NOTE: This fic is also on Archive of Our Own, and it'll probably update there before it updates here. I'm also on Tumblr under the same username as here.
The Fifth Day of Dark: 11:00 PM: LOG 0001
It was cold when you arrived at the sealed chamber entrance to Skaia. The fact that you had to be frisked for weapons, explosives, and other potentially deadly paraphernalia when you arrived didn't exactly help.
You hate the dark seasons.
You've heard that, on Old Earth, they used to call this "winter", and there would be this white "snow" substance, which coated everything and made the landscape beautiful. You've seen paintings. Trees and forests covered in this "snow" and sparkling white. Little hoofbeasts pulling flimsy wooden transportation devices, each filled by a couple. It's what sparked your interest in Human art, and it's what prompted you to begin working as an assassin. After all, only the richest and most outrageously corrupt live on Old Earth, with its carefully recultivated lands and protected wildlife.
But that's beside the point.
Right now, you're standing in front of a run-down shack made of rusted, corrugated metal and poorly welded beams. Rain leaks through the shoddy overhang above the front door, and you had to smash the doorbell a total of five times before it rang.
Now, with the door open, you get your first glimpse of your target.
A human male. From his files, you know that he's the same age as you. Blond hair, styled into a messy version of what you believe the Humans call a "quiff", pale, with relatively broad shoulders. An injury from a previous and clearly less competent assassin's attempt left him with some unknown degree of medical complications. Logically, you can assume this is why he's (a) using a bulky wheelchair, the sort with the larger wheels on either side, and (b) being presided over by some dorky-looking Human with black hair and thick, rectangular-frame black glasses.
Understandably, neither of these men are screaming "I trust you wholeheartedly" to you, but it's your job to change that. With a solid ten kills under your belt, you're certain that this will be a simple task.
After all, the one with the glasses already seems more accommodating.
In fact, the one with the glasses is the first to speak. He even offers to shake your hand, though, you politely refuse. "Name's John," he says, his voice slightly higher than you're accustomed to hearing from a male Human. "I'm Dave's resident best bud and physician. In that order. I'm guessing you're the new bodyguard. I'm right, right? You're not some creepy hitman here to kill my best friend. That would be weird, huh?" Though the statement makes you nervous, he punctuates it with a literal snort of laughter. Then, he waves the comment aside and nudges Dave by the shoulder. "Move out of the way, dude. You're being rude."
"Well excuse me for not wanting to get shot again," responds the blond, his vocal pitch artificially heightened with faux offense. You watch closely, noting every motion. His left hand, which you can only assume is his dominant one, nudges at a joystick controller, which is crudely secured to the right armrest with a mass of duct tape and what seems to be a singular stray piece of chewed gum. At the same time, his right hand buries itself in the front pocket of his oversized red sweatshirt. As he backs away, he eyes you over. He puffs his chest up, like a frightened bird, before speaking. "I can kill you," he mutters. As if looking for the most innocuous thing in the room, he darts over to the still-set dining room table. After picking up a spoon, he continues, "I can kill you with this spoon."
(You highly doubt he could kill so much as a bug on his own, but you're a decent enough individual to keep this to yourself. Knowing your luck, the bastard'll turn out to be a combat master and he'd beat the shit out of you.)
John, in return, laughs. Another series of dweeby snorts. "Have some manners, Dave," he playfully scolds. Then, he turns to you. "I apologize for my friend's behavior. He's not too keen on strangers. Or, surprisingly, people. He hates most people. At least, he hates actually being around them. He'll write and philosophize all about it, but he'll run like a fucking leopard if you invite him to a party." A shrug. John gestures towards the table, from which Dave had taken the spoon, and tacks on a final addendum. "We've set a place for you. I've got some eggs and bacon ready. Dave, go get those, would you?"
"Sure thing, loser." Somehow, Dave squeezes his makeshift chair through the narrow gap in the makeshift wall. He returns a few seconds later with a tiny, depressing egg and some shriveled bacon scraps. With all the charisma of a dead cockroach, he drops the still-simmering pan onto the table. "Eat up, bodyguard. The High Jackass has been upping his campaign against me."
