Number: 61 Title: No Title Type: Original Fiction Premise: ---------- The question (unforeshadowed), is what would you do if you knew you were going to die in 20 days? So begins the tale. Three possible endings: 1. Thomas gets into a mega-huge gun fight, gets wounded, spills his life story to Eric, and asks if the poor man will take the reigns of an assassin. Eric refuses. Thomas tells him that no one wanted to kill Eric; he was just bored and wanted something to do. Strange world. 2. Thomas does kill Eric, but after supposedly giving up. He tells Eric (after all of these strange adventures) that Eric's an okay guy, and even better, the contract has been rescinded in the meantime. Then Thomas goes about his work silently, letting Eric die not in a fit of panic and confusion, but in utter euphoria, never knowing what hit him. 3. Thomas turns out to be a friend of sorts. There was no contract, and Thomas is retired. He now spends his time making the most of people's lives, because frankly, what else is he going to do? Scenes: ---------- He awoke to an incessant pounding. It was the regular throb of the Righteous Door Knock; the person on the other side knew exactly what they could get away with, being rude and inconsiderate beyond belief, but not truly offending. It was, after all, nearly eleven in the morning. "Coming... coming..." Eric hummed to himself as he crawled from bed as a crab from its shell. The blinding sunlight was warded off with a skinny, pale arm, inadequite for the task. The free hand discovered he was dressed from the waist down. The fine details of his current clothing condition, like whether he was wearing his pants, his roommate's pants, or his roommate's sister's skirt was logged for later analysis. Eric was up now, and he was unhappy. The Righteous Knock continued. "I'm coming!" He opened the door to a difficult smiling face. It struck Eric immediately, even in his 45% awake state, how the man's smile was held up almost as a trial, a dare. This face, with two day's worth of stubble and a long, shallow scar marring the skin over one sharp cheekbone, was not a face accustomed to smiling. A painted smile, this was not. It was real, genuine, but made only at the extreme discomfort of the owner. "Can I help you?" Eric offered. "Hello." The man said. "Thomas." "No, Eric. This is two-fourteen." Wonderful. His blissful Sunday nap (really an extension of his Saturday night nap), had been interrupted by a rugged, gangly fellow who had found the wrong room? Was there no justice in the world? The smile was humorous for a moment. Again, genuine, but no longer forced. It faded quickly, though the man's expression did not become threatening. "Thomas." He repeated. "My name's Thomas. You're Eric Carpenter, I know. I got your room number from the floor super." 75% awake. Damn floor warden. Couldn't he tell this guy was dangerous? "Yeah, that's wonderful. Is there something you need? Something you're selling?" Wrong choice of words. _That_ smile didn't look pleasant or at all natural. "I have come to deliver a message." Dramatic pause. "I have come to kill you." 85% awake. "Really." "Not right now, though. In about three weeks, I'm supposed to off ya. Harsh world, I know." "Whatever." Slam. The clothing on the floor shook. 100% awake. "Who's there?" "Christy. Oh... fuck." "Not now. What are you doing--who are you again?" A pair of brown eyes under a matt of bleached blond hair glanced at Eric. "Christina, you--" Brown eyes widdened. Hazel, was what some would call them, Eric thought. Her voice was confusion mixed with utter terror. "I'm in the wrong room. I'm in the wrong fucking room." "Thank goodness one of us knows that." "Oh shit. Shit! I didn't sleep with you, did I?" Christina of the as-yet-unknown last name asked in a panic. One hundred percent awake. "You stumbled in last night, late, tried to kiss me and missed. You spent half the night on the bed, but fell off sometime early this morning. So, I took it and dozed off." "This is not how I wanted the week to start." Crawling slowly to her feet, Eric watched in amusement as her eyes tried to roll independently of one another. She was fully clothed, if the abbreviated shorts and the two-thirds of a T-shirt could be considered a "full" wardrobe. "I need to get out of here." "Coffee first." Eric stated firmly. He didn't have any, but he knew where he could get some. Foregoing the shirt normally required for hall travel, he snatched his keys from the room's tiny desk and strode out the door. Okay, that was the plan, but actually he nearly ran face-first into Thomas, who was staring at him with a bored expression on his stubble- surfaced mug. Eric's surpise escaped his lips before it could be slowed or stopped. "Whoa!" "Hey." Thomas said in a proziac manner, peeking around Eric's shoulder. "Oh, company? I can come back later." Eric stepped out of the room, thankful that Thomas gave him plenty of room to do so without fuss, and closed the door firmly behind him. "She found the wrong room, it seems." He said tightly. "If you'll excuse me." "No problem. I'll be downstairs if you want to talk. I'll just be around, mostly. Waiting." The last word slithered down Eric's back like a quart of mercury. "Oh?" He asked in a voice two octaves above normal. "Ja ne!" Thomas said. He turned. He walked away. Eric stood still in the middle of the dorm hall, more confused than he had been... well, since waking up. Some guy showed up talking about killing him, a girl who'd found his room by accident the night before--not all that unusual--and... that was it. "I don't need this shit." He muttered under his breath. "I've got finals next week."