Jack Stocker
I do a lot of stuff. Mainly though, I write.
Mugged
To be honest with you, I don't really like killing.
My first kill was an accident, actually. I got mugged, in fact. I remember it very clearly – it was my first night in the city. I'd wandered down an alley. He'd walked up to me and demanded my belongings, while sticking a knife to my throat. Simple stuff really - you don't tend to forget things like that.
The blade was short and ugly, much like its owner. There were no dramatic gestures or bravado, no speeches about walking down dangerous roads in a dangerous city. He simply said "Give me your cash."
That was it. He wanted something. He'd asked me for it. And I would have given it to him.
Problem was; I didn't have any. Under different circumstances, I would have attempted to explain this to him, extremely politely. Something along the lines of 'I'm sorry, but I've got no money. In fact, I've never had any, ever. But there's a toothpick in my pocket you're quite welcome to.'
Like most people, though, I found it difficult to find words that would honestly, sincerely communicate the scale of my regret at my inability to accommodate his request. Instead, I managed the following –
'Hurrrrrggggghhhhhh....'
…which I'm not sure managed to get the message across.
My mugger (let's call him John) saw that I was having difficulty, and considerately took the blade from my throat. I then attempted to explain about the whole money fiasco. Before I had a chance to even open my mouth, a dark hand seized my throat and slammed me up against the wall. I really don't see how he expected me to be able to tell him anything without actually breathing.
"You're alone." he grinned, sniffing my neck. "That's unusual, for someone with your colour."
I didn't bother attempting a reply. He wasn't looking for one.
"You've got something on you. An amulet, a talisman. People like you always do. Travellers. Not city types."
I shook my head to mean that unfortunately, this particular traveller didn't. I also wanted to register my distaste at the word traveller, and the sniffing of my neck, but there isn't a head gesture complex enough for that. His grip tightened, cutting off the last vestiges of my airflow, and tore open the first few buttons of my shirt. There was nothing there. He checked my wrists next. Then my pockets.
"What's this?" he grunted, holding up the toothpick.
"Hurrrgh." I replied.
His grip relaxed slightly. Slightly.
"It's a toothpick." I wheezed, as neutrally as I could. I wish my sarcasm deserted me in times of severe stress. It doesn't, so I just have to try really hard to suppress it.
He was silent for a moment, looking me up and down. Then, without warning, he released me, and turned away as I crashed to the pavement. I scooped up the toothpick. Apart from my clothes, it was the last thing I possessed. I gingerly got to my feet.
Sensing the movement, John spun round again, brandishing his knife. I decided now would be as good a time as any to try and explain the state of my finances again.
In fairness to him, John actually took the explanation quite well. Right up until the point when he said 'I don't believe you' and swung for me with the knife.
But I'd been expecting it. You see, the thing about Orcs is that they tend to be very predictable in certain situations. In the three minutes or so that he'd held onto me, I'd assessed the options, and come to the conclusion that this was going to end in one of two ways. Scenario One was running. Scenario Two was violence. John was blocking my way out of the alley, and it was a dead end in the other direction. So it was a pretty safe bet which scenario was most likely.
So, by the time John was swinging his knife, I still had the toothpick in my hand. I didn't quite dodge it – the blade caught me on the upper part of my left arm, creating an impressive spurt of blood. I yelled (manfully) in pain, and before he could bring his arm back around, I stabbed him in the head with the toothpick.
My plan had been to cause John enough pain as to disorient him, so I could make good my escape. Hopefully I wouldn't even have to go as far as half a mile. A needle exerts a large amount of pressure relative to its surface area. I'm not going to give you a physics lesson, but basically it's fair to say a toothpick to the head will cause you to lose interest in your surroundings for a few minutes.
Of course, John would have a shorter recovery time because Orcs have naturally very thick skulls. I'm not insulting them – it's anatomical. The needle would hurt, certainly, but within a minute or so, John would quickly recover and come after me. I had expected this, and planned to be far away by then. Elves, as a race, have somewhat diverse talents, but if there's one thing we're universally good at, it's running like hell.
What I was not expecting, however, was that the needle would land within the small circle of slightly weak tissue on John's temporal bone – a circle no more than three centimetres in diameter. In other words, on the single weakest point of an Orc's head. Nor did I expect him to die instantly and collapse to the ground.
Once I'd realised he wasn't getting up, I turned my attention to my left arm. Maybe I did a bit of whimpering as well. There was a lot of blood. Thankfully, the wound seemed shallow enough. I experimentally raised my arm a few inches. Such an excruciating wave of pain washed over me that I almost threw up. As it was, I swore very loudly and sat down abruptly against the wall. I'd never been stabbed before, but I can safely say it was an experience I really didn't care for.
I think I may have passed out at that point. I knew I definitely lost a hell of a lot of blood, because when I woke up it was all over me.
Some more time passed. I may have been conscious, or I may not. I don't know.
I remember two faces looming out of the blackness. The light, what little of it there was, glinted off their short tusks, and I realised with a sense of dread that they were Orcs. Even worse – they weren't police. I realised I was about to learn a little lesson about gangland retribution. If that was the case, I hoped they'd kill me quickly. I'd been wrong – the hole in my arm was quite deep after all, and I didn't want to bleed to death, especially not surrounded by chuckling Orcs.
"What's your name?" asked one.
Odd question to be asking under the circumstances. I answered it anyway.
"Daric."
"Your full name."
"It's the only one my mother gave me."
"What's an Elf doing this deep into Hundra?"
