Encounter

By Cat Alex

AN: Originally this was the first chapter of a longer AU-ish fic I'm in the process of writing, but this can stand alone, as it's a prologue of sorts. This is set around 1971. The Killer7 timeline is very skew-whiff, so I had to make a judgement call, placing Curtis' birthday in 1942. Hand in Killer7 is a great read, but so all over the place time-wise. I cannot even describe what was going on in my head when this came out. Probably something depraved and dark like Curtis Blackburn. Enjoy.

Why do we think we can change men? I was young and foolish then, but I should have known even back then it was impossible to change a man like Curtis Blackburn. He radiated danger so naturally I was like a moth to the flame. He was eleven years older than me – twenty-nine when we met – with a steely gaze, frankly bizarre dress sense offset with a pair of pistols he kept with him at all times.

He had come to the party to assassinate someone. That much I learned during our first fuck. I found the body on a drunken trip upstairs and a wrong turn into the study. I never knew who the poor bastard was. Probably at college like me. What could he have done to warrant Curtis Blackburn on his tail?

It was strange, seeing a dead body. I'd never seen one before. He looked… I don't know. He was almost peaceful, I suppose. Unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling, a trickle of drying blood at the side of his mouth. I never got a good look at how he was killed. No-one at the party heard gunshots. I was surprised at how calm I was. Perhaps the alcohol had dulled things down a bit. I stepped forward to get a better look, but I didn't scream or gasp when I confirmed the worst. I didn't jump until I heard the door click behind me and the horrible realisation I wasn't alone kicked in.

"What are you going to do about this?" a voice softly asked. He always spoke in an almost challenging tone, ready to fight. But I had no desire to fight anyone, let alone die to get the truth out. I was more intrigued by the man's killer emerging from the shadows. I remembered briefly seeing him earlier in the crowd of people – he must have caught everyone's eye at some point with those clothes and looks. Grim grey eyes, a handsome face, thick brown hair I wanted to bury my hands in and a set of broad shoulders I was sure men would kill for.

I felt like I was in a dream. Alcohol, shock, a delayed reaction, survival instinct – I never could put a name to it. Right then I focused on the problem at hand – the man in front of the door who intrigued me.

"I'm Lindsay," I found myself saying, steadily watching him. He remained still. I spied the holster for his pistols and wondered if I was going to be shot.

"Your name doesn't matter," he replied, "What does is what you plan to do about this."

"My plan is 'nothing'. I don't know that man and I don't know you. However…" I paused, not taking my eyes off him, "I wouldn't mind getting to know you better."

He couldn't hide his smirk at that. I think he'd been preparing to kill me before then; waiting for the misstep to launch himself. But I presented a better option right then and murder faded away in favour of moving closer and tearing my dress off. He's always been a brutal man, even in bed. He rarely thinks of anyone beyond himself, but that suited me fine at that moment. The thought of him taking me hard right there was too arousing to pass up. He remained armed the whole time, though he could have killed me easily with his bare hands. He didn't remove his black gloves, even while fingering me, and only undid his pants to get his dick out, each rough thrust pressing the zipper into my thigh. It only made the sex even more primal. It was against the wall by the door he'd shut on me. He did not kiss me, but he did nip and bite here and there, growling occasionally when pushing me to the wall.

I wondered many times what brought the two of us together. I cannot say I was a virgin then, but I was by no means in the habit of fucking strangers. My previous boyfriend (not that Curtis was ever my successive boyfriend) was a boring, middle of the road kind of guy. He was nice and safe and my parents loved him. We had practically promised ourselves to each other when we did it the first time. He was gentle and careful, nervous about hurting me. But I wasn't made of glass and I wanted more; more than he could handle. Curtis was not a good choice after him; he was too much for me, I'd swung too far the other way. Humdrum to psycho. Good going, Lindsay. From the brief amount of time I spent with Curtis, I got the impression he wasn't in the habit of fucking people on the job. I told myself down the line it was fate assigning me a purpose – to help this man. But like I said in the beginning – you can't change others. Not unless they want to change themselves, and Curtis has always wanted to kill and does so without remorse. Standing in his way is a quick way to getting yourself killed.

