Nadja sat in Mike’s workshop, carefully fine-tuning some set-screws on her sights. Mike walked in, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon for her, as she smiled back.
“Now who’s the obsessive tinkerer toiling away?” He grinned.
“I needed sights put on. We have last minute jobs, and you almost never sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” She yawned.
“Been up long?”
“Yes. You work much faster than me on these.” She sighed.
“Here. Eat, let me do it. I don’t know why you insist on having these fiber optic sights on every one of your guns. Half the time you don’t even look where you’re shooting and still hit your mark, and most of the work we do is at night anyway.”
“Creature of habit. I like my things the way I like them.”
“So the fact that you exclusively use these orange fiber optic sights on every gun of yours religiously, literally, has nothing to do with the fact that they’re from a company I’ve never heard of, called Lucifer Optics?” he smirked. "Nothing symbolic or poetic, you just insist on?"
“They have hellfire orange. Shows up better in low light.” she growled.
“Right, nothing symbolic there. It’s pretty funny.”
“What is…my sights?” she said, scrunching her eyebrows.
“You make fun of me for my little rituals, but you have your own. I’ve seen you do your reflex meditation in the dark, your absolutely microscopic nitpicky adjustment to the sights you almost never even use, the way you change your nail polish accents before every big mission. I guess I’m just asking myself why the devil has so many quirks. The story of when you were a little girl and learned to shoot with a paintball gun, was that just bullshit you made up, or did the devil who can write her name is cursive with a handgun, need to learn to shoot when she was younger? I’ve looked into your past, you know. Off public records. Pulled some strings. Nadja died in 2015. Killed herself after her prom shootout. She took a Five Seven and turned it backwards, put one in her left lung, right where your scar is. Funny how I can cut your head off, and you come back with no marks, but that scar never fully healed.”
“What is your point, Michael?” she said, looking annoyed.
“My point, is that you didn’t crawl from hell and grow flesh as you reached the surface. Nadja was once a person, just a very disturbed girl who tried to shoot herself in the heart after getting it broken at her prom. Did you kill yourself, successfully, and that just left the perfect body to take, and then whatever took it over killed those people, or did Nadja make a deal with the devil after she killed those people and her suicide was just the signature in blood for immortality? I’ve called you Nadja since I’ve met you, and you’ve never once asked me to call you something else, despite calling me Michael no matter how many times I told you that was my grandfather’s name. Then you gave me the nickname Mister Black, which I hated.” He smiled kindly. “There’s an evil side to you, for sure, something that takes over in your eyes, like mine probably do when I’m drinking and killing. But I’m not the devil. I’m Mike Finn with something bonded to me. And ever since I signed away my soul to you, my vision is better, my reflexes are better, and I’m faster. But only around you. It’s like I’m feeding off your power somehow. Now if you sold your soul over ten years ago, and I’m this much better after just a few months…damn. No wonder you can’t see it.”
“What can’t I see, Mister Finn?” she asked coyly.
“Nadja Ivanova didn’t disappear and let the devil wear the skin. She just let the demon bond with her so long, she doesn’t know where she starts and it begins. You’re not the devil. You’re just like me. A person slowly blackened by whatever sits in the hole where your soul was, but some of Nadja remained. I can''t believe the same devil that tempted Christ has just always has a fetish for rose gold and Champagne pink glitter, had to learn to shoot a paintball gun, and fell in love with a Russian boy at her school. There’s still some of that person in there, your rituals, your quirks, and that’s what’s always bothered me. How could I fall in love with Satan, some ancient entity that eats children and cares about nothing, and why do all the things I love about you seem to be just strange little quirks of some Russian girl left behind? That accent, your tattoos, not exactly all satanic symbolism. A lot of Nadja never died.”
“You want to know the truth, plumber?” she smiled. “I always had something inside me that wanted to drive, I just had to hide it. My own little Misses Black, if you will. That is the soul of someone chosen, screaming to be unleashed. I am not the same devil in your book. Like your God, it speaks through me, a voice in my head. You were never God in human flesh, Michael, you were a man with a soul, a little piece of your god inside you telling you to do good things, and like me, that soul was never meant to be there.
