talk is made, the algorithm of obfuscation is fulfilled, and his payment is handed off to him in an envelope sealed like so many others. He nods farewell with practiced politeness to the obvious novice across from him, thinking nothing of how he reaches rather purposefully for his cigarette. It’s only when it falls, that glowing ember crowning a rod of cheap red paper that recognition fills his head. The view he saw down the barrel, the surprise of seeing a living man one moment, and—
He ceases to be, no more than a falling corpse seen in the shocked eyes of a familiar man who’s fleeing under the watchful eye of his partner, and his killer.