I wanted to say it wasn't my choice, that I hated Hundra and all cities like it, that only a series of unfortunate coincidences had led me here. I'm an Elf, for Christ's sake. We like trees. But I didn't say any of that; I was too busy trying to stay awake.
They didn't say anything else, but got me up surprisingly carefully. I screamed as a large brutish hand brushed my wound, but they ignored it, carrying me out of the alley. I started to black out again. My head dropped, and that's when I saw John's immobile body, drifting
slowly past my line of vision. I aimed a kick at his head, my foot connecting with a satisfying crack.
My arm was fucking killing me.
*
I'm probably not the greatest assassin in the world. I haven't fallen in love with murdering people, nor do I refer to it as an art, as some people of my trade do. John would have been an accident, but he stabbed me just before he died, so for approximately four seconds it was personal. But that was the most emotional kill I ever made. Which is pretty good going when you think about it. I never did find out his real name. But the organisation in charge of that part of town clearly cared a lot more about me than they did about him, and that suited me fine.
It took eight weeks for my arm to heal to a satisfactory condition. After nine weeks, I was on the payroll.
They never gave me any special training, beyond how to use a firearm. I used a knife for the next one I killed – another Orc. At the time, I convinced myself I was doing it out of sheer desperation, that once I had enough money to move out of Hundra, I'd be gone like a shot. But as the money came in and the targets kept coming, I discovered I was quite good at killing people. Of course the first few jobs were a case of slashing them and running hell for leather, but as time progressed, I developed more of an analytical brain for it. Elves are good judges of character, and as I watched them, I taught myself how to identify a target's weaknesses.
The drug-addled Dwarf. Killed on the way to see his dealer.
The Sprite who had double-crossed my employers. Killed while trying to cash his cheque.
The Elf who turned into a wolf, once every fortnight. Killed as he was transforming.
That last one was an interesting case for forensics. I felt a little bad about it, truth be told. But money is money.
After a year, I had enough cash to move out of the accommodation the Orcs had so kindly provided me with. I moved into a flat and went freelance. They did my marketing for me, whispered my name in the right ears, so all I had to do was wait for a call.
And that's how, five years later, I came to find myself in a new city, in a large, sparsely decorated room, discussing the death of a Centaur.
"We need him gone, quite simply." the Man was saying. He'd introduced himself as Ray. "And the simplest way of doing that is to kill him."
I didn't reply to that. I generally find that the best way of dealing with dangerous people is to speak as little as possible. The less you say, the less chance you have of saying the wrong thing. And since they had hired me, a contract killer, in this case the wrong thing would definitely have been 'duh'.
"We know you're the best man for the –"
"Elf." I interrupted before I could stop myself. I wasn't touchy about it as such, but we're a different species. White skin, black hair, six fingers, pointed ears. The signs are all there, it's really not that difficult.
Ray paused for a second, and I wondered which limb I should bid farewell to first. Then he continued, and I relaxed.
"Elf, then, sorry. We need you to take him out from a distance." said my new employer. "We'll provide you with a weapon."
"I've got one, thanks." I wasn't very familiar with this city, but assassins around Hundra tended to keep their own firearms. Men sometimes seemed to forget that Elves had fingerprints too.
"Elves have fingerprints too." I reminded him helpfully.
"So wear gloves." he replied irritably.
I decided I didn't like Ray. He was short and he was blonde and he was very annoying. Not that there's anything wrong with being short or blonde, it's just that he was also these things. But, however annoying he may be, he was short tempered, and armed to his teeth. It didn't take someone of my experience to notice the bulge in his jacket, or the knife in his boot. And there were surely a dozen other ways he could kill me in this room. He was paranoid, clearly. But that was still no reason to be rude, and this was why I didn't like Ray.
"You can keep the gun." he said.
"What is it?"
"A Vyrenksi."
I liked Ray.
Vyrenski was a Dwarf, and a highly successful one at that. He was also Russian. In my experience, Russian Dwarves knew a thing or two about guns.
He picked up a case and placed it onto the desk, inviting me closer.
"Vyrenski KM-4. Twenty-six inch barrel, Nite-Owl scope, effective range up to a thousand yards. Questions?"
"Just a few curious ones." I replied.
He scowled, but nodded.
"Vyrenski doesn't sell his weapons cheap." I noted. "Why are you giving it to me?"
Ray raised his eyebrows. "For the same reason that we're not conducting this conversation over the phone, Mr Daric. Because this is the third task you've performed for us, and we feel as an organisation that it's time to show a little bit of trust."
"I've never –"
"You don't know me, no. But the bosses know you, and that's enough. They're giving this to you in good faith, if you like."
I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "OK."
"Then we're fini –"
"Just one more question." I said apologetically. I could feel my ears twitching. That wasn't a good thing. "Why am I killing him from a distance? You have to hit a Centaur in quite a specific spot to kill it, and there's a better chance of me hitting it with a sidearm than a rifle."
"Well..." Ray looked uneasy, and I suddenly realised that this job had been misrepresented. "The Centaur is a Magician."
My feet had started moving almost before I realised it.
"You can keep your rifle, Ray." I said over my shoulder. "I prefer killing people that don't have the ability to separate all of the atoms in your body at will."
"Daric, I understand Centaurs have –"
"The Centaur isn't the issue." I said, as politely as I could. My hand reached the door. "It's the fact that he's a member of the most powerful race on the face of the planet. I hope that puts things into perspective."
I turned the doorknob. It swung open.
Ray had no other cards to play. I was almost gone. In fact, as far I as I was concerned, I was long gone.
"You're free to have help on this one."
I paused.
Then I smiled.
I knew just the woman.