An Assassin's First Steps

When you're born in the shadows and have been there all your life, you tend to not know what the light is like, what most people think 'right' is, or what 'friends' truly are. The absence of 'companionship' is a forgone conclusion, and instead of looking for warmth on cold nights, you spend your time trying to avoid cold steel in your back. You avoid the law, even if you have done nothing wrong, keep your head down, and trust nobody, except the highest bidder... after they have paid half up-front of a job. Oh, and family, you can often trust family... until you can't.
With family, it goes one of 2 ways: first, they are not OK with whatever it is your doing. They live in the light and think you should too. They could also be in the shadows, watching the abyss stare back at them. If it comes down to 'family' or 'business', you'd best be the one paying them. Either way, they aren't exactly good for you.
The other path is that they actually give a damn about you. They try to bring you up to the best of their abilities, no matter which side of society they're on. I'd like to say this is the majority, but where I grew up, it wasn't. I was lucky though. I was in the second case.
I had a dad. I think I still do, somewhere. He was a mercenary. He found himself unwittingly a father after a roll in the hay with some woman who wanted no part in child-rearing. He wondered whether or not he truly was my father, but according to what he told me, the alternative was me getting tossed into the woods somewhere, so he took up the mantle.
I never felt like I wasn't loved. Once I was old enough to pay attention for a handful of moments, he'd tell me stories about how he'd take me to the bar with him because he couldn't afford someone to watch me. He'd give me the smallest amount of ale after feeding me and I'd be asleep within moments. He told me he'd always gush about his little man, and about how he'd almost gotten into a fight on more than one occasion for 'bringing in a literal snot-nosed brat'.
Let him tell it, I was the best wingman he could ask for. It was a free conversation starter with the tavern waitresses, and once I was asleep, and shifts were finished, they'd do their thing. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if I had a few handfuls of siblings that I don't know about.
Once I got old enough to be able to stuff food in my mouth, and he got a bit of a name for himself, he'd pawn me off to our neighbors while he went off to work. He usually did his thing at night, so I didn't even miss him as I was asleep, and during the day, I'd be out playing while he slept. It worked out since when it was time to come inside for dinner, he would be home.
Things got a bit tricky as I grew up though. Living as a mercenary, sometimes my father would be gone for days on end, and i'd stay with my neighbors, wondering where he could be. I was overjoyed when he'd return, but sometimes I'd be scared. It only made sense. Sometimes he'd come back beaten and bloody. I'd ask if he was ok, and he'd say he's fine and that 'shoulda seen the other guy". I was too young to understand then.
Things soon got complicated. I was outside playing one day and I saw a piece of paper stuck to the wall. That was nothing new. The issue was that the picture on the paper looked familiar to me... frighteningly so. I took the paper with words that I couldn't read and showed it to my father that night. That night, we left town.
This kept on for a while, with us moving to a new place, staying for some time, and leaving whenever my dad's picture showed up on the wall. I was too dumb to question it and too dumb to understand why my dad loved to play hide and seek with me so much. He made sure I was good at it. We'd play at least once a day. Eventually, it became his way of saying 'I'm off to work', since a neighbor would pop up, calling for me after a while.
Eventually, after hearing the whispers on the streets, and of the neighbors, I put the pieces together. I'd seen 10 summers by the time I figured out that my father was an assassin. I'd also figured out that he was a good one. How do I know? Simple, he hadn't been caught, hadn't been killed, and still had all his limbs, digits, and eyes. Over the years i'd been to the bar to meet his 'friends' and 'coworkers.' I got used to seeing disfigured people. I realized that they were assassins too.
When he thought I was old enough, he started teaching me tricks of the trade: how to fight, how to avoid a fight, how to talk to people, lockpicking, and surprisingly, etiquette. He'd always made sure I was polite, respectful, and aware of my surroundings and with whom I spoke. He said it was part of how to avoid a fight. I'd seen 12 summers and was effectively a functional adult with an unscrupulous trade. I could cook, clean, and 'work' if I had to. My father saw to it that I never had to 'work'. "The work you know is no profession for a child," he'd say. It wasn't a profession that anyone should have.
I stayed in the dark with all things related to his 'job', until one of his 'i'll be gone for a few days' turned into 'Your father has been missing for a moon already!'
I hit the streets the following day, heading to the bars and taverns I knew my dad to frequent. Talking to people was easy. He'd made sure of that. Unfortunately, my questions on his whereabouts were met with "I don't know", "Haven't seen him", or "I'm sure he'll be back soon." All of these were accompanied by uncomfortable looks, a lack of eye contact, something which my father instilled in me from a young age, fidgeting, or a general unwillingness to discuss the matter. They were lying, and it was obvious. My hesitation to raise my voice at my elders began to fade, but before I could, a man gently placed a hand on my shoulder.
Everyone I'd asked had conveniently turned around or vanished. I slowly turned, addressing the man who towered over me, respectfully of course, "Yes, sir?"
I couldn't tell how old the man was, but he was older than my father. He had a scar along the right side of his cheek, and his muddy brown eyes gazed at me with a mixture of emotions so complex that I could not place them. Those faded within half a moment as if feelings were an illusion for him. His demeanor changed, and I could tell I was about to be presented with some sort of proposition.
