I had always been a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind of guy.

Of course, having a cybernetic re-breather that replaced most of my throat left me with no vocal chords. With my right arm being a synapse-controlled pump-action shotgun, it helped hammer home the ease at which I stuck to the aforementioned mantra. In my line of work, anything wasteful like ‘conversation’ just impeded the violence necessary to get the job done.

Contract killer.

Some might view me as a vigilante or anti-hero, but I didn’t care to paint myself with any labels. My existence was solely to fulfill the terms given to me by the Boss. No questions or qualms about it. Over the years, it had become apparent that to have such a contract over your head that required a visit by yours truly; you were probably a little below the gray line when it came to moral standing.

It wasn’t my place to be judge or jury… only executioner. Boss had never handed me a job with innocents on the line. If that ever changed, then I’d need to muddy my employment contract and make sure he hadn’t been compromised. Rude to drop in on him unannounced when he liked his privacy, but he didn’t pay me to have manners.

And speaking of pay, I’d earned a sizable amount of credits tonight.

Now heading home in the early morning, the vibrations of my motorized death trap were causing havoc with the knife wounds in my chest. Another hour and the stims should have them healed up. Or at least scabbed over. I’d need to spend some of the morning stitching up the holes in the layers of dull green cloth my upper body was swathed in. As thick as they were layered, sometimes a knife just knew the way to a man’s heart. Or at least into some of the surrounding muscles.

The lenses of the goggles that I always wore filtered the darkened scenery with a pale green light. They weren’t a medical necessity, but I had grown tired of the color of blood and the vibrancy of daylight. Still, it was nice to be on the road this early in the morning, as there was no other traffic about. This was important, as I wasn’t legally allowed to drive.

Only partially because one of my arms was an unregistered lethal weapon, in every literal sense.

The city not only expected me to pass ‘tests’ but also my vehicle must be ‘roadworthy’ and not a ‘danger to the public’. Requiring me to disclose my profession was another sticking point, as then my gas-guzzling contraption would be the least of their worries.

I kept out of the way of law enforcement, the League of Heroes, and whatever other do-good organizations populated the city. In return, they kept out of my iron sights. To assist this peace, my humble abode was even on the outskirts of the city limits, in a place too derelict to hoist up some proper architecture.

Much like my vehicle, my house was ramshackle, covered with grime and sharp edges. A solitary mattress on the floor, because sometimes cliches had an unhealthy glob of truth to them. Speaking of unhealthy globs, I needed to replenish my hydration cannister after my clothing was repaired.

The new nutritional paste that was meant to dissolve in it hadn’t been too successful at just that. Boss had a team of bio-engineers or perhaps just sticky fingers and the know-how of where to look for this sort of thing. Sure, I couldn’t eat, drink, or speak - but Boss had saved me from death and got me the tech to keep on going. Working for him was just paying off the blood debt, even if he had never put it that way.

A dirty job, but one I did with ruthless efficiency. I couldn’t be bargained with, or distracted by monologues. Resistant to most airborne maladies and a high pain tolerance. Reasonably numb to violence, I tried to keep things as black and white as possible. Simple plans were the ones least likely to blow up in your face.

Locate target, turn up when they weren’t expecting me, fill them full of slugs, and leave.

Today’s job was some rich snobs running a death pool. Two of the participants figured out a third had poisoned off a couple of others involved in the scheme. Gave Boss enough coin to make me worth hiring. Head of Security was in on it and received the same punishment. Rest of the goons were hapless pawns, and I incapacitated or left them with recoverable injuries. Aforementioned snob tried to buy me off with triple what they had paid Boss.

To repeat; I could not be bargained with.

The Head of Security was a tougher bastard than he looked. Possibly ex-special forces. Tore my chest up something fierce with a concealed blade after I disabled his firearm. As I had some ammunition left over from my mission budget, I gifted it to him in return for the noble attempt. Trying to allot two shells per combatant was unnecessary, but I hated wastage.

