Regarding the Appointment of one M. Aria Cavalletti

The letter comes in one of those fancy envelopes, with the plastic windows that show the address so you don’t have to write it on the outside like some plebeian. I work a penknife between the flap and the back, and run the blade along the top to open it.

The first thing I see is the letterhead. Loud, almost garish: a single, curved block of colour, black fading into reds into oranges and yellows. The paper is top heavy with the sheer mass of ink - it must have been bloody expensive to print. 

Then, the main text.

Dear M. Cavalletti,

We have been very impressed by both your resume and general demeanour, and are very pleased to be able to offer you an entry-level position in our PR department.

The starting salary for this role will be £100,000 annual, with room for internal upward mobility within the Association. The associated threat is low. Your security clearance will be variable.

Further details will be provided upon receipt of your acceptance of our offer.

X

And nothing else.

Weird.

No name, return address, nothing.

Although…

There is, something, sitting in the top left corner, that could be a logo. It’s dark, almost hidden in the wash of header colours - two-toned in the shades of blood. And the design itself reminds me almost of a pair of antlers, or rather an abstraction of them - like the designer was working off an interpretation of someone else’s simplification of a deer. It looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite figure out why.

Still, the presence of something resembling a logo is hardly enough to legitimise this letter. Especially when I haven’t so much as looked at new job listings in six months at least.

Most likely, it’s some sort of joke. It’s not even put together enough for a scam, unless it is in fact an incredibly sophisticated trick that depends on me underestimating it entirely. And if it is, then credit to them, they succeeded. They can have my money.

And yet, I can’t quite bring myself to throw it out. Colour me intrigued I guess.

Maybe there’s something else I’m missing. I turn over the paper, then flip it back, then repeat. Nothing. The envelope’s empty.

Should I light a candle? Check for invisible ink? No, that would be ridiculous.

…

Or would it?

No, it definitely would be. Far too much effort for some stupid joke.

I’m this close to digging out some matches anyway, when my roommate of nine weeks walks into the kitchen.

“Hey.” She catches sight of the letter, nods at it once. “What’s that?”

I think for a moment, then hand it over, in lieu of trying to explain. “I don’t know, it came in the post this morning.”

She gives the letter a once over, no more than a cursory glance. Still, she seems satisfied with that, and besides, it’s hardly what you’d call wordy. 

“Weird,” she says. It’s strangely validating. “You haven’t applied for anything recently.”

It’s not a question - her tone is flat and her words finite - but it demands an answer anyway, and I shake my head at her.

She looks back at the paper in her hand, then to the bag swinging at her side, and then back at me, and seems to come to some sort of internal decision. She puts the letter back on the table, in front of me. “Well then,” she says. “I’m just gonna go dump some of this -” and here she lifts her bag, pulling something out of it “- upstairs, and then we’ll try and figure out whatever this is together, ok?” I nod. She sets down whatever was in her bag next to the letter and then leaves the kitchen.

Probably, the whole letter thing was just her trying to play a joke. Even if it was badly set up, and she knows that I haven’t been job hunting despite my many complaints. And even if she is still playing along with it, despite the fact that there cannot be that much mileage left, if there was any to begin with.

Maybe she secretly works in experimental psychology, and she only moved in with me to gather data on the long term effects of incongruous and incomplete information on the psyche of a chronic overthinker.

It’s funny. I simultaneously know a lot and absolutely nothing about her. I know she can speak Japanese and German, but I don’t know what she did at school. I know she can do high kicks above my head - ‘throat level’, as she calls it, which feels like an unnecessary dig at my height no matter how much she argues otherwise, but whatever - but I don’t know where she grew up. I know she can walk in five-inch stilettos, and owns multiple pairs, even though I also know she hates them so I don’t know why. And I know she has to travel sometimes for work but I don’t actually know what she does. Maybe she is a psychologist.

I look at the other thing she left on the table. It’s a disc case - some Assassin’s Creed game, though not the newest one, I don’t think. It looks secondhand - she must have hit up the CeX, though I don’t know why, when it's forty minutes away and we were there just yesterday.

I pull it closer. Pick it up. Laugh a little. 