We were born, incompatible with that soul. It fights you. We are all born bottles, vessels with labels and shapes and color, and what you are filled with makes you what you are, as much as the container. Some containers were never meant to hold holy water, they were meant to hold something that burns. There’s a reason the monks called alcohol spirits, and why they abstained from it. A bottle meant to hold holy water will dissolve in spirits and fail. But a bottle meant for spirits and filled with holy water is just a lie, and the label knows it doesn’t belong. The bottle builds pressure. You can fight the pressure, but it weakens the glass and some day you just break. Once you release that pressure and let it fill with what you were made for, you become what you truly need to be. The contract is not magic paper and legal document, it is a symbol of acceptance, and unscrewing the cap. You don’t just turn over and pour out the soul. That would kill you. An empty bottle is a dead bottle, and a bottle half full is weak and lost.
When you pour something else in, you dilute what is there and it overflows. And every time it does, it becomes less what it was, and more what you pour inside. It takes time. You kill, you pour in that demon spirit, you overflow, you add more spirit, and the contents become stronger and less holy water. You never wash out all of the water, it just becomes less and less until it doesn’t matter. Eventually the contents match the label and the vessel, and you are…perfected. Not mislabeled and looking in the mirror reading that label, knowing it’s a lie. I am stronger and higher proof than you, but you are growing. What you see when you look at me, is Nadja. The bottle that was never filled right. When you kill with me, you take a drink and taste what’s inside. And that reminds you of what you are. We are different bottles made for the same spirits, and when we mix, it makes sense. Tanner is... American soda in American plastic soda bottle. She already is what she is meant to be, and you mix well and compliment, but she waters you down while you make her stronger. The label is never correct. At the end of the day, you are just ruining both.”
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“So your spirit and my spirit matches, but there’s still too much watered down god in me to reach full proof, which is why I can see in the dark and put a 200 pound young Russian soldier into a wall at 51 years old, but I still bruise wearing a vest, and like a fucking hydra you can grow back a whole damn head. I’m just enough spirit to burn the throat going down, but not enough to light on fire. That explains a lot. What broken preacher falls in love with the devil? But why wouldn’t an evil possessed gunsmith fall in love with an evil possessed Russian killer?"
“You never considered that evil can love anything. It can, but it only mixes well with something of similar proof evil. God and the Devil are just words for good and evil, Michael. The fluid that fills all of us, in varying amounts and with different personal quirks for flavors. No singular beings. Your tinkering, my painted nails, just flavoring.” She said, taking a big bite of her food and smiling.
"So I was never chosen by God. I was just built to kill. I chose who to kill to pretend I wasn’t a killer. I was something different, something pure that doesn’t burn the throat. I was just watering it down and wondering why the label never looked right. But deep down I needed to kill, so I kept finding reasons to kill in small doses. Adding a little more spirit to the mix every time, and then watering it down after with prayer, so it never gets stronger. So is there any way to just…speed up the mixing until it’s right?” Mike asked.
“Well, you could stop praying and watering down your kills each time, running off to church to kill a priest, and then ask god for forgiveness, and eventually you’ll get there. Or you could just ask yourself what the fieriest temptation is that you truly want, and go for it. Not the most evil thing you can think of that makes you sick, but the most evil thing that makes your mouth water, that you only feel guilty admitting to. You don’t want to set hospitals on fire or rape kids, those things disgusts you, not tempt you. But you live in a country of lies and forced fed shit and children''s fairy tales about freedom and wealth. A world where outside the lies, rich men bathe in gold, while hospitals burn and the politicians rape little kids. You have been force-fed God and country, knowing they are both sugar-coated lies. Why do you think I don’t just kill a president myself? I could, I would enjoy it. But you…” she grinned, her eyes almost gleaming with a sort of sadistic truth to them. Mike finished her very thought without hesitation.
“I’m tempted to kill a president. The idea of going to the top and finding the fattest liar and the biggest representation of this shit nation and blowing his fucking head off in front of the cameras and the flags waving and the hopes and dreams of sugar-coated lies just shattering in front of their eyes. And nothing brings a country together stronger than war.” he sighed. I wanna strengthen my home''s proof by letting it kill.