(If you were a Skaian native, or had any sort of loyalty to the King beyond his hefty paycheck, you'd punch this smug asshole in his stupid face. But, you aren't. And you don't. So, you let it sit. Instead, you prod at the meager offerings in front of you.)
Obviously, life is hard in Skaia. At least, for these two nitwits it is. You almost feel bad eating their food, but you're aware of the fact that you'll be living off of them for a good, long while. And, to be honest, you're not sure how you feel about that. You've always hated buddy missions. Getting to know people tends to poke a hole in your steel armor, and you'll be the first to admit that you're a bit of a soft one. It's just the Vantas way. What else can you expect when your older brother was executed for standing up for genetic mutants, like yourself? Compassion is in your blood, and your only reason for overriding it is that tiny chance that you'll one day manage to see Old Earth.
It's like one of those cliché old romance books. Though, you've always loved those.
Not that you'd admit it to anyone.
The Fifth Day of Dark: 5:00 PM: LOG 0002
After a brief nap in a bed that was little more than a soggy straw-stuffed potato sack, you figure you might as well get to learning about your target. The faster you get this personal half of the mission done, the easier it will be to kill the bastard. Sure, you might agree with his cause, but money talks. And the amount of money the King is paying you does more than that; it screams.
You wander downstairs, out of your shitty room, and into an equally pitiful living room. It seems that no one is there, so you meander through the house. As far as you can tell, everyone is either gone or asleep. Not that you care. If you can get information about your target, that's what you're going to do. It doesn't matter much to you if it's by snooping around. And, when you find Dave's room completely empty, you begin doing just that. You enter quickly, and close the rotten wood door behind you.
The first thing you notice is that the place is less of a bedroom and more of an archaic makeshift hospital room. The mattress is far more expensive than you'd have ever thought someone living in a Skaian district literally called Beggar's Court would be able to afford. It's one of those fancy foam ones. According to the commercials, it conforms to Human bodies like some sort of creepy, claustrophobic recuperacoon. A soggy box of likely contaminated (at this point) oxygen masks and tubing is in the corner, and the dirty faux wooden surface of the dresser is covered in bandages, pill bottles, and what you're fairly certain is a poorly hidden stash of illegal anti-monarchy publications. (You're not here to report his crimes, though. You're here to kill him.) Otherwise, personal touches in the room are sparse. The sling lift hanging from the ceiling has a bright red length of fabric suspended in its grasp, and the walls are covered in photos. A lopsided easel with a canvas painted solid grey is at the foot of the bed.
All things considered, it's a space that thoroughly creeps you out. If trolls had hair on the back of their necks, it would be standing up by now.
Still, you've got a job to do. Being creeped out is not a valid reason for failing. So, you proceed to investigate the bed. (The red bedclothes make you wonder whether this Human has some sort of odd sexual attraction to the garish, ugly color. It also makes you file away a mental note to never let him see your mutant blood.) Beneath the sheets, you find little to get excited about. There are pillows, what seem to be molded pieces of plastic with straps, and an inexplicable collection of coupon clippings for ice cream. Specifically, it's for a flavor known as "Ultra Chocolate Blast," which sounds like another sickeningly sweet Human concoction to you. Nonetheless, it's something. You pocket a coupon to save in your file on him.
From there, you wander over to a dusty desk. It seems as if it hasn't been used in ages, and the computer on top is a solid ten years old. Probably used. Since it seems to be either dead or broken, you decide to investigate the contents of the drawer. Here, you find possibly the most useful thing yet. It's a crumpled up, water-damaged piece of lined paper—the sort that they use in notebooks or at school—with a schedule written out on it. As far as you can tell, Dave's day starts at 8:00 AM every day, and ends at 10:00 PM. You try to get deeper into the details, only to hear the sound of the doorknob turning.
You panic, shove the note into your pocket, and slam the drawer closed.
And, as soon as you're finished, Dave enters. The black-haired dork from earlier seems to have left him alone for the time being, seeing as he's alone and not too pleased to find you in his room.
Not that you're afraid of him. A pissed-off bastard can only be so threatening when he's inching towards you at a snail's pace in a sputtering, cobbled-together electric wheelchair.
"I don't trust you," he comments, his voice flat.
"Okay." You shrug. While you can usually judge people quickly, you're finding Dave harder to crack. So, you stick to your gut reaction.
