"Clients are clients are clients, no matter how much you want to kill them in their sleep." That is one of the first things the old man ever tells me. I'm sitting on top an empty crate, and the upper half of his body is hidden under the belly of an old junker. Of course, I could never say that outloud. Not to him.

According to the old man, cars are like fine women. The classics, that is. And this one, she's his baby. He tells me he's been working on her for the better part of three years. "It's slow progress, but someday she'll be beautiful."

I can't imagine "she'll" be anything more than scrap metal but I nod my head anyway. I nod like I get it, like I understand, but I don't. Hell, I don't understand half of what the old man says.

In fact, if anything makes sense to me, it's what he doesn't say. For instance, he doesn't say that clients are clients are clients until you kill them in their sleep, but the way he looks at me when he emerges from beneath the car says he's thinking it.

So I hop down off the crate and take a walk.

The man who was my client, is named Eric Neville. He lives just outside of Plastic's fourteenth district, an industrial area with nearly three million workers and residence, living in a cluster of apartment buildings just inside the city. More important, though, is the power plant right smack in the middle of the place.

A monsterous facility spanning nearly two dozen blocks. According to the old man, he was around when the company started working on it. Says they "evicted" everyone and bulldozed the entire area, even when people refused to leave.

They called it a technological advancement, said it would make life better for everyone. The old man calls it the work of the devil, says it was an excuse for mass-murder. He claims it's the reason for the thick brownish coloured smog that has settled itself permanently in the air above the city. A slow poison.

Despite this, I think it's beautiful.

Even before I've reached the city limits I can feel the intensity of it, like a low burning fire, stretching across the distance. Drawn like a magnet to my presence, like I am drawn to it. To the sheer power of the place. If I went there, I could absorb enough power to keep myself charged for the rest of my life. I stand at the entrance and imagine never needing to recharge. What would that be like?

Useful.

But it'll never happen. Monsters as they are, the company was right. The plant has made life better, so much better for so long that the people here wouldn't know how to get on without it. Left in the dark, they would rip themselves to pieces in the chaos that would follow. I'm not really big on genocide.

Retribution on the other hand...

I walk down abandoned streets and pull electricity from the air. It's little more than static at first, but it grows. Grows until half a block away I can hear car alarms going off. In front of Neville's third-rate apartment building his black toyota bursts to life, every system kicking in at once. I press my hand against the spit-shined hood as I pass and drain the battery in seconds. The car gives a satisfying groan as it dies, and I walk through the front door.

I take the elevator to the thirteenth floor, and he's already waiting for me by the time I make it to his room. There's a metal bat in his pudgy hands and he's trembling as he stands on the far end of the room, defensive, like he knew this was coming. Like he knew I was coming. Of course, he did.

I close my eyes and take in the barrage of noise outside, like a symphony playing a waltz for his death.

"W-what do you want?" He stutters out, and soft vibrations shake the floor. I open my eyes and give him a considering look.

"You lied to me." I say, and he swallows thickly, before a nervous laugh slips from his lips.

"So," he asks, "what's it matter to you?" A pause. "I came to you, and asked you to do a job. You did it, and now I'm going to pay you. That's how this sort of shit works, right?"

I laugh then, and I can't really help it. "Only in the movies." I say, and flick my wrist. The lights over head flicker to life momentarily, before bursting. Tiny glass shards rain down over us and he gives a frightened shout, folding into himself.

"L-Look, w-wait. We can talk about this, can't we? O-or..." Neville's eyes flicker towards the exit then back to me. "I-I'll pay you double what I owe you."

I blink. "For what?"

"T-to go away. You go away, and I'll pay you double. I swear."

I tilt my head to the side, consideringly. "Maybe..." I say, "Or, how about you just confess, instead?"

"W-what did you say?"

"It's simple," I say. "All you have to do is go to the cops and tell them the truth. Confess your sins, and I'll leave you be." Neville's fearful expression turns to horror, briefly, before an angry hint of red tints his chubby face.

"You're out of your damn mind! There's not a chance in Hell I'd ever do that!" He shouts, the bat shaking in his hands as he moves, involuntarily, forward. "I-I'll kill you, you little-"

"That's okay." I say cutting him off. "If you'd said yes, it wouldn't have mattered anyway."

He blinks, and pulls to a stop, only a foot from me. "W-what?" He asks holding the bat high over his head, like an axe ready to be swung.

"Don't you know?" I ask, and his grip tightens.

"Know what?" He asks through gritted teeth, already committed to the task of bashing my brains in. I sigh, and look at him with honesty.

"Only God can absolve you of your sins."