Walking through the High Court headquarters feels like being in a lost episode of "X-Men," except the vibe is less "young mutants in training" and more "hired assassins with questionable fashion sense." And here I am, Dean, accompanied by the ever-charming Alva, striding down a corridor that resembles a gallery of ghosts from the past—each painting an ode to some pale aristocrat with an extravagant wig. As I try to determine whether we're in a secret assassin's lair or a natural history museum, all I can hear is the echo of our footsteps and Alva's voice in the background, probably assigning me some suicidal mission that my conscious brain has conveniently chosen to ignore.
"Dean, did you hear what I said?" Alva pulls me back to reality, breaking my reverie.
"Oh yes, of course. I was just contemplating what I might want for breakfast. Perhaps an omelet? And, uh…" I begin, only to be abruptly cut off by Alva, who has zero patience for my culinary musings.
"I asked when you'll need a day off!" She practically growls, clearly not sharing my morning enthusiasm for scrambled eggs.
"A day off… Does that even exist for us?" I reply, trying to maintain levity as my mind already envisions the myriad ways Alva might use me as bait in some kamikaze operation against a rival vampire clan or something of the sort. "You know, I was thinking of taking a weekend, maybe visit hell, see how things are down there. I hear the temperature is quite pleasant this time of year."
Alva shot me that sharp "Are you serious?" look, as if I were about to crack an ill-timed joke at a clown's funeral. I could only sigh and say, "I'm going to the Caribbean this weekend, to a secluded island."
"Huh," she uttered, her expression akin to someone who had just discovered that dogs can look up. "Hmm, didn't know you were a beach person…" Alva fell into thought as we walked, her gaze scanning me as if searching for the barcode that explained my sudden passion for sand and sun. "Well, I suppose I can join you and my sister on that beach. A day off doesn't smell too bad to me either."
"Alva," I said, serious, cutting through the playful atmosphere like a hot knife through butter. Even she raised her eyebrows in surprise. Then I added, "This is personal."
The ensuing silence was so thick you could slice it with a sword. For a moment, it felt like even the air had stopped circulating, waiting for Alva's response.
She looked at me, weighing each word before speaking. "Understood," she finally said, her voice laden with a mix of resignation and respect. "You know, for someone who's always joking around, you have your… profound moments."
I simply shrugged, trying to mask the gravity of the moment with a wry smile. "Ah, you know, even a broken clock is right twice a day."
Alva shook her head, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. "Just… be careful, okay? I don't want to have to rescue your soul from hell again. Once was enough for eternity."
"I promise to come back whole. Or at least in large enough pieces for you to put together," I quipped, attempting to ease the tension.
We continued walking until we finally stopped in front of a door, and I couldn't help but voice my curiosity aloud: "What's behind this door, Alva?"
"Relax, someone just wants to see you," Alva replied, placing her hand on the doorknob and opening it with a subtle click. "See me? Have I become that famous?"
Upon opening the door, the scene that unfolded before us could very well be part of a period film mixed with a fairy tale convention. An apparently rustic and ordinary room, if you disregard the presence of an elderly woman sitting on the couch, who seemed to have stepped directly out of a storybook where dragons are real and magic is the norm. And when I say elderly, it's because she truly appeared to have witnessed the formation of the earliest cities. Her skin had the texture of an ancient map—one of those that promise adventures and treasures, or at the very least, a potent anti-aging lotion. Hair whiter than snow and eyes so pale that you'd start questioning whether she could actually see or navigated the world using some mystical radar. She wore a beige sweater that screamed "I gave up on fashion in the last century" and white pants that, well, only reinforced the idea.
Faced with this vision, I couldn't help but think: "If this is the audience I attract, maybe it's time to rethink my personal brand strategy. I mean, it's not every day you encounter someone who makes Gandalf look like a teenager in an identity crisis."
But before I could devise an action plan to rejuvenate my fandom, Alva shot me a look that said, "It's not time for your jokes." Well, if it's not time for jokes, when will it be? During bingo?
