Chapter Text
0300 h
Let me set the scene.
You got one job to do, moon. Look mysterious and forbidding, peeping out in between clouds of darkness. No wait, the sky was dark, except for the pinprick of stars, so I guess the clouds were whatever the colour clouds are at night. Alright, we got the sky sorted out, let's look down.
We are on Dionysus Boulevard, which the richest and greatest of actors and movie moguls call their home. Anyone who was someone in the Biz has ended up in one or another of the white portico flanked houses for an awards ceremony after party or an interview swept under the rug.
At this time of the night, only the flickering yellow lamplights keep the shadows at bay. You could not hear even the loudest snore of a celebrity, except for one overbred poor little pug that lived in the house in the corner. Alone. The pug had its own home. Its mistress lived across the road.
Oh look, there's a figure slouching down the road. He is in black, of course. Sneaking glances at the golden letters on every gatepost. The fact that the package in his hand is only wrapped in brown paper and string was enough to prove that he most certainly did NOT belong here, as what denizen of Dionysus Boulevard would stoop down to the level of brown paper, when Swarovski crystal encrusted wrapping paper would do?
He stops in front of a house. Now this house is important to us, so listen carefully. It has a more modest and simple design than the rest, but it makes up for that by having walls in every colour of the rainbow and looks as if made of tiers of icing. This big gay cake house belongs to a certain Thomas Sanders, acting extraordinaire, angelic of voice, and all-round ray of sunshine.
Our mysterious visitor – no, intruder – climbs over the gate and creeps up to the front door. It has a wreath of holly and a jack o' lantern hanging above all year round, either because the owner of the house has an absurd fascination with both holidays, or he was just too lazy to take the decorations down. The man shoves the package through the slot for letters and newspapers and hightails it back to the street.
He turns around to face the house. His swallow features twist into a grimace of glee as he raises his hands dramatically, looking like a demented scarecrow in a fourth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz. He cackles.
"Bwahahaha, now I got you –"
The front of the house explodes.
He is abruptly cut off and thrown across the road from the shock wave from the blast.
He lies there stunned for a second, whiles sirens start blaring up and down the boulevard, because if there is one thing its residents care for besides fame, it was the fear of someone disturbing their beauty sleep. Dammit, plan foiled, thinks our villian, wishing he set the timer on the bomb for a minute or two longer.
But, true cape swirling moustache twirling villain he is, he simply could not leave without a speech.
"BWAHA – CRRRRRK"
The heat off the flare left him with a parched throat. He is turning out to be as buffoonish as a cartoon villain. But cartoon villains were notoriously good at fleeing the scene of crime, and that's what he does. He is annoyed that he doesn't have supersonic shoes, an invisible jet or an underground drilling machine thingy to escape on but running was good enough for now.
And tonight isn't a failure. Thomas Sander was dead.
(Between you and me, dear reader, Thomas was definitely NOT dead, coz then I won't have a story to tell. But let our diabolical friend have his moment.)
0400 h
Across town, in a lonely bachelor pad, a phone buzzes on a spick-and-span bedside table. Logan, the youngest candidate ever to pass the Chief of Security Certificate with honours, wakes up, puts on his glasses and answers the call. He listens, a frown of concentration making his prematurely care worn face even sterner.
"Yes, Sir," he says with a note of finality. "The safety of the Primary is of my utmost concern until further development. You have my word."
"I trust you, Craggers, failure is not an option. Now make a move."
He puts the phone down. He almost couldn't believe his luck. He is determined to ace it, be the best, as 'good enough' was not in Logan's vocabulary.
His first assignment.
Saving Primary Sanders.
0500 h
Another phone rings. I mean I'm sure plenty of other phones rang throughout the city, but this is what's important to us.
Patton is already up. He is getting ready to go feed the pigeons on the church steps, then to the ducks in the park pond and finally to whoever turning up at the shelter today morning. He picks up the receiver and jams it between his ear and shoulder as he takes a loaf out of the bread bin. He listens for a moment or two, and his face crumples.
0530 h
Roman stares at himself in the eye in his mirror. He needs to look his finest today morning.
He pats the tufts of hair at the crown of his head, which have the annoying habit of standing on end. He slicks them down with a generous amount of silicon gel. Next, he shaves his facial hair within a millimetre of precision, following the regulation guide to the small print. He puts on a spotless white shirt, a little black bowtie, followed by sleek black trousers and black leather shoes polished so sharp you could see your reflection in them. He adds the faintest dusting of black eye liner for good luck, sad that the one who usually put that on was no longer here. He cuts his nails to the quick, something he should have done before, but he had a bad habit of leaving things till the last minute. Then he straps on his most prized possession: a shoulder holster that runs down to his hip where rests a standard issue pistol.
