Connor pulled up to the two story skimpy house, scanning the facade for abnormalities. Seeing nothing and no one, he snatched a sleeping Markus off the backseat and carried him into the house after scrambling to figure out the best way to punch in the passcode with a gaunt and asleep assassin in his hands.

Money. Connor required it. For Hank and for himself.

The door hit the adjacent wall with a crash, but Connor didn't care. He kicked it shut, and dumped Markus on the living room couch with a grunt. The man opened hazy eyes and blinked at him. He managed to remain neutral despite the pain and situation.

Connor shook his head. Markus was like him, and that meant no matter what, he couldn't let his guard down. Men like them were tricky bastards, slippery to hold and harder to keep. Which put into perspective how easy it had been to catch Markus.

It had been something Connor had been mulling over during the drive through the city. He'd been hunting the elusive man for almost sixteen months, and out of the blue, he gets lucky. People in this business don't get lucky.

Markus must have another motivator. A reason, something to explain why he let himself get caught. He'd been a ghost for too long to be found out in the open. What were the likely options?

Markus must need something from him. Connor's eyebrows scrunched together. But what could he supply that Markus couldn't give himself? Markus had money, the necessary skill set, a life, what else did he require?

There was a missing piece, an empty space in Connor's observations. He hated not having the whole story, but the only way to get it was through the man himself. Perhaps Connor had the chance to understand the mystery behind the legend, but in the meantime, he had to nurse the sickly man back to health.

The Deviant, reduced to skin and bones and exhaustion. Connor remembered hearing stories when he was younger about the one called Deviant, a title passed down from assassin to assassin. To be the Deviant was the be the best, and Connor had coveted that dream until he understood what it meant. Left with a unique set of skills and lacking the kind needed to be someone else, Connor had forced himself into a corner in a titanium cage.

Connor never cared much to decide what his morals were. It was obvious that they didn't line up with most of the world's population. There wasn't a reset button to fix them, and he wasn't inclined to adjust them either.

The clock chimed noon, its echoing sound familiar and distant at the same time. There were days when that sound meant pain and rugged eyes and alcohol filled breath and there were days when it meant roasting coffee and a grim but patient smile.

Connor left the living room and came back with a length of rope. Markus was hurt, but he knew that the man was still dangerous. Several lessons had taught him several times to alway beware. He tied it around Markus' wrists and then to the beam of wood in the ceiling. The oak was supported and bolted into several other crossing beams. Granted, he didn't think Markus was going anywhere.

Knot finished, Connor's thoughts turned to food. The safe house was stocked to the brim with supplies, but the food choices were sparse. Connor didn't cook anything more complicated than a bowl of brown rice and roasted vegetables. He could start a fire from flint and iron, run on walls, navigate through complex layouts and streets, and hit a sniper shot at seventeen hundred meters, but he couldn't make a single crèpe.

The kitchen was basic, with only the necessary oven, microwave, and fridge. They weren't new appliances either, the white tinged a dreary grey and drudged up brown. Rust was creeping in the stovetop bars. He wasn't coming back here after this and Connor had never been one to clean unless a case called for it.

The silence wasn't oppressive the way it was in the lost district. Here, there was the faint noise of cars and planes, wind clattering branches against windows, and dogs barking every now and again. There, metal clanged and doors slammed and the foundation was built upon the hidden and forgotten things, things left alone for reasons no one knew any longer.

The creature was another matter. Connor had seen it once, cast in moonlight and framed in ragged shadows. Eyes dark as a starless night and mouth crawling with jagged teeth that could rip and tear through steel with ease, the creature lacked any formal name. It didn't need one. The very sound of its claws dragging against the road made birds silent and turned foxes and badgers aside. Doors were braced and windows left empty. The creature was always hungry and always waiting.

The lights flickered in the kitchen before coming back to their usual consistent beam. Connor ignored t and went about making a cheddar cheese and butter sandwich for himself and a chicken soup for Markus. Solid food after starvation wasn't a good idea. He'd have to work Markus into the regular three meals a day. From prior research, treatment for the malnourished took over three months. They'd have to find another place to stay, out of the way from civilization. The country of France was lovely at this time year.

The summer heat and colliding weather brought out a lush countryside filled with various kinds of trees and grasses. Hills roamed through, rivers cutting around bluffs. It wasn't so different from the midwestern countryside, aside for one monumental fact.

France had mountains.

Towering, jagged peaked mountains. Most were snow capped, but their bases sometimes sprouted deciduous forests that would fade into rocky outcroppings and trails. Connor had spent a vacation hiking up Mount Blac, one of France's tallest mountains. They wouldn't be hiding out near an tourist attraction, the likelihood of someone asking for directions increased dramatically.

The water was boiling on the stove, the rich smell of chicken and spices rising from the pot as Connor added the packet mixture. Rich was a stretch, but to Connor and certainly to Markus, it would be their version of a five star meal.

Tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the steaming pot, Connor laddled a sizeable chunk of the soup into a one of two bowls he had on stock. Tupperware and silverware weren't high on his survival list. His contact must have thought of it; he knew himself well enough to know it wouldn't have crossed his mind.

Connor set the bowl onto the rickety coffee table. Markus stared at him with those strange eyes―the heterochromia unsettling. Markus' eyes were unsettling without the two different colors, a barrier blocked Connor from seeing anything but a wall put up to keep others out. He didn't like not being able to see through a person, however invasive that was.

