It takes me awhile to write dialogue but I still had a really fun time writing this!

Feel free to provide any criticisms, I'd love to improve my writing wherever possible.
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The Hit

The bright blue sky can do nothing to quell the oppressive air that these streets possess. Not a single spot remains unrecorded by the countless security cameras that stick out from the brickwork of the shopfronts. Each intersection is accompanied with a watchtower, containing an 88mm autocannon controlled entirely by an artificial mind. Smaller, yet still deadly machine guns are mounted to look down each street, ready to mow down the enemy; or protesters.

Every time my work brings me to these streets; to these lands. It’s not comfortable, and the jobs are even less appreciable. While I walk, head below shoulders of most passersby, a raspy, echoey voice speaks up from within the confines of my mind, “Lots of stress here, nothing new since last time.” It’s the same voice that has always accompanied me, who goes by Howl.

“Nothing of note then?” I respond, still through my mind. All through my too many years of life, I’ve come to accept this voice as a natural part of me. It controls my cat tail with snake-like control, and I control the rest of my body.

As we pass by an alley, Howl speaks in the same raspy voice through my thought, “Well, I suppose. I think there’s a drug deal in that alley.” Another thing about this creature within my mind, is that a side effect seems to be that there is a mouth on the end of my tail. When it’s closed, you could be forgiven for thinking nothing is off, but when it’s open, I’d think you’re blind. There’s no throat to it, just mouth, but when I throw food in, it chews, and I feel fuller.

Looking into the alley, I do in fact see two figures in the corner, just barely out of range of one camera, and in the range of a camera that is conveniently out of place, in multiple pieces on the ground; “I see.” I continue to walk by, I can’t be distracted by rookie drug dealing, I have somewhere to be. Quickly sliding into another alleyway further down, I walk to the end, where a metal door sits in the middle of a red brick wall, slit in the middle just higher than my head. The one bar in the city where crimes like the one I’m here for are legal.

I raise my fist to knock, but the slit opens slightly before I can. A deep feminine voice speaks up from within; “White Death..” the voice begins, clearly knowing who I am, taking a second before continuing. “Pass?”

I lift my head slightly before speaking, “No. It’d take the hand of Kahlaghar himself to tear it out of me.” The door quickly opens at the utterance of the correct code. I walk past the bulky bouncer at the door, and head down the carpeted stairs deep into the depths of the underworld until it finally opens up into a bar.

It feels as if I’ve traveled back in time, if it weren’t for the open carry and tv screens. It feels like a medieval tavern suspended in time. The chairs and rounded tables are made purely from wood, the floor is a cobbled stone. The bouncer is in full chainmail armour, and there’s a sheathed sword on their hip. Although you’d imagine that it isn’t real armour, it seems, at least to me, like true chainmail.

Over the counter is a large sign, “Baron’s Fist,” complete with a striking depiction of the dastardly ‘leader’ behind this country. It’s a busy evening, nearly every table is occupied by different immoral characters; from assassins to the mafia to the politicians that run the city. Like usual, everyone here is taller than I am.

On the way to order a drink, I pass by a sheep in an expensive silk suit, white with thin red stripes running from the collar down, a red bowtie fitted unevenly, barely keeping his drunken self from the ground while he laughs. A lone bull with a military grade vest clearly visible in the absence of a jacket covering it, which instead is draped over their chair as they sip from a drink, two handguns laid on the table. A group of coyotes in matching black suits at a table, talking low to each other about something.

The raspy voice returns while I make the last few steps to the counter, saying “Someone’s staring, they’re worried.” I can feel my tail pull deliberately in a specific direction behind me, leading me to turn my head. Sure enough, someone’s head ducked down as my gaze met them. A human, and a previous client, Alex Stromwell. His job led me to a trap, so he’s probably worried I’m here to settle the score. Lucky for him, I’m busy for now.

“It’s just Alex, from a few months ago.” I respond to my tail’s observation, with my own.

I slide, or more accurately jump, onto the only free barstool, and the octopus bartender soon arrives in front of me, with striking blue rings covering her plentiful arms and face. “What’s your poison for tonight?” She says with a cheerfully fake tone while an arm finishes up with a drink and slides it across the counter.

For a moment I glance behind her for an option, but then decide against choosing something myself. “I’ll have whatever’s popular.”

“Someone’s busy,” she responds correctly. “One Lagney coming your way.” The octopus begins preparing the drink while going quickly to collect gossip from someone else. When it slides over to me, I catch it in my hand, then get up to find a table, preferably away from prying eyes. I eventually find a table in the back, a drunkard passed out on the table to the right of it, and to the left is a table of loud and very drunk thieves, by the looks of it.

Sitting down, I take a sip of the Lagney, the supposed popular drink here, and I’m assaulted by the most bitter and rotten taste I’ve ever gotten from a drink, and immediately agree to myself that I’m never doing that again. “What the hell was that?” I hear Howl grumble from inside myself.

After a few seconds of trying to spit the venomous sting that was the Lagney, I respond with “Something I want to forget.”

“You drink something like that again and I’m gonna suffocate you.” Howl rightfully responds, displeased.