You see, this wasn't an ordinary job interview.
He is applying for the post of Thomas Sanders' bodyguard.
Less than an hour ago, he was surprised when he got a text from his Superior at The Dignitary Defence Division, telling him to haul ass to Thomas Sander's house on Dionysus Boulevard at 6.00 am on the dot. Surprised, as it was rare for a freshly minted bodyguard to get an assignment right out the gate, for Roman only passed out from the Bodyguard Academy last week. But that surprise soon turned to the thrill of first kill.
He looks at himself in the mirror. He finally gets to put his skills to practice, his training to use at last! He squeals in glee and does an impromptu tap dance out of excitement
He is ready.
Well, not quite. There was one thing more.
His actual pride and joy, a neatly pressed midnight black blazer. He spent all he has on getting the best tailor he could find to custom make him a blazer to out-blaze everyone else's. He works hard to keep himself in shape, and he wants to show off his hard-earned results. Besides, he knows that his job would demand split second action on his part, and no off the rack blazer would be able to put up with the strain of a lunge and roll. It was no hidden secret that guys in his trade judge each other based on their blazers, and Roman wants to make a good first impression.
He picks up his blazer of the coat hook, and stops dead when he realises that there is a big splotch of week old red wine down the front. Shoot. He has not dry cleaned it since the graduation bash!
He flings the poor little coat across his studio apartment into an overflowing laundry hamper. He did not even get to meet his Primary, and he is already flunking it.
Who will have a last-minute coat to spare?
He reaches for his phone.
"Roman? Wassamerrer?"
"Hi, Dad!"
"Oh. It's you. What's up Roy Boy? Hm... It's still early in the morning so it can't be a pity call to check on your old man's arthritis. Are you in trouble?"
"What? No!"
"Doing the Mark Wahlberg impression from The Happening? Dang, you must be feeling down in the dumps! Got a pimple? Out of rent money? Boyfriend dumped ya again?"
"Daaaaaaad. Yes, to all three, but I don't need help with those... I need a blazer." Roman tries to sound as pitiful as he possibly could.
"You can have my old one... it won't closer over my beer belly now!"
"I'm on my way!"
Roman peeks into his mini-fridge, finds it empty, shrugs and runs out. He will be late to report at this rate, and he doesn't have the money for a taxi, but running fifteen kilometers every morning for four years ensured that he is not going to give up.
0545 h
Patton is in shock.
The Thomas Residence is in ABSOLUTE chaos. There is a gang of builders swarming over the front façade, fixing last night's damage. That is all very well, but why did they insist on shouting as loudly as they can? He has been to the house many times before, and he remembers that the lobby used to be warm and friendly... now debris litter the floor and pictures hang crooked on the walls. Worst, there is an ugly brown scorch mark by the blown up front door, right over the spot where the welcome mast had been.
Patton flicks through the papers on his clipboard in confusion. How on Earth did anyone manage to do this job? There is so many things to keep track of! He adjusts his glasses and tucks a pencil behind an ear.
"Dolan Janus, I presume?"
Patton turns to see a tall bespectacled man standing behind him, clad in tan trench coat and brief case in hand.
The stranger doffs an unassuming brown fedora and holds out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Logan Craggers, Chief of Security, and I've been assigned to protect Mr Thomas Sanders. You are his Personal Assistant, I believe?"
Patton stares at Logan open mouthed, their hands still linked.
"Well?" prompts Logan impatiently, redacting his hand.
"Um..." Patton blinks. He shakes himself and replies. "Oh gosh, no, I'm not Dolan, I'm his twin, Patton Janus."
Logan frowns. The similarity is uncanny. "Very well. Where is your brother?"
"He kinda.... blew up."
"BLEW up? How? Since when do people spontaneously combust?"
Patton points to the scorch mark on the floor.
"Oh." Logan is silent for a moment. "I am sorry for your loss."
Patton nods. "We've never been that close, but he was my twin after all. Wanted to die in a fiery ball of flame, so I hope he is happy somewhere out there. Thomas gave me a call today morning and asked me if I could fill in for Dolan, as he needed a new Personal Assistant. It was all really quick, and I don't think I still really get that poor little Dolan is, you know..."
