3: All Money Is Good

You know, I took a theater or acting class in high school one time. One of the things I remember from it is, every action comes from a want. A desire. And an action is taken to achieve a goal, and the goal and the want are usually one and the same. Say, in a scene, one guy has a gun and wants to shoot another guy. Okay, you've got a want. The action would be the gunman raising his gun and shooting the other guy dead, that's the action. The result, or goal, is the other guy dying. Causality, one plus two equals three. Simple. That's something that happens over and over and over again in history. Aegis the Great, Ultai Khan, Dieter von Berghof, they all had wants or desires or goals and subsequently took actions to achieve those goals or wants. Me, I don't think I'm too different.

What I want, especially back then, is money. What I'm willing to do for it? Well, almost anything. Never selling my body, though. No. Not that I mind the profession, I don't. That's just not me. What I have done to get paid is kill people, rob people, kidnap people, ransom people. I guess you could say I don't hold sentient life in high value. After all, it's pretty hard to do things like that if you have too much of a conscience. It's been a mixed blessing, really.

The first big job I took of "dubious morals" was the Reed job. It was a few days since Julius Ra-Ki, and by now I was quite a ways away from there, oh, at least 200 kilometers from Hestonville. It was early afternoon, and I felt thirsty, so I stopped at this little bar off of a not-so-busy highway. It was called... Finnegan's. I think. I don't quite remember that detail. I do remember that I walked in to an almost empty bar. Just a barkeep, a handful of people sitting at tables, a few at the bar, and not much else. There was a kitchen behind the bar, but the cook there didn't seem too busy.

I walked to the bar, sitting down on a stool. The inside of the place was your generic, everyday roadside dive bar: mostly wood or corrugated steel, cheap everything, a certain scent of tobacco and booze in the air, the smell of burgers or chicken wings, and the feeling that the crowd inside was rougher than most people were used to. I found an empty stool at the end of the bar, closest to the front door, and sat down. I asked for a bottle of beer, paying with some cash, and was given one. I nodded in thanks and took a sip.

Not long after I sat down, two figures came from the far end of the room, a couple: a man and a woman, both of them foxes. I noticed them after glancing around the room, but kept my cool and pretended to not pay much attention. They were both dressed a bit strangely, like off-worlders… Cornerians or something. They had jackets, sunglasses, boots, and tactical gear, aside from casual dress usual for Cornerians. The man had a noticeable pale-gray coat with dark gray highlights, while the woman had a sleek dark one with a splash of white at the tip of her bushy tail.

"Are you Wolf O'Donnell?" asked the man, who leaned against the bar. The woman stood beside him.

"Maybe," I said tersely. "Who's asking?"

"The name's Atrellius Vond," said the man. "This is my associate, Rhell Kidarion." He gestured to the woman, who nodded. "We've heard that you're the type of man that can solve a problem."

"I can," I said. "If the problem's big enough, and for the right price."

"Come on, let's talk more at the booth we have," said Kidarion. Bringing my beer, I went with the duo to their dingy booth, tucked away at a corner of the bar, the shuttered window beside it leaking in a few rays of light into our little hole.

"I've got a few questions for you, Mr. O'Donnell," Vond said. He and Kidarion sat down opposite me.

"Shoot."

"Do you have any compunctions about killing a man?"

"No, not at all."

"What about women?" asked Kidarion.

"I've no qualms about that either," I replied.

"Children?" asked Vond. He leaned forward with that question, and asked it in a hush tone.

"I don't mind," I answered. Children. Hmph. I never did like it whenever kids were thrown into the mix. They didn't ask for any of this, they don't know what's happening most of the time, and they don't even know how to defend themselves, or fend for themselves once the going gets tough. And after? After… well, it wasn't good business if their parents, and especially themselves, were caught in the crossfire. But, if I had to snuff out a life for a fee, I snuffed it out. If it's a kid's life, though… I dunno. Before that day I've never even been asked to kill a kid. "Why are you asking about that?"