“Please do.” I lean back in my chair, hearing the well worn chair creak as I do, and look around the bar for a clock. I’m a little early, but that just gives me more time to watch for people that might try and listen in anyway.

A few seconds later, Howl continues the conversation. “Shoulda asked for a Dragon’s Eye.”

“Probably should have. Would’ve been better to hear they don’t have it than to drink that poison again.”

I then notice someone entering the bar, a brown weasel wearing a red flannel and carrying a briefcase. He’s scanning faces in the tavern with a focused expression on his way to the bar. He orders a drink like any other, then gets a stern talking to from the bartender by the looks of it, before she points in my direction. Seems like this is my guy.

He carries himself over to my table confidently, and seems to be expecting to get his way, prompting Howl to say “I have a feeling this will not go well.” He adopts a look of slight surprise once I am in better view, and before sitting down he takes a moment to size me up while the surprise turns to confusion. “Also, we’ve got eyes.”

“Gotcha.” I quickly respond, before addressing the silently staring weasel with a lowered brow and slight scowl. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” He says while finally slipping into the chair across from me, setting his similarly coloured drink on the table. “I just- I thought you’d be a little...”

He hesitates, so I butt in with “Taller?” The usual.

His face continues to adopt this look of surprise during his next words; “Well, yeah.” He responds. “You’re- you are the one they call ‘White Death’, aren’t you?”

I respond with a sly smirk, “I’m sure any snow leopard could say yes to that.”

“Alright smartass…” He says his voice trailing off, clearly already gaining some annoyance. He takes a sip of his drink. Cue lemon-face. Seems he got a Lagney too, how nice. “What the hell is that!?”

“I think we both learned something valuable today.” I say, still smiling at his plight. “This place serves some joke instead of the popular stuff now.”

He throws out angrily with an accusatory point. “Did you put her up to this!?” Likely referring to the bartender.

“No, I promise. I made the same mistake.” I say, gripping my own glass and lifting it slightly, chuckling as I do from his easily acquired anger.

He scoffs, and from there, we talk about anything that comes to mind in order to keep business closer to being private. We talk about a lot, but nothing. The weather’s been nice recently. How’s it looking for the rest of the week? How’s it compare to our experiences elsewhere? The people in this place sure are good at getting drunk. What’s our favourite crime? For most of it, I don’t give truthful answers for the sake of privacy, and I’m assuming the same from the weasel. After some time of boring conversation, Howl gives me the signal. “No one’s listenin’ or watchin’, we’re good."

“So, business.” I say, interrupting his thoughts on the recent policy changes across the world.

“Right, right.” He lifts the briefcase from the floor and sifts through a number of different papers and folders, before eventually taking two out, which both seem to be titled the same in a different language. “This one’s yours, but I’d like to talk before you open it.” He doesn’t close the briefcase when he lowers it back to the floor, which is probably not a good idea, but I don’t mention it.

“Alright, sounds good.” I say, although suspecting there to be some unappreciated reason for not reading it myself.

“I’ll keep it simple,” he says as if I couldn’t handle anything more, “I want you to kill someone. Doesn’t matter how or when it’s done, but I’d prefer it to be done quietly. We couldn’t find much information on where to find them, or what security to expect, so that’s gonna have to be up to you on the ground.”

Howl, in my mind, does not like this answer. “I think there’s something off with this weasel. He seems to have some sort of anger, but not towards you. I don’t like ‘em.”

“Alright, who is it?” I ask with a curious tone.

“It’s a high ranking individual in the Kidellian military.” I immediately raise an eyebrow at this, “they’ve got a significant role in their defense, but I have reason to believe they wouldn’t do well in close quarters.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, who’s my target?” I repeat firmly, not particularly enjoying this game of cat and mouse we’re having.

“Your target is Caius Maelstrom.” He says with a serious face.

Saying Caius has a significant role in the Kidellian defense would be an understatement. He’s solely responsible for their most effective defense; a giant hurricane which surrounds their small island. I also doubt he’d do badly in close quarters, because I have personally trained in the Kidellian military for a short time and it was certainly not a cakewalk.

I take a moment to pause, expecting him to chuckle and say “just kidding”, but that never comes. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, we believe he’s a significant threat to global peace.” Which is odd to say, since Kidell has actively been trying to avoid conflict.

Obviously, I’m not interested in this death wish. “Alright. No.” I speak with certainty, because “I’m not a one-man army, you know.”

But, my comment about not being an army seems to only give him a false reason for my rejection. “C’mon, it’s a small country, I’m sure you’d be able to get in and out quickly. I’ll get you a team!”

Somewhat annoyed, but beginning to feel petty, I decide to make something out of his dedication to send me to my death. “Fine, I’ll humour you. What kind of team?”

Panic enters his face with widened eyes and jaw left open, as if he for whatever reason didn’t expect to be asked this. “We haven’t exactly put one together- But! I will do my best to get you anyone you ask for!” He says the last part with renewed energy, like the realization that not everything has to be set out beforehand had dawned on him at the moment.

