Mangos Are Just Too Sweet

It was a sweltering summer night on Doulo Campus. The Macon apartment complex on the campus’s edge pulsed with music; thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. It’s July 4th—though the exact date hardly mattered to anyone caught in the blur of heat and hedonism.

On the fourth floor, one apartment stood out with fancy metal railings. Its two balconies were crammed with bodies—laughing, drinking, swaying to the bass-heavy rhythm pounding from inside.

Women in tight dresses leaned over the railing, tossing back shots, while men downed whatever liquor they could get their hands on.

There were college boys hitting on college girls and they taking their pick of the litter. A group of young women approached the building, giggling, their left wrists marked with purple bands—an unspoken invitation to the night’s chaos.

Across the street, a black Mustang pulled into the lot away from other cars. It was clear this wasn’t like other Mustangs. The windows were tinted far beyond the legal limit, the glass so thick it might be bulletproof. A fresh bullet hole in the license plate that reads: LUV 4 U. The engine cut off, and the door swung open.

A single, smooth, toned leg stepped onto the pavement, ending in a three-inch red heel that caught the streetlight just right. As the woman stood, the slit of her red dress parted, revealing the curve of her thigh and the gleam of a knife holster.

She reached back into the car and pulled out her pink purse. A small fuzzy thing with a gold strap. She took a military grade serrated knife from it and slipped it into her holster. She adjusted the weapon, securing it in place before straightening.

Her name was Mango. Yes, just like the fruit. However sweet she may be, she’d kill you with one bite.

She wasn’t here to party, but she was looking forward to a good time.

She was thin but curvy enough to make her red dress stretch in all the right ways. The shiny red dress was low cut at the top and had that slit up the side for easy access, if she needed to use her “assets” to succeed.

Short golden hair and emerald green eyes. The kind of face that’s worth thousands and has stolen the hearts of many more.

She took a deep breath and spoke aloud.

“Focus!”

A red holographic box appeared in front of her. It looked like a computer pop-up. A robotic voice read the screen in her head.

<<<>>>

[Loading… Now accessing F.O.C.U.S: Field Operative Cybernetic Uplink System. Now live. User Identification: Mango.]

[Classification: Thief]

[Mission: Assassination]

[Reward: Increase to Talent Level 2 of ‘Knife Weidler’ and 1 million cash.]

[Do you accept?]

<<<>>>

The screen popped up with a “Yes” or “No”.

“Of course I do,” she said eagerly.

Other people walking by looked at her strangely as if she was staring into space, unable to see the screen that her mind was projecting to her and her alone.

<<<>>>

[Mission: Start!]

<<<>>>

A timer started on the screen from zero.

“Perfect,” she said. She blinked hard and the window went away.

Before stepping away from the Mustang, she casually pulled out a tube of red lipstick from the small purse. A quick swipe across her lips. A glance in the side mirror. Oh yeah, she was hot!

Then she spotted them—the group of girls heading toward the apartment. Laughing. Carefree. Wristbands on their left arms. The perfect means of entry. Or rather, it would be if those girls weren’t talking amicably with the few guys who were drinking beers outside.

They all seemed to know each other.

Mango’s wrist was bare. She rubbed it absentmindedly. She’d have to blend in.

“FOCUS: Access skill bank.” she whispered.

<<<>>>

[Accessing…Thief skills. Four out of five available. Three given from thief class, one learned from a working type class. Which would you like to access?]

<<<>>>

“Number 3: One With Shadows.” She said as she focused on the group of women in front of her.

<<<>>>

[One With Shadow, level 2. Accessing…]

<<<>>>

She saw the computer highlight each woman in red. It highlighted several spots in between them before it showed an empty spot in the back left of the group.

<<<>>>

[Destination: Back left for optimal crowd blending. You have a window of five seconds before it disappears]

<<<>>>

She followed them, somehow managing to keep up unnoticed in three-inch wedges. A feat she had practiced over the many years. She then went to the highlighted spot that the computer told her.

One by one, each checkpoint of male students partying on the ground level waved her on with the group without even talking to her.

Excellent, she thought, it’s working! It’s a good thing it upgraded that skill level. If it were just level one, it wouldn’t have been able to find such a clutch spot!

As they reached the entrance, she studied the group more closely—different hairstyles, different walks, but all of them marked by the purple band.

The lead girl knocked on the door.

It only took a moment before it swung open.

A young man, obviously drunk, stood in the doorway. Backwards cap, black Adidas tracksuit and a smell Mango could only assume was the cheapest cologne at Target. When he saw the women, a slow, sloppy grin spread across his face. He’s plastered on god-knows-what.

“Oh, what’s up, girls? I mean, ladies! Hey, Sarah,” he said, locking eyes with the one in front. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “There’s nothing else to do.”