Afterwards he gripped my chin, expression indecipherable. I was still in a haze of blissful nothingness, sore and pleased as hell.

"What's your full name?" he asked.

"Lindsay Emma Beckett," I managed to mumble and he leaned closer, rubbing his nose against my cheek in a weirdly possessive manner.

"I can find you whenever I want now, Lindsay Emma Beckett," he whispered in my ear. To say it sounded sinister would have been an understatement, but I was too turned on by this new and exciting element of danger. He was too good to run from.

He slipped a gloved finger back in, making me buckle against the wall. The smirk returned and he slowly removed it.

"I'm Curtis Blackburn, assassin. You will never find me unless I want you too. I'll see you around, Lindsay Emma Beckett." He seemed to savour saying my full name, putting a creepy spin on it. He left, shutting the door behind him. I slid to the ground, a mess, my torn clothes strewn on the floor, a dead body not even six feet away. It dawned on my then that I had willingly stepped into a very dark world I probably wasn't going to be able to walk away from easily.

Several weeks passed without incident. The victim of Curtis' assassination came from a rich family with connections to all kinds of darker elements. I suppose his death was a threat from said elements; I never asked. Things were much easier when I didn't ask too many questions. And I didn't really want to know about his victims; it tarnished his dangerous air to something scarier and darker than I could stand. It was far better to keep the idea of an audacious man in mind than a bloodthirsty one. I was going through college and the boys there were just that: boys. Curtis was a man, and one who knew what he wanted. I was flattered that one of the things he wanted was me. Perhaps finding people to fuck in the assassination business was rare, I don't know, but I was available and I didn't tell anyone about him or what he'd done, which suited him to the ground. I was an available and reliable person to fuck. And not knowing tons about him kept the mystique up, which made the sex better. I don't know how much he delved into me and my past, but I don't think he really cared. Every so often he'd turn up and we'd fuck. Talking was kept to a minimum and Curtis never hung around afterwards. Things suited us just fine as they were; he had an outlet in me and I got a damn good fucking most girls would be too scared of and some probably dreamed about anyway.

But then the day came when everything began to pick up and fall apart at once. I had emerged from the doctor's white as a sheet in a state of shock. I sat in my room and didn't go to lectures for several days trying to work out what I should do. In the end I resolved to keep my baby, telling myself I could still get through college. My main problem was how to approach Curtis; whether to even tell him at all. We didn't love each other and we weren't in a stable relationship. But I knew it was impossible to run from him; he really could find me whenever he wanted to. If I ran, he'd get suspicious, and if he got suspicious, I got dead.

Eventually I decided to tell him just so I knew where we stood. I was fine raising the baby alone. When Curtis came by next, I had to stop him from simply taking me as usual with hardly a sentence exchanged between us. He face went from impassive to furious in a second. He pushed me to the bed, whipping one of his pistols out and pressing it to my forehead. I didn't even have time to be afraid, expecting him to pull the trigger and that be that. But everything froze; I was too terrified to move in case it prompted him to change his mind and he stayed straddling me, eyes blazing.

"This is my baby?" he growled and I silently nodded. The gun didn't move. My eyes were wide and watering, overflowing down the sides of my face. I couldn't shift my gaze from Curtis looming above me, now considering the implications of what had gone on between us. It was probably only minutes, but for me it was a stretch of eternity.

"A legacy; that's what this child shall be," he eventually decided, removing the gun and holstering it. I suddenly noticed how rigid my body was and relaxed, sinking into the bed and finally closing my eyes. I felt his weight shift off me and then he grabbed my wrist, hauling me to my feet.

"You will stay with me, Lindsay," he said. I could barely stand my legs were so shaky. He got me to pack what I needed and bundled me into a car. It turned out he lived on the outskirts of Seattle in a large fancy looking house. I couldn't believe he lived so close to me. It suddenly made him seem that much weirder, though I couldn't say why. He politely showed me around, making a point of places that were off limits.

It was this time in the thing you could loosely call our relationship where I began to question him and put faith in changing his ways for the better. An astounding misjudgement on my part, though I don't regret any of it. I knew there was going to be damage from being tangled up with a person like Curtis Blackburn.

