Their occupation would have been obvious to any passerby – not that any passerby would have lived long enough to inform the police that there were two highly trained killers relaxing on a rooftop. They were clothed, not in black, but dark grey jumpsuits. Grey blends more easily into the background, their teacher had always told them. Their teacher had also advised them against any armor – their only protection was to be their speed, their agility. Armor is an attempt to protect the flesh, so they had been instructed, and any desire to save one’s own skin was an act of vanity. The only vanity they had ever been allowed was in the succinctness of their knives.
Their temperaments were readily apparent. One of the killers – and make no mistake, these were men-killers – was full of a nervous energy. He paced between the stairwell which had led to the roof and the roof’s edge, beyond which the sky plunged over one hundred stories to the fetid city streets below. This first killer was thin, sinewy, like a whip. The other sat back on his heels, tranquil before their excursion which would have them smirking at Death once again. He was large, built like a Spartan; his voice, gravelly, “Patience.”
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