Retirement Agent: The Short Story

Prologue

Karma has a funny way of showing itself...

"James Riley, Retirement Agent," The barmen always made free drinks for a Retirement Agent, never because they wanted to do it, but because they had no choice. We always lived to protect, that was our priority, rewards like this sweetened the deal. I raised my badge out of my battered leather pocket and allowed him to view it, the dead look in my eye told him I was here for business, even though I wasn't. "Whisky, straight up," When I drank on duty, I did it right.

Years of experience had taught me that if a Retirement Agent entered your establishment, the doors were barricaded shut because there was little chance that everyone was gonna get out of there alive. I 'removed' lawbreakers to get paychecks at the end of the week, usually taken from the bank account of the poor sod that now resides 6ft under. The 9pm shutdown was minute's away, home was expecting me.

Home, a place where I could escape the horrors of everyday life and leave the dust and debris that lied in the middle of the melancholy street. At home, I was King. I was the ruler of my own land. This... this place I called home was my own personal heaven in the middle of an otherwise hellish world. The vermin on the outside couldn't touch me, and my two sons could live in happiness, away from the crime, the killing, the bleak wasteland that swallowed hopes and dreams and destroyed anything that stood in its way.

A man soaked in self-pity sat across the hazy bar from me; his stony eyes drained me slowly and carefully. Long ago, training taught me that a speck of insecurity due to a citizen could lead to your failure as an agent, along with an early retirement! Always make sure they look away first, and they know their place. As most did, he became uncomfortable. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, slid down past his nose, and into his mouth, so he could preserve what little hydration he had left. His long, ripped coat hung down by his long, gangly legs that were wrapped in long, tattered jeans, as he sipped from his chipped glass. His eyes ignited as the flashing lights of the billboard hung overhead: 'The world fell to the perils, but London stands tall. Tall due to Retirement Agents that patrol your neighbourhood and your lives.'

Stands Tall? I chuckled. If it did, there would be no reason for someone like me, but maybe the world would have been peaceful again? No killing, no war, no...

...Slam...

My drink was slammed onto the table in an imperfect glass full of imperfect bubbles, it was well-matched to me I guess.

"Shutdown in 10 minutes" the barman bellowed, so I just ignored him.

I continued to watch the vagrant; he'd barely moved an inch. He was like a corpse, perfectly placed in the darkest corner of the room, scaring off anyone with even the slightest sense of serious paranoia and anxiety. He was the type of corpse that would haunt your dreams til the day you die, his gaunt face, always looking at you in a crowd of busy people who just want to get out of this overcrowded shithole.

That man, that vile man, still stared, eyes not leaving me, that waste of human life wouldn't look away. Fear decided to take me over, and pierced me right in the back, increasing my heartbeat second by second, bit by bit; not stopping 'til my heart gave out. I needed to leave. To get out. That bastard wouldn't look away, how he still stared deep into my soul, skilfully slithering past my defences.

The glass cracked onto the cold ground, and I left, hell following closely at my heels, I couldn't get away. I stopped, lit a cigarette, and stared into the doorway. The silhouette of the man stood there, and drove fear straight into my head; he wanted to drill into my brain.

"What? What do you want?"

"You're a Retirement Agent, right? The population killers?"

Population killers, the nickname we were given by the so called 'Slavers'. They were on every most wanted list in the country, believed the fact that we were all slaves in a system that controls our lives; I already knew that was the case. There was no beating the system, the system was in every home, every street, every alleyway, every living organism that it could find, I knew I would die if I didn't follow, so in order to live, others had to die, even if they ripped a piece of me with them.

I loaded my gun in its holster, desperate to keep my cool while doing so. "It's called Retirement, if they breach the law, they need to be put down" My voice crackled as the rain entered my throat, giving me more life by the second, not that I would use it wisely.

"Put down? Like a dog? You put down my fucking wife, the woman I loved, she didn't harm anyone" I couldn't tell if he was crying or not, the rain disguised it for him, it was doing a good job of it.

"Her sentence was death, I was doing my job!"

"I have nothing" He whimpered "no life, no family; just you coming up with your petty fucking excuses, your retirement will come!" He took the hand cannon from his jacket. "Your karma has caught up with you"

I whipped the gun from my side, and shot the cannon from his hand. He looked down at it, just for a moment, then looked at me. His face quivered in fear, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Falling to his knees, he looked deep into my eyes, maybe to discover a little hope, or perhaps to stare into the eyes of the man who would end his life in a heartbeat. I fired into his chest. He fell to the ground. The concrete did the rest. I lit another cigarette, and walked over to his near-lifeless body. The man had Retired the second I got there, probably for the best.

I took the radio from my worn jacket, and pressed down the stiff button; "James Riley, District five, we need pickup for cremation. Out," The smoke from the worn barrel entered my lungs, and killed me a little inside.

In order to live, others have to die. He took a piece of me with him.

Karma I guess...

... Fair trade