“What if I told you…” she smirked, twirling her fork, “That it doesn’t even have to be a real war? What if I told you, a manufactured war that costs fewer innocent lives than a real one could strengthen it more than a real one? That America, the commercial and brainwashed, would put down their phones and their reality TV and remember they have a spirit of their own, if facing Russia, even if the threat was never there. They weaken the people with lies, so empower them with lies. Right now Boris Ivanova is flexing his muscles and president DuPont is kneeling down to kiss the golden ass, but the people believe he is strong, and his enemies will think so too, if Boris, the Butcher of Russia, were to simply call it a draw. American needs to win a war, you need to start one to win one. Bloomberg is... pussifist idealist and spineless, too scared to even fight back if kicked. He is also too stubborn to play the game. Look at what our killing has created. Archangels in red white and blue, protestors chanting about freedom and waving guns just like old Soviet Union. Americans are only strong when they think they are at war. Give them what they need, and take what you really want. Proof yourself, Hitman. Holyman is the same coping mechanism and sad cowering pup as Bloomberg and his little green toy electric cars. American is coal and diesel and bullets and war. You have always wanted to kill the monsters, now you have teeth, go kill a monster in a suit.”
“Hell of a speech, but you have already sold me at mislabeled bottle. I just wanted to hear you finish it and see that little hint of heat in your eyes when they go from cold and dark to hellfire. Mike Finn may have fallen for Nadja Ivanova, But Mister Black was always just drawn to the flames. Shame I spent all that time building the deadliest pitchfork just to have Azazel stolen by the kids. I liked that gun. Wanted to use that gun more."
“Luckily, Mister Black is the real weapon, not the gun. I need you to run solo mission for me. Can you do this with old Sig MPX?”
“Yea, I’ll manage. Who’s the target?” he asked.
“You’ll know when the lights dim. Let Mister Black draw to the brightest flame.”
“Why am I working alone on this one?” he asked.
“I need two hits at the same time; we cannot be there for both unless we split up. Trust me, your job is more fun than mine. You get close and personal, and I get impersonal shot at sniper range.”
“You might wanna practice your ranged shooting, you’re still grouping wide at 400+.” He snipped as she smiled back with amusement.
“You really think this whole time, someone who can thread a needle with a pistol from 50 yards can’t shoot the head off a man with a precision rifle at 900? Michael, really? Ye of little faith.” She chuckled. “Just make sure the sights on my gun are perfect, Mister gunsmith. Let me do the rest.” she hissed playfully.
President DuPont looked in the mirror, checking his suit and feeling rather silly picking an outfit that would just be struck with a blood-splatter paintball anyway the next day. Picking the cheaper suit might make it seem staged. He reluctantly chose his favorite, and placed it next to the Kevlar undershirt, with his pants and tie, and the American flag sunglasses. He muttered, reading his notecards and reciting the speech again to be sure, hesitating at the page 2 ending section marked “Stand still, wave, paint bullet to right side of chest. Fake fall.” And he sighed nervously, still wondering if they hurt through the Kevlar. He waved and smiled, suddenly jerking and staggering as if shot, and catching himself. He repeated the action until he was sure it looked convincing.
Mike stood in the mirror, looking at his jacket and deciding if he needed a thicker coat to hide the MPX better. He smiled and nodded as he walked by the mirror, quickly shouldering the weapon and dry firing, drawing the longer suppressed barrel and quickly screwing it in, taking a knee for a long distance shot. He sighed, already missing Azazel but remembering the movements of the old MPX. The hand remembers the weapon, but his was shaking slightly for some reason. He wasn’t scared or nervous, he was fully prepared and ready, but his right hand kept vibrating slightly. He poured a glass of whiskey, shooting it back and trying to calm his shakes, realizing this would be his first real hit away from Nadja in a while. While she faked a hit on DuPont, Mike re-read his layout notes and felt a little but underwhelmed by the fact that he was given the easier mission.
“Baby Glock…” he sighed. “What ever happened to rappers picking names that were supposed to be intimidating or personally unique. Koldblood Killa, Body Count, now we got Goddamned, Baby Glock, probably never held a gun in his life.” He sighed as Nadja chuckled and passed by. “Why do I get the training mission again?” he asked.
“Because, Michael…you shake and question your shots over 500 yards, and if you miss and kill the wrong president, people would be very unhappy with you.”
“Which is why I would get closer.” He sighed.
“Security must be real, perimeter checks, the works. We cannot have conspiracy theories getting too close to the truth. Plus this rapper is big name…stupid name, but somehow well known. Big Bloomberg supporter. We must keep people confused and questioning everything. Everyone knows Mister Black takes his targets alive, and everyone knows Mister Black is the legendary killer. Standard security perimeter is 600 yards. Surely he must be able to take 600-yard shots. I’m hyping your reputation while you provide doubt who was even there."
“Some days you have me wondering what side I’m on.” He half joked.
“Our side.” She whispered, baring her teeth. "Whatever side we like best."