When he was at his house (which wasn't as often as I would have liked) we shared the same bed and we still fucked. And it was as good as ever. He always domineered me, but it became obvious I like to be dominated, in bed at least. The things you learn about yourself in unexpected places. Outside of the bedroom were far more awkward experiences. I wanted to know more. I figured I was in it for the long haul now I was at his house and growing bigger by the month. He answered most of my questions, though was clearly disgruntled by it. It turned out he worked for the government, which kind of shocked me. A government employed assassin. He visibly brightened when he discussed previous kills. In a sick way, I liked to hear them. He became animated and told them well. It was nice to see him like that, even if the topic was grim. Those instances were rare, though; he was always restless in my presence if we weren't fucking. I tried to break the uncomfortable atmosphere by talking. I asked him once why the government got him to kill. He snorted.

"Because I liked it and was good at it. Naturally they keep the best killers as their own as long as they stay in line. And I am happy to be paid for it and stay out of prison. It couldn't be a better partnership."

I didn't need to know much after that. Anything I gleaned about him came from his behaviour and surroundings. His house was large and simply designed with tasteful pieces here and there. It was clear he enjoyed collecting expensive things, so I surmised he probably was not always this well off. And despite being an assassin, he needed attention. His clothes, the way he forced me to look at him when we had sex – he needed attention and things to be within his control. He didn't need to control everything, but as long as he knew he could swiftly do so if he chose satisfied him. I was an uncomfortable element in his life, but one that could be directed if he wanted.

The baby fascinated him. As I grew bigger, my stomach drew his attention at times. I'd sit on the sofa, allowing him to run his hands over my stomach. He seemed to like the idea of passing down his skills and blood to another. I tentatively discussed names with him and he told me the child would be a Blackburn no matter what. He said he wanted the baby to have a name representing strength. I couldn't argue with him; the feeling that changing him was not going to be as easy as books and films would have me believe.

I still had the sensation of that pistol against my forehead. It never quite went away, as if I already knew what the future held for me. I'd find myself rubbing the spot, expecting to find the gun still there.

He'd told me we would not go to the hospital, which wasn't uncommon back then. Perhaps even a blessing, I suppose. I asked if he'd be present and he told me he would because he was intrigued and I'd have no-one else. I found his interest in the birth encouraging. We both read through books on home deliveries and what we'd need. It kept my mind off darker topics, such as the fact I was making little headway with Curtis. He didn't let me close enough to even hope to change him, but teased me with his indulgences. It would have been better if he kept me at arms length, but he seemed to crave contact as much as I did.

He was the kind of person who liked to be multi disciplined. I saw him cook as well as he could kill, as he could play cards, as he could play the piano. It was unnerving how smart he was. No, that he wasted his intelligence. He liked to kill more than anything despite being just as good at other things. He didn't need to be an assassin; he had chosen it. And I think that made him scarier than anything. It meant killing wasn't his hand being forced; it was savoured, a sport. It was more intrinsic to him than I could have ever suspected when we first met. I'd got in deep and there was no escape. I just prayed my child would help maintain my safety until I could take us somewhere far away. I knew there was no life with Curtis.

Before I knew it I had hit nine months and had gone into labour. Curtis luckily hadn't gone off on another job and stayed like he promised, helping me through the birth. It was irritating how natural he turned his hand to things. He was unflappable during the birth, while I was a panicked mess in the beginning. But he calmed me down and talked me through it, getting me to push where appropriate. His voice was like honey.

The labour was a haze of various painkillers Curtis had got a hold of, his voice and pushing. And suddenly it cleared when I heard the first cries of my baby. Curtis smoothly cut the umbilical cord and removed the baby, checking it over and cleaning it off.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" I hoarsely asked and Curtis turned around, baby tucked close to his chest.

"It's a girl."

And he pulled out one of his pistols.

That cold metal against my head again. I should have known this day would come. He stood, gun against my forehead in one hand and my baby I'd never get to hold or name in the other. I was too exhausted to scream or cry or even be afraid.

"You know too much," was all he said.

And that was the last thing I recall.