He smirked and gave a dumb bow as if he was a fancy butler. “I’m sure we can find a way to entertain you.”

He stepped aside, letting them in. Mango moved with them until his hand came up, stopping her. He grabbed her wrist, but she let him. She didn’t want to break any fingers just yet and blow her entry.

“Yo, I don’t know you,” he said. “Where’s your wristband?”

“I’m with them,” she said quickly. Then, lowering her voice and patting him on his face, she spoke sternly. “And if you don’t want me telling people your party sucks because you’re turning away girls like me… I’d suggest you let me through.”

The guy chuckled, tipsy but not stupid. He turned his cap forward like he suddenly wanted to look respectable.

“Well, excuse me,” he said with a grin. “Why don’t you come right on in?” He did a sarcastic bow. Mango rolled her eyes and kept moving.

Step one, Mango thought as she slipped inside. Too easy! That money is as good as mine!

As Mango walked past him, the drunk let out a whistle at the sight of her ass. Every muscle in her face wanted to twist into a snarl, but she forced a small, cocky smile instead.

Inside, the apartment was exactly as loud and chaotic as she expected—flashing lights, pulsing bass, bodies grinding together in a blur of sweat and cheap perfume.

What she didn’t expect was how nice the place was. Not just expensive-looking, but actually expensive.

No cheap knockoffs, no faux fur rugs or spray-painted Goodwill furniture pretending to be antique. Everything here was real. She had always heard rich kids went to this school, but was it really a college dorm? Whoever owned this place had serious money.

And maybe a problem with keeping that money. The type of guy she would go after on a regular night. Maybe a look around couldn’t hurt.

“FOCUS, use learned skill: Evaluate. Decor.” she said.

<<<>>>

[Acknowledged. Activating Skill 4, Learned skill: Evaluate. Now evaluating decor.]

<<<>>>

It started highlighting the furniture she would focus her eyes on. The couch, chairs, and tables. Everything highlighted came with a dollar sign next to it.

Nothing cheaper than $1300.

Her fingers twitched with old instincts, her kleptomaniac side stirring in the back of her mind. She knew which drawer he kept the money in just by the look of the place. She needed a drink before she got distracted and let the demon out. No need to risk the bigger pay day on some chump change.

Then—salvation.

From across the room, people emerged from the kitchen with full cups of liquor. Mango made her way over, stretching onto her toes to see past the crowd.

She got closer and there it was. The most beautiful sight she’d ever seen at a party like this—an actual bartender. Not some drunk dude mixing vodka with whatever soda was left in the fridge, but a tan woman with dark hair in sweats standing behind a table stocked with real bottles.

Mango fell in line behind a couple already lost in each other, their bodies tangled even as they waited for drinks. Their lip smacking was loud enough to wake the dead. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the balcony—earlier packed with people, now mysteriously empty.

“Want anything?” the bartender asked.

Mango blinked back to the moment. “Uh, yeah. Got vodka?”

“Hard vodka?”

“The hardest.”

The bartender smirked. “We’ve got Touch. Straight from Tampa Bay.”

Mango’s eyes flickered with recognition. Touch vodka— American made in Florida by a small private distillery. It was known for not resulting in hangovers…as easily as the cheap stuff, at least. Someone had connections. Or at least good taste.

For a second, she considered it. Then she caught herself. I can’t get too hammered.

She sighed, “Just a Corona.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, “Never seen you before.”

“I’m new in town,” Mango said, her voice smooth and practiced.

“Well, nice to meet you. I’m Lea.” The bartender slid a bottle across the table, “Need anything else, you let me know.”

Mango grabbed the beer, pressed the cap to the table’s edge, and slammed it down with a practiced flick. The top popped off cleanly, not a single bubble fizzing over. More so, without leaving a dent in the table.

Lea gave a smirk. “You’ve done that a couple of times.”

“Years of experience,” Mango said, taking a large gulp before slipping back into the party.

<<<>>>

[Warning. Alcohol could affect the system and the brain negatively. It also could mess with motor-]

<<<>>>

Shut up!, she thought, I’ll be damned if some AI tells me what to do.

The voice was instantly silenced.

As Mango moved through the crowd, she scanned the room, her body swaying just enough to blend in—half-dancing, half-hunting.

Then she saw him.

Across the room, sitting alone on a couch.

Tall, even seated. Dark skin. A clean buzz cut with waves and a medium fade.

Just her type.

Like a hungry panther stalking its prey, she started toward him, going through the swaying bodies like they were jungle foliage hiding her advance.

He wore an all-black suit, a red tie knotted tight at his throat in a double Windsor. In his hand, a glass of dark liquor over ice—no plastic cup, no cheap beer. The kind of drink that signaled taste. Class. A man like this didn’t belong here.