"Well, you see," started Kidarion, "there's this family that lives a ways down the road. Just head south, make a right to the dirt road called Dead Wood Road, and keep going until you reach a house by a river. The deed to their home, their land, is in their name, and their kid's name. If they were to suddenly and tragically die… the land would then default to the local government. Now, we've got people ready and waiting to purchase the deed to that land."

"Wouldn't you guys buying the land right after those folks die be suspicious?" I questioned.

"We've pulled strings," said Vond. "Nobody will pay much attention, so long as the folks there are gone. Now, the child you don't have to deal with. We can handle him for you, should you so desire."

"I'll cross that bridge when we get there," I said.

"Indeed," said Vond.

"Who's the family?" I asked.

"The Reeds," replied Vond. "Farmers. They have a small fruit orchard, a man, a woman, and a little son."

"Sounds simple enough," I said.

"You'll take the job then?" asked Kidarion. "We pay not just for your services, but your silence. Trust us: our money is good."

"All money is good," I replied quickly. "This job… thirty grand."

"In credits? Done," Vond said without hesitation. That took me aback. They can dish out 30,000 credits – Cornerian credits – like that? They must've been pretty connected, slick fucks. That sent a shiver down my spine. I kept my cool, though, and only sipped some more of my beer. "We'll be monitoring you once you leave the bar. Don't disappoint us, Mr. O'Donnell." He offered his hand, and I shook it.

"It's a deal," I said. The two of them nodded.

"Here," said Kidarion, handing me a datapad. "On this pad are the directions to the Reed residence, and their orchard." I stuffed the pad in one of my jacket pockets, finished my beer, got up, and walked away. I heard them speaking to themselves before I went outside of hearing range.

"Your hunch better be right," said Vond.

"It is," said Kidarion. "If not, we've got one more dead merc."

"This is very unorthodox," said Vond.

"These are unorthodox times," said Kidarion. "After all, if he does manage to get this done… we've got a new recruit."

"I'm not sure," said Vond. "Have you read his file? He's a natural-born loner." After that I couldn't hear them anymore.

'A new recruit.' I'm not gonna lie, when I first heard that, I thought they were some two-bit merc group from Corneria with fancy tech and guns that had a grudge against this family or something, and this was some sort of small test for me. A test to see if I'd fit in with them, and maybe they'd offer me a deal. I didn't know anything back then, and I honestly didn't really care. Me taking out two defenseless people for thirty grand? Easy as pie. And if they were going to give me a job offer… I dunno. I'd have probably not taken it. I just dunno. Maybe I would've though. But we'll never know. Not ever.

So, I left the bar and hopped back onto my bike. The desert sun licked me clean of any sweat drops I may have had, and I put my sunglasses back on. I breathed in the dry air, a bit sandy for my taste, but you'll get used to it if you spend enough time in the desert. Of course it was hot, but once again, staying in the desert long enough will make you get used to it, even if you'll never quite enjoy it. Starting up my bike, I rode south down the blacktop. Passing by nothing much aside from desert, a road sign here or there, and the occasional exit to some no-name town, I found Dead Wood Road and made a right.

Between my legs my bike, like a pleasured woman, hummed and rumbled beneath me. Most people tend to name things they get really attached to. Well, I named my ride 'Tasha' after some character in a television show about space exploration that I used to watch as a kid. You know, I kinda missed TV. Computers. Video games. Endless summers where I'd get cheeseburgers and milkshakes from the burger joint in my town. Riding my bike. Crashing my bike. Crashing myself. Drinking until I passed out on my folks' couch. God, those were the days. But now I had a blaster on my hip, a bike between my legs, and I killed a man every few days for money. Sure, life back before Papetoon was good, but life on Papetoon had its charms, and I thought that was good too. Hell, I still think it was good.

I came upon the Reed residence after several minutes of riding down Dead Wood Road. It was the first set of structures I came on the road, really. There was a two-story house, a garage for their cars, and a moderately-sized warehouse or shed, most likely for their orchards' produce. The trees themselves, orange trees, were near the river, the ones closest to the home being not more than ten meters from the house. A new red tractor, along with a gray pickup, sat silently near the house, ready for use. The house itself seemed to have been standing there for some time, although it looked largely pre-fabricated.