As my vehicle trundled along, the cityscape fell away behind me. Long past the warehouses and construction yards, onto the empty plains before the Wasteland itself. I approached the lot where my excuse for a home stood proud despite its misgivings. With a whine and splutter, the engine of my vehicle gave out just as I rolled down the driveway. I’d need to sleep at some point, but with no contract on the near horizon, I’d leave car repairs to later.

I stepped out, my thick black boots digging into the loose gravel with a crunch. With the door flung shut, I stretched out, shuddering slightly as the pain of my partially healed wounds flared up. Tilting my head, I clocked the tape surrounding the empty plot beside mine. Some kind of warning not to enter. Perhaps they had found some irradiated waste or decided it would be the next area for the city’s garbage dump to spill over into.

Nothing important that I cared for, as long as they didn’t bother me directly. At least, I'd bring up some concern once I was recovered.

With a grunt, I took myself to the front door of the house. Not locked, but my left hand went up to the hidden compartment to flip a switch. A click and a hum, and the traps were now inert. Something else the city would turn their nose up at, but people who wandered out this far were already up to no good. The door swung open with a groan. It vibrated and threatened to jettison itself off of the aged hinges. It wouldn’t dare.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A light flickered on, illuminating the drab internals with a pale glow. Aforementioned mattress. Two workbenches with one chair. A few crates stacked against one wall, full of parts and ammunition. I stepped over to the nearest flat surface and ejected the drum mag out of my arm. From within the various tubes and filters of my re-breather, something akin to a sigh of relief escaped.

I lived in my battle gear. All the blood, sweat, and other people’s tears became part of my armor. An aura of decay and inevitability. Looming death. Removing the drum from my gun-arm was the closest thing I had to disrobing after a long day, and was remarkably freeing. I had smaller magazines, of course. Some were for specific ammunition types. Slug, buckshot, elemental casings, and even some more exotic things that I rarely got to use.

A few steps over to the workbench and I pulled forward the case that held the sewing materials. Boss had given me a little machine that I could use one-handed to punch holes together. Even worked on flesh, although he didn’t appear to approve of that usage. It was rough, and I was a shoddy craftsman, but it did the job.

It was odd to question if Boss cared for me, faced with his protestations. I was an asset that required maintenance, and that’s about as far as he saw it. Despite years working for him, we had little rapport. Hadn’t even met face-to-face, but that was part of the work. Anonymity. He ensured I had the tools to do my job and any amenities that could make my life more bearable. My house, my vehicle, and my appearance were all my own choice. I could have better.

I just didn’t deserve anything more than this. Nothing but a killer.

In silence, I sat and cleared my mind of such thoughts. The whirring of the sewing device followed by the clunk of it stapling my clothing were the only things filling my single room abode. Five stab wounds - quite impressive given the short time we had clashed. My many layers were slightly more patchwork, but at least I wasn’t falling apart now. One of the crates had spare fabric, but I didn’t have the heart to replace it all wholesale.

I placed the small machine away, closed the case, and buckled the clasps. Slid it back to its rightful place on my workbench. Despite the decay and detritus that smothered most of my existence, the bench was near flawless. Organized and clear. If I couldn’t function, then I couldn’t work… I’d be failing Boss.

Left hand drew another case toward me and I popped the lid open. Fresh hydration cylinders, with added nutrients and healing nanites. Possibly some of that was bullshit, but it kept me alive, and I knew not to bite the hand that fed. I pulled down the scarf obscuring most of my neck to reveal the current one. Flip of a small clasp and with a hiss the current cannister popped out of its mooring.

About an inch thick and four long. A test tube, almost. Most of the liquid had been drained from it, but there was a thick sludge near the exit port where the supposed nutrients hadn’t dissolved properly and turned into sediment. I placed it gently on the bench and withdrew a fresh one from the case. Out of the soft foam that kept them safe, I held it up to the light. One of the older gens.

