â€œItâ€™s a good assignment. A Robert Grass, five hundred credits dead, one thousand alive. We can have his files pulled up at Zaneâ€™s place.â€<br/><br/>Soren ignored her grandmotherâ€™s suggestion. The girl was busily folding her meager wardrobe into a backpack, which equated to about a mere week of clothing. She was rather unconcerned that it would fit. What she was worried about was how she would fit all her knives, poisons, tranquilizers, and favorite blaster into the case with all the clothes in the way.<br/><br/>Her grandmother went on, â€œI know that letter promised good pay, but whereâ€™s the promise?â€ The old lady had grown stouter in her old age, her hair white and her wide face wrinkled. But sheâ€™d been a beauty in her prime, that was for sure. Soren had seen pictures. â€œThis job will give you pay for sure. We checked the source this time, and no one will shoot at you. For sure.â€ Her grandmother was gesturing at the electronic reader she held, a post about a criminal wanted for duping the mafia. It had cost her grandmother a fortune to own one, a fortune she had earned in her youth. And it wasnâ€™t of the highest quality.<br/><br/>Soren zipped shut the little bag, satisfied it would hold all it could. She was only left with her sword and a single knife unable to fit. Which suited her just fine. At least she would be armed, as it was necessary in these parts. â€œGreenend bar. Thatâ€™s where Iâ€™m going.â€ Soren said to her grandmother, not turning to face the woman as she threaded her arms through the straps on the pack. â€œItâ€™s not far. Iâ€™ll meet this Joseph person, and if he turns out to be a flunk, Iâ€™ll take the other assignment.â€ She turned and met her grandmotherâ€™s tired eyes.<br/><br/>The old woman had seen so much in her life. Sheâ€™d had twelve children total in her lifetime; and only three had lived old enough to have children. She had half a dozen siblings, had raised dozens of nieces and nephews, as well as grandchildren, like Soren. The struggles the woman had gone through were more challenging than the ones Soren had seen thus far. And yet her grandmother had faced them and survived. For that, Soren respected her.<br/><br/>The old woman looked the petite girl up and down. She seemed so frail. But the child had taken on many a challenge in her own life, and come home safe each time. The girl was strong.<br/><br/>With a release of a sigh, her grandmother relented. â€œFine. Be safe, child.â€<br/><br/>Soren was relieved. There were things she should have said to her grandmother. Any number of things would have been acceptable.<span style="font-style: italic">Thank you for all youâ€™ve done for me. Thank you for understanding. I love you very much. You are very dear to me. Thank you for being so kind in raising me. I hope to see you soon</span><br/><br/>But she said none of these things. All she did was nod once, and leave.<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>This part of town was an eyesore. Much like the places Soren had grown up in. The stench of death, body odor, waste and trash made her stomach roil. The roads were filthier than the people, and the people stunk up to high heaven. It was disgusting.<br/><br/>The young girl slid through the door to the Greenend tavern, crinkling her nose at the stench of alcohol. She stuck out like a sore thumb; a small girl in a room of men, all bright gold and pale. The only part that would have seemed to belong was the elongated sword sheath at her hip, and yet it seemed to make her all the more strange.<br/><br/>Recalling the instructions in the letter, Soren weaved lithely through the people who stared at her as she flitted past. Soon she reached the bar, and waved the bartender over. He looked annoyed as hell. Soren swiftly decided something: She didnâ€™t care.<br/><br/>â€œHey!â€ She called when he ignored her in favor of polishing a glass. â€œHellooo?â€ She growled through gritted teeth. â€œIâ€™m talking to you.â€<br/><br/>The barkeep tsked over his shoulder. â€œWe donâ€™t<span style="font-style: italic">serve</span>minors. Get lost.â€<br/><br/>Soren bristled at his rudeness. She clenched her teeth in repressed anger. â€œIâ€™m here,â€ she said slowly, as if speaking to someone intellectually inept, â€œto see a Joseph.â€ She held up her letter as proof, the paper rustling softly. The foreign sound of actual paper drew a few stares.<br/><br/>The bartend grimaced. â€œYou and evrâ€™one else. Follow me, pipsqueak.â€ The fat man started through the barâ€™s patrons.<br/><br/>Soren clenched her fist and took a slow breath through her nose, despite the smell. The girl calmed herself, and gradually her slim fingers released the hilt of her sword, digits peeling away like petals of a blooming flower. And then followed the squat bartender, her bright cat-like gold eyes narrowed.<br/><br/>Down a hallway, past the stairs and doors, and finally they were there. The large man swiped a card through a key slot, and Soren peered around his shoulder. How easily she could rewire it. It would be childâ€™s play, breaking into such a room.<br/><br/>â€œNo bodies. Iâ€™ve already briefed everyone in there. No bullshit, either.â€ Grumbled the bartend, before he turned and left without a care.<br/><br/>Soren watched the man leave, and suddenly had second thoughts. What would she find behind that door? Heâ€™d mentioned others. Who were they? People who would try to kill her? She had plenty of people out to get her for all the people sheâ€™d turned in. Many unsavory people wished her dead.<br/><br/>But sheâ€™d gotten this far. It would be stupid to turn back now. So, with bravery she barely felt, she thrust the door open unobtrusively. It was filled with people.<br/><br/>She counted quickly, finding three men and two women. Heads rotated at her entrance. She steeled herself, her expression bored. As if this happened every day. There were some strange ones. There was a boy who seemed barely taller than her. He looked even younger than she, with large brown eyes and blonde hair. One woman had strange bluish red hair and raccoon eyes. The other had orange hair and green eyes. Then there was the one leaning back in a chair, with greenish black hair. He appeared to be sleeping. And an average looking man with black hair, watching the snoozing one hawkishly.<br/><br/>Soren blinked once, not betraying a single emotion on her face. Then she shut the door behind her. With a frown, she glanced around, quietly taking in the crowd. They...werenâ€™t what sheâ€™d expected.<br/><br/>â€œWhich of you is Joseph?â€ she asked with a birdlike tilt of her head, expression unchanging.