Bellora sat at the battered desk in her new office. She sniffed at the faintly rotten odors of the river wafting through her open windows, and sighed. It stank here, but this is where they would come to her.

She had rented office space in the West End, and had furnished it with a desk, a few comfortable chairs, and a phone.

The assasin had propped her boots on the desk and stared out the filthy windows; she really should clean this place up.

She though on her plans, and sighed. She was the devine bringer of justice for the Goddess Balor, and her mother, the Goddess Astraea; yet here she was, setting up shop to help those in need.

She was contemplating getting business cards set up and tossing slogans around when her phone rang. Odd. No one had the number yet.

"Hello?"

"hello? I was told you could help me. I...he'll kill me if he knows I went for help. PLEASE tell me you can help me!"The whispered, frantic voice of a woman came through the other end of the line.

Bellora sighed and listened, remembering everything the poor woman was saying, commiting each detail to the map she was creating in her head. It was the same story since the beginning of marriage, husband cheats, husband beats. He hurts the children next and Mommy is scared for their safety, and the authorities can do nothing to stop him. Right up Bellora's alley.

"Yes, Ma'am. I can take care of it. Don't you worry. No, no...we'll not discuss payment. It's my calling, you could say. Stay where you are and I will come to you. I need more information about him; his likes, dislikes, hang outs, schedule. Those sorts of things. Don't worry, you're doing the right thing."

Bellora hung up, grabbed her cloak, and headed out into the misty evening to meet with her first client. How the hell this poor woman had found out about her, Goddess only knew. Perhaps that was it? The Goddess was sending them to her, now? Or perhaps the right one had lived to tell the tale

Another night, another fight. Bellora limped into the offices, tossing her black bag on the battered desk with a thud. Cursing in Gaelic, the demi-Goddess dropped into her overstuffed office chair and set to getting her boot off.

Damn. The swelling made it impossible. She drew the dagger from the sheath in said boot, and set to cutting away the laces and slitting the leather. Shame, she really liked this pair.

With gritted teeth, she cursed again and tugged her swollen, tender, and very much broken ankle free. Blowing out, she stared at the purple bruise, and wondered how the hell that got past her? It had to have been some sort of spell that simpering little wench had up her sleeve. She should have been easy to take down.

Chuckling to herself, she knew the answer right there. There were no easy take downs, and Bellora knew that. Her training had engraved such truisms on her soul. Well, lesson learned. Never get too confident.

She sat back, closed her eyes, and began to chant softly. The ankle began to glow, and had anyone been present that was a sensitive, they would have seen the gentle hands of the Goddess Astraea touching her daughters ankle, healing it.

That accomplished, Bellora realized she was ravenous. So, chucking off her other boot and snagging a pair of black running shoes, she headed off for the Inn and food.

So the assassin would get something to eat, very well. Bob had a habit of missing people just before he needed to talk to them. He would leave a letter.

Dear Avenger.

I am in need of your services. My name is Bob. You do not know me. A good friend of mine was abandoned and rejected when she needed help the most. The one who threw her out on the street is none other than the Wolvinator. You know he is running for some leadership spot in this city. I can promise you he will cause you problems in the future. Vengance is not Justice and justice is what he stands for. You and I we are not so different and I believe we could work together in the future to keep your interests alive and well and those who deserve to be punished in their places, and happily dead where they belong.

I just missed you, I often just miss people before I can talk to them in person. I am always looking for some good talent. There is violence coming in the future, I am sure you of all people can sense it, at least I hope you can. Or you can think of me as the loser I most likely sound like. The choice is yours, but as I said. I just missed you.

If you work for money, just write your amount on a slip of paper and send it to me. You will have your money, and perhaps we can get you out of this rundown office building. One of your talents should need something alittle more fitting, do you not agree? Just write the amount on there, my name. And the word Maskim on it. Then burn it. I will get it that way. I will await your response.

Signed,

Bob.

The Supervillain put the letter on the door of the office and walked away. This letter would not be seen by anybody but the intended, nor would it be destroyed by any outside force. Bob vanished with a flash of black energy and was gone, awaiting the response that may, or may never come.