She doesn’t always wear them, but my roommate owns some of the sharpest fake nails I’ve ever seen. “All the better for ripping out throats with” she says, and honestly I believe they could. Mini daggers, each one. They leave dents and scratches in anything she clutches a shade too tightly, and I didn’t notice them earlier but she must have been wearing some, because the game case is marked up already, distinctively, beyond the usual battered state of some second hand goods.

It’s funny. The half crescent gouges almost look, deliberate. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the marks almost look more like arrows.

I spin the case around in my hands, when the logo catches my eye, and I stop. I look to the letterhead and back.

Upside down, the Assassin’s Creed logo is almost exactly the same as the one on my mystery letter.

Almost. There are parts missing, on the letter, but what is there is identical.

And the, fake arrow, marks, point towards the word Assassins. And now, looking even closer, I can see faint scratchings, crossing through the Creed, and also the Odyssey underneath it.

Assassins.

No.

No, that would be ridiculous. That is ridiculous. There’s no such thing as Assassin Organisations, or Unions, or Guilds or whatever. This isn’t a Terry Pratchett novel.

Even if there were, why the hell would an Assassins, group, I guess, need a Public Relations department? Not that I think their public image would be all that great, but I imagine all attempts at improvement would be at least borderline illegal.

My roommate’s reentered the kitchen. This time she stands just inside the door, keeping her distance.

A woman who speaks multiple languages, can wield multiple weapons, not least her own body, and whose only job seems to be disappearing a few days every couple weeks on unknowable work trips.

It’s ridiculous. 

She catches my eye. I know she’s clocked the game case in my hand. She raises an eyebrow. Asks: “So? Do you accept.”

This is a prank. Definitely. To even consider another possibility is just stupid.

But, it still seems interesting. And I do hate my job. And I do have a BA in Communications.

And also it’s one heck of a lot of money.

What the hell.

“I do.”

Anything’s gotta be better than working in Customer Complaints.

****************************************************************************

“Sir, for the last time, I am sorry that we ‘killed the wrong wife’, but you have to understand that it is difficult when you refuse to share any personal details at all, and are currently, under two different names, involved in three active marriages -

“Two! Two, active marriages, and once newly widowed. Sorry for my slip there, I misspoke, although really there is no need for such language. As I was saying, we are more than happy to send someone to kill the correct wife, or, if you have in fact changed your mind, offer you a full refund, minus the security deposit (which, as I’m sure was explained, we hold until all relevant statutes of limitations have expired), as per our policy.”

.

“Sir, the individual responsible for the misfire is being internally disciplined, this is a matter of the utmost severity and we have dealt with it promptly and accordingly. Your custom and experience is important to us.”

.

.

“Sir, even if you do not carry out the act yourself it is illegal to privately solicit government unaffiliated organisations to commit murders for you. I’m not sure what avenues for legal action are left that you can see yourself take.”

.

“And the same to you, sir.” I slam the phone down.

It feels satisfying, at any rate, even if it’s pointless - he’d already hung up by the time I opened my mouth. Still, the value of sheer catharsis cannot be overstated.

None of these conversations are particularly easy, but that one was a lot harder than most. I’ve found most people tend to back down when you remind them that the average member of a jury is unlikely to feel sympathy for a person wronged by their hired hitman. Part of me is grudgingly impressed by that man just for the sheer novelty of being threatened with being sued. Not a new one for me in general, no, not at all, but definitely a first in this particular office.

All that excitement and I still end up dealing with customer complaints. Whoever decided to call this department Private Relations (PR for short) is evil and deserves to be shot.

(I am working at some kind of Assassins' Association. The evilness maybe shouldn’t be a surprise. Perhaps I could arrange for them to get hit by a bullet.)

Though, I suppose there are some perks to dealing with irritating customers here instead.

I leave my desk to take my break. Eightsy (handles only, that's official protocol) is by the kettle.

I wave at them. “Hi. How’d you feel about doing some overtime?”

I get a nod in return. Excellent.

“There’s this man I could do with taking care off - PR will front the costs. I just got off the phone with him - maybe you’ve heard? The one with a bunch of wives, wanted one killed for the life insurance - and I think he’s looking to start a fight somewhere, make some trouble, you know? I don’t know how much of a real threat he is, but he’s definitely persistent - called three times in the last forty-eight hours, apparently - so it’s probably best if we don’t give ourselves a chance to find out. Now, the name is…”