Not as potent, but better than slop I couldn’t absorb. Tilting my head to the side, I placed it in the metallic gap in the side of my neck. Pushed it with a little force until the seal popped and it clicked into place. Clasp down and scarf back up. I shuddered with a slight chill as the fresh hydration ran down into my system. A momentary bliss. Case closed and back in its place.

I still need to do some gun-arm maintenance, and berate my car into living a little longer. Switching cans always made me that little more lethargic, and I had been up all night tenderizing the rich, ready to be consumed. Still, the thought of sleep seemed unpalatable. A waste of waking hours.

As if my wandering thoughts had been read, my left wrist vibrated. I held it up and pulled back my sleeve to reveal the implanted device. A button in the shape of a star glowed bright white. Boss had sent me a message. I pressed it and watched the text fill up the deep blue screen.

Agent W, it said. Congratulations on your last mission. Funds will be distributed shortly, kindly provide debriefing report when able. Stand by for new mission brief. Boss.

My real name had been long forgotten, alongside whatever life I had lived before Boss had put me back together again. I assumed every contracted body under the Boss had a single letter assigned to them, but I had never met or heard of any others. Maybe I was the only one, as unlikely as that felt.

I’d hit up the debriefing after my eventual sleep. It was done through this STAR device in my wrist, which was awkward given that I couldn’t reach it with my one actual hand. Despite their best attempts to make my life easier, these little things could be forgotten. Thankfully, they kept it brief. How many corpses. Did I fuck anything up. What do I need in my next delivery package.

I was more interested in the new contract. Usually he’d allow me a short downtime. A day or two to manage my personal demons or patch myself back together. This must be time sensitive. Through my re-breather, I exhaled and waited for his message to vanish so that I could jab the STAR with the barrel end of my arm again to load up the mission.

My eyes narrowed behind my goggles. This was taking longer than usual. Maybe there wouldn’t be time for sleep and maintenance if it was important.

While I waited, a noise caught my unaugmented ears. A low drone that I dismissed at first, but then began to rise in volume. Odd to hear anything of note out this way. My brow furrowed against my goggles. Closer now, and louder still.

Helicopters. More than one, by the thrumming vibration that now reverberated around my house. Police after someone? Media event? The military finally here to take me out?

I stepped up from my creaking chair and palmed up my drum mag from the top of the crate. Into the magwell, and the first round pumped in using my mind to work the mechanism. I hadn’t even had time to reload it back to full.

Exhaling through the filters, I paused briefly at the door. Definitely close - either above or beside my house now. They weren’t circling, so maybe dropping out little soldiers on ropes. I never imagined this was how I’d be going out. My house was barely airtight, let alone fortified enough for a siege.

Muscles tense, I swung the door open and took a few steps out into the dusty ground currently being buffeted by the set of four propellers. Not military, police, or media. The large vehicles hovered over the vacant space that was cordoned off, slowly lowering their payload.

A house. White wood freshly painted, potted plants already affixed beneath an awning. Two floors with a red tile roof up the top. Picture perfect, in a way, and wholly unappealing to my eyes. The biggest question on my mind was - why?

As the building gently made landfall and the large straps became slack before unclipping themselves, I lowered my weapon. Probably not something I needed to shoot just yet, as tempting as it was. Another noise then pierced the air, rising above that of the drone of the flying vehicles, and I looked up to see a dark shape cratering like a bomb from the morning sky.

Before I had the chance to act, it slammed down into the freshly deployed lawn of the new house, sending a shockwave of power through the area and shaking my comparatively more modest living space. As the cloud of dust blew away from the retreating helicopters, the shape of the projectile unfurled, and I realized that it was actually a person.

Standing at least six feet tall, with short red hair and a bright blazing smile, was perhaps the most muscled woman I had ever seen. Dressed in an armless bodysuit of reflective silver and deep red, she put her hands on her hips, gazing at the unexpected delivery - seemingly satisfied with proceedings.

Turning her head, she caught sight of me and raised up a thick arm to wave her hand.

“Howdy, neighbor!”