The quiet bell over the door notified the shop owner of his newest, and in fact, the only customer of the day so far. He emerged from his back room with a smile plastered onto his face, eager to offer his services. He hadn’t done much business at all the entire week, so the idea of a sale was filling him with enthusiasm. He kept his pace robust and put as much energy as he could into his voice as he greeted the stranger.
“Welcome to Roger’s Smithery!” He said, trying his best to sound jovial. “Looking for anything specific today?”
The stranger, who was dressed from head to toe in bland garb, turned to look at him, pushing the hood back off his head. He was young, the merchant thought. Couldn’t be more than twenty-five. The merchant also thought he could recognize the cloak and hood he wore. It was one item out of a set called Quiet Shadow. A strange name, but very rare. It had the effect of hiding its wearer from view for a short while.
“This place has a name?” The stranger asked, arching an eyebrow. He pushed his long brown hair out of his face and turned back towards the entrance. “I didn’t see a sign outside.”
“Well, yes,” the merchant said. He experienced a slight sinking in his stomach at the stranger’s tone. It was cold and disinterested. He didn’t expect much from this transaction. “I’ve only recently opened shop, you see.”
“Yes, I’d heard,” the man agreed. “But I also know that you’re one of Janitos’ merchants.”
The mention of the name gave the merchant a start. He took a cautious step back from the stranger, now on guard. “How do you know that?”
The stranger smiled. “My companion is very good at procuring hard-to-find information. But she’s not wrong, is she?”
The merchant hesitated. At his core, he was an honest man. But still, many people wanted Janitos. He couldn’t be too careful. “And who are you?”
“I’m new in town,” the stranger said. “I have a mission here, and then I’m leaving.”
“That’s not an answer,” the merchant said. “I don’t do business with strangers.”
“Fair point. My name is Jerik Barr.”
The merchant did not react to the name, but Jerik didn’t seem to expect one. His jovial tone had quite vanished by now. “So, what do you want?”
“My companion heard that Janitos recently gained a Legendary-class sniper rifle,” Jerik explained. “Averin’s old rifle? I want it.”
“Oh you do, do you?” the merchant asked, his brows shooting up. “Even if we do have such a rifle, which I’m not saying we do, what makes you think you could afford such a thing? Sure, Quiet Shadow’s good equipment, but I doubt you have the points for Maker’s Mark.”
He clamped his jaw shut a second too late. The man’s cold attitude had made him irritable, and he’d forgotten to keep that detail secretive. Jerik grinned. “How do you know the rifle’s name if you’ve never seen it?”
Robert the merchant scowled, knowing he’d lost that. Abandoning the pretense that he didn’t possess the weapon, he walked behind his counter. “Fine then. Two hundred thousand points, and it’s yours.”
“Don’t take me for an idiot,” Jerik shot back, stepping up to the counter. His brown eyes glinted in the dim light of the shop as he leaned over the counter, staring him down. “I know that rifle’s value is one-fifty.”
“Aye,” Robert said. He wasn’t the type to be easily intimidated. Not when it came to business. It was one of the reasons Janitos had taken him into his organization. “And I charge fifty on top.”
“I’ll give you one seventy,” Jerik said. “I’m not paying two hundred.”
“We got it for one seventy!” Robert exclaimed. “You’re paying two hundred, or you’re leaving.”
“I’ll pay one-eighty,” Jerik countered. Before the merchant could interrupt him, he withdrew something from under his roomy cloak. “And I’ll give you this.”
The merchant opened his mouth to refuse, then glanced down, his curiosity getting the better of him. He gave a start at the item. It was a new piece to his eyes, which were quite experienced. Magik, and equally as Legendary-class. “What is that?”
“It’s a wand of Protection, Legendary-class,” Jerik replied, smirking at him. “It’s a minor item, but easily worth fifty-thousand, I’d say.”
“You’re willing to part with that?” The merchant asked, his eyes now narrowing in suspicion. “You could auction that for eighty, maybe even a hundred under the right conditions.”
“I don’t care for Magik,” Jerik said. “My companion doesn’t want it, so I’m selling it. So. Do we have a deal?”
