A Japanese man wearing a Komuso and a Kimono sits on his knees, staring out to the Japanese style doorway, adjusting himself on a tatami mat, a long nodachi by his waist. The sound of licking his lips can be heard behind the Komuso mask, grasping the hilt of his sword, looking down at the mat below him. "Are you coming in?" The man asks, the door sliding open, a blond man with a curled mustache enters, his blue and blue eyes shining against the darkness emitted by the light behind the man.
The Japanese man leans forward, still grasping his sword, "What do you want?" He asks, blowing air from his nose.
The blond man scans the room, "I want you to hunt some people down."
"Who hired you to tell me this?"
"Does it matter? Just hunt down who we want to be hunted down," The blond man turns to his belt, using his index and middle finger to grab a collection of folded pages, throwing it to the Japanese man on the other side of the room. The Japanese man catches it, unfolding the collection of papers. The Japanese man slides the papers onto the floor, separating them and spreading them out. John, Barney, and the blond one from before, Vincent Locke.
"These the guys?"
"Yes."
"Alright," He sighs, sitting up straight, "I'll do it."
"Not like you've had much of a choice."
***
"Will you take the job?" A young Italian man asks, standing near a window nearest to the dining room in this desolate looking home. Light peering through behind him, dusk visible due to the light, floating aimlessly in the air. In front of the young Italian man is a battle-scarred Russian man, hair black, slicked back, partings in his beard due to the scars. His rough hands scraping across his blackened wooden table before standing before the Italian man.
The Russian man takes a hearty gulp of his own saliva before crossing to the Italian man, towering over him, "What will you offer me from job?" His thick Russian accent almost makes him unintelligible.
The Italian man takes a moment to think of an answer, "Whatever you request."
The Russian man's heart races in excitement, looking to the door leading to his room, a slight rustle coming subsequently with a muffled scream. "Give me... woman. Many woman..."
"Excuse me?"
The Russian man looks back at the Italian man, "If you don't give me woman... I can settle for your woman... maybe, sister?"
The Italian man scowls, "What the hell are you saying Palach? You mean, like a prostitute?"
"No... no... I want slave woman... I want one who not give permission... someone who fight back," Palach lets out a sickly belch, "One who will..." He licks his lips as the door behind him slams violently. Palach clicks his tongue and crosses the room, stomping along the way. He swings the door open with a wide arch and pulls a woman out by her hair, a crooked smile coming across his crazed face. Tears, dry, run down her face, struggling as hard as she can. "Someone like this," He grabs her by the jaw with his index and thumb, raising her above the ground. "What a pretty... lady... don't you think?"
The Italian man resists the urge to vomit, "I'll see what I can do. If the boss says yes, we'll do it."
Palach laughs, the woman watching as the Italian man leaves, her eyes filled with desperation.
The Italian one turns back around, looking Palach in the eyes as he preps her onto the table, "Palach!"
Palach stops, raising his eyebrows, "What?"
"What... what will you do?"
Palach gives a sickly grin, not answering the Italian one's question. Just before the Italian man leaves though, he does say one thing, "I hunt witches."
There was no witch, he simply had an old view of the world. The Italian man knew what he meant as well. Those who were intelligent and actually wanted to do something with their lives. Women who did not want to be wives, those who did not give into prostitution for money.
***
"We got a job." A man wrapped in military clothes slams mail against the desk in front of a young blond woman in a similarly designed uniform, a wolf's insignia on the cuffs of their sleeves. The woman sighs, flipping through the mail.
"A job?"
"A bounty, hit, doesn't matter what we call it, we'll be hunting people."
"Who?"
The man sighs, sliding out pictures with subsequent names scrawled onto the pages. "John Mallorca, Barney Bowers, Vincent Locke, Nathaniel Logs, Roden Paris-"
"You don't have to name all of them. Just tell me how many and where."
"Well, they don't know where Vincent nor Barney is, they only confirmed that they were involved."
"What's the hit even for?"
"Bank robbers, apparently betraying the Mafia."
"How involved are these Vincent and Barney characters?"
"They didn't tell us, they just want us to kill them."
"Where are they?"
"Well, we know where John and his men ar-"
"His men?"
"Yeah, they all work under this 'John' person."
"Right, where are they?"
"Nevada, they haven't left as far as those Mafia bastards know."
"Where are these Vincent and Barney fellas then?"
"Apparently they're heading to Montana."
"Have they contacted anyone else for the bounty?"
"A lot of people, even those we are at... 'war', against." He motions quotes with his fingers.
"Alright, well, we'll bring our men and stay back a bit, watch the aftermath and such. It's better not to get fully involved in something like this."
"Ye-, Wait..." He shrugs, "We'll get paid anyway, though half of it will be cut if we don't kill who we need to kill."
"We could steal it."
"Might as well if we can."
"Alright! Let's start the hunt!" She exclaims loudly, excitedly getting up from her chair and slamming her hands on her desk. "Let's get this started."
***
"Who the hell...?" Seth looks at two corpses in front of him with an arched eyebrow. "Why'd they start attacking us?"
Nixon moves in from behind, hand on Seth's shoulder, the gravely ground cracking under his boots. "Robbers?"
"They don't look like robbers," A bag sits at their feet. "What the hell...?" Seth lowers himself to the ground, opening the bag.