The CollectorMature

I sauntered out into the streets, still warm and rank from the hundreds of bodies roiling past each other on their own little errands. There were a few stragglers trying as hard as they could to be invisible. It was pathetic how little there was going on so I decided to see about killing two birds with one stone. There was a Job out to remove a collector I had known once upon a time. Elena Coventree. She collected “memorabilia” from the war, bits of colorful headache twisted into impossible shapes and half-melted bullets with just a hint of residual ichor. Nothing so grand as what had lured everyone out of town but enough to be interesting. Really, if there was anything you wanted to know about the war, you went to her. So it was odd that someone would want her dead, what with her being such a resource. I could only guess that the client wanted her collection, or maybe just wanted to “free” us of her as a reminder of the past.
    I wandered the streets for a while before heading to Elena's shop, looking at the scurrying rank and file of World's End's “working class”. An amalgam of slave labour, toadies, rookie Fixers, thugs, bums and fences took care of the day to day in the city, and watching them could often lead to interesting insights for a curious onlooker such as myself. Not today, of course, that would be too easy, but it paid to keep my eyes open just in case.
    Finally, I approached Elena's place of business. The door was open and the blinds were closed. Someone had double-booked. Not unheard of but rude, and very annoying. Though admittedly the prospect of momentarily reducing the competition was exciting. I drew my knife, a wicked thing made of a long, broad piece of ragged steel I'd salvaged, and approached the door.

The End

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