The Fifteenth Day of Dark: 8:30 AM: LOG 0014

The first artificial snowfall of the season is scheduled for today, and damn does it come. It's white, fluffy, and colder than the last bastard you offed, but it does nothing for the already bleached industrial landscapes of Skaia. You don't feel that same rush of excitement looking at grey concrete buildings and black asphalt streets coated in snow as you do from the paintings of rolling hills and massive trees capped by Earth's natural white precipitation. And you sure as hell weren't going to feel that way this early in the morning, anyhow. But, Dave is your legal employer, and you have to do everything you can to get onto his good side, and that includes listening to him as he chatters the auditory centers of your think pan into oblivion.

For the past thirty minutes, he's been anti-beguiling you with tales of his life. When he was five, he pickled a frog. When he was twelve, he figured out how to make a clock with a battery and those ugly brown starch beans (you believe they're actually called potatoes). You couldn't give less of a damn. At least, that's what you continuously reassure yourself. In truth, it's interesting to hear about his past antics. His injuries and occupation seemed to have done nothing to his eccentricity.

Not that you know that much about Human behavior. You rarely interact with them beyond the necessities. Your usual course of action is to find your target, eliminate your target, collect your dues, and depart for a new planet or celestial body.

"So... Um..." For the first time in a half an hour, Dave stops talking. without his stupid shades on, you can see his eyes. They're a brilliant, vivid red. The same color as your mutant blood or the sunset on a distant moonbase planet. (You can't recall which planet this was, but you remember staring at the sky for some time.) As usual, the fingers of his right hand scratch against the table. His left hand is busy rubbing the back of his neck. "I..." Another pause. His gaze moves away from you, focusing, instead, on a fly buzzing around the flickering light between the two of you. "It's... Ah." He chews on his lower lip. "It's kinda cold. Sorry about that. Let me... Um... I'll get a fire going. Just let me..." He backs away.

A low electronic hum fills the room as his chair lurches around like a drunk galactic cargo hauler at a bar. The motor sputters. The sounds echo in your mind, which you're doing your best to keep devoid of any sort of meaningful thought.

After a few moments, he returns with a metal pot—the sort Humans brew stews and soups in—and a box of old paper scraps. After dumping the scraps into the pot, he begins to fumble with a box of matches. With the box held loosely in his shaking right hand, he makes a few absolutely awful attempts at getting a flame going. "Sorry," he mutters, "My right hand's pretty useless," he clarifies. (As if you hadn't noticed.) "Fingers don't really work at all, so... Um..." The fifth strike gets the flame going, and he hastily drops the lit match into the accumulated pile of paper. (The speed he dropped it with tells you that he hates fire. Perhaps he fears it.) "I'm not that great at talking with people I... Um..." For the leader of a revolutionary movement and a guy who talks when he's anxious, he's shit at actually socializing. On the other hand, he does well with John around. Maybe he's just not keen on strangers; he barely spoke to you on the ride back from the station. "You been anywhere outside of Skaia? I mean... I know you have. You've got the Alternian accent. So..."

"Plenty of places," you answer honestly.

"What're they like? The other planets?" By now, Dave is busy warming his left hand over the flames. You notice, however, that he keeps his distance. He also seems to neglect warming his right. From what little you know, you're guessing he can't feel it.

"Some are fucking trash," you grumble. "Others are kind of nice."

"Mhm." Dave nods. "Before I got caught up in the revolution, I wanted to travel. Fuck around and maybe settle on a different planet or colony. That'd be a pain in the ass to do now, though."

"Probably," you admit.

He laughs, and it's a sound that, for some reason, makes you feel... odd. Calm? Happy? You're not sure what the feeling in your gut is, but it's soft and warm and you don't like it. You want to puke it up like bad food, but you can't. "You're supposed to tell me it's super easy to travel when all you can move is one arm. Nice change, though. I'll admit that you're original."

You nod slowly. "They have surgeries and suits for that sort of shit, you know."

"Oh, yeah," Dave agrees. "But it's fucking outrageously expensive. I'd spontaneously regenerate my spinal cord and grow a third head before I could afford that."

