1a: Entry Point

The dawn was slow in coming, rising above the putrid buildings like a bad smell, gorging itself on the slumbering corpses. I tried to remember why I was there, why had I bothered to get on the transport ship at all. I failed, everything about the contract had been removed, as per instructions, the only thing that remained was the purpose, Whitchel White.

As the elevator sunk below the jagged skyline my mind wandered to the meeting, the little I had allowed myself to remember. I had found Justice Smith slumped in my favourite burgundy chair, fiddling with his long white moustache. His large, plump frame removing my form from its mellow surface; a soft green sheen edged his face, the remnants of a recent rejuvenation. Somehow I thought he would be bigger, intimidating, but his face had a worn, shaded air that simmered under the bravado, the wolf clothing hiding the sheep.

I sat down at my desk and waited for him to speak, it was unusual to find anyone in my office, let alone a Judge. “So, you’re the man?” He asked, squinting.

I sighed. “Yes, I am the man.” Always the same question. No one wanted my services because I was good, they wanted me because I was infamous. “How can I help?”

Another pause, his large leather boots begin to leave their mark on my white table. If they weren’t real they were a damn good imitation. “I want you to kill Whitchel White.”

At the memory of the name numerous bits of information spurted into my mind. Six feet three, brown hair, breeds iguanas; I shut the retrieval down, fiddling with the mental controls to enable conscious switching only. The elevator was almost at ground level. I could pick out the dirt and grime as it came hurtling towards me, people rooted through the rubbish, fireflies flickering in the endless night between the towers.

“Why Whitchel White?” It wasn’t a question I could answer