The Gothic City Harbor District...
"Now... I've been in this game a long time, yeah? Seen a lot of sh*t, done a lot of sh*t..." Brock sparked his match, puffing on a stogie until it started to smoke. "A whole lotta' that sh*t happened to be dealing with pezzo di talpe di merda like yourself. That's right, I'm talking to you." The gangster grinned, chuckling as he pointed to the man who hung upside down in front of him. The two associates at his sides brandished their revolvers, ready for a single gesture to do the deed.
The hanging man groaned quietly, working through the pain of his recently broken ribs. He had to spit out a mouthful of blood just to get his words out. "I already told you, Brock, I ain't no FUNKING MOLE! I'd never do the boss like that, I was raised in this family like it was my own, for Christ's sake!" The man closed his eyes, knowing that his pleas fell on uncaring ears. No matter the desperation, there was no getting out of this alive.
Brock let out a fat chuckle, chomping down on his cigar while standing up from his chair. "You really gonna keep tellin' us that you're you? Heheh, you're dumber than you look, and that's not even your real face, mostro."The thug pulled out his own revolver, casually popping the chamber aside to inspect the six rounds inside. "We know all about how you're some kind of freak that can look like other people, alright? So you can quit it with the sob story. The boss wanted me to figure out who hired you, but you know what? I ain't gonna do that. I don't give a rat's ass about who sent you into our family, or what you did to the real Doyle... Nah, that's another few minutes I ain't willin' to give you."
"Jesus, Brock! I'm the real Doyle, okay!? The first thing you ever told me when I first joined up wa-"
"Doyle" was swiftly kicked in the face by Brock, who was now practically frothing from the mouth. "Don't you EVER talk like you knew him! Say you're goddamn prayers!" Brock pulled back on the hammer, pointing it down right at the imposters face.
That was the moment the rope finally broke, and Doyle caught everyone off guard.
"Sh*t!" Brock yelled as Doyle legs smacked him in the face, wasting four of his bullets in a failed attempt to blindly shoot the mole. With his large frame, the gangster was so thrown off balance that he actually stumbled away, clumsily falling to the ground, and dropped his gun.
Doyle had a second to act, and act he did. Still caught off guard, the two bodyguards were too slow to cock their revolvers, giving the captive just enough time to shoot them both at center mass. "Holy sh*t. Holy sh*t."Doyle shakily exclaimed, realizing that he had just implicated himself further.
A groan from Brock caused Doyle to now fix the weapon on him, his posture now much more confidant after taking control of the situation. "You taught me to shoot like that, Brock! IS THAT GOOD ENOUGH PROOF FOR YOU!? YOU FAT PIECE OF-"
*Click! ...Click click click click..."
Brock was finally on his feet, cocking his head to the side as Doyle fruitlessly squeezed the trigger on an empty gun. "Indeed, he did. Would he have happened to teach you that your rope snapping and having just enough bullets was too good to be true?" "Brock" gave him a smile that Doyle had never seen before, with a voice that didn't even belong to the man.
"N-no.... No no no..." The shock was like a tidal wave, causing him to drop his weapon right then and there.
"If it's any consolation, Doyle. No one suspected you, and now Brock Verdi will look like quite the mole when he returns from Cuba..." The imposter pulled out yet another revolver, an intricately engraved one that signified it belonging to the actual gangster. More importantly, with his mimicked fingerprints. "Now, this one isn't empty. See?" "Brock" unloaded all six rounds in succession, killing Doyle before he even started falling to the ground.
The imposter looked at the weapon, clicking his tongue quietly. "Gangsters and their custom guns. It's just so traceable..." He cast the weapon aside, knowing that the mob would find it easily enough. As soon as he discarded it, his skin started to crack and bubble, swiftly reverting back to it's actual form.
The shapeshifting alien spy known as Washington cracked his neck, glad to no longer weigh over 300lbs. He begun his exit from the dock warehouse, noticing that his holo-bracelet was silently buzzing away. There's only one person who had the audacity to contact him while on a cover job...
"Oh... Great..."He sighed dryly, tapping his bracelet to summon the hologram while still walking.
After the projection finished rendering, it revealed the floating face of none other than Juno Fei herself, snarky grin and all. "Wash! My favorite shapeshifting killer, I hope this isn't a bad time? Actually, no, scratch that, I don't care if it's a bad time." The dealer gave a feigned, polite grin.
"Why Ms.Fei, that chipper tone in your voice must mean you really require something important of me. As I never assumed you to be a social caller, unless you've received some kind of brain injury?" Washington raised his bald brow at the projection, delivering his usual humor that was as dry as any desert.
"Aw, whaaaat? I'm always this high pitched and chipper, you just don't ever see me in a good mood- Okay, I honestly can't keep that up for an entire conversation." Juno's face relaxed, now conveying a more serious expression. "I hope you're in between jobs."
"Just completed one, actually. Three month cover, dismantling Gothic's mob, secret employer. I won't bore you with the details."
"Oh, you're in Gothic? Well if that isn't some seriously good luck!"
"I'm using that favor you owe me, yes, for real."
Wash's eyes widened, wondering if this really was an elaborate ruse. "Interesting, Fei, most interesting. What's the job?"
"I need you to keep tabs on an asset of mine, a person. She's bound to be incredibly high profile in about... Oh, I'd say three hours? I just dropped her into Gothic City an hour ago. Incredibly dangerous, and incredibly valuable to some future endeavors of mine. She won't be any good to me if she ends up dead or captive. I'm requesting your usual procedure, nothing more. Zero casualties and surveillance only. I want updates on anything of notice on the daily. You do this for me, Wash? And that debt of yours will be wiped, I swear on it."
".... Say no more, Fei. I'm in. Send me the mandatory intel, and a photograph of the topic if possible... I'll be in touch."
The transmission ceased, leaving Washington to stroke his ridged chin in contemplation. He knew that this was going to be a complicated job, doubly so if Fei was willing to use a debt she held over him for years. It didn't matter, though. Always a professional, the alien loathed owing anything to anyone, and never failed to repay a debt. This wasn't any different.
Wash's wristband chirped again, notifying him that the image was sent through, a few taps and he brought up a projection of his target. He raised his brow once more, tilting his head even. "Hm... Seems to be the type to have the misfortune of dealing with that infernal merchant..."