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Murdoc was used to the stares. He’d had eyes on him for a lifetime— the eyes of Nicholas Helman and HIT, the eyes of the DXS, the eyes of strangers who wanted to fight him or fix him or avoid him at all costs. He wasn’t alarmed when the hotel receptionist’s eyes widened at his scars; he ignored the disturbed or concerned glances thrown his way. He had liked the attention, at first, years ago. Then it got on his nerves. Now, though, Murdoc couldn’t find it within himself to feel anything about it all.
“213,” he said flatly to the receptionist— who had managed to conceal their reaction behind a fake customer-service smile— and slid a few bills across the desk. The crisp green of the paper was the cleanest thing on the counter, and for a moment Murdoc could see it turning brown with blood. He wondered vaguely how HIT would react if he shot everyone in the hotel. How HIT would react if he shot himself. Those thoughts came more frequently now, the unbidden ideas of killing bystanders, hurting himself. Maybe he was entertaining them more now than he used to.
“Sure thing,” the receptionist said, breaking the nightmare or fantasy. They were still acting pleasant, their cheer as fake as cheap plastic. Murdoc wished they would just drop the act. “Um, can you give me a name?”
“You don’t need my name; just give me the room,” Murdoc snapped. “What’s the problem?”
The receptionist glanced back at their computer monitor. “Well, someone’s listed as already renting the room. Did you have a reservation, sir?”
A reservation? What did they mean, a reservation? Murdoc had never needed one before. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he asked, “What’s the name? The reservation.”
“Well, it may not be a reservation,” the receptionist said. Their tone was patient, condescendingly explanatory— how dull did they think he was? “It just shows a name with the room, so someone might already be—”
“Just tell me who has the goddamn room!” Murdoc snarled, slamming his hand on the desk. The receptionist blinked, startled into silence, evaluating Murdoc in a new light. It might have been anger in their eyes, or confusion, but Murdoc had seen that light enough times before that he thought it must be fear.
They nodded hesitantly, looking back at the monitor to find the name. “Looks like… Barry Berkman,” they told him. “Barry Berkman is staying there.”
Who the fuck was Barry Berkman? “Fine,” Murdoc said. “I’ll talk to him myself.”
The stairs creaked conspicuously beneath his shoes, enough that they sounded like they might collapse under his weight. Murdoc found himself having more difficulty than he would have liked; pain struck through his right leg each time he took a step up. It was fine. He could deal with pain.
When Murdoc reached the second floor, a tall man was standing before the door to room 213, fumbling uselessly with his key card while trying to hold a tin of ice in the crook of one arm. This, Murdoc had to assume, was the aforementioned Barry Berkman. He didn’t look terribly threatening— unkempt, unshaven, wearing only a nondescript hoodie and trousers— but Murdoc knew firsthand that it never paid to underestimate someone. “Are you Barry Berkman?” he called.
The man looked up with the wild-eyed confusion of a deer suddenly facing an unexpected car. “Um,” he said. “Yes?”
“Good,” Murdoc said. “Leave.”
Berkman managed to swipe the card correctly and unlock the door. “Hey, man, this is my room,” he said, pushing it open. “I’ll be out of your way.”
Murdoc bared his teeth in a humorless smile. He didn’t have time for this. “Unfortunately, I need that room rather specifically. Go find somewhere else to spend the night.” Berkman lunged through the entrance, attempting to escape into the room and sending ice scattering across the floor, but Murdoc jammed his cane into the door and forced it back open. “Listen to me, I need—” Murdoc cut himself off as he registered the setup of the room behind Berkman. His left eye had started to fail recently from years of gradual damage, and he struggled to adjust to the sudden low lighting, but even so, the outline of a rifle stood in clear silhouette against the open window.
The setup was simple, something even the newest HIT recruit could have organized— just a rifle out the window, aimed for the back door of the neighboring building. The target would never exit from the front, of course; far too exposed. When the target left from the back door, the gun would have a straight shot and Murdoc’s client would get exactly what she wanted. A duffel bag lay open on the bed, the glint of other arms gleaming dangerously from within. Berkman’s setup was almost identical to what Murdoc himself had been planning, only Murdoc didn’t waste the time to take a rifle. Even with his faltering sight, he knew he would make the shot with a handgun.
