I reached into my back pocket, taking out a pair of blue surgical gloves and pulled them back against my forearm. They slapped against my skin as they tightened around my wrist.

dropping to a low squat, I took stock of the scene in front of me. Four dead, three male, one female. Two of the men bodyguards. Identical, ill-fitting suits adorned by each, coiled tube earpieces and the telltale bulge of a holstered firearm a dead giveaway. Mid 30s both. If I was a betting man I'd say ex-infantry. Trained, yes. But not for this. A cushy job after retirement if there ever was one. Unfortunately for them, fate was cruel, and I don't have the luxury of being compassionate.

The female, a secretary, judging by her attire. There's also the fact of what was occurring between her and the target when I entered the room. She was collateral damage, an unexpected factor. Heaven's knows the universe loves throwing curveballs. On another day, maybe even another hour, she wouldn't have been here. The position that she was riding him meant the target couldn't see me entering at least. I killed her quickly and painlessly.

Lastly, there was the target. Name? The only thing that revealed him was the now bloody name plaque centred on his desk reading 'Sen. Rosewell'. Why someone wanted him dead? I didn't need, want, nor was I privy to such information. I got a picture, sometimes a brief request on the method they wished used, and the deadline.

This particular job came with a stipulation. Make it look like a common murder-robbery. A difficult, exasperating request. A run-of-the-mill thug wouldn't be able to slip past the guards to kill this target, but neither would they be able to take them on if they were alerted. That being said, the guards weren't the most attentive bunch, so people believing their incompetence wasn't out of the question.

The bodies bled out slowly, the pools of blood expanding by the second. I couldn't use a firearm for this job. Too much noise, not to mention it's hard to imitate an amateur with a gun. The bodies each had 5-10 stab wounds, applied post-mortem of course. Thug's tended to go overboard, less in control of their emotions.

I took the watch from the target's hand, throwing it into a ziplock bag with the other valuables I was able to ransack, the entire office turned over. It was a nice watch, not that it mattered. All of this stuff would be incinerated later.

*Bzzt* *Bzzt*

A low thrum ran across my neck. The vibration of the embedded chip too deep to cause noise, but too shallow for me not to feel it. I put my hand to the beeping red light, as if checking my pulse.

"Thirteen, has the bird flew the coup?"

A metallic female voice welcomed me. So utterly devoid of emotion I had assumed it was an AI when I first got chipped. Thirteen was my name, and as far as I can remember I'd always been referred to as such.

When children were taken to The Farm, they were tested for potential, those found fitting would be given a number, and from then on out would belong to the Numbers. Those either too old to forget their past lives, or found to have subpar potential were the worst off. Tortured ceaselessly until they either locked their earlier memories away as a way of self-preservation or were so overrun with pain their mind fragmented, which got you a one way ticket to becoming Livestock. A.k.a, doing all of the menial jobs that needed to be done on the farm, performed by the mindless, broken slaves.

I was one of the lucky ones.

"Confirmation. Bird is home free. Three mice followed, will that be a problem?"

"... No. all is well. Return to the farm."

Collateral damage was a difficult thing. Sometimes it was an issue and other times a morbid boon. The target and his secretary being literally caught with their pants down was one of those times. Smearing a dead man's name would only add to client satisfaction, however morally corrupt it sounded.

Shutting the window after my escape, I threw a brick through it, and not long later heard the distant screams of a maid.

*Bzzt* *Bzzt*

Another call? Since I can remember I've never been called twice in such short notice, and in my line of work unexpecteds are lethal.

I made my way across the campus towards an alley, hiding myself behind a dumpster. Hesitating for a moment, I begrudgingly brought my hand up to my neck and accepted the call.

"Thirteen. It's your Father. Congratulations! Belay that last order, you've been bought. 14th and Franklin, 30- No, 20 minutes."

As soon as I heard his voice bile rose up in my throat. The Father. Not my father, no, this man hadn't the humanity in him to be a father. A father protected, cared for, and nurtured, and he sure as shit didn't do any of these things. He considered himself a father to all of the 'lost children' belonging to the Farm.

He beat us until we were black and blue, torturing us if he deemed it necessary, whipping us into shape to become disposable assassins, literally.

Finally, when we turned fifteen he chipped us. The last and final rite of passage into the Farm, as he called it.

Bullshit.

It was our slave brand, and with it, he gained absolute control over our lives.

How did he acquire us? Trafficking, slave auctions, kidnapping. You name it, he was guilty of it. That was how the Farm operates after all. He didn't take money in exchange for our services, but information. And it was from that he made his wealth. Insider trading, blackmail, extortion, whatever might be gained from the information, he would do it guiltlessly.

The head farmer's voice was tauntingly jovial, as if none of the horrid things he had done fell upon his shoulders.

I suppressed my emptions and swallowed whatever had came up. I had never heard of the Head Farmer contacting Numbers, but alas, whatever he had planned, I was powerless to do anything but obey, and by the mocking tone of his voice he was well aware of this fact.

"Father..."

Just calling him that caused the bile I had swallowed to come back up.

"I've just finished a delivery. I need more ti-"

A horrifyingly sharp pain ran throughout my body, spreading from my neck to all points of my body, like blood was being twisted in place. Crippling over in pain, I fell to the floor, my head smashing into the dumpster. I grasped futilely for my throat, trying desperately to find some sort of respite for the pain.

"Son... All the compassion I've showed you, giving you a life, giving you a job. And how do you repay me? Pathetic. The clock is down to 15 minutes now. You know what happens when you disappointed me, son."

He took his time talking, drawling out his words, extending his pauses, accentuating 'Son'. No doubt thoroughly enjoying both the mental and physical pain he was putting me through. I couldn't tell whether he was doing it on purpose or if it was just his southern american drawl making him take so long.

I felt my skin tightening, my eyes rolled over red with bloodshot, and then, like it never happened, it was gone. It took me a few seconds to stop my body spasming from phantom pain, but eventually I gritted my teeth and stood up, leaning on the dumpster for support.

It's hard to explain the emotions that go through you, when you're forced to address the man who took your chance at life away from you, as father. What you feel when he has a controller that gives him absolute power over you. The helplessness, the impotent rage, knowing full well you'd sacrifice your life just to give him one good punch, but knowing you'll never get the chance at even that. If he wants you to kneel, you kneel, if he wants you to bow, you bow. Fuck.

"I'll be there... Father."

I spat the word into thin air through gritted teeth. Indignance was about the only emotion I could show without being brought to my knees in pain again.

It didn't help quench my rage though. I could imagine him now, smiling his smug fucking face off, wholly enjoying my futile anger. He took pride in being able to upset us, and pleasure out of watching us squirm.