"Didn't you and Wade make a ton of money a while back?" Weasel asked, eyeing Robert with a raised brow. "What happened? Burn it all in a week?"
Robert let out a long sigh, leaned against the bar, and rubbed his temples. "I wanted to help a friend build something... and forgot how much a toy can cost."
Weasel blinked. "Toy? How much could a toy possibly—"
"Fifty million dollars."
Weasel froze mid-glass wipe, his expression going blank like his brain had blue-screened.
"Is it me?" he muttered. "Did the world change and leave me behind? Are action figures now more expensive than beachfront property?"
Robert chuckled dryly. "It's not a toy toy. It's a suit. A full suit of battle-grade powered armor. Stark-level stuff."
Weasel leaned forward. "You're trying to build an Iron Man suit? Are you out of your mind?"
Robert shrugged. "Peter wanted one."
"Peter? The kid you tutor?"
"Yup."
Weasel let out a whistle. "Man, you're gonna spoil that kid rotten."
"I was hoping to at least build the leg armor," Robert muttered, "but even with my savings, all I can afford right now is the crotch plate."
Weasel couldn't help but laugh. "Well, when you start a Kickstarter called Save Our Suit: Support the Crotch, let me know."
"Ha ha."
Weasel reached under the bar and slid a stack of matte black index cards across the counter. "Anyway, if you're broke, we've got work. High-paying stuff only. Pick your poison."
Robert sifted through the cards, skipping anything under six figures or involving organs. He paused at one that caught his attention.
Target: Frank Amick
Objective: Eliminate a known drug lord operating in New York.
Reward: $5,000,000
Robert narrowed his eyes. "Frank Amick... thought that said Frank Castle for a second."
"Yeah, don't worry, this one's a criminal, not a punisher."
"Good. I like breathing."
Weasel tapped the card. "Before you go playing hitman, heads-up—this client's a little different. He insists on personally verifying the skills of anyone accepting the job. No test, no contract."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "So I have to audition for this gig?"
"Exactly. No stage lights, but close enough. Couple other mercs tried already, and got booted."
Robert smirked. "Then it's time someone showed him what real talent looks like."
Weasel raised his glass. "Go show off, 'leader' of Sister Margaret's."
"I am the leader. I just haven't told the others yet."
Later that day, on the outskirts of the city, Robert arrived at the designated meeting point—a long-abandoned construction site filled with rusted steel beams and unfinished concrete pillars.
He wore a black hooded jacket, the hood drawn low and a mask covering most of his face, leaving only his eyes visible. Standard precaution. You never know when a client is also a target.
"This place looks familiar," he muttered to himself.
Before he could finish that thought, a voice rang out behind him—high-pitched, confident, and... trying a little too hard to sound grown-up.
"You the guy taking the job?"
Robert turned.
Standing ten feet away was a girl—maybe eleven or twelve—dressed in a purple leather jacket and black tactical pants. She had a violet bob haircut, an eyepatch over one eye, and in her hands was a modified pistol that she held with unnervingly perfect form.
If it weren't for her height, he'd have assumed she was a trained operative.
"Yup," Robert said calmly. "And I take it you're the client?"
The little girl smirked. "Smart. Better start than the last three."
She holstered her pistol and crossed her arms. "Name's Mindy. But most people call me Hit-Girl."
Ah. That explained a lot.
Mindy looked Robert over, eyes narrowing. "Before I give you the job, I need to see what you've got. Standard screening."
"Screening?" Robert stretched his arms. "You want the lightning-five-whip special?"
"Hold it, maniac!" she barked, raising a hand. "Just... shoot the bottles."
She pointed toward the far side of the lot, where four glass bottles were lined up on a plank of wood at least a hundred meters away.
Robert whistled. "You don't like making things easy, do you?"
Mindy shrugged. "If you can't hit those with a pistol, you're not worth hiring."
Robert reached under his jacket. With a flick of the wrist, two pistols appeared like magic. Sleek, black, custom-grip models.
Mindy's eyes lit up. "Okay, that was cool."
He raised his right pistol, aimed for a brief moment—
Bang bang bang bang!
All four bottles exploded from right to left, glass shattering in the air like confetti.
Mindy blinked. "...What the hell?"
She stared at the splinters of glass raining down in the distance.
"That was with a pistol?"
"Yep." Robert holstered both guns with a flourish.
"You some kind of superhero or something?"
Robert grinned behind his mask. "I get that a lot."
Mindy's eyes narrowed. "Wait a second... you are that guy! The one from the news! The one who shot the vampires at that bar!"
Robert shrugged. "Maybe."
"Dude!" she shouted, pointing at him like she'd just discovered Santa Claus. "You're that guy! The priest with the whiskey! The Witch Bar sniper!"
"Please," Robert said, waving her off. "Call me Father Exorcist."
"I'm not calling you that."
"Fair enough."
Mindy walked a slow circle around him, arms crossed. "You're weird, and your brand makes no sense, but you've got skills."
Robert bowed slightly. "I aim to please."
"You passed the test," she said. "You're hired."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "Wait, that's it? No further tests? No background check? No blood samples?"
"Please," she scoffed. "This isn't S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Thank God."
Mindy reached into her jacket and pulled out a flash drive. "This has the target's locations, assets, guard schedules. Everything you need. Frank Amick. You've got one week."
Robert took it and slipped it into his pocket. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," she said, turning to walk away. "Just don't screw it up."
As she disappeared into the shadows, Robert looked up at the crumbling building around him, then down at the drive in his hand.
"Five million bucks for one drug lord," he murmured. "Seems simple enough."
Then he paused.
"Unless this guy's secretly a vampire."
He checked his ammo—silver bullets, mana-infused rounds, and a flask of whiskey just in case.
Always be prepared.
----
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