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Killing Time
Hood was not a good man.

He was not one for 'doing favours' or going out of his way to help strangers. Or acquaintances. Not if there wasn't something in it for him. But if there was something in it for him, he could be convinced to go above and beyond the intent of the request.

Hence why he was sitting in a long-abandoned mini-aquifer, a level or two below the active sewer and city services tunnels, a shemagh wrapped around his head to hide his features from his 'guests.' Not that it much mattered. All three were tied to much sturdier chairs than his own, and the only one that mattered had a bag over his head.

What confusion the other two may have had that their boss had his head covered began to evaporate when Hood removed his shemagh. A subtle hint on who was likely to get to leave that water-damaged brick chamber.

One, a young twenty-something piece of shit, was already weeping before Hood pulled the piece of fabric from his face. The man's sobs only deepened.

The other was a tougher sort. Self-delusion, of course; ex-CCD military. Still had the haircut. Still wore the boots. Clothes were functional, durable; much like what Hood wore in fact. The delusion though, was that he wasn't near as strong, as untouchable, as he thought. That one just glared coldly, probably thinking he was being clever as he tried to twist and flex his wrists in an effort to break the zip-ties that held them together.

The third, with the bag over his head, was the only one that actually mattered. The sort of douche-bag stylish casual suit that self-important rich kids wore to whatever shit popular club-of-the-day where he'd spend more on booze and drugs in a single night than most people earned in a month. The sort of douche-bag grease-stain that, if he saw something he wanted, he had people to get it for him. Cars, gadgets, people.

That one was the center piece of Hood's attention for the past few weeks. A sort of side-project, something to fill his free time. It certainly wasn't a challenge, and there was no big paycheck waiting the results.

Just an old bag lady that had rather rudely barged into his house one morning screaming at him in Russian. Hood didn't recycle. He didn't need the money, didn't care about the environment. But he did leave his recyclables on his porch. It was always better if your neighbors liked you (and respected you enough to leave you alone and not ask questions). The old bag lady was the one who tended to take his bottles.

He didn't lock his doors when he was at his house. His security system warned him well enough in advance that she was coming. And if anyone wanted to barge in and ruin his day, they weren't likely to leave on their own two feet.

The old bat didn't speak a word of English; a remnant of an older time. There were still a few, too stubborn or poor to learn another language. One of many that had slipped through the system's cracks. Considering how many people eked out a living under Moscow's streets, there were quite a few cracks in the system.

Luckily for her, he was fluent in Russian.

A simple demand. Not a request, not a favour. Not that she offered any payment either. Just a demand.

Kill the monsters that had killed her granddaughter. Not that the girl was any saint herself; an escort. The seedy sort. Drugs, prostitution, a criminal file. Not a saint. But she, like everyone really, was someone's child. Someone's mother, father, brother, sister. Whatever.

She'd run afoul of the douche-canoe in the suit, who now found himself sitting in an old aquifer well below the city's streets. His suit stained with blood, only some of which was his own. His pants soaked with urine. His own, plus whatever had soaked into the fabric while Hood had dragged the idiot down there.

She'd ended up in an illegal brothel. One mostly populated by the illegal immigrants that lived under the streets. That didn't exist as far as the government cared. Easier to ignore it as long as they didn't become too big a problem. And hell, it did help keep a lot of the human-trafficking kind of crime away from the city's tax-paying population.

Why had he done it? Why bother doing what some old homeless bag-lady demanded of him? Why waste ammunition and time, both far more valuable than the lives of the people he had killed up to that point, on something that didn't concern him? Had no impact on his life? Hell, there hadn't even been a risk of their activities drawing the police into his neck of the woods, not like the idiots that had thought to hide one of their trafficking projects in his part of town.

“Because I was bored, mostly.”

The answer to the babbling, weeping fool's most repeated question. 'Why are you doing this?'

It certainly wasn't what he had wanted to hear, and his weeping bawling pants-shitting fit just ratcheted up a notch. The other one just continued to glare and work at his bindings. At least until Hood waggled a finger towards him while still looking at the weeping druggy. “Same reason I'm probably going to leave that one alive. Blind, deaf, mute. Quadriplegic. But alive. Snip a few tendons. Break a few bones. Don't need to break any, of course. The tendons will do the job. Then I'll make sure he doesn't die. Leave him with the immigrants. Maybe pay one to keep feeding him. Keep him alive.”

It was his tone. The look in his eyes. When he looked at the ex-soldier, the man knew. A sudden dawning of realization that Hood would do everything he had just, because...because he was bored. It wasn't personal. It wasn't even really because of anything the ex-soldier had done. It was just because Hood knew it would be a fate worse than death, and was just bored enough to follow thru on it.

Hood stood then, walked behind the three seated men, and dragged a table over into their view. All sorts of tools sat on that table. Crude things, mostly. A box of nails and a hammer. A few bottles of industrial disinfectants...he didn't want them dying of an infection, after all. A subtle implication of just how long he expected to play with them. Pliers, a propane torch. Car batteries...good ones. Quality ones. Not some knock-off brand.

He was a professional, after all. Didn't want to use a recycled battery that might not have a full charge.

And, most curiously, a transmitter, that was attached to those batteries.

“I'm going to start with you though.” His focus returned to the addict. The one that had turned the old bag lady's grandchild into a cheap escort. Too bad; the girl would have been gorgeous if she had been born into any other family, probably. Hell, she'd probably have done very well in the same line of work if she'd just had better contacts first.

He picked up the first bottle of disinfectant, poured it into a bowl. Pulled his jacket off to reveal the body armour underneath. A pair of durable latex gloves. Then dipped a nail in the bowl. “Oh, you're probably wondering why your hand hurts, Mr Bolevsky. It's because I cut your tracker out. It's plugged into a signal booster, so your father can find you when I'm all done here. He'll probably send his best men to get you. Well, his second best...” a disapproving glance at the ex-soldier “...and I'll go pay him a visit. Just to have a talk. I have some very interesting things to tell him about your plans for inheriting the family business.”


It took longer then he had expected for the douche-bag's father to get his people together. By the time a warning popped up on his Landwarriors, he had long dismissed the idea of keeping the pitiful sack's bodyguard alive. The loser wasn't worth the money, no matter how amusing it would have been.

The douche-bag had nearly drowned on his own vomit at one point. Pathetic. He couldn't even see what was happening. He could smell it, sure. Hear it, obviously. Probably a result of an over-active imagination. Impressive, considering how unimaginative the fool seemed to be in regards to his own mortality and possible repercussions of his actions.

Not the point though. By the time his Landwarriors had warned him that there were people approaching, trying to track the signal from the idiot's tracker, he had long finished with the druggy wanna-be pimp and had been taking his time on the ex-soldier.

Time up, he'd cleaned up a bit, put his shemagh back on, and pulled the bag off the idiot wanna-be crime lord's head. Let him get a good look at what Hood had done to the pair over the past two hours. The ex-soldier was still alive; would be when their friends arrived. Wouldn't be much long after though.

He'd decided he wouldn't bother visiting the idiot's father in person. Not that it would have been all that hard, but because it just wasn't worth the effort. He'd insulted the man enough, but the evidence that his own son had been planning to kill the father and take over would probably be enough to keep the old fool from trying to hunt Hood down.

It didn't take him long to get back to street level, where his old-model cellphone received a signal again. A quick glance indicated he had a new message; his day job, a new contract offer. Security analysis for some politician's new estate. Simple enough, a few days work. Someone that owed the company favours for past work. Well, it would help kill some time until something interesting came up.

Phone tucked away, he made his way into the subway and pondered what to do for supper.

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