Venom's Story: Fire At Will

Venom kicked the door open, stepping inside. The emergency lights were the only dim lighting in the room, but they illuminated the panicked face of his victim.

"Please, please, don't hurt me. Don't kill me. I'll do anything-- I'll pay you whatever you want. Oh, God, what did I do to deserve this? Why?"

Before the babbling could continue further, as it always did, the high-pitched pop of bullet exploding from a silencer interrupted it. The bullet did its job: the range was close, and the aim was good, and a bullet to the heart was effective at shutting people up, even if it was a bit final. Since the "final" part was what he'd been hired to do, the shutting up was more of a side effect.

"It's nothing personal," Venom said simply, without inflection or expression, as the previously-babbling man fell over with a thud, eyes still wide with shock and now staring at nothing. He tugged the silencer off and dropped it into his pocket-- it hadn't really been necessary, but he disliked loud gunshots-- looking down at the poor bastard he'd been hired to kill. He had no idea what the fellow had done to earn him death, and he doubted he'd ever know. Unless employers were particularly verbose-- which really only included those who were young, inexperienced, emotionally involved, or all three, for only the young and inexperienced ever got emotionally involved-- he never knew why he was killing them. He just did the job, took his pay, and moved on, pretty much.

This particular kill-- a vulpine anthropomorph and petty bureaucrat in the city government of Tonaru, on Atu-- was a quick, clean one. Venom had only had to do away with a couple guards and a small pack of dogs on his way in, with a minimum of personal damage and avoiding getting particularly bloody, and he'd barely given his intended victim time to gasp out a plea for his life before he'd finished him. And there was hardly any blood.

There would be more, probably, if he turned the body over. Blood always pooled underneath a dead body, as their heart beat its last few, ragged times-- or the veins pushed blood around on their own momentum in the last few seconds of life-- or just because gravity pulled it out through the exit wound. He'd never really looked into why such things happened; experience told him that they did, and that was enough for him. His nose told him that yet again experience hadn't failed him: the scent of blood was heavy in the air, heady and distracting.

But he wasn't going to turn anything over. He was going to get out of the building and away before anyone showed up to see him, call authorities, or try to kill him. Not that they would succeed with the latter-- no one had, yet, not even himself-- but he'd be forced to kill anyone who saw him, preferably immediately, before they had time for a phone call. Which would be regrettable, and only complicate the job.

No, he didn't have time to do anything except leave.

Which was why he really shouldn't have been kneeling next to the dead politician and carefully rolling him over, from his back to his side, exposing the wet, red stain in the carpet, black in the dim light. He really didn't have time for this, but he slipped off his glove and dipped his fingers in the stain, anyway, raising them to his muzzle and inhaling deeply.

This time it didn't take being interrupted to tear himself away-- thankfully; last time it had, and it had required killing again-- but he was still disgusted with himself. He'd gotten away easily enough, turning on the light-bender built into his suit and slipping off a balcony, flying away in a relatively invisible state.

But that wasn't what disgusted him. His behavior-- his mental defect, or sick inheritance, or whatever it was-- disgusted him. He'd given in to temptation, when he shouldn't have even been tempted, and ruined a clean kill. What should have been a side-story in some planetary newspaper-- the assassination of a lesser politician who no one probably knew the name of, anyway-- might well wind up with major coverage now. There would be blaring headlines, pictures and interviews and speculations on the front pages of paper and plastic editions of the news, and headliners on the online editions. He could just see it now: "Cult Killer Strikes at Government!", or maybe "The Vampire Killer Strikes Again!", or "Politician Murdered: Psychopath On the Loose!"

After all, he'd garnered similar headlines, before, though no one knew it was actually him.

And he wasn't a psychopath. Just... a little obsessive-compulsive. When it came to blood.

"One of these days I'll get a new job," he grumbled to himself as the door to his current, planet-side apartment slid shut behind him. "One where people don't fucking bleed." He looked around automatically, testing the air for any foreign scents and twitching his ears for the sound of muted breathing, for the possibility of a hunter or assassin waiting for him. Nothing. This time.

With a sigh, he tossed his coat-- soaked through in places, caked in others-- onto the counter. He'd have to put it through the highest-strength wash to get the blood out. Again. He shed his work suit with equal distaste, piling it with his coat and gloves to get washed, as well. That would take even more care, hand-washed and air-dried, because of its various technical and magical properties. He missed his apartment on Star City, where everything was already set up and automated for anything he could want. Here, he'd have to program the washing machine specifically and mix up the right cleaning solution for the suit by hand.

But that could wait.

In nothing more than his pendant and boxers, wings folded over his shoulders, he dropped to the floor in front of his laptop. His employer was online, probably waiting for confirmation of the deed. Well, he wanted the rest of his payment, so he tapped out the message with the claws of one hand, licking idly at the dried blood on the claws of his other. Until he realized what he was doing, growled at himself, and sped up the typing by adding that hand, as well. Little flakes of rust brown fluttered over the keys. He ignored them.

It was always satisfying, at least, to see the amount in his bank account going up, no matter how much he thought he'd botched a job. Even with his "quirks", as employers would say, he was still one of the best in the business: swift, incurious, discrete, and impossible to kill. Literally. One couldn't even torture or drug him into revealing the name of an employer. That was discretion beyond anything else, even an android, because even an android could be reprogrammed. He advertised that, and that was what got him most of his work. He was worth what he charged, even if he made the news, because his employer's identity would be a secret unless he chose to give it away. Which he knew better than to do: though no hired guns could kill him to silence him, his reputation would be ruined.

Confirmation sent and payment received, he shut off the laptop and headed for his next priority: a shower. Maybe this time he'd even feel clean.

When he got out he'd order roses for the widow. Red ones, at least two dozen. It was the least he could do.