“Who do you work for?” Murdoc hissed, slamming the door behind him.
Berkman stared at him with the same petrified confusion as before.
“Out with it, boy; I don’t have all day,” Murdoc spat. “Who sent you here?”
“I— No one,” Berkman said. “I mean… I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The gun says otherwise,” Murdoc said. “Or did it magically appear there while you were out?”
Berkman scoffed, a short sigh, flexing his hands. “Look, I got this job off a website,” he admitted. “I’ll be in and out, all right?”
A freelance agent. And a fucking amateur, at that. Murdoc laughed, though he found nothing funny about the situation. “So you’re an amateur, hm?” he asked. “What, you thought this would be a fun pastime? To go out and shoot someone in the head?”
“No!” Berkman said sharply. “No, what— do you think I do this as a hobby? Jesus. Look, just— just let me do my job, and we can forget about this, okay? You don’t have to arrest me, and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”
Murdoc snickered again, curling his lip. Of course Berkman was worried Murdoc was with the authorities. He toyed with the idea of stringing Berkman along— but no. He had a job to do. “I’m not with the police, Berkman,” he said lightly. “That’s my target you’re planning to kill. Now, my name is Murdoc; I work with the Homicide International Trust. They’ve assigned me to kill George Vanderbilt. So step aside and let me do my job.”
Berkman backed away towards the rifle at the window, but made no move to pack it. “I really need this job,” he started slowly. “Okay? Like, I really need this. My— my girlfriend’s doing this show, and I need the work. And I—” Berkman shifted awkwardly, defensive protest rising in his voice. “I’m not an amateur. For the record. I used to do this professionally. Not for HIT or anything, but— I’m good at this. It’s like… the only thing I’m good at.”
Murdoc studied Berkman, searching his face, caught by something odd in his behavior. There was something under the defense in his expression, not a hidden emotion but the absence of any at all. A void that Murdoc could only recognize from seeing it in his own reflection. “Then I suggest you find a better skill to develop,” he said.
“I’m trying,” Berkman complained, slumping back against the wall. Not sitting, Murdoc noticed, and not out of reach of the gun at the window or the bag on the bed. “I know I can do something better with my life. I know I can do this; Cousineau told me I can do it. And I want to, you know, for Sally. But I— I tried to leave, and it didn’t work out, and Sally’s super successful right now, but I still— I want to do something that’s not just this, all the time, you know?”
Murdoc could have said that he didn’t give a fuck about Berkman’s life. Frankly, he just wanted to kill the target, finish the job, and leave. He could have dismissed Berkman’s sob story and told him to get out while his head still had the appropriate number of holes. Instead, Murdoc approached Berkman, halting at the foot of the bed. “You tried to get out?” he asked, his voice slithering with bitter derision. “For love, was it?”
Berkman’s gaze darkened. Murdoc was prodding a snake in its hole, he knew. Some part of him wanted to see how much it would take to make Berkman strike. Another part of him— the part that made his skin feel like it was peeling from the bone— knew something in Berkman’s ramblings felt far too painfully familiar. “Yes,” Berkman answered shortly.
“Do you know why it didn’t last?” This was dangerous. Reckless. Murdoc didn’t know how much training Berkman had, or even whether he could take Berkman in a fight at this age, but he simply didn’t care enough to stop. “Why you had to come running back to this job? It’s because she doesn’t love you.”
Berkman’s hands curled into tense, tight fists at his sides. He was watching Murdoc with that blackened gaze, one wrong move, one word away from snapping entirely. “Don’t you dare say that. I love Sally.”
Murdoc flashed him a dull, condescending smile. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “But she can’t love you.”
Berkman broke. He launched himself over the bed, seizing one of the guns from the duffel bag in the same motion. Shots rang bright and loud, filling the small room, as Murdoc ducked to avoid Berkman’s aim; he was precise, clean, better than Murdoc had expected. Each shot was fired with the intent to kill. Murdoc pulled a knife from the lining of his jacket, flipping it so that the blade was pointing towards Berkman and slashing at his opponent. Berkman stumbled back but didn’t lose his grip on his gun— right hand, likely dominant. That was where Murdoc needed to focus his damage.
