Colourless

You walk through the crowded bar in Zylos, boots scraping against the glossy marbled tiles, wading through the sea of colours. Warm amber light trembles and radiates from the bartender as he smiles professionally at a patron, reminding them that drinks are not free. In the back, a drunkard drowns his muddy brown regret beneath waves of temporary sparkling lime green. Two lovers in a corner twisted together in rose and gold.

None of it touches you.

You feel nothing. Not the warmth of joy. Not the sting of scars across your body. Not the grief of loss. There is only the static vast, colourless calm inside your chest.

They call you the Voidborn.

Partly because you are the bringer of death, the one who consumes, the one who liberates. But mostly because you feel no emotion.

A seasoned mercenary who feels no fear. A steel-hearted warrior who feels no rage. A silent assassin who executes criminals as quietly as your heartbeat. You take any and every contract, kill when necessary, protect when required. Mission complete, you collect your payment and reach for the next bounty. Pleasure, glory, revenge — none of them matters.

They are merely colours to observe.

Nothing more, nothing less.

You approach the bartender, sit down, and tap your finger on the counter twice. The bartender approaches.

“What drink would you like, sir?”

“Colourless, transparent water.”

The bartender doesn't even blink. He reaches under the counter and presses a button.

“You can approach the water cooler beside the storeroom for that.”

You nod and stand up, walking over. The water cooler is located beside the storeroom as specified. You reach down and take a sip of the cool water, quenching your thirst a little.

Then you press the tap in a specific pattern. A soft whirr and click follows, and the storeroom door swings opens.

You step inside.

A man stands behind a counter in the dimly lit room. A large scar cuts diagonally across his right eye, and a prosthetic arm gleams on his left. A steady blue laced with tired bronze radiates from him.

“Voidborn! You're back. I suppose the mission was a success this time as well?”

You stay silent and walk forward, dropping the bag in your hand onto the counter. He opens it and pours out the contents — the grotesque head of an orc, eyes still open, neck cleanly sliced.

“Very nice. The head is in perfect condition. But…”

“What is it?”

“Would it hurt for you to even acknowledge me? I’m the one who always supplies you with jobs after all.”

“… Mr Kennedy.”

He shakes his head in exasperation. “Still the same as ever. I already told you to drop the formalities. Anyway, the payment will be sent to your account after I complete the verification with the client. Expect it by tomorrow.”

You nod.

“Next job.”

“Already? Well, not that I expected anything different. You should take some time to rest and relax. You know, enjoy life for a bit. Never know what will happen.”

“Next job.”

“Geez, I got it,” he mutters. He turns behind and pulls a request from the board behind him, sliding it to your table. “This one is an escort mission. She's the sole daughter of a tycoon and needs to attend a social networking session in Kanzar. It will be a two week journey.”

“Possible enemies?”

“Anything. Assume that she will always be targeted. Assassins, monsters, jealous rivals. You name it. The mission starts tomorrow evening. I’ll send you the details in a bit.”

You nod and grab the piece of paper, eyes settling on the woman in the picture.

Beautiful.