I live in a world where people know they are going to die. The company I work in, the NIA (or National Insurance Agency), sells life insurance. But this isn't your typical insurance company. The NIA sells life insurance that comes with a prediction based off of a complicated equation that tells you when you're going to die. Everyone is supposed to die according to their prediction. At least, most of the time they do. There are, of course, exceptions. People that don't die according to their prediction- and the company doesn't like that. This is where I come in. I'm a hit man. It's an easy job, really. I snatch up the target, murder, and clean up the trails. Sometimes, though, things happen. She happened.

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All its life, the bird had felt unworthy and plain. Uninteresting and unremarkable. With its beak too long, its feathers a drab color, it felt utterly worthless. And trading being a human at the price of understanding was not too much of a price. Or was it? dedication to Eskimo Curlew bird