Legend has it that They Shall Breathe Ashes, the famous assassin, first killed at the age of nine. She was wearing a starched dress and carrying a straight razor. There was no blood on her shoes.

The first time Shelby killed anyone was at twelve, and it was a messy, desperate affair. Shelby held the lid of a toilet tank against the target’s throat until he had yellow showing through the bruises. They were both mostly naked. One of them left a fingernail on the floor.

The thing They Shall Breathe Ashes knows, and Shelby doesn’t, is how to create a legend.

Shelby, the world’s least famous assassin, is hard at work. Shelby is wearing a drab brown jumpsuit filled with rugged wizardry; Shelby’s boss, who doesn’t pay well enough, is wearing a diamond choker.

“Pretty standard double bluff,” says They Shall Breathe Ashes, “he’ll think he’s been given a bogus target and he’ll come back to kill the people who made the assignment, who are in fact bogus, which is when we hit him with… I’m not sure yet. Something he can’t expect.”

“Like pennies from a skyscraper,” Shelby murmurs.

“Yes!” says They excitedly. “Do you think we can pull that off?”

He never intended to die alone, which is why he’s got his pacemaker. They’re smart, those new pacemakers; some of them know how to dial 911. Palom’s genius coke-addict doctor rigged his to dial the six kilos of plastique around his torso instead.

“So if you shoot me,” he grins, “it’s murder-suicide.”

“A stalemate?” she says.

“Only until my boys get here.” Palom pushes up his sleeve. “In… dammit, watch stopped again. Well, real soon.”

“Are those therapeutic wristbands?” she asks.

“Yeah, neodymium magnets. Improved the hell out of my circulation! Why?”

“No reason,” says They Shall Breathe Ashes.

“Ten seconds to opening altitude,” crackles Shelby over the link.

“Remember, we’re splitting east-west once the chutes open,” says They. “You’ll steer onto the roof, penetrate security, poison his spoon and rendezvous at the maintenance tunnel exit. Try to avoid the dogs this time? I’ll change clothes and smirk at the front gate.”

Radio silence.

“Shelby?” says They.

“You always take the goddamn hard part,” Shelby responds.

“What did you dust on his toupee, Shelby?” asks They.

“Powdered sugar,” says Shelby, “and permanganate of potash.”

“Nonpoisonous on contact,” gloats their opponent. “Should have done your homework, girls!” He waves his gun, and they walk obligingly toward the edge.

“Storm’s coming,” observes They.

“I promise you’ll miss the worst of it,” he scoffs. “Make like lemmings.”

“That’s a myth,” says Shelby.

“No, lemmings are real,” he says, as the first drop of rain hits his head.