The merchant still wasn’t convinced. Speaking slowly, he said, “Just to confirm. You’ll pay one-eighty, and trade this for Maker’s Mark? You’re losing out on quite a bit in that deal.”
“Let’s just say it’s worth it,” Jerik said. “Do we have a deal?”
Begrudgingly, the merchant nodded. “Aye. We’ve got a deal.”
“Let me see it,” Jerik said, reaching out a hand to stop the merchant from grabbing the wand. The merchant cursed internally. “As I said, don’t take me for a fool.”
The stranger had a suddenly dangerous look in his eyes, a look that all too clearly told the merchant it wasn’t wise to try and trick him again. “O-of course! Just a moment, I’ll go fetch it from the back.”
He disappeared into the depths of the shop, momentarily leaving Jerik alone. Jerik shook his head, muttering quietly. He’d been to four different gunsmiths in a single day, each time offering the Wand of Protection and trying to purchase Maker’s Mark. He didn’t just want the rifle, he needed it. It was the best rifle known, but it had spent the last two years in the possession of the famous sniper Averin. Averin was a lacky of Magnus, the Captain of the Iron Order. The current ruler of Zenken, the city he’d just arrived in.
Jerik was an assassin. Well, for the moment, at least. He was running out of points for ammunition quickly and needed more. So he took on contracts. He didn’t delude himself into thinking he was the best marksman out of the ten thousand people that had come to Menora. But he’d been good enough to complete a small handful of hits, and earn nearly two hundred thousand points. Then, by a stroke of sheer luck, he’d met an information broker who told him about Maker’s Mark. The chance was too good to pass up on, even if it put him back at zero points.
Besides, he thought, as the merchant returned, carrying a wrapped bundle, if he succeeded in this job, he’d make that amount back twice over. He stepped to the counter again as the man set the bundle down, and flicked the wrapping away. His breath caught in his throat. Finally. It was as beautiful as he could have imagined. He ran a finger along the stock, right over the weapon’s name, where it was engraved on the hard plastic surface. The second-most expensive rifle in existence. An effective range of thirty-two hundred yards, thanks to the railgun Tek that was inside it.
“Excellent,” he breathed. Then he frowned. “How many rounds do you have for it?”
“Eight,” the merchant said. When Jerik looked up at him, frowning, he offered a shrug. “You knew how rare the gun was, surely you know what’s required to make rounds for it.”
Jerik did know. He knew only too well. Just getting eight with the rifle was a huge success. He grumbled, “Fine. I’ll take it.”
The merchant slapped a thin metal badge on the counter. It was a transfer device. They both put a finger on it. Jerik slid the wand over to the merchant as he said, “One hundred and eighty thousand.”
A small status appeared before his eyes, confirming the amount deducted. He was left with less than twenty thousand. Not even enough to buy a magazine of rounds for the rifle. Still, he thought, grabbing the rifle and feeling its weight, worth it in the end. He pulled a small purple gem out of his pocket and touched it to the stock of the rifle. “Ghost Ranger.”
The merchant’s eyebrows rose again as he watched the transmogrification gem take effect, shattering once the process was complete. To all eyes, Maker’s Mark now looked like the rifle Ghost Ranger, a simple but widely-used weapon. “Smarter than you look.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jerik said. “You didn’t expect me to walk out of your shop holding Averin’s old weapon, did you?”
The merchant snorted, stowing the wand away in his pocket. “Perhaps not. What is it, by the way?”
Jerik, who’d made it to the door already, turned back, his eyes narrowed. “What is what?”
“Your mission,” the merchant said. “What’s your mission?”
“You sure you want the answer?” Jerik asked. “Just knowing could put a mark on you.”
Rober nodded, even more, curious now. “I have protections.”
There was a long pause before Jerik spoke, flipping his hood back up to cover his features. “Well alright then. I’m performing a hit.”
“That much is obvious,” Robert retorted. “Else you wouldn’t go for a rife with a railgun spec. Who’s the target?”
Jerik grinned, the first real emotion he’d shown all day. Somehow, it wasn’t a friendly expression. Just the sight of it sent a chill down Robert’s spine. It wasn’t so much a grin as it was him bearing his teeth, the way a wolf did in front of its prey. The man knew his business, alright. “Magnus Oran.”