"So," I began, addressing the woman who seemed as ancient as time itself, "what's the secret? A diet rich in antioxidants, or are you just the number one fan of the vampire lifestyle?"
"Dean!" Alva practically exploded, with an expression that mixed shock and indignation, as if I had just proposed a dance contest instead of showing respect. But our own 21st-century Cleopatra merely laughed. Yes, you heard correctly. The mummy decided I was more of a comedian than a heretic. "It's all right, Alva," she said, her voice sounding like chamomile tea for the soul. Seriously, the peace that voice brought could make the Hulk meditate.
"But elder—" Alva tried, wearing that expression that says, "Is he really going to get away with this?" But she was cut off faster than dial-up internet when someone picks up the phone. "I said it's all right."
Alva, pouting, made a face that could compete in the "Who can make the cutest expression?" championships and dragged me into the room, gripping my collar as if she were a mother leading a mischievous child. "Be delicate," I murmured, even though I knew that delicacy and I matched about as well as an ogre and a silent spa day.
"This is the Elder of the High Court, one of the founders," Alva hissed to me, with a tone that tried to convey the gravity of the situation. I was being pulled into the presence of someone so important that they probably wore crowns before they were mainstream. "Show absolute respect."
Absolute respect? Ah, of course, because I'm all about respect. I practically exude reverence. "Ah, so this is the part where I do a deep bow, and you tell me your daughter is trapped in a tower, right? Don't worry, Elder, I'm great at rescues. Especially if they involve running around screaming."
Looking at Alva, who seemed ready to turn me into a physics experiment on how fast a body can be launched across a room, I shrugged. "What can I say? Absolute respect is my middle name. Absolute Respect… ah, you get it."
The Elder, in turn, simply smiled—one of those smiles that said she had more tricks up her sleeve than I had jokes. And that, my friends, is saying something.
"Please, have a seat," she invited, a gesture that promised both a serious conversation and the possibility of finally learning the secret to keeping microwave pizzas from turning rubbery.
As I settled into the chair, facing the Elder with the posture of a student about to be reprimanded, Alva remained standing, like a solemn guardian of decorum and order. The Elder, with the patience of someone who had witnessed centuries pass, stared directly at me, initiating the conversation with a formality that made the air feel heavier. "Dean Carleone, correct?" Her voice carried the weight of history, and I nodded vigorously, as if I were in a decisive test.
"Alva told me about you. About what you've been up to these past months, and in your most recent demise…" She lowered her tone, introducing an uncomfortable silence that even sub-zero temperatures would have started sweating under—seriously, sweating under that mask was an achievement in itself.
"Yeah, these past months haven't been the easiest for me," I managed to say, trying to maintain levity, but my voice betrayed the tension I felt. The Elder then continued with her questions, as if she were reading my life like an open book, albeit without the fun illustrations. "You're Class E, correct?"
"Yes," I replied, wondering where this conversation was heading. And then came the question I anticipated as much as a Friday night encounter with a villain. "State your status, please."
Status. Ah, the famous stats window of this beautiful world. If life were a video game, my status would be somewhere between "trying my best" and "why am I not just eating pizza right now?" Oh, weak plot… I thought, lamenting the lack of significant upgrades in my character sheet.
"Status." With a dramatic flair worthy of a lottery announcement, I proclaimed, and bam! A bright blue screen appeared in front of me, as if I had just summoned a digital spirit with a fetish for Excel spreadsheets.
====
STATUS
Name: Dean Corleone
Classification: E (Yes, I know, 'E' for 'Especially unique,' right?)
Attributes:
Strength: E (I save on the gym to spend on tacos)
Agility: D- (Almost a ninja… in slow motion)
Vitality: E (I regenerate… eventually)
Intelligence: D- (Enough not to put metal in the microwave)
Mana Capacity: D- (My charm compensates, I promise)
Luck: E+ (I won the lottery once… it was a raffle ticket)
Charisma: D (They said I have a smile that sells, so there you go)
Profession: Mystic Swordsman Level 2 (Sounds fancy, right? Wait until you see the hat trick)
====
"Which part of my impressive attributes would you like to discuss?" I asked the Elder, with the confidence of someone who thinks they'll get a perfect score just for showing up. And she, as quick as a cat paying attention to a laser, fired back, "Your profession, what is it?"