As I approached the home, this portly owl stepped out, wearing a dirty t-shirt, rugged work pants, worn work boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. Across his shoulder was a sling, and in that sling, a shotgun hung. The owl himself seemed like he hadn't showered in a day or two, and appeared to have only recently woke up from a drunken stupor. "Who're you, mister?" he asked in a gruff, almost generic old guy voice.

"I'm Wolf O'Donnell," I said. "I'm looking for the Reeds. I was told they'd be here."

"They's here," said the owl. "But we don't know no Wolf O'Donnell. Why you here, mister?"

I'd decided this old man was gonna go, so I whipped out my blaster from my holster, quicker than he'd ever react. I shot him in the head, and he fell onto the wooden porch like a tree succumbing to a logger's chainsaw, and thudded like one. I don't know why, really, but I started chuckling. I think it was because of how quickly his life ended. How I just chose for him how he was gonna die. And how quickly he did die. I don't think he even knew what the hell was going on, since he made no move whatsoever to his shotgun. He just collapsed like a sack of potatoes, shot once in the face, a clean shot really. There was a slight grunt as he went down, and I found that particularly humorous. And maybe the head jerk backwards. That was pretty funny too.

"Keith?" I heard a voice yell in the distance, a female one. "Keith, are you all right?!"

"Mrs. Reed," I said to myself in a low voice. Apparently the owl was Keith. I walked up onto the porch and grabbed Keith by the arms, dragging him inside the house. I opened the door and pulled him inside, moving him onto the living room floor, a distinct smear of blood following the body. The interior of the home was decorated sparsely. It appeared that the Reeds didn't have many personal belongings. The furniture seemed generic, and there were almost no pictures, save for one. It was a photograph of the Reeds – a man, a woman, and their infant child – standing in front of a newly erected house, sorta like that picture of the Morozovs in Granite Valley. A family of red pandas was pictured. Keith wasn't present in the photograph: he most likely came along some time later, either as hired help or an old friend.

"Uncle Keith?" a youthful voice asked. "Uncle Keith, what was that?" I heard footsteps coming from beyond the stairs that led almost to the front door, which I was standing before. There was a corner leading to probably a hallway, and from it appeared a young boy, not even ten by my guess. This must've been the child in the picture, which means the picture must've been taken a while ago.

I must've been on autopilot or something when I killed Keith, because I don't know why I did what I did. I remember every single thing that happened though. It's not like my memories just vanished or my mind went blank or anything. I knew what was happening, but like I said, the why part is a mystery to me. I raised my blaster up and shot the boy in the chest. He fell to the floor, barely making a sound aside from his body slamming onto the wooden floorboards of the top of the staircase he was standing on. I didn't believe it myself: I'd snuffed out both a young life and an old, the beginning and the end. I didn't have much time to philosophize though, since I heard running from outside. I ran up the stairs and took cover behind the corner, tossing the little Reed boy's corpse to my side to conceal him. Suddenly remembering my personal shields were off, my hand quickly jumped to it, activating the life-saving technology held within the small power pack latched to my belt holster.

The Reed couple had blaster pistols, but they carried themselves quite differently to most of the hicks and yokels I'm used to shooting down. They were in weaver stances, checking the windows, checking the door, blasters pointed at the doorway. They communicated in hand signals, and Mr. Reed nodded to Mrs. Reed. She moved up, his blaster checking the interior of the home. As she moved to the doorway, propping herself against it, she pointed her blaster up the staircase, and caught sight of me peeking out. She took a few shots at me, forcing me to move back.

"Armed hostile!" she yelled.

"Copy!" he said.

"Who the fuck are these guys?" I wondered to myself. I regretted leaving my heavy blaster and virtually all of my other stuff at my bike, but I couldn't turn back time. Now I was knee deep in a world of shit, and I had to keep going. I returned fire, blind-firing wildly down the stairs. I shot half of my magazine before heading further into the house's second floor. Keeping my blaster pointed towards the corner, I edged towards a door. Not knowing, or really caring, what was behind it, I went inside, the door already being slightly ajar. I took a glance inside, and saw a room adorned with infantile décor. There was a crib, and a baby crying inside it. "Ugh..." I uttered. Now, the little Reed boy I could handle. But a baby…? No, just no. I did nothing to the crying infant, and just kept my blaster trained on the corner as I peeked through the doorway.