"Ah." Logan waits patiently till Patton composes himself. Dealing with familial trauma not connected to the Primary was the least of his concerns. "We will be working together on this investigation then. How many years of experience do you have as a PA to a VIP under threat?"
"None... I've never been a PA, like at all."
Logan swallows a groan. "That is unfortunate, but if Thomas specifically requested for you, there is little I can do. Try to keep up, or I fear I must remind you that I have the authority to have you replaced."
Patton bobs his head and salutes, convinced that is the best way to respond. The clipboard slips out of his hand and papers join the scattered mess on the ground. Patton gets on his hands and knees and starts collecting as many as he could reach for.
Logan stifles a grimace and picks up a hospital report. "Good. The Primary has been given a clean bill of health." Thomas Sander was at home last night, but his bedroom is at the back of the house, well away from the radius of the explosion.
Logan hands Patton the paper. "Kindly correspond with the Hospital and arrange his release first thing tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Logan." Patton springs up, jamming the papers under the clip again.
"I prefer Mr. Craggers."
"But that's such a scary name!"
"Scary or not, it is my name, and it will be to the interest of us both if you refer to me as such."
Patton nods, not trusting himself to speak.
"Walk with me." Logan sets off down the hall. Patton trots obediently by his side.
"Is the Private Investigator here?" asked Logan.
"No... she called this morning. Said her husband was inconvenienced and she won't be able to make it."
"That's an explanation, not an excuse. A yet unknown homicidal killer just attempted to murder a celebrity, and she can't be bothered to turn up to her assigned case because her husband has a cold?"
"Her husband actually fell off a boat and got caught in a net and the fishermen are holding him hostage and she shot a fisherman and is circling their sloop in a speedboat and the police are circling her and the fisherman and that's all I know for now but I will update you once their daughter charges her phone."
"Ridiculous. Tell PI Desperanza that she better makes it here in an hour. Or else I will make sure she gets sued for gross negligence and misconduct. Can the Dignitary Defence Division spare another PI?"
"I called the 3D –"
"Why on earth did you call a cinema? I do not want a Dick Tracey knockoff!"
"That would be super cool but no the 3D is the –"
"An unnecessary abbreviation for the Dignitary Defence Division?" Logan guesses.
"You're so clever! The 3D said if we want we can send a request but their in-mail pile is taller than an Elephant's Thigh"
"Elephant?" Logan blinks. "Well that stuffy department will take another week and a half to even open our letter and then they'll promptly send us a janitor. This place can use one, though." Logan steps around a stain of questionable origin in the carpet.
He reaches the end of the corridor and looks around. "Does the Primary have an office I can use?"
"Thomas hates offices. He hates to become The Man."
"Am I supposed to sit on the roof and work? All I ask for is a desk!"
"Thomas was never one to sit at a desk. He does have one in the library though."
"Excellent."
Logan strides into the library, and his jaw drops in surprise. There are a few books on the shelves, but the majority of the space is taken up by a colourful array of soft toys. Action figures and puzzles and dollhouses dot the floor, and origami creations hang on streamers from the roof. Thankfully, there is a broad wooden desk and a sedan chair looking ironically out of place in the middle of it all, and Logan immediately takes refuge in it.
"Does Thomas have a child?" he asks in confusion. "It looks like an arts and crafts shop and Toy Store had a barfing match here."
"No... Thomas made all of this, I think."
"Well... each to his own I say." Logan sweeps a herd of stuffed giraffes and zebras off the table. "I think we are set."
"Yay! Where can I sit?"
"Well look under that pile of costumes, there's enough room there for a desk under that big poofy.... Princess ball gown. Actually, throw it out, that shade of lime green is hideous."
Paton gasps. "You like Princess ball gowns?" He claps his hands excitedly.
Logan's unamused expression says it all.
"But then how do you know if this one's ugly?"
"I reserve the right to have an opinion on what colours are aesthetically pleasing. Now, as much as I would like to gab about fashion backward princesses, we have work to do."
"Aye Aye, Cap'n!" Patton clicks his heels and puts on a Pirate hat.
Logan sighs. "Just bring in the candidates for the bodyguard."
"Ooooh. That sounds so fancy and secretive! Thomas is finally going to have a bodyguard!"
"This is no fun and games, Patton. Now chop chop."
0600 h (Okay, it might be a little bit after that!)
Roman near skips down Dionysus Boulevard instead of walking, he is so pumped up with anticipation. It isn't too difficult to recognise Sanderville (That is what Thomas's house is called) as it is surrounded by police tape, and the entire front of the house is missing. Roman ducks under the tape, flashes his bodyguard badge to a sleepy policeman, and goes in.
