The Job

Mason Parker is screwed. He's broke, living in a slum-city on the edge of revolutionary mega-metropolis Valhalla, and out of work. Just when he's completely hit the edge, he recieves a phone call asking for his detective skills to work on a case valued at £30,000,000. It's a miracle. But as the details of this job become more and more sinister, Parker realises that his life is in more danger than he thinks. The killer he seeks to catch is now trying to murder him. But then a name crops up. A whispered phrase. "The Worker". A serial killer who effortlesly assainated high-ranking police officers. Is this the killer? Or is this something darker, sacrier, worse than Mason's greatest nightmares?

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2. Acceptance

 

"Yesterday morning, at about 3:21 am, detective Jonathan Samuels was brutally murdered outside his home in Artemis, North Valhalla. Police are still trying to uncover what exactly caused this barbaric attack, but..."   Heaving a sigh, I leant back on the sofa, and closed my eyes. Behind my lids, the world was a better place. My life was more fulfilling. There was no such place as 'Slum City', and I had a job that didn't involve hunting down savage serial killers that slaughtered for a hobby. Then again, I thought, even that would be an improvement to how my life was turning out like now. Me, the best detective in the world just sitting here while junior detectives get chopped to pieces while allegedly 'solving crime'.   Fuzzy figures danced around on the screen. A distraught elderly woman, no doubt Samuels' mother, was being comforted by a Met. officer; who was obviously distracted by the T.V news crew.  "Stupid guy," I muttered, turning up the volume, "Didn't have a clue what he was getting himself into."   Yellow police tape fluttered into the air like morbid celebratory bunting. An ambulance was parked at an awkward angle, evidently too late to save poor Mr. Samuels.   However I was past caring. To tell the truth I was fiercely agitated. This guy everyone was trying to find was clearly the most deadliest of deadly criminals  Valhalla had ever contained, yet the government was quite happy sending in juvenile detectives who were barely out of their nappies.    "If only..." I wondered aloud, "If only I were assigned..."   And that's when my mobile rang. Loud, piercing rings that nearly shattered my earlobes. It sounded like a death call. It should have felt wrong, dangerous, absurd to even consider accepting the offer.   I looked towards the T.V. A young girl, wearing a floral dress and a pink rose in her hair, bent towards the ground holding a bouquet of bright tulips. A solitary tear descended slowly down her face.   "Sergeant Nichols," I rasped, my brain screaming at me that I was making a very, very bad mistake.   "Yes. I accept."
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