Soft footsteps on the wooden stairs echoed to my ears, and I readied myself. I knew one would look to the left, and the other would look to the right. I just kept kicking myself that I didn't have any grenades, but like I said before, I can't change the past. The footsteps stopped, and I felt adrenaline just shoot through my veins and reach my fingers, which twitched almost uncontrollably. My breathing quickened, my vision narrowed, my sweat dripped more profusely, and I felt my heart throbbing in my chest. I just begged for them to pop out just so this could all end, and lo and behold, they did. Mrs. Reed's face appeared just above my sights, so I hastily adjusted and fired. Her head now had a new hole in it, right in her cheekbone. She collapsed like a ton of bricks, and I heard her body tumble down the stairs.

Mr. Reed, meanwhile, whipped around and fired straight at me. I scrambled away from the doorway, and emptied my magazine in his general direction, the bolts punching straight through the walls and to wherever he was, or so I thought. As I hastily reloaded, smashing the magazine into the grip and then pulling back the slide, I heard more footsteps from the hallway. I went behind a small drawer to conceal myself. From my hiding spot I bore witness to a foot kicking open the door. I blasted the wall near it with I think four shots. I didn't hear a resounding thud, so Mr. Reed was still up and about. Not wanting to stick around in a small room with an experienced, highly trained shooter, I crashed throw the closed window, shattering it open with my shoulder, which also served my cushion when I slammed onto the ground below. Crying out in annoyed pain, I cussed as I got up.

"God dammit!" I yelled. I rushed back to the front door, hoping to catch Mr. Reed on the stairs. I waited for him for a few moments, then several moments, then a whole minute. He didn't come down. I started to get worried. Little did I know he came right out that window too, and shot at me from behind. Thank God for my personal shield. The shots were absorbed a-okay, but I realized that the shields were quickly falling apart from his barrage. I retreated inside the house again, firing back, while he made a run-and-gun for cover by the pickup. I took a breather as I hid in the kitchen, checking my ammo. Half of my fresh mag was gone, but I decided against a tactical reload. The kitchen itself was towards the back of the house, connected to the living room and the base of the house's staircase by a narrow hallway. I trained my sights down that hallway and to the front door.

The reassuring hum of my shields going back to full strength brought slight relief to me, but I was still hugely on edge, waiting for Mr. Reed. I heard rustling from behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder. I didn't see anything, but I just felt him sneaking up on me. I fired liberally at the exterior walls of the kitchen until my mag was empty. I did my best to do a quick reload, but I wasn't fast enough for Mr. Reed. Without warning, he leaped through the window right in front of me, and tackled me to the ground. I felt a fist fly in my face, and another, and another. He then gripped my throat and squeezed. I desperately attempted to pry his hands off of my windpipe, but no go. He still gripped me hard, hard as all hell, all that rage, that anger, mixing in with those skills and probably years of training and experience, strangling the life out of me. Not a single breath went to my lungs, and I began to panic. I tried to gouge his eyes out, but he leaned his head back to where my fingers were just shy of them. Then I threw a punch, and another, and another, and a few more wild haymakers. He didn't let up.

I realized one simple thing a bit quickly, almost as my vision got a bit darker. My arms were totally free, but me being the idiot I was back then, I wasn't using them all too effectively. I let out my claws, and slashed him across the face. At first he barely flinched, but I slashed him again and again, until he started gushing out blood right onto my own bluing mug. He let go, stumbling back in confusion and pain. I took a deep breath and coughed wildly. I heard a kitchen knife slide out of its holder, and took sight of Mr. Reed lunging towards me with a shiny blade. I dodged, but he kept coming at me with slash after slash, getting too close for comfort to me. I pulled out my own knife, and we were initially reluctant to step forward, otherwise one of us would get slashed or stabbed. The fight went to the hallway, and I quickly backed off, with matching my steps, but not attempting to go in for the kill. Then, he did. Almost instinctively, I kicked him in the diaphragm. He recoiled back a bit, allowing my chance to finish him off. I did, thrusting my own combat knife into his eye. As I pulled it out for another stab, blood rushed out of the destroyed eye socket, and he cried out in sheer pain. I thrust again, this time in his chin area. I made two thrusts there, just to make sure. I kicked him again in the stomach, which forced him down onto his back. Mr. Reed was, finally, dead.

