OoC: Damn! He saw through my ploy! It's not that bad, is it? I mean, I used the name Dorfl, but that's only a name, right? Anyway, I thought I might add a bit of comic relief by means of the two watchers. Slight comic relief.

IC: The fog was a light, white sea. Marcus imagined he was swimming through it, blindly. It was his favourite stuff, fog. He liked humidity, but he didn’t like heat. The damp air kept his lungs plump and gave his nose a nice, fuzzy feeling. But best of all, the cold kept him awake and alert, making him all the better an assassin. He walked quickly, leaving a vacuum, as it were, behind him, sucking the fog he had pushed aside back in. He found he was drenched after only a minute. Marcus squinted the signpost into existence. That was the only bad thing about fog. Made you blind, and Marcus’ slight eye deficiency didn’t help. He struggled to see the large print even though he was nigh on beside it.

Sn… Smi.. Smith… Smithco, Smithso... nian… Street, he read. Now, don’t get the wrong impression, Marcus excelled in the field of literacy, just like every other field, the little creep. He’s just a bit short-sighted. In ways more than one.

Satisfied, he turned onto Smithsonian Street, leaving behind the rich district for the poor. Marcus had always liked that Putyr was an early-bird city, not a night owl. It made things simpler.

***

“Look, just… Like this! Yes, on the crossbeams,” said an exasperated scout.

“Well I don’t see why we can’t follow him on the ground, he can see us more easily up here than down there!” said Mr. Deors Mäcul.

“You saw him do it this way, and he’s like, the king of assassins!”

“In Outcast Island, may-”

“Shhhh!!” The first interrupted.

“What!?”

“He’s right there, looking at the sign!” the first whispered.

“Where? I can’t see him!”

“Shut up! Shut up! The little smudge through the fog! Next to the wobbly cart” He pointed.

“Ah, right, okay. Oh, yeah, you dumped the body on the right street, yeah?”

“No,” said the first, without a hint of sarcasm, if you know what I mean.

***

Marcus continued on. He knew he should have probably checked that secret passageway, if only to make sense of his whole predicament. What kind of predicament was he in, anyway?

Let’s see… There’s someone who wants me dead, and that someone had enough money to use a booby-trap infested house with another assassin as a means for to accomplish that task. Then that means this person has enough money to get me anywhere, and that means nowhere, least of all my actual house is safe. The prime suspect is Mitchell Johnson… But no, I’m only thinking that because he’s the only suspect. Well, let’s try and look at the positives…

When none were forthcoming, Marcus looked up and realised his feet had carried him onto his street, subconsciously. And not only that, but also his foot was on something squishy.

“Oh, crap.” He was in the worst possible place, he crouched down, disappearing into the fog. And found the corpse of Mitchell Johnson.

“Oh… Jesus,” he cursed (of course, he said the name of his respective deity, but because anything he’s said so far has been translated from a language not unlike the sound of someone singing with a mouth full of biscuits, we can hardly stop at names of obscure prophets, now can we?). Marcus was, of course, not unused to corpses, so he knelt down closer for an inspection. Yes, an inspection, because he is, of course, as we’ve explained recently, an expert in all fields regarding killing and silence. Body inspection is not an exception.

There was no sign of an entry wound, or signs that he was strangled. And chances are he didn’t die of old age. Marcus knew the only reason for a death he couldn’t find the reason for was an assassination. And an assassination requiring an assassin more skilled than he was.

Which means he was killed from someone abroad… Marcus was cocky and proud, no doubt about it, but… Well, he was the best assassin Outcast Island. And Marcus considered: I was only talking to him an hour ago… This must mean he wasn’t part of the plot, a pawn…

Suddenly, everything was coming together, or so Marcus thought.

***

“Perfect, he’s found Johnson!”

“Hey, the thatch is-”

“Oh, look, he’s just moving on!”

“Listen, I can’t hold-”

“Will you please stop interrupting? I’m trying to keep an eye on him.”

“Help! I’m falling!!”

“SHH!! He’s heard us!”

“AAAGHH!!”

***

Marcus heard a scream and a crash behind him. He turned around, tense, and saw a figure struggling to his feet in a disturbance in the fog. It groaned and looked at him. Marcus could see a pale face, shiny with condensation and eyes as wide as the moon.

“Are you alright?” Marcus asked, surprised. The man paused for a moment, then jumped to his feet and ran away, disappearing into the fog. Marcus, following instinct, followed the man. He could barely see his quarry, only a slightly greyer shade of white showed up against the fog, his deep black coat. Marcus was catching up, fast, and the man knew it. He ducked into a side alley, and continued running. There being less fog here, he reckoned his coat would show up less against the shadows. Marcus kept a close pursuit, dark green cloak flapping in the wind. Already the escapist was slowing, his breath coming in large gasps. Marcus was very close and then he tripped over a cobble loosened just now. He scrambled to his feet and could scarcely see his target, now only jogging at the end of the alleyway. The chase was renewed again, with as much vigour as it had when it started. But now Marcus had a limp, he was slower than his unfit adversary for a moment, but still managed to keep a close gap. They came onto another street, this one with some people and late-night vendors. Mr. Deors-Mäcul looked back to see his chaser, and crashed headlong into a barrow, knocking jars and a barrowman flying. Smashes and curses were heard. Ignoring cries of despair, he gathered himself and dashed along the road. The unfortunate barrowman too got to his feet, only to be knocked to the ground again by another speeding pedestrian. The hunt continued onto another lane, and the chased literally collapsed with exhaustion.

The chaser soon got to him, and spared no time in getting answers.

“Who are you!?” Marcus demanded, shaking his shoulders.

“… Luke… Deors-Mä… Cul…” He was choking, partly for lack of breath and partly for the fear,

“Who sent you!?”

“Derante… General Derante…”

At that instant, Marcus was kicked in the side of the head. He lay, paralysed, on the ground.

“Did you tell him anything?” Marcus heard, a familiar voice.

“… No,” said another, familiar, but more obvious.

Marcus heard more, but the memories were buried in the back of his mind as he drifted out of consciousness.

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