He, meanwhile, passes you. He immediately approaches the desk, which he begins to visually scour. After apparently judging it to be undisturbed—or, maybe, lacking enough fucks to care—he turns himself to face you. It's an odd maneuver, and he seems to hold himself in place with his right arm, which is thrown over the backrest of his chair. "I'm guessing you've seen the whole shitty place, right?"
"Does it matter if I did?"
"Yeah. It does." With some more awkward maneuvering, he turns back around.
"Well, you're not kicking me out."
"I'm tired and don't really give a fuck."
"Understandable."
His eyes narrow. His lips press together, forming a straight line. Something's definitely going down in his mind, and it finally comes to a halt when he speaks up. "If you kill me, there'll be a hell of a lot of people pissed off with you."
"Why bother saying that now?"
"If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly capable of doing everything by myself. I mean, if you didn't, I'm flattered. Most people bug me about shit the minute they meet me." His sudden chattiness is offputting, and you consider that it might be something that happens when he's under stress. "It's a shit deal, y'know? It's not exactly what anyone would say their dream life is, but it's how the stale cookie squishes. It's got perks, though. And I'm not about to waste the rest of my time crying over it. It's great for time management, though. And I—"
"God fucking dammit. What's your point?" you snap.
He freezes. The tension in his shoulder dissipates, and he seems to deflate. "Oh. Yeah." He sounds embarrassed. "My point is..." He frowns. If this is supposed to be the well-put-together and completely coherent leader of some sort of anti-monarchy movement, he's doing a shit job. In fact, you're amazed that the propaganda can make him seem like anything more than an absent-minded jackass. "I don't actually remember. Shit. That went badly."
"It did."
"You're right, meat shield," Dave nods.
You, in return, take this as a signal to leave. You gather your wits about you, edge around him, and try to keep your distance. Hands in your pockets. Stomach sucked in. Back pressed against the wall. As far as you can tell, Dave is about to drop dead with a strong gust of wind. Even if he's not, you're not up for a pissed-off tirade if you end up bumping into him. "Good night," you mutter.
"I'll sleep with one eye open," he responds.
The Fifth Day of Dark: 10:30 PM: LOG 0003
As you lounge around in the living room, John enters the room. He flops onto the sofa, wipes some sweat from his brow, and offers you a small smile. "He can be a real handful sometimes. Sorry for his manners. He was in a bad mood today. Literally fell out of the wrong side of the bed and broke his favorite shades." A pause. Rubbing his chin, which is covered in tiny bits of black stubble, John continues, "Actually, they're his only shades."
(What a vain jackass.)
"What does he needs shades for?" you ask.
John shrugs. "He's a genetic fuck-up. Dork of reality and nerd of genetics." Apparently, this joke is amusing enough for John to let forth a quiet snort of laughter. "His eyes don't do well with bright light, so he keeps them on to prevent headaches. And, trust me, you don't want to be around Dave when he's got a headache. You'd already know. He had one all day today."
"I figured," you lie. With the most casual tone possible, you steer the conversation in a new direction. "So, medically..."
John groans. He rubs the back of his neck and chews on his lip. "Yeah, that'd be a big thing for the bodyguard to know, right?" (This guy is so fucking gullible. You could probably get him to admit Dave's darkest secrets with a quick question.) "It's all pretty complicated, but he's got most of his daily activities down. Don't worry about that, dude, I've got it. He's got some breathing problems, though, so that's important. It won't kill him, though. I mean..." John shrugs. He gets up, wanders off, and returns a few seconds later with a bottle of cheap beer. After taking a sip, he picks up from where he left off. (It's as if John is the put-together one and Dave is a scatterbrain with a few good ideas.) "It'd be pretty shitty of you to not help him out if he starts having problems, but it'd take some pretty bad air or him missing his medications to kill him that way. Not that you would. You seem like a pretty cool guy."
You nod slowly, though a tiny pang of regret hits you. "Thanks."
"No problem." Another toothy, stupid grin. "Look, I'm tired. I'm going to bed, so..." Here, he chugs the rest of his drink. Considering the fact that he looks pretty damned innocent, you're surprised. "I'll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, because we'll be going out early in the morning."