White pain washed the world in an overexposed haze and it was only when Murdoc hit the bedside cabinet that he realized Berkman had smashed the pistol against his temple. He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his senses, but the vision in his left eye was slow to refocus. Shit. Murdoc still had his blade— too small; he needed to recover his advantage over Berkman, or at least get back on even ground. He grabbed his cane from where it had fallen and wrenched Berkman’s gun hand down with it, using the leverage to push himself back to his feet.
Berkman dropped his gun, yanking the cane from Murdoc’s grasp and taking another swing at him. This time Murdoc anticipated it, swiping with his dagger to meet his attacker’s fist; a startled shout of pain burst from Berkman as flecks of hot blood spattered from the deep slice across his knuckles. Murdoc dodged around Berkman to put more distance between the two of them— ignoring the burn in his bad leg as he did so— and spun around to throw his knife at Berkman. Berkman put up his arms to block— instinct, it must have been— which earned him a blade hilt-deep in his forearm; the pain only seemed to add to the torrent of rage storming behind his eyes. Berkman snarled, advancing on Murdoc and trying once more to knock him unconscious, this time with his own cane. The ring of metal on metal pierced Murdoc’s ears as his cane hit the table behind him, flashing through the air closer to Murdoc than he was comfortable with.
This had lasted long enough. It was time to end it. Murdoc drew his gun and aimed it at Berkman, but Berkman threw himself at Murdoc, pinning him to the bed with one hand holding the gun down and the other locked around Murdoc’s neck. Dammit. With his free hand, Murdoc felt sightlessly around the area behind him until he found cold steel inside the duffel bag. Not another gun, but a magazine. Berkman was strong; Murdoc couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His throat worked to no avail against Berkman’s grip, and Murdoc wondered if he should be afraid of dying.
Murdoc twisted sharply, slamming the butt of the magazine hard into Berkman’s jaw. The pressure on Murdoc’s throat released and Berkman rolled over, holding his face. Murdoc lunged forward to get back on solid ground, gasping for the air he had been denied, but by the time he was back on his feet, Berkman had retrieved his previously discarded gun and kicked Murdoc sharply in his bad knee. Pain blazed through Murdoc’s leg and it gave out, forcing him to the floor— but his gun was up, finger on the trigger, pointed dead in between Berkman’s eyes.
The pair didn’t move, staring at each other, panting. Berkman had his gun pressed to Murdoc’s forehead. Blood spread like mold across Berkman’s mouth, nose, cheek from where Murdoc had hit him, and Murdoc became aware of the same thick sap of blood running warm down the side of his own face.
“Are you going to shoot me?” Murdoc rasped.
Berkman’s eyes flickered wildly between Murdoc’s face and Murdoc’s gun. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you going to shoot me?”
Murdoc grinned, his mouth thick with the taste of copper. “Go on, then,” he dared Berkman. “Go right ahead. Kill me right here… Barry Berkman. Hm? Take your shot.”
A flash of movement out the window. Before Murdoc fully realized what was happening, he had pivoted and fired, and Berkman was at the rifle, a thin trail of smoke curling serpentine from the muzzle. The back door of the neighboring building was stained dark, and George Vanderbilt lay prone, the remnants of his head splattered across the ground. People were screaming.
“She does love me,” Berkman said at length.
“You’ll learn someday,” Murdoc replied. He picked up his cane. Pushed himself to his feet. His right leg was trembling. “Men like you and me… we don’t get love. It simply… doesn’t happen.”
“Who was she?”
Murdoc looked back at Berkman, who was still watching the panicked forms through the window. “Excuse me?”
“The girl you left the business for,” Berkman said. He sounded dull, worn out, faded. “For love.” When he glanced at Murdoc, his gaze was accusing. “The reason why you said those things about Sally.”
Murdoc broke Berkman’s stare. “His name’s MacGyver,” he said tiredly. “And I’m going to kill him someday.”
He waited until the door to room 213 had shut and locked behind him before sinking to the floor, back against the wall. His throat burned from Berkman’s chokehold. His head was pounding. Sparks of pain flashed like electricity through his leg with every move. His leg didn’t quite work and his eye didn’t quite work and his mind didn’t quite work, though the last was a problem he’d been dealing with since the day he was brought into this miserable fucking world.
Murdoc hissed a thin sigh and wiped the blood from his face.
He was getting too old for this shit.