This mortal coil grows cold and weary. Too easy does it tire; too easy does it bleed. It had been three years since Desmond was stripped of his God hood and trapped in this dying realm. The initial transition form being human to being immortal was so easy to overcome, but he could never again get used to being so weak. To feel the heat of the sun on his face, or the cold chill of winter in his bones. To exhaust after only a small succession of physical battles or to strain to maintain stamina in a night of sexual interaction, these were things that he could not imagine doing for an entire lifetime. They were new to him, though he had once long ago experienced them, that was a millennium ago. Where once he would have welcomed death, now he cursed its very name. All hell be damned if they thought he was going to visit them in the afterlife so easily, for he now had vengeance in his heart. And once where only bloodlust was see in his eyes, something even more dangerous lie, the need to once again feel power flowing through his veins.
The second he hit soil and the portal closed behind him, his survival instincts had kicked in. Knowing that all his infinite fighting skills and years of battle would suffice him little comfort in this world’s hierarchy system of ethical illusions. Finding a way to use his skills in the dark underworld was the only way he would be able to gain the reputation needed to get the attention of those with power. While still being able to make a living and survive in this cities currency system. And finding himself in New York was to his advantage, for where else would it be easier to live unnoticed in the shadows, than a place filled with criminals and citizens ruled by fear. First off he had to locate someone who had their hands in all things dirty, and in Thomas Gibson he had found such a man.
Gibson was your normal run of the mill low life, who had over the years worked his way up the chain of local city scum to become everyone’s go to guy to get things done that no one dare speak of. His demeanor was that of a drunk you’d find in a tavern and never give a second glance. He was an ugly and overweight balding 52 year old, that barely left his Brooklyn loft, and due to this not many people actually knew what he looked like. Only when the services contracted to him were of the most discreet and urgent did he ever go out and meet with the many mercenaries for hire under his employ. Desmond had learned this through his assaulting some of the local crime lords and drug dealers. He sought an audience with Gibson, though he knew this was nearly impossible to do by request and that in order to get a job as a hired hit man he would need to make an unforgettable first impression.
One night after he had learned where Gibson resided he decided it was time to pay the man a visit. Knowing that he would surely keep men around him at all time for protection, and also knowing that a man so far above the law would surely not call the cops, but instead try and handle any intrusion on his own. Desmond thought this the perfect opportunity to make a special appearance and show Gibson why exactly he was a needed member on his team of ruffians and killers. So from the rooftop he entered, quickly and quietly making his way down to the back entrance of the loft, like a panther stalking his prey from the treetops. Ready to pounce, he held no weapon in his grip. The sword that he had once used to disband armies had become useless to him in his mortal form. And even though he had with great speed become a master of the guns that this word used, he better liked the feel of taking a life with his bare hands.
The first guard stood behind the door that lead to the stairs of the roof. Desmond opened the door and in one fail swoop took the mans own knife from his waist belt and in the same movement plunged it into the soft spot at base of the skull behind him. As his lifeless body hit the floor with a thud, the next guard turned the corner just in time to see with great precision the same knife fly through the air and hit him under the chin. Quickly he went through the door to the kitchen where a guard sat at the counter eating, and in one move he leapt at the now shocked man grasping his neck with the back of his leg and hitting the floor with a crack, breaking the mans spine. Grabbing the knife that sat on the counter he hurled across the room before the other guard had time to react. He worked his way up to the master bedroom, trying to fell his foes without alarming the entire building. Outside the bedroom stood two more guards, both having the look of being some sort of ex military Special Forces. He came around the corner like a shadow that catches your attention but only for a second. With palms open he hit the first guard square in the nose, forcing his nasal bones into his head. And as he slowly slid down the door, Desmond blocked the other mans feeble attempt to attack him, breaking his arm and then with little effort snapping the mans neck.
Gibson sat at the desk in his room, aware of what had transpired in the past few minutes, he had hidden underneath his desk a gun gripped and ready to use. Desmond walked into the room without the need to fear what lie beyond the door. Gracefully he strode across the room, hand held tightly behind him to show no sign of threat. He stopped directly in front of the desk, giving Gibson a solemn look of accomplishment. “ Pull the trigger if you like,” He said glancing barely down at where Gibson had his weapon, “I don’t think you’d want to waste the only man ever to get this far into your home alive with such ignorant restraint.” Gibson smirked and took his hand off of the gun. He then stood and walked over to Desmond's side, and while placing his hand on his shoulder. “ Looks like I have a few job openings to fill anyways.”
That was over two years ago and since then He had become Gibson’s number one assassin among other things. Desmond walked into the park and sat on the bench next to his aging employer. “ This job is of the most importance and probably the toughest one I’ve had for you in a long while,” Said Gibson in a very mellow tone. “ The Asians have set up a meeting of unknown reasons and this has some of New York’s finest citizens a little worried, if they are here to try and move in on certain territories it could turn in to a long and costly war. So instead of sitting around and waiting for the first strike, I’ve been asked to send a few men into the meeting and send a message if you will to any other factions that might get a similar idea.” Desmond sat there expressionless as he usually did, waiting for the long drawn out explanation for his duties to end and for Gibson to just get to the damn point. “ I could ensemble a team to send in, but let’s face it I’m greedy and that would take from my cut, plus I know that even though it’ll be heavily guarded you can handle it. And all they ask is that just one of the lower subjects there is to be left alive, you know to tell the tale and such.” Gibson Leaned back and with squinting eyes looked up at the sky, the smile he always had slowly faded from his face. “ You know the funny thing about our little arrangement, and the thing I can’t seem to quite figure out. Is that you know all my contacts, I mean you have real tangible trust with them all. And all you would have to do is to kill me, then you’d have no problem getting all the same jobs with also making all the money I do on them. So the question is why haven’t you done so yet and if you are going to then how can I still trust you?” Desmond stood up grabbed the envelope that sat between them and walked off. Gibson once again smiled and then stood and walked away in the opposite direction.