He wonders down a corridor looking at the framed film posters. He is actually in Thomas Sanders house! Even better, he might become his personal bodyguard! Talk about a wish come true! Roman has been his biggest fanboy since Thomas played the lead in a wacky Disney Channel series, and just last year he voiced the first gay prince in the latest Disney animated movie. That shot him to worldwide fame overnight, and it made Roman mad that anyone would dare try and murder him.
A perky looking man in a pirate hat bounces up to Roman, all corn yellow curls and smiles.
"Hello! You must be one of the bodyguards!
"Pleased to meet you, sir. I am Roman Bronze." Roman gives a firm handshake.
"Oh!" Patton giggles. "You don't have to call me Sir! My name is Patton, but you can call me Pat or Pats or Patty or…”
Roman laughs, unable to ignore the other's infectious giggle. "I think I'll stick with Patton."
"Stick to the basic, that's nice!"
"I'm anything but basic!" Roman grins from the corner of his month and clicks his tongue.
"I can see that! Now where are the rest?"
"The rest?"
"The rest of the bodyguards!"
"Uh... I don't see anyone else."
"But there must be more!"
"It can't be... was my application the only one sent to you?" Roman feels a tiny tinge of pride. Out of all the graduates, his Superior thought he was the best? Boom, baby!
"Hm... The 3D must have made a mix up with the emails."
Roman's face falls.
Patton makes a few calls, and his face falls too. "Anyways, come on in!"
"Wait," says Roman. "I need to get into the zone."
Patton looks on in interest as Roman roll back his shoulders, straightens his stance, sets his jaw firm and narrows his eyes. "I'm ready."
They enter Logan's office. Logan looks up from his laptop screen. There is an ink stand and note book to his right, a bottle of water and family photo on his left. When did he have time to arrange his table?
"Here's Roman Bronze, Mr Craggers!" says Patton.
"Reporting to duty, Sir!" says Roman, nodding at Logan, watching carefully to see if Logan would expect a handshake.
He doesn't. "Take a seat, Bronze."
Roman looks around the room, sees no chair, and perches himself precariously on a rocking horse.
"Where are the rest?" Logan turns to Patton.
Patton twiddles his thumbs.
"Speak up!" barks Logan.
"Um... well, one of the candidates is 92 years old, and the retirement home refused to let him out. Two other candidates were snapped up by a dignitary who said he'd pay more, and the last candidate said this was too far from her home, and she doesn't like to commute."
Logan blanches. "That is unacceptable!"
"We could ask the 3D send more."
"We don't have time for all the paperwork!" Logan turns to Roman. "You'll have to do."
Roman stands up tall. "I assure you Chief Craggers, Sir, I am more than capable of being much better than 'do'."
Logan is pleased by the way he is addressed. Roman clear knows how to respect his superiors. "Let's see." He glances through Roman's documents. There aren't many. "It seems you have no experience at all?"
"This would be my first assignment," admits Roman. "But I have put in the required hours of field work and I graduated best top in my physical class."
Logan raises an eyebrow.
"Uh... I was the best, and top of my class?" Roman backtracks.
"Very well. We shall test you. Patton, would you mind acting as bait?"
"I love to play the victim!" Patton claps his hands.
"All your life, no doubt. But I have a different role for you to play. Go sit in my chair." Logan moves to the front of the room next to Roman, while Patton sits down. "Patton, you are an evil villain." Patton squees, picks up a cat plushie and strokes it menacingly. "And you are protecting an important key hidden in the cupboard behind you." Patton smiles like a mako shark. "Bronze, you got to disarm Patton and recover the key in a minute. You will start..." Logan checks his watch. "Now!"
Roman darts forward, and throws the ink from the pot at Patton's face and the water from the bottle at the cat, with one hand each. While Patton wails, Roman rolls over the table. With the same momentum, he slams his shoe heel against the lock, breaking it with one blow. He rifles through the shelves and drawers, one eye on Patton desperately swatting his face with the wet plushie. Roman can't see the key anywhere. Time is running out! AAAAARGH!! He rattles the cupboard in frustration, and a picture frame falls out. Its backing springs open revealing a key. AHA! Roman scoops it up.
"I did it!"
Logan hands Patton the ghastly hued princess ball gown to clean himself with.
He taps his chin thoughtfully. "Your tactics are most unorthodox, but you get mad results, Bronze."
"Thank you, sir!" Roman beams.
