"Protector: Zero Chapter"

[TwilightApostle]

This is the beginning of a story I began about a year ago. I'm not too sure where I want to go with it, which is why I'm posting it. I've changed the story a few times, so there may be some awkward parts.

DISCLAIMER: This story contains violence, mildly offensive language, and supernatural powers.

It was the type of rainy summer day that Alex had become used to as of late. As he hurried to his destination he thought of stopping into the donut shop on the corner for a cup of coffee, then decided against it as he checked his watch. He’d be late for sure if he didn’t move quickly, and tardiness was unacceptable in his profession. Alex picked up his pace as he neared his destination. He thought the shadowy figure he saw standing under an awning was his own client, but as Alex passed him he realized that it couldn’t be. No one else was around; Alex realized he was early. Now he regretted not getting that coffee.
In a short while a figure whom Alex guessed to be his client came down the street. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment, neither one speaking, and both staring out into the rainy afternoon.
“It’s chilly out here for a June day,” said the man.
“I guess it’s payback for such a mild winter,” replied Alex.
Alex let go a deep breath. They had exchanged code phrases and were now ready to do business. They continued to face forward.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Alex’s client.
“Don't lie to me. You wouldn’t know of me if you hadn’t done something like this before. But that’s none of my business.”
Alex caught a quick glimpse of the man out the corner of his eye. The man’s face recalled to Alex’s mind images of a past that he’d have liked to forget.
“Here’s the target,” said the man as he slipped a photograph out of his khaki trench coat. “The name is Aran. Jacob Aran.”
Alex took a look at the picture.
“What’d he do?”
“That’s a little unprofessional to ask, isn’t it? I gave you a target; you do what you do. End of transaction.”
Alex had never been the type of person let a a coarse attitude slip by unchecked. Just who the hell was this man to tell him, Alex Branfield, how to do his job?
“I like to have a reason for killing a person besides being paid to do so.” In his mind Alex added, And you’ve already given me a reason to kill you.
“Well, if you must know, Aran has been selling illegal weapons. While you and I both know that this in itself can be overlooked, Mr. Aran’s activity is stealing business from my superiors, and as you can imagine, they’re not happy about it.”
“So why did you come to me? I’m sure you or your superiors could handle this alone.”
“Well,” the man replied, “While that may be true, we have an image to uphold, and we’d like to avoid anything that might stain our reputation.”
“Enough said,” replied Alex as he nodded. He turned his back to the man and walked off.
It was three hours later and still raining when Alex left his apartment. He’d taken another look at the picture before he left and was ready to do his job.
Aran was a short, thin man with what looked like black hair, though the quality of the picture was so bad that it may have been brown. His face was thin, almost to the point of appearing emaciated, and that feature made his relatively normal sized eyes and ears appear huge on the face. The result was a face that appeared as more of a caricature of a real face than an actual human visage. Alex thought to himself that Aran’s unforgettable appearance would make him that much easier to spot.
It was still raining when Alex reached the outskirts of the city. His client told him that Aran’s headquarters were in an abandoned garage near the power plant on the waterfront, the one Alex now faced.
Slipping through the rusty gate, Alex gave a cursory glance to all sides. No one was in sight, so he decided to get closer to the garage. As he neared the closed doors, he heard a voice from behind.
“It’s not safe to snoop around in places like this.”
“No, it’s not,” replied Alex, still facing away from the voice. “So why are you here?”
“I think I have the prerogative to ask you that first,” the voice said. Alex felt the familiar press of a metal cylinder on the back of his neck.
“You certainly do,” said Alex, putting his hands above his head. He looked down. “I guess you could say I’m doing a favor.”
“For who?”
“For you.”
With that, Alex’s body slipped into the ground, into shadow, vanishing like a ghost. The man shot a pistol toward the ground hastily, producing only the sound of ricocheting bullets and faint, haunting laughter as a result. From seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once, Alex’s voice spoke:
“You’ve been alive far too long, sir. I’m doing you a favor by ending your life, and this is my payment? Some people are just totally ungrateful.”
A silhouette rose from the ground behind the man with the gun. In what seemed like a heartbeat a flash of metal crossed the man’s back and released an arc of blood into the air. Alex looked himself over, checking for any dark stains on his black trench coat.
He hated getting it messy.