My Last Cigarette
By GenIsis
"""""
Note to the Readers:
Initially, I composed this story to be an original, independant story, but it evolved into a fanfic for Joss Whedon's TV series Firefly. I wrote it for a contest on and based off of the picture posted on my photobucket account. (If you want to view the picture, please visit photobucket and search the username Raven-wolf127. The picture is NaomiandTetosmall, and should be the most recent upload.) I do NOT own Firefly, I do NOT own any of the characters from Firefly, and I do NOT own or create the picture I have linked. However, the characters NOT from Firefly and the general plot lines ARE my ideas and inspirations. DO NOT STEAL THEM! Or I will become enraged and be forced to call down a curse upon the perpatrator. Thanks!
"""""
I leaned my head against the cold plaster, inhaling the smell of my last cigarette. Had they disappeared so quickly? (Maybe I should quit.) The setting sun burned red behind my closed eyelids. Soon, the boxes beside me would be casting eerie shadows against the wall, and it will once again be safe for me to venture into the city. Teto will wake and accompany me, my ever faithful companion—he's saved my skin more times that I care to count.
Would you believe me if I said that I am the most famous man in the known star systems? No, I don't suppose you would. My real name is Naomi. There is no last name (and why they gave me a girl's name, I haven't the foggiest); even I don't know it, because they took it from me. I don't even know who they are, either (it seems I don't know much, doesn't it). I suppose I should give you a brief history…
They raised me, though I don't think it would be what you would think of when I say that, on any account, except that they fed me and kept me alive. I have never known the touch of my mother or father, but only uncaring arms of paid nurses and maids, whose only allegiance was to the hefty paychecks they got at the end of the week. Contrary to the lie that we had been abandoned by our parents that was fed to us from little on, I believe that they bred selected women and men to produce prime Killers, those with open, moldable minds and with high immunity levels. My room consisted only of a bed, a desk, and a shelf of books on the fastest and most efficient way of killing someone; the different types of weapons you could use to kill; drills on what to do should you be dumb enough to get captured and inevitably interrogated; and so many others that I had to read so many times that I can recite them back to front.
From the age of about five (How would I know? They never kept track of birthdays, and just grouped them on the first day of the year), I started my training as a Killer. I was trained so much and so hard, that if you presented me with any weapon, I could figure out how to dismantle it, reassemble it, and start using it adeptly within ten minutes—probably five, but not to boast or anything.
That pretty much is it on the history. When my group of four girls and six guys all turned twenty, we were each given a mission, someone to kill off for the convenience of the client. Five years later and here I am—the most famous of assassins, un-fondly nicknamed Caladrius. In ancient myths of Earth, it was a bird that would predict whether a sick man would live or die. The name came completely by accident—a white feather was found on the body of the first man I killed, who happened to be ailing (though not near death by a long shot), and the public found that so fascinating. Since Caladrius was supposedly white, I guess the public drew its own stupid conclusions, incited by an old, crotchety mythology major. So, just to keep my name up, whenever I assassinate someone, I leave a white feather on their body (if it doesn't look like an accident, of course). Enough with my history; let's get back to the present, shall we?
Teto raised his head and set it on my leg. The sun had disappeared behind the ruined skyscrapers and smog of the old city; however, the people live on, ignoring the fallen giants of the past and moving about their business. Very few people live on Earth now, and soon those that stayed will be gone, leaving nature alone; they all moved to other star systems and started The Alliance of Planets. Earth is a forsaken outer planet, devoid of any resources, considered destroyed in all government records. The abandonment has done much good, however, in that the ozone layer is slowly repairing itself, and nature is taking over the larger cities now; but no one will ever come back, once they've left. "Too many memories," they say. "Is it still stable," they question; and they're just too afraid to answer.
I slowly rise from my position that I've kept for too long. From the midst of the perpetually falling tower of boxes, I retrieved my kit, for just in case a plan went awry—a simple pocketknife, kept very sharp; an old handgun and several magazines of bullets; a razor sharp, two foot long hara-kiri sword; several bottles of deadly pills; and about a dozen vials of undetectable poisons that will kill upon contact. A larger pocketknife was heavy in my jeans pocket. So many ways of death contained in a simple backpack…makes you think, doesn't it?
A small red envelope fell out of the pocket of my jacket. I picked it up and opened it for about the fifth time. It was so ironic that a tiny envelope could represent so much value. It contained my payment of a handsome three million Alliance Credits, worth something everywhere. Spending it is never much of a problem, since no one's seen my face and connected me with a murder, seeing how I'm too "young and innocent" to commit such a heinous act. I stuffed the envelope into a back pocket of the backpack and dodged the boxes on my way to the door, Teto just jumping over every one of them without tipping a single stack. We jumped over the hole in the landing together and went down the concrete stairs, taking our time. As I walked, I went over my target's information in my head.
The murder was to take place in the tavern several blocks away, which would make the murder look like a fatal bar brawl (I'm only so good at these jobs because I can make the assassination look like an accident when possible, which fetches a pretty penny in the darker rings of my world). The man was a regular, usually arriving an hour after sunset every day without fail. He was obviously a rich man—he ordered expensive, refined drinks that most of the bums that frequented the rundown tavern couldn't pronounce; he left large tips for the busty waitresses that were eager to serve his every whim, including the common sexual ones; he was dressed too nicely to be just anybody; and he also carries one of the most recent blasters issued by the Alliance for public use under his tailored jacket. However, he had one fatal habit—when a waitress didn't manage to catch his drunken eye, he would drink himself until he would collapse in a drunken stupor. It was an easy job, though the conspicuousness of the man was the main reason the price was so high; as a general rule of thumb, I don't ask too many questions of my client.
I got to the tavern and stepped over the drunk that hadn't been pulled away from the entrance, Teto leaping over him as easily as he had the stack of boxes, but always sticking close to me, alert and ready. I settled myself in the middle of the bar, two seats away from my target's usual spot. The barman asked what I wanted and I asked for a pint of beer. Five…four…three…two…and one, and the door opened to admit my target. Did he know that he was going to die tonight? How would his death influence the rest of the society?