"Why did you throw water at the soft toy, though?"
"If it was a real cat, that would have caused quite the distraction."
Logan nods. "But you found the key by pure dumb luck. You missed the clue I kept for you." He points at the notepad. Among a bunch of doodles was an arrow pointing out the frame on his desk.
Roman grins sheepishly. "I will try my best to do better, Sir, if you give me the chance."
"Your performance was adequate. However, it is unlikely you'll be called upon to use your brains on the field. Let us test your offense. Shoot that rope." He gestured at the offending piece of narrow fabric.
Roman whips out his gun in a smooth maneuver and pulls the trigger. The rope is neatly severed, holding on by one thread or two.
"Excellent. Now let us check your defence: Protect Patton."
The rope snaps and a chandelier falls down from the ceiling towards poor Patton. He looks up and screams blue murder in a pitch so high a glass shatters in the next room.
Roman leaps into action. He throws himself over Patton, pinning him down with one hand to make sure his panicked wriggling wouldn't make him hurt himself accidently. He raises the other arm to protect his own head, and braces himself for the impact. The chandelier lands.
Roman has managed to get himself and Patton right in its centre, and not one single spoke or candle had hurt them. Roman gingerly grasps the chandelier and tosses it aside.
Logan is impressed, despite himself.
"First," he says to Patton. "Sorry for endangering your life two times in as many minutes. Please go calm yourself down."
"I think I need to lie down," says Patton, and staggers out of the room, the disgustingly dyed princess ball gown trailing behind him.
"As for you Bronze, you are hired. I am sorry for having doubted you, and I'm glad to have you on the team."
"Proud to be a part of it, Sir!"
"How did you guess it was the chandelier?"
"Noticed it as soon as I came in. It's straight out of The Phantom of the Opera. Knew it was gonna come down at any moment."
"Huh. I like the way you think. Report to work tomorrow morning at the Jubilee Hospital, Mr Sanders will be released and you will be responsible for the Primary's safety at all times and costs."
Roman nods, a glimmer in his eye.
"Also, wear a black tie next time. That bow is preposterous."
Roman swats his neck self-consciously. Logan shakes his hand, and sends him to the hospital to keep a look out for trouble while Thomas recovered.
He looks around the room. "I might grow to like this place. It has many surprises," he tells himself. He sat down on his chair, and springs up realising it was wet, and he probably had a patch of ink on his back. Surprises indeed.
Patton slips into the room, two mugs of soup in his hands. "One for me and one for you!"
"You are too kind, Patton. I do not deserve this after the way I made use of you."
"Oh tosh. Occupational hazard. Also, another occupational hazard – there are no bowls in the house, so that's why I put the soup in a mug. That or the blender, that's the only big vessel Thomas owns apparently."
Logan simply smiles and takes a sip, feeling the warmth spread through him.
"Is that your family?" Patton gestures at the photograph on Logan's desk. In it was Logan, looking as serious as usual, with a pretty woman by his side and two children, a boy and a girl before them, chortling cheekily at the camera.
"Yes and no."
"What do you mean?"
"A topic for a later discussion."
"Oh." Patton kicks his legs back and forth as he sits on Logan's desk, wondering if they could ever be friends.
1700 h
It is the end of the day, and Logan inspects the front of the building. It is surprising how much can be restored in one day. The façade looks good as it ever had, and Patton had instructed to add a banner over the door, loudly announcing 'COULD BE GAYER'.
Patton prances up to Logan. "It looks great doesn't it?"
"As good as it gets, I suppose. But shouldn't you have asked Thomas first?"
"Somebody told me that was his first sentence as a baby! He would adore it!"
"I'm sure he would."
"Oh! By the way, Thomas's driver just called and said he's too scared to work for him anymore. Such cold feet! One bomb goes off and people stop being loyal!" Patton huffed.
Logan facepalms. "How many more setbacks must we go through?"
"Not to worry! I already called Dignitary Defence Division and asked them if they could spare one."
"SPARE?" Logan's nostrils flare. "Demand that they send me their best chauffer in the city!" He takes out the keys to Thomas's car out of the pocket of his trench coat, and jangles them in annoyance.
"Well, they found someone. I called him, and he just woke up."
"Just woke up? It's five in the evening! What kind of lifestyle does he lead?"
"We can find out! He should be here any moment."
Logan scans the road and sees a man sauntering up. He wears black t-shirt and jeans, with a white windbreaker on. A brown satchel hangs across one shoulder. Sunglasses perch on his nose, and a plastic coffee cup nestles in his hand. He walks up to them with swagger.