"Hmm, Mystic Swordsman," I replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, but inside, I was seething. A spoiler like that could change the game, or at least make someone want to add me to their book club.
Noticing the Elder's interest, her raised eyebrows at my unusual profession, I couldn't help but puff up a bit. "Mystic Swordsman, Level 2," I repeated, puffing out my chest as if I'd just been crowned king of the prom. "Yes, yes, I know. It's not every day you come across a prodigy like me."
The Elder looked at me with the kind of intensity that makes you want to double-check if you put your underwear on the right way in the morning. "Your family has always stood out, true virtuosos in their fields. Your innate predisposition is clear," she began, making me feel for a moment like maybe, just maybe, I could be an anime character with a grand destiny. "But…" Ah, there's always a "but," isn't there? "Your recent progress has been… stagnant. Which suggests that perhaps your maximum capacity lies within the E classification."
That was like an arrow to the ego. Imagine perpetually being an E in this world, where every corner hides a danger that probably doesn't respect the classification scale. I began seriously considering a robust health plan or maybe an early retirement package.
"So, did you call me here just to give my self-esteem a slap? Because if that was the goal, congratulations, you're succeeding," I said, letting out a laugh that was half humor, half desperation. Deep down, I knew she was right. I was like that last cupcake on the shelf that nobody wants—not for lack of flavor, but perhaps because it looked a bit… stale.
She observed me with a gaze that oscillated between disapproval and contemplation, as if she were reconsidering whether her previous words had been overly harsh. "No," she finally pronounced, dissipating the heavy atmosphere that had formed between us. "I called you here for a completely different reason. We've decided to promote you to a higher position, in recognition of your efforts and services in recent months."
"Whoa, that's news. They're promoting even a servant now?" I questioned, my curiosity piqued by the unexpected twist in the conversation.
"For you, we've made an exception," she clarified, a glimmer of something that could be interpreted as admiration passing through her eyes. "Despite how the world categorizes you as a mere Class E, I am convinced that you have the potential to transcend that classification. There's something in your blood that always surprises…"
"Okay, now I'm starting to suspect you're a vampire. Please just tell me you're not the type that sparkles in the sun and runs through the forest with a girl on your back," I blurted out, half joking, half serious, my expression mixing amusement with a hint of concern.
The Elder let out a laugh, a melody that sounded ancient and rich in nuances, echoing centuries of wisdom and perhaps a touch of sarcasm. "Fear not, Dean. My tastes and abilities are quite different from the sun-glittering creatures and romantic forest sprints you imagine. Now, let's get to the heart of the matter… The hierarchy of the High Court."
She paused dramatically, as if about to reveal the secrets of the universe, or at least the criteria for advancing in the most bureaucratic game ever played: the politics of the High Court.
To summarize the Elder's lengthy explanation, here's what I understood about the hierarchy of the High Court:
Servant: Assassins who have proven their loyalty but are still at the early levels of skill and trust.
Executor: Reliable and efficient assassins responsible for carrying out most missions.
Specialist: Assassins with unique abilities or specializations, such as poisons, explosives, or infiltration.
Master: Field leaders and strategists in charge of mission coordination and training lower-ranking members.
Counselor: Experienced members providing strategic guidance and tactical support to the organization.
Guardian: Responsible for internal security and protecting the organization's secrets and high-ranking members.
Lord: High-ranking commanders, each leading a specific faction or territory within the organization.
Regent: Second-in-command, directly below the Elder, managing daily operations and executing the organization's strategy.
Elder: The founders and supreme leaders of the High Court, holding ultimate power and making final decisions
---
I swallowed hard, processing the rollercoaster of information. "So, which of these glorified steps in the assassin hierarchy are you placing me on?" I asked, half anxious, half fearful of the answer.