"Young man, your name is Larry, is it not? Son of Hayden?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm Deckard, a friend of your father, his employer, actually. I heard he's been missing for some time and looked into it. It seems he was injured on the job, and needed to be sent to Azidon for treatment."
I remember my breath being caught in my throat. I could not speak. He spoke in my place.
"He is recovering, but the treatment is expensive and will take some time. I paid for it as a favor, but I will require restitution, you understand."
"I... don't know what that means, sir."
"It means that I need to be paid back. And you need income too, no? Who's going to get food without your father's income?"
I was old enough to know that food wasn't free, that we paid to live in our 2 room hovel, and that I was about to be given a choice that was anything but.
"You come work for me, and you can pay off your father's debts. I'll also ensure you're fed and have a place to stay."
"Can't I see my dad first?"
"He's unable to receive guests right now, you see. And Azidon is rather far away from here. The journey would be too much for one of your age."
It felt fishy, but I wasn't in a position to contest or complain. My father was missing, and it would only be a matter of time before I ran out of food. A job was a job. Helping my father while keeping myself fed. It was a win-win in my book.
I started the next day, apprehensive about what kind of work I'd be doing. He had me making deliveries. I'd be told where to go, who to ask for, and given strict instructions to 'avoid the authorities and NEVER open the package'.
It was easy work and kept me fed. He provided the food and any extra funds were sent for my father's treatment in the capital. The tasks changed to things with more responsibility, such as a messenger's guard, lookout, distraction, and all odd things that hinted at something sinister happening in the background. Even so, I hadn't gotten my 'hands dirty', which I'm sure my father would be glad to hear.
That didn't last long. One day, Deckard came to me. He said he had a job that paid well. He also said that there were 'complications' with my father's treatment, expensive ones. This job would help cover it. He needed me to end an existence. I stared at him in confusion and apprehension, and then as if expecting this, he pulled me aside and told me everything that this person was responsible for. It was a list of things that made my stomach churn, and if I ever met the man on the street, knowing what he did, he'd lose more than a few teeth if I had my way.
Once he made sure I was good and seething, he slipped me a knife and a cloak under the table and reminded me of the usual work rules, such as avoiding the authorities, along with the new rule of "don't get spotted."
I made it to the given location, brimming with righteous justice. He wasn't hard to find, balls deep inside a woman of the night. I knew the drill. It was hard not to with my dad's 'work friends' and my upbringing. I waited for them to finish. It didn't take long at all, and what sounded like an unsatisfied sigh escaped the woman's lips. They concluded their business and she left the room. Once she was gone, I left the shadows and entered the room.
A floorboard creaked, and he turned to me. He saw me, hooded, standing over him, dagger in hand. The look of pure terror in his eyes didn't befit someone with a list of climes as vile as his. He cried, pleaded, attempted to bribe, and like a fool, I paused, contemplating.
He drew a knife as well, and what ensued was a scuffle in which our lives depended. I won, though I was a little roughed up. Nothing major enough to leave a trail. I escaped just before anyone made it into the room. I'd thrown a chair through the window and claimed out, making my way to the thatched roof where I waited for an opportune moment to leave.
I'm still not sure how I made it back home, but I did. I remembered everyone in the taverns drinking and being merry, or trying their best to forget something. I hadn't drank before, but if there was ever a time to try, I figured this was it. There was always something alcoholic around, though it hadn't been touched in months. I found something, opened it, and the smell hit me like a stone to the nose. I reeled and steeled my resolve. I held the container, bottom up as I consumed its contents, for but a moment. I gagged, spit, and dropped the bottle. I wasn't sure which tears were from my earlier experience and which were from this horrendous concoction. For the rest of the night, I cried, i tried to drink, and I prayed to any god that would listen, something else I never did.
Between crying myself tearless and the alcohol I managed to choke down, I passed out. I woke up the next day feeling like I'd slept with my head in a vice. My balance was off, I was horribly thirsty, and everything hurt. Pretty sure this was the 'wicked haze' that people referred to regarding the morning after drinking too much. I struggled to understand why anyone would do that to themselves. The flavor was horrible and the aftermath worse. I hauled myself to the small dilapidated dresser in the room and looked into the cracked mirror. I stared at the person staring back at me. He moved as I moved, looked as I looked, and was generally the spitting image of myself, with a single exception. That version of me had blue eyes.
I was fairly certain that the 'wicked haze' didn't do anything as outlandish as changing one's eye color, but this wasn't something I could mistake. My eyes were brown, his a deep blue hue. His left iris looked and felt as if there were ripples running across it every so often. It had a distinctly calm feeling to it. His right eye had rolling waves in the iris. It was a stormy, rough feeling that it invoked.
I spoke, looking at the person in the mirror. His mouth moved as mine did, but there was only a single voice. I poked my right eye. It hurt. I closed it, thinking of my own stupidity and wishing it would stop. A moment later and a tingling sensation and my eye did indeed stop hurting. When I looked up again, his right eye, my left, was glowing.