So why was he?

Mango adjusted her dress, pushed up her bra, and closed the distance. Just as she was about to reach him—

Slip!

She stepped straight into a puddle of water.

Her heel slipped, her Corona flew from her hand, and in one horrifying second, the beer went cascading straight into his lap—splashing across his suit, his tie, even his face.

He shot to his feet, his glass falling out of his hand.

“The fuck?” he barked.

Mango hit the ground with a graceless thud. The music pounded on, too loud for anyone else to notice. That’s the thing about these parties. There are so many people, it’s like no one’s even there.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, and for a moment her mind raced. Then she said, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

He ran a hand down his soaked shirt, fuming. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I—I didn’t mean to!” She scrambled up, reaching instinctively to pat his clothes dry—her hands brushing against his chest, his abs. Well, damn. This guy is toned.

“Are you okay?” she asked, tilting her head.

He exhaled sharply, “I’m wet.”

Mango bit back a smirk, scooping up her empty bottle. “Here, let me—” She pulled a few napkins from her purse and dabbed at his shirt, though it was clearly a lost cause. “God, I knew I should’ve worn the wedges.”

Something in his expression shifted. The anger faded, replaced with… indifference. Like she wasn’t even worth the energy to be mad.

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

“No, no,” Mango insisted. “Let me get you another drink.”

“Really, it’s—”

“I insist. Just stay right here.”

Before he could argue, she grabbed his glass and turned toward the kitchen, her lips curving into a sly grin.

“This is your target.”

She remembered the words from two weeks ago as she looked at his face.

***

An empty and dark warehouse. The kind of place you would only use to bury bodies under. Dust filled the air.

A man with long dreads in dark shades slid a photo across the only table—a photo of the man she had just spilled her drink on. On the other side was Mango. But not like you knew her. Done up and pretty, No, this was the real her. Mango wore a tight black and gray bodysuit, toying with the silencer of her gun.

"This is your target," the man said.

The name printed beneath the image was John Nero.

Mango shrugged. “Oh yeah? What’s the deal?”

Across from her, the dreaded man leaned forward. “I need him dead.”

“No shit.”

Flanking him were two tall men, both wearing dark shades. Muscle. The kind of guys who didn’t talk unless they had to. And they rarely had to. All three were dressed in street clothes, but it was obvious the bigger ones in the back weren't just hired help. They were the type of expensive tough guys you try to make look like regular people and honestly, they were doing a terrible job. Their jackets were too small.

Mango picked up the photo, studying it.

He’s cute. Very cute, she thought.

“John Nero. Black. Six-one. I needed it done clean,” the dreaded man continued. “Fast. Discreet. They said you were good at handling sensitive situations like this. I happened to know you stole a FOCUS. Wonder where you got that from…”

Mango rocked back in her chair. “It put me in the ‘Thief Class’ for a reason. Although if you know I have access to FOCUS, I didn’t have to tell you that.”

“It wasn’t your thief skills I was interested in, it was your talent. Skills could be learned and given, but talents—those were all natural. Unique based on a person’s past.”

“You’re talking about what FOCUS deemed ‘Knife Shade’?”

“Knife Shade: expert in knife combat and especially effective during silent takedowns,” he said. “No one would suspect a thief as an assassin. A very interesting talent for someone in the Thief Class.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.” Her sly smile faded. “You should quit while you’re ahead.”

His voice was flat, emotionless. “No one could know about this. Do you understand?”

Mango smirked. “You didn’t even know my name. You had nothing to worry about.” She flicked the edge of the photo with her thumb. “It’d get done—if the money was right.”

The man snapped his fingers, and one of his goons handed him a silver briefcase. She quickly slammed the chair on the ground and pointed her gun at the man. His hired goons quickly drew in kind.

The man seemed shocked for a second, then he bellowed a big laugh.

“Haha, a bit soon to be jumpy,” he said.

“Just show me what’s in the case, nice and easy.” Mango said, turning on the laser pointer. It’s beaming glowing on his chest.

He slid it across the table. Mango cautiously popped it open.

Inside: stacks of crisp bills.

“Five hundred grand up front, like we agreed,” he said. “Other half when the job’s done.”

Mango smiled and put away the gun. The goons put away their weapons. After she checked it and was satisfied, she placed the photo of John neatly on top of the cash, then shut the suitcase with a soft click.

“It’s a shame to let such a man go to waste, but he’s too pretty a penny to pass up. Alright,” she said, standing. “Just one quick question.”

His face tensed as she leaned forward. She met his gaze, her smirk widening.

“Any particular reason you wanted me to murder your brother?”