Again, you merely nod. Thinking about it, Dave's got nice hair. It's an odd color—a sort of orange golden-blond that you've never seen before.

"Rose says she thinks you're a creep," he comments, seemingly fishing at random for things to say. "She definitely doesn't trust you, but... I know I said I didn't on the first day, but I guess I have to. I was never this trusting before I got shot, but it's kind of hard to ask people to help you if you don't trust 'em, right?" He offers a small smile, and, for the first time, you notice that he has a singular dimple to the left. (You believe that's what the Humans call them.)

You mentally kick yourself.

You've killed attractive people before. Why is this bastard so different? He's just a Human, after all. "So, you trust me?"

"I have to." With what seems to be a relatively large amount of effort, he lifts his right arm, raising his hand off the table, and lets it drop at his side. "I can theoretically do everything by myself, but it's a waste of energy. I figured that out pretty fast." Again, he flashes a hint of that stupid smile. (And, in all honesty, you only call it "stupid" because it makes that unidentified feeling flutter in your gut again.) "Getting shot and almost dying in some seedy hospital kinda changes your perspective. For the most part."

You nod, unsure of what else to say. Until now, the most emotional conversation you've ever had with a target was when you tried to convince a drunk, corrupt executive to give you his drink. And that was only so you could poison it.

Shit. You deserve a raise on this hit.

"So, people have to do shit for you. Sounds like a fucking nightmare," you say offhandedly.

"Don't have to. Most people I'd meet on the street probably wouldn't, seeing as Skaia hates anyone who can't so-called fix themselves. And it sucks sometimes, but it's probably more productive to live with it than spend all my time being the dog shit everyone walks in and trails into the funeral home." He frowns and rubs the back of his neck again. "I'm probably boring you to fucking death, right?"

"No, you're fine." As much as you hate to admit it, you're not lying at all. He's interesting. His voice is nice. It's neither that low, guttural growl that some Humans have, and it's not the mind-melting screech at the other end of the Human vocal spectrum. It's soft, mid-range, and somewhat breathy. "Do you have any Vtricol here?"

Dave backs away, parks in front of the fridge, and pulls your desired beverage out. As usual, it's a hideous lime green can, but it contains a cola specifically formulated for the troll pallet, so you can't complain that much. He tosses it to you with a surprising amount of force, prompting you to note that any attempt to physically kill him will need to come from the right.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He smirks. "I've got an article to work on for the Prospitian Pamphlet, so I'm going to go. It's been pretty cool getting to know you, though."

"Same," you grudgingly admit aloud.

The Fifteenth Day of Dark: 10:00 AM: LOG 0015

You were always considered a traitor of your planet. It was more honorable to face your fate and be culled as a mutant than to run and escape persecution by fleeing the galaxy, as you have. But you've put enough distance and time between yourself and the planet to stay safe. At least, you did.

Now, you've been caught. You've been thrown to the stone floor of the execution block, and you see the glistening black blade as the threshecutioner brings it down to meet your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut and—

"Hey." A surprisingly nice voice greets you.

You find yourself draped over the sofa. You can only assume you somehow ended up asleep. When you open your eyes, you find Dave parked beside you, his left hand outstretched to offer you... something.

"It's a King's Fruit. They're native to Skaia. Pretty expensive, but they're good for winding down after a bad dream."

You frown. After a few moments of hesitation, you take the offering and bite into it. Its lumpy brown skin and soft inner pulp has a rich, bitter taste. It's pleasant and admittedly relaxing, as the smirking blond had claimed. "Thanks?"

He waves aside your question of appreciation. "You were yelling about shit. Making a big fucking racket, so I came in and figured you were having a bad dream."

You remain silent. It's never a good idea to tell anyone of your weaknesses. Besides that, you're now considering the fact that you'll have to kill this Human at some point. Even after he helped you, you're going to have to make sure he's dead. For perhaps the first time since you began murdering for a living, you feel bad about what's to come.

"Anyhow, I'm going back to my room." With a hasty wave, Dave turns and departs.

And, in the pit of your stomach, you get that stupid warm, fluffy feeling again.