"I have arrived. Missed me?" he says with a flourish and hands Logan a card.
Logan looks down at the card, expecting a name but sees something else entirely. The capitalisation is off, he notices:
BITe my ChEeky asS.
"Bite my cheeky ass... Bitches?" says Logan, confused and a tad scandalised.
"Wow! Ruuuuude. We just met!"
Logan brows jump around like big brown beetles. "Who are you?"
"Aw... No 'how are you doing's? It's okay, I'll go first." He flicks his hair back. "Hiya, Inspector Fudgit. You can call me RG and I'm here to babysit your little car!"
"First, are you the chauffer we were promised? Second, it's Chief of Security Craggers, to you, whatsyourname." You could hear ice bergs splinter in Logan's voice.
Patton checks his clipboard. "Yes!" he stutters. "This is Remy Goor and he just got his licence to be a Dignitary Chauffer."
"I find that hard to believe." Logan eyes Remy up and down. "You look like someone that we should check the boot for, not trust behind the wheel."
"Don't you come at me, Susan! Your words are water off my back." Remy takes a swig of whatever was in his cup, which was probably not water or even coffee for that matter. "And I can't call you chief of whatever thingy, boss. Hm... CSC – nah too boring. Cass Cragg? Cos Gus? Bah, too easy." His eyes sparkle. "Got it. I henceforth christen you Cheese Crackers."
Logan splutters incredulously as Patton dissolves into a peal of laughter.
"And who are you, my pretty?" Remy turns to Patton.
"I'm Patton Janus, the new PA for Thomas Sanders!"
"Sanders, eh? Voted cutest giggle at the Teen Choice Awards?"
"Yes! You can call me Patton or Pat or Patty or Pattoncakes or –"
"Yes! Now how busy is our highness? Does he travel a lot or stay in bed all day? Don't tell me I have to be here on time!"
Logan is not used to being ignored when he is in a position of authority, so he steps in between Patton and Remy.
"Ahem," he intones. "I will email you a schedule and I expect – no, demand – that you follow it. But first, I need to check whether I should let you fifty feet near the Primary." He takes the clipboard from Patton and runs through Remy's documents, which are once again few in number. He frowns. "Have you ever driven a dignitary before?"
"Oh honey, don't come at me! I haven't driven a car before." Pushing his sunglasses onto his hair, he winks. "Just thought it might be fun to drive a big ol' celeb around and scooted over to the place with three big Ds on the door and got my licence last week. And here I am, basking you with my presence. Ta da!" He throws his arms in the air and nods his sunglasses back into place.
"An amateur! How am I supposed to get anything done here?" Logan passes the clipboard back to Patton and rounds up on Remy. "Can you even drive, you jumped up rooster?"
Remy shrugs. "Watch me." He neatly snatches the keys from Logan, moonwalks down the drive way and hops into Thomas's car. "See ya!" He waves through the shutter, and takes off with a speed that would make a sportscar lie down and rust.
Logan and Patton stand staring at the trail of swirling dust and leaves.
"I guess he hired himself," says Patton.
"More like stole our car." Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not that we had a choice in the matter."
"Yeah, but we finally completed assemblification!"
"Patton, please, I have a lot on my plate, spare me the Pattonisms."
"It's just my cute and quirky way of saying that we got our team together."
Logan chuckles. "Yes, and quite a raggedly bunch we are. It intrigues me that all of us are on their first assignment. That is quite the coincidence. And we still need to find a detective to solve the case and identify the murderer."
"Yes, but we are off to a good start."
"I wish I share your optimism."
"Aw! Go get some sleep. Thomas insisted that you can make yourself at home here for as long as necessary."
"Thanks!"
Patton pats him on the shoulder and they head indoors.
1800 h
Across town, the assassin to be assembles his gun. A book lays on the table next to the gun, open to a page titled "Assassination for Dummies: How to Assemble your Murder Weapon" subtitle "Guns".
The Assassin sniggers. He slides the last cartridge into the barrel. Perfect!
He picks up the gun, but it kicks back on its own volition and spits out a bullet. The Assassin squeaks and ducks under the table as the bullet ricochets all over the room and finally imbeds itself in a picture of a guy with brown hair, and a smile as bright as the sun.
Well, maybe I need more practice, thinks the Assassin grumpily. He glares through his long bangs at the bullet hole between the eyes of the man in the picture. But then, my dear, you will be mine. Tee hee hee.