Connor offered the bowl and no words. Markus took it and sat up, his hands trembling. The soup splashed from the spoon onto his lap as he raised it to his lips. It didn't deter Markus. He kept at it until the soup was in his stomach or on the ragged shirt he wore.

It was a mess and if Connor had cared about such things, he might have said something, but he didn't care, so he refrained from spoken word.

Neither had said a word to each other during their stay in each other's company. They had an innate understanding, or so Connor thought. Both were killers and both weren't the type to have small talk. What sort of things would they talk about anyways? Kills? Training how to kill? Their first kill?

Connor's whole world revolved around these things, nothing else had ever mattered. Nothing besides the gun in his hands and the father back home.

He left Markus laying there, eyes staring at the blank wall, mind off in another place. There was a phone call he had to make.

The bedroom was sparse—a night stand, full size bed with black sheets, and one wardrobe with two sets of clothes. There wasn't a window, giving the room a closed off and claustrophobic atmosphere. Markus would need a set of clothes to travel in, the ones he was wearing were torn and stained with various liquids.

Connor made a mental note to see if the one's in the wardrobe would fit him or if he'd have to buy new ones. He pulled out the cheap phone for one last call.

Another number he knew by heart. His one friend, or the closest thing he had to a friend. His contact, who helped him get places, know layouts and hack into secret Russian KGB servers.

"Simon."

"AK. What do you need this time?" Simon's voice filtered in with a crack.

Connor sat down on the edge of the bed. "I need a place out in the country, not for from Lyon, France. Fifty miles at most, but away from people. I have something that came up and I can't travel for a few months. I'll need two thousand euros and two sets of the normal. One car, don't care how old as long as it doesn't break down. Guns must be kept in a different location than normal."

Simon was silent, the clattering of a keyboard faintly coming through. "You have someone with you?"

"An old buddy, injured in a car crash yesterday and you know I hate hospitals. I want more medical supplies in the house too. Antiseptic, gauze, morphine, the usual."

Simon hummed in agreement. "I'll send the address over in an hour. It'll be ready by tomorrow afternoon, probably around two. Stay alive."

Connor hung up and laid back on the bed. He had an hour drive in the morning to pick up Gavin. The man had texted him that he'd arrive at four am. The clock read one pm. The day was dragging on, with every moment lasting longer than it should have any right to.

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes following the slowly spinning fan that didn't circulate the air in the room. Questions reemerged.

Markus was here on his own account, this Connor knew. Connor was good at what he did, he was very good, but the man in the living room was far better at everything. Markus was the top, the pinnacle of what they could do. He'd heard stories, everyone heard stories of the Deviant. Names came and went, but Markus' had had stayed up their for longer than most lived. Twelve years. For the past twelve years, Markus had dominated the playing field.

Why him and why now? What changed? What caused the haggard man he saw before him, with sunken eyes and sallow skin?

Connor hated unanswered questions, but he hated begging for information too. If he could find out who this man was before he was the Deviant...

But how could Connor do that? He snorted. The man had lived in the shadows, become a shadow. People had tried, they always tried—to figure out the person behind the mask.

The notoriety of never being carved out, of never being exposed had given Markus an incredible advantage. No one knew how he did it, but Connor had an inkling.

Hackers were good and there had to be their version of Deviant in the community too. A person Markus had contacted to get himself wiped out of every database. In every country. Connor sighed.

There were things to get done, preparation for Gavin and for their move. Connor spent the rest of the day doing exactly that. The boring, easy, and mindless tasks he'd done enough times that they'd lost all meaning. Their importance didn't decrease, they still had to be done, but Connor had grown accustomed to listening to classical music and think about other things while he finished security checks, figured out plans of moving Markus and the surgery he'd require from Gavin.

Markus was fast asleep, or appeared to be when Connor checked in on him around ten. The day had quickened into night and Connor grew tired as the minutes ticked by. He made sure the rope was tight and the knot untouched before leaving the room. He couldn't scratch the itch that was Markus. The man could have escaped, Connor had left him enough openings to leave, but there he lay, still here. Markus wanted something, and Connor needed to find out what that was.

Why him? Others had hunted Markus too, sought after the ten million for their efforts, which led to the obvious question, what made him special? Connor had encountered his kind over the past year, killed a few and left a few unable to walk. It wasn't unnecessary, Connor was built on necessary. It was necessary to eat, to drink and sleep. Necessary to take out opponents, ranging from unconscious to dead, depending on the situation.

But the question lingered in the background as he gave Markus one last look. When he looked at him, he didn't see everything he'd expected. The strong, unflinching stance, a cold, ruthless killer, the remarkably robotic style of thinking, none of it came to mind. In its place stood a man, human in the way he tried to understand his surroundings, human in the way he stared endlessly at the walls, deep in an unknowable place. Thin and hungry and starved for something more.

Connor disliked the word something. It implied that the thing wasn't known or there was too much to know. Implications were dangerous and so was he. But he found himself wanting that something too, though it remained far out of reach and hidden by a dark fog.

That night he went to sleep with mysteries in his head and a problem he hadn't yet seen, but no matter the things in his head, Connor always slept light and woke up often. Nothing changed, nothing wavered.

And by magic, Connor hadn't noticed the light flickering on in the living room. 

Updates for this will vary, I don't have a very regular schedule for my whole life so I'll update when I can. Thanks for reading! I enjoy all those who dare venture into my stories.

Onyx