Last night at 1am I wrote this when I couldn't sleep. Afterwards I realized I could replace the entire thing with a couple paragraphs and still communicate the character traits I wanted the unnamed protagonist to have. Ah well.
the tragedy of flesh.
I kill people for a living. Not for money, not for emotional satisfaction, but because it's my job. I want to make that clear right away, that it's really the only thing I've ever been good at, and I'm fulfilling a need. I work for the Bureau, mostly, though I'm technically an independent contractor for personal protection (bodyguard) duty. I was trained by the B, my handler works for the B, and all my orders come through him, from the B. I work for them, though they'll never admit it in public.
Today's operation is typical: recapturing a parole offender. I get the job because he's violent and I'm expendable. I don't have a wife, kids, a house in the suburbs.. if I die on the job, my handler will send in a team to pick up the pieces, and there'll be nobody to notify, no political mess.
On a capture, I'll observe the target for a period, then move in and quietly secure him. Technically it's not a wet op, but if I'm prepared for the worst, I'll never be surprised. That's why I'm good at my job. Always ready.
My handler checks in, right on time. "What's the word, mocking bird?" entirely too enthusiastic for a desk pilot, and always desperately perky. I don't, of course, know his name-- I've never even met him, though I do recognize his voice. You work with someone for a few years, you develop a rapport of sorts. If I ever need to refer to him outside our own conversation, I would call him "my handler". I have never needed to
"Nothing new, nothing to report." I send.
"Can I get you something? Send down some food?" he crows, which is his idea of a joke.
"No, thank you." I echo back. I'm very polite, even in the face of cloying banter. So ends the conversation.
I'm on street level, watching the outside of the target's apartment. I've been following him across the city all day, watching him try to dig up long lost friends and contacts. He should be very tired, and his apartment is too stark to provide any distractions which might keep him awake into the night. And, he is alone. When he's been asleep for a few hours, I'll make my move.
As dusk falls, I switch on night vision and move to the top of a nearby building. I don't need to peer in his windows to know he's not running: I already have trip sensors installed on his front door and the windows in anticipation of an extremely unlikely midnight breakout. I also have sensors in his bed, bathroom, kitchen, toilet flush handle, sewage, water, and gas meters. I'm still watching outside in case one of a thousand unpredictable but very managable scenarios forms in the street. I'm on the roof for a vantage point, though the smog and light pollution keep me from seeing more than a few blocks.
His bedroom light goes out. The bedframe sensors go green, and the weight looks normal. A kilo or so heavier than he was last night, which is probably the cheap food he's been eating all day.
Bedframe goes red. He's gotten up.
Bathroom blinks green. He's having a piss.
Give it a few seconds.
Toilet handle goes green.
Water meter reports 1.65 liters. Same volume as my test flush.
Sewage meter reports 2.11 liters. Within expected parameters.
Bathroom is red. Bedframe is green. He's back in bed.
Two hours later, nothing has changed. Some of his neighbors came home, sedately. He rolled over a few times, and has settled down. It's time to make a move. I check in with my handler, get a final green light.
In the alley behind the apartment, I lock the fire escape, and place and arm an explosive mine. I will probably use neither. I enter the building through the front door, lock the alley exit, and head upstairs to his apartment. Unlocking his door is quick and quiet, civilian locks are no match for the crazy spy gadgets I carry. He's set the chain, which I snip.
I check a broad spectrum of radio transmissions, from the kitchen and then before the bedroom door. Nothing unusual, aside from him turning off his phone. I open the bedroom door: it isn't locked. I gas the target, and inject a low dose of some exotic compound to keep him docile. He's not in a coma, but he'll sleep soundly for the next few hours, and he's already an easy sleeper.
I check in with my handler. Transport is on the way, I'm to expect an ambulance within five minutes. I pick up the target in my arms, like a baby, and carry him outside. The ambulance is there ahead of me. One of the paramedics -- if he's a real paramedic -- opens the doors and shuttles out the stretcher. We strap down the target -- which is no longer my target or responsibility. If, somehow, he were to suddenly awake, I would not chase him without direct orders. My job is done.
I'm given twelve hours to recover sensors and equipment. I unlock the fire exits, recover my mine. I haul them upstairs to the former target's apartment and spend the night. I can't recover many of my sensors without waking civilians.
I [lie? lay? JESUS CHRIST] on the floor and wait for daylight.
