A wonderful morning graced a green district of England as a man in his late forties briskly walked among the fields. The cold morning air fanned his greying hair and lilac t-shirt, and the wind kept the chill in his fingertips. Suddenly, the sky darkened. He stopped, and looked up.

"Enrique is listening."

At first there was no response, but then, literally out of the blue, a portrait of a woman floated to land, as if sailing through the ocean-sky and crashing with the impact of a wave onto shore.

The UN president staggered backwards, but it was certain he did so involuntarily.

The portrait, meanwhile, came closer, and, when it was practically looming over him, the woman stepped out of it, leaving nothing but blackness in the disappearing frame.

Her brown hair flayed down to her knee-height.

She came close to the buff man, and stopped when there was about 20 cm distance' worth between their foreheads. She smiled.

It was an eerie smile, but nonetheless not devoid of a few bits of mirth, tranquillity and joy. It was innocent. It was the kind of smile you would see on a young peasant's face, as she hurried towards some errands she needed to do during the day, and then perhaps to a romantic getaway with a lover, or friend. As if her childhood was ever continuing, as if her surreal existence was filled with dancing, running, and ballet. The corners of her mouth crinkled as if she knew nothing but the romanticization of every single thing she came across, be it beautiful or not. But with that it carried wisdom. Some hidden depth. Yet, still, pure innocence.

But the man didn't grin with her smile. Not a grimace of happiness reached his features; more precisely, he was expressing disdain.

"I tried to do what you asked. I would've succeeded, if you hadn't made that visit."

"Enrique Winchesto, we have picked you with deliverance. Don't make us regret that," the woman replied, her tone nothing but a depiction of tranquillity.

But the man didn't seem to give in easily.

"I never wanted to be your slave. You said I'd be given at least half the pay in guarantee, and I haven't received half of it!"

"You haven't succeeded."

"But I haven't even tried."

"You failed."

The woman's voice resembled lead. It seemed to leave no place for consideration. No compassion. No humanity.

"You make 2+2 five in your presence. Geese could sprout four pairs of wings with your perseverance. Earth could be flat. Skin could be visceral," the man whispered, the silent resentment never quite leaving his crinkling features.

"Speaking of it, you have too much skin. It's way too thick. One thing we could do about it-"

"Don't. I know what you're speaking about - don't," Winchesto interrupted.

"It'd be our pleasures," the woman asserted, smiling. "You'll have one more chance, once we get them on shore. If you succeed, then, maybe, you'll get to live one full lifetime."

"You even speak inhumanly. Our "pleasures". Seriously?" he attempted to laugh, but his intended display of cheerfulness came out as a half-gurgled chuckle.

The woman smiled, again, as if sharing his half-hearted amusement.

"Ferula stat, you know. If you don't want to feel it, keep your mouth shut. Or else we'll do that happily for you."

"Fine, our ancient captors. I'll do exactly as you ask," Winchesto promised, trying but failing to hide the little piece of mocking his words incorporated. But, it may have been intentional.

"Here is the first part of your mission. Sorry for depicting it on paper, yet forgive us for our ancient logic, will you?" The woman withdrew a yellowing note with something written on it from a void in her clothes. "And you'll certainly excuse us for our following actions."

She plunged the note sharp into Winchesto's gut, cutting it swiftly through. The note was paper. But the sheer force with which it had been thrust had made it cut through. It was humanly impossible. But the man collapsed to the ground, his intestines spilling over. His eyes glazed over when he turned in her direction.

"You'll have to go through Hell if you want to be one of us." the woman stated, calmly, and knelt before the corpse, yet not enough for her knees to touch the ground. A sort of forward fold, with legs mildly bent.

"Arcana moda animarum mori," she whispered.

This phrase had apparently instilled some mirth in her as when walking away, she beamed.

Life was becoming better.

And everything was, once more, going to plan!!

The portrait-portal swallowed the UN pres's murderer.