I am done. I've been a hired killer for over 20 standard years. I don't want to do it anymore. I'm tired of it. -- BKF
To quote classic literature: I am the best at what I do, and what I do ain't pretty. Not that I've read the works of Lee Kirby, I've just had it said to me by the people who have. Those sorts who can afford to learn how to read. When you grow up fighting for your life, it's a short journey to killing for a living. All you have to do is put some extra dedication into the 'fight' part and focus on making a killing.
Or several, as the case may be.
Name's Corbi, though I haven't used it a lot in my career. They like to give me code-names like Jaguar, the Beast, or Pit-bull[1]. They can call me anything they please so long as there's dinero at the other end of it. As for those who try to stiff me on the bill? Let's just say I have a very direct method of extracting my pound of flesh, and they let me into their secure location.
I've been twenty years on the job. Murder for hire. I've done it all. Business rivals, bitch wives, bastard husbands, bad bedmates, unfortunate heirs, unwanted relatives, you name it. If they have the money, I have the blade and the wherewithal to do it. They decide how splashy it is, the message they want to send, or if they just want a special someone to vanish without a trace. I could do it all.
Until this last job.
It seemed like the regular deal. Wipe out a competitor. Not just the body in charge, but the whole household. Harem, servants, everyone in the complex, even the maintenance staff.
They didn't tell me that the unlucky sod had a kid.
I'd got all the grownups in the place. Hunted them down, some of them. Ended every single one, even one poor unfortunate bitch on their first day there. I checked every room to make sure, and found the nursery. It was clean and full of soft things. There was a light that put a swirling galaxy across the ceiling and walls.
And standing up in the crib, wobbling in their footie pyjamas, an actual baby. Smiling at me like I hadn't just murdered everyone in their brief little life. Then they said the one word that stopped me cold.
"Da-da!"
Kid didn't know their father on sight. Didn't know anything other than I was male and about the right height.
I was hired to kill everyone in the complex. I could have done it if the kid was asleep. Make it quick and painless.
I couldn't do it with the kid smiling at me in anticipation of love and cuddles from their Daddy. Not when they were doing uppy arms and chirping in babyish glee.
I put my knife back in its sheath. Picked up the kid and held them. Felt like my heart was tearing itself to pieces. And I did the most sensible thing I could think of.
I looted the place for fungible items, left the kids onesie in a pool of their father's blood, and hauled ass off planet. I know what you Alliance types do to murderers like me, but I swear I've had enough of killing. I'll do whatever it takes to prove that. I'll learn any skill you like. Hell, I'll even learn how to read if you want me to.
Just... make sure the kid has a good home. And a better name than Fozdyke Alberforth Richards IV.
[1] Possibly one of the most maligned dog breeds in the world. There are no bad dogs, just bad dog-owners.
[Photo by Tamanna Rumee on Unsplash]
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