The Elder smiled, the kind of smile that heralds an adventure so grand it would make even the boldest adventurer consider a calming tea break. "The risks you'll face, the secret information that will pass through your hands, and the payments you'll receive… all of it will make your previous life seem like a tranquil picnic in the park. With that in mind, do you swear to continue faithfully serving the High Court and accept the new reality unfolding before you?"
There I was, wondering if refusing would mean my debut in an episode of "How Did I Get Here?" on the Investigation Discovery channel. "If I say 'no,' is it game over?" I thought, maintaining my best poker face. "I swear," I said, with the determination of someone who had just decided to participate in a reality show without reading the contract.
"Wonderful, because from today, Dean Carleone, you are an Executor," she declared, as if promoting me from stagehand to headlining magician, but in a show where the tricks could indeed kill you.
Executor, huh? It sounded more like "executor of impossible tasks with questionable survival odds." But hey, at least the position promised to be anything but dull. Plus, who wouldn't want to add "Executor" to their LinkedIn profile?
"Okay," she resumed with that seriousness that makes you wonder if you chose the right outfit for the apocalypse, "your first mission as an Executor won't be fetching coffee, but something that will definitely make you question all your life choices. Are you ready to dive headfirst into the pool without knowing if there's water in it?"
"Well, you know what? Not today," I declared, causing a surprised raise of the Elder's eyebrows, a movement that, I suspect, might have triggered an earthquake somewhere in the world. I continued, trying to maintain composure. "I've got a 'Mandalorian' marathon planned for the weekend, and I'm already behind. Any chance we can postpone this mission to next week?"
"Hmm," she pondered, her expression shifting into something that could be interpreted as a mix of deep reflection and a sudden desire to turn me into a decorative pouf. "Is this weekend really that important?"
"Absolutely," I affirmed, with the determination of someone about to go down in history as the first Executor to postpone a mission because of a Disney+ commitment. "Priorities, you know."
"I understand," she finally said, after a moment that seemed to stretch as long as the last hour of a workday. "I suppose I can reschedule your missions for next week. But be aware, you'll have double the workload to make up for it."
With a smile that I hoped would be charming but probably looked more like that of someone who had just won the destiny lottery, I replied, "No problem, I've got this. Nothing that good planning and an energy drink stockpile can't solve."
As the Elder wove her words about the benefits of the promotion (some of which sounded surprisingly advantageous, like VIP access to the High Court's secret club where, rumor has it, they serve the best multiverse margarita), my brain decided it was nap time. Details, shmetails. What mattered was that I was about to join the big leagues. And with great power… well, you know how it goes, a massive headache follows.
Now, all that remained was to prepare and wait for the big day. Demons and villains, those eternal chaos enthusiasts, were already rubbing their hands together, ready to unleash their diabolical plan against the unsuspecting Pentagon students who thought their vacation would be a walk in the park.
Spoiler alert: it won't be. It'll be one of those seasons where a lot of people get dragged six feet under, and for all the tacos in the world, I really hope I'm not on the guest list. Dying has this freezing sensation, kind of like taking an ice cube bath while watching all your embarrassing life moments on an IMAX screen. No, thanks. Been there, done that, and the T-shirt was terrible.
So, as I armed myself with a stockpile of tasteless jokes and cautiously irresponsible optimism, I couldn't help but wonder: can you survive this mess without ending up as someone's lunch? Or worse, becoming an example of "what not to do" for future generations of Executors?
Only time will tell. But one thing is certain: if I'm diving into this chaos, at least I'll do it with style. And who knows, maybe I'll even manage to get a few laughs (or exasperated sighs) in the process. After all, as Chris Rock himself would say: if life gives you lemons, make a joke about lemons and keep on going.
[...]
Author's Note:
Hello readers, author here again!
I was sick, so I needed a day off. But now I'm better, and updates will continue!!!