An Eighth Shot of Espresso: The Coffeehouse

A mercenary works for anyone, as long as they have coin to pay for your work. You have to leave your morals and conscience at the door. Survival didn't care about the arbitrary laws of Man. After all, a 'murder' becomes a' mercy killing' under the right context. A 'moral stain' becomes a 'necessary evil' when your own head is on the line. No one cares about your righteousness after the axe severs your neck. Survival of the fittest, and all those cliches. In my world, you did what you had to, if you wanted to see another sunrise. If you had a problem with that, then you go your way, and I'll go mine, and we won't have a problem. So this gig was just like any other. A paid patron who needed a job done. So what if the guy was Undead? There were fates worse than Death, and believe me, in those cases, Death was a blessing. Quick and quiet, no complication and no scandal. That's how I like it. Unfortunately, this time, there was one catch. The ...

She had been here before, though she did not remember it well. All that was left here was a rickety wooden platform, fading and discolored from the wind and rain. In her mind's eye, she saw people on that platform, as the herald read from his long list of names. She heard the shouts from the crowd that scared her, then the soothing voice of her mother and the weight of a sticky sweet in her hand. A distraction for the event to come... "Eyes front! Pay attention!" She snapped out of the dream (or was it a memory? She wasn't very sure anymore.). The hushed voices of her schoolmates buzzed all around her, then they all fell silent. The cold wind blew through their heavy woolen coats. She reached up to make sure her hood didn't fly back and reveal her secret. "Traitor's Crossing," the schoolmistress intoned. Her icy eyes fell on every student and commanded their attention. "A gallows used to stand here, at the crossroads,...as you can see, it's ...