I panted, exhausted, and rubbed my thoroughly sore neck. I hobbled over to my pistol on the kitchen floor, and reloaded it properly. After that, I took my time to loot the place and bodies clean, thoroughly ignoring the screaming baby. I got cash, jewelry, ammo, some canned food, but nothing else really valuable. I stepped over the expanding blood pools of the Reeds and Keith. After cleaning out the place, I heard a car come up the driveway. I walked outside, ready to shoot more baddies. Once I realized it was actually those two, Vond and Kidarion, I holstered my piece. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I slowly stepped towards them as they stared at me.

"I take it the job is done?" asked Vond.

"Yep," I said. "But I'm killing no babies today." Through all that time, the baby upstairs was still crying. I didn't even hear it again until after I killed Mr. Reed. I must've blocked it out during the fight: not paying attention to things that don't matter too much tends to happen in a fight.

"A baby?" asked Kidarion.

"What, you goddamn deaf?" I snapped. Kidarion frowned.

"Our intel's out of date," said Vond.

"Yeah, really out of date," I said. "I ain't killing no babies."

"And you won't," replied Vond. "We'll take care of the child."

"Whatever floats your boat, boss," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Now, my payment."

"Not so fast. We've… got a question to ask you." I sighed deeply, a bit irked I wasn't getting my hard-earned creds after the mess I'd been through. "Tell me, do you know of the Marksmen of the Secret Department?"

My head tilted at that question. "No, not at all," I said. At first I thought to myself the who of the what ? Just from the name, my guess was that they were some sort of merc group. And they were a secret. Woah! No, in all seriousness, I've never heard of these Marksmen before that day. But do not let the name fool you. The Marksmen are deadly, efficient, hell they're actually good at fighting. Trust me, I've encountered them a few times since I first met them. They don't fuck around, and they are good at taking a life.

Vond explained. "Kidarion and I are part of the Marksmen of the Secret Department. We're a private military organization that offers our services to any client willing to pay our modest fee. We're good at what we do Mr. O'Donnell, and all of our Marksmen and Markswomen are paid well. This job wasn't just any old job, it was a test. A test for you. Obviously, you passed, otherwise you'd be dead. So, let's not dance around the issue. We're offering you a position in our organization. Do you want it?"

"What's expected of me?" I asked.

"You're expected to follow orders and take assignments as you're given them," said Kidarion. "Once you're in the Secret Department, you give up freelancing. You no longer work for yourself, you work for the Department. Luckily, we're all paid good wages, plus a commission for each successful mission under your belt. You'll receive advanced training in all fields of combat, highly advanced military technology, and cutting-edge tactics. You'll be made into a better, more effective, and more efficient soldier."

"Another thing though…" said Vond. "Once you're in, you're in for good. The Marksmen will be your life. You'll live and die as a part of the Department, and your old life will be forgotten. It's a big ask for every Marksman and Markswoman, but a vast majority of us readily accept it and dedicate our whole lives towards the Department and our missions. Unfortunately, there are a few of us who don't, or can't, handle that level of commitment. That's when we have to clean house, like what you did with the Reeds."

"They were Marksmen?" I asked.

"Were," emphasized Kidarion. "Then they stabbed us all in the back when they left the Department in the middle of a fucking mission. They got another pair killed for the stunts they pulled, and they've taken out a few more pairs sent to neutralize them."

"And now they're both dead," said Vond. "Them and their child. As for the infant, we'll take care of that one ourselves. The Department has a gray area concerning raising children to become Marksmen, but I'm sure they'll be a fine addition to our ranks someday. But… will you?"