I make sure to speak slowly, purely to waste his, and by extension, my time. But, I have all night. “Alright, so let me get this straight. I’m going to have to figure out where my target will be, the security to get past or neutralize, what to expect from the target himself, and build my own team.”

It takes a second, but he nods his head. “Yes.”

“Is there a deadline?” I ask, already knowing he said it doesn’t matter when it’s done.

“No..” He says with a furrowed brow, “I already said there was no deadline!”

“This sounds like months of preparation.” I state matter of factly, although if I were to actually undertake this, I imagine this is understatement. “What’s the pay?”

For the first time in a few minutes, he speaks with no real emotion in his tone. Probably because I’m finally asking something he’s used to, in a way he’s used to. “We’re willing to pay out three million. Plus 300k for every team member. You’ll have to split the money.” This is a low amount for the job at hand. Especially since the Kidellians aren’t ones to drop a grudge.

Since I’m not actually going to agree to this under any circumstances, I decide to give him some trouble with negotiations. “Hm, I don’t think that’s quite enough.” I bring a finger to my chin and pause in mock thought. “This is quite the big job. How about 100 million dollars, plus 15 million for every team member I need.”

His eyes once again widen, this time I think I’ve beat my personal best. “Are- Are you serious? That’s way too much!”

I double down with my exceptionally high number, seriously not expecting him to want to go anywhere near a hundred mill. “Well, I think it’s appropriate. I doubt he leaves Kidell very often, if at all, so it’s unlikely he’ll be anywhere where backup is not around the corner. On top of that, with how important he is to their defense, I have to imagine getting to him in the first place is no small task. Honestly, this kind of seems like a suicide mission.”

“Okay, fine, fine. I’ll go 75 mil.” He says, and now it’s my turn to be surprised. He was really convinced fast.

The rasp within me also has a comment on this, “Woah, dude’s seriously going this high? No way he’s got this money for a hit.” Which, I agree with. No one hires a one man hit for a guy like this when you have the money for a full team who already have been working together for years.

“Nono, I am sure I said 100.” I continue, tripling down with an almost innocent tone.

“80.” He says firmly, his eyebrows contorting slightly with suspicion.

“99.” I respond, barely able to keep a smirk from emerging onto my face as his face morphs into barely concealed anger.

“You’re so childish.”

“I know. But maybe if you didn’t give me such an impossible job I’d be more reasonable.” I say, finally not speaking just to be annoying.

He gains an accusatory tone, “Oh, so you’re just being petty?”

“I guess so.” I push my chair back and get up, the loud sound of wood scraping on the stone floor filling my silence. “I hope to never see you again.”

He gets personal, trying to insult what he’s hoping to be sensitive. “You’re just a scaredy cat, aren’t you? You’re scared of the oh so big scary Kidellian military. Wimp!”

I don’t give him the reward of a response, I just start on my way from my seat and away from the table. Which seems to really push his buttons, for some reason. “Hey don’t walk away from me! You coward!” The drunken thieves to the left are starting to stare now, more so at him than me. The drunkard to the right is still passed out.

I keep walking, but then a loud crash is heard from behind me. The spilling of venom was obvious, glass heard uncharacteristically surviving a turbulent descent. I turn around out of instinct, and I see a familiar table sitting upside down next to the weasel, just as he’s unholstering a pistol. His still open briefcase has been spilled, all sorts of documents and papers now stained with the venomous Lagney, and all I’m thinking is “Who’s childish now?” I don’t say it though.

“Kahlaghar will have your head for this! He will! He wants this! I know he does!” He says, an unsettling anger bubbling beneath his flannel and brown furry coat. “That evil criminal deserves to die! I know it!” Many more are staring now. Not just the thieves. The bar has fallen quiet, and even the drunkard is awake.

I disguise a motion of my hand as a dismissal of his threat, but really I’ve casted a shield spell, specifically an invisible one I’ve personally designed specifically against piercing. As in, guns and stabs. “C’mon, you won’t shoot me. Not here. You know damn well that’ll do nothing here.”

“Yeah? Will I? Will I?” He says with a maniacal, unsettling laugh, thrusting his pistol in my direction as if that’ll prove he’ll do it. At this point it’s clear to me that this guy likely isn’t with any sort of agency as he made it out to be. Not if he’s clearly unwell. No one would pull a gun here. No sane person.

Soon after there’s a knife in his neck, and he’s down on the ground among his discarded confidential documents. From across the tavern, someone had already grown tired of his pointless threats, and took aim with a throwing knife. “Aw, wanted to see his emotions fall when the gun did nothing.” Howl responds.

I don’t know if anyone will tend to him at all, if he’ll even live. But I don’t care. I have a feeling he didn’t have access to the amount of money he was supposedly willing to hand over. That alone, I probably would have killed him over. Well probably not. But some payback would have happened if I found that to be true.

With another motion of my hand, the shield is down and I’m walking away. Through the bar, past gawkers and those already back to their own life, or gossip. I place a hundred dollar bill onto the bar in front of the keep as I pass, “For the trouble,” and quickly continue on out of the bar, which has grown busier since my arrival.