"No," I replied quickly. I'd already made my mind up while Vond was explaining. I wasn't into joining a big organization like that, certainly not when I was that young. I didn't like it, I didn't find it comfortable relying on that many people for something to go right. I also felt that they'd tie my hands too much for my tastes. No freelancing? Come on. "No thanks you two, but I work alone."

"Very well," said Vond. "But the offer still stands. If you want to join us later in your life, we will welcome you with open arms. Just look for us… and tell whoever you find that Atrellius Vond vouches for you."

"Atrellius Vond," I repeated, my mind on his 'name.' "That's just an alias, isn't it?" I asked.

"Yes, yes it is," replied Vond. "The name I really go by is known only to members of the Department. But that's neither here nor there. Anyway… your payment, O'Donnell." He reached into his pocket and took out a credit chip containing my payment. All I had to do was find an ATM or bank to redeem it and all those juicy creds would be deposited into my account, and from there I could do whatever I wanted with the money. I grabbed it and stuffed it into my pocket. "Thank you Mr. O'Donnell. I'll drop your name around this world before leaving as another token of the Department's appreciation."

I nodded at the duo, hopped onto my bike, and rode away from the Marksmen and the mess. I kept riding south along the same road I was first riding on, and didn't stop riding until the sun started to dip beneath the dusty, mirage-laden horizon. Not wanting to rough it our under the stars again (I've done that intermittently over my travels on Papetoon, and I don't really like it) I looked for a motel on the route I was heading down.

Finally, I stumbled upon one such beautiful business, the Pit Stop Motel. There was also a gas station to its left, and a diner to its right, and trailer homes in the back. That collection of structures were the only buildings for kilos around, and the next town wasn't for thirty clicks. I checked in under my name for a night, and I grabbed some food to eat at the diner. I went inside to the greasy spoon, with the menu plastered right above the service window, and sat at an old stool with a red cushion and a worn yet sleek stand.. I decided for country-fried steak with gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Contrasting with most nights, I ate pretty decently. For a while there wasn't a soul there except for me and the few people that ran the place, so I ate in peace.

"Hey, you seem familiar," the guy who took my order, a short goat, said.

"Am I?" I asked. "Where you seen me from, friend?"

"Holovids," the goat said. "Wolf O'Donnell." I looked up from staring at my plate, and raised an eyebrow. "You're the guy that killed that fella terrorizing Hestonville."

"Maybe," I said. "Got a problem with that?"

"No," the goat said, stammering. "We're just plain honest folk here. I'd like you to know that, sir." I glared at the goat, putting up an air of menace to scare him into shutting up. He rushed off to the back of house. I went back to eating, shaking my head. Apparently my name was starting to go around. Whether it put the fear of God in people was still largely up in the air, but from how this goat reacted, I'd say it was starting to work.

After I finished eating, I went to my room in the motel, on the second floor. I put my pack down on the floor while I went to take a shower, stripping off my clothes piece by piece. Once I was finished I brushed my teeth and just for the hell of it decided to sleep nude. Like, you know, fuck it. I'm going nude. I hadn't done it before, so I might as well have started now. It felt very liberating, but a bit awkward. I remember thinking to myself man, I'm not sure if I wanna do this. But you know, later in life I'd do it more often, alone or with someone else.

As I slipped underneath the blankets of the dubiously clean bed, and just before turning off the lights, I started thinking. Why wasn't I so hung up about slaying a kid? A ten-something year old, and he was shot dead by me, yet I wasn't beating myself up real badly over it. At all really. The whole experience was just… eh. I laid there for some time, the light still on and me half under the covers, pondering my strangely nonplussed reaction towards all the events of the day. I wiped a young life, a life that barely had a chance to live in this universe, from the face of creation… and I didn't care. At first I was bewildered, but then, at some moment in that night, I realized something very, very simple. Something so simple it would've been terrifying for most people. I can kill without a second thought, without impunity, damn near anyone, as long as I get paid for it. A killer for hire. That either made me a great hitman, or a terrifyingly disgusting lowlife. Maybe both. Was there really any difference? I actually didn't dwell on that too much, largely because I didn't go to school for philosophy. Also, I was actually quite tired, so I just turned off the lights and went to bed.