My Name is Kakashi, and I'm an Assassin

Warning: Violence and lots of language. Lemon in part 2!! Rated M!!!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but a very overactive imagination

A/N: I watched a Clive Owen movie last night and it made me think about Sin City. I tried to go for a bit of a film noir style. I don't know if that works in writing but whatever. Please review. I have a part two planned but won't post it if this story sucks. Thx for reading!

My name is Hatake Kakashi, and I'm an assassin. It's funny, growing up I had normal dreams like everyone else. When I was six I wanted to be a fireman; at age ten I was sure I would be an actor and ironically I was certain from about twelve to around sixteen that I would be a detective. It made sense. I read people like billboards. They're so trite and simple that it's as easy as pulling the trigger that kills them. Take the business man walking down the street right now. He's pathetically tried to hide his identity by wearing clothes that would adorn a beggar or a redneck at a monster truck rally. It's sad really. He forgot to remove his Rolex and his thousand dollar glasses. Poor man must have known he was marked. Pity he's as incompetent as everyone else that I kill.

I stand from the bench I was pretending to wait for a bus on and move toward him. His grubby tee shirt reads guns don't kill people I kill people. I smirk at the irony of a man who has never held a gun wearing a shirt that reads as such that's now covered in blood from the two bullet's my silenced gun just plugged in his chest. I dig my hands into my pockets continuing on as if nothing had happened, looking very much like a lazy college student. Someone screams behind me as the man falls to the ground. I don't turn back. I don't wonder who this man was; did he have family or why someone wanted him dead. It's not my place to know. It's my place to do my job and collect my briefcase full of money.

When people picture assassins they think of mafia thugs whacking wise guys or ex black ops mercenaries in clock towers with high powered rifles. That's never been my style. I live to blend into the crowd. No one would ever suspect how I make a living. I look like a normal, lower middle class guy. Even if you did ever pick me out of a crowd the cops wouldn't get much from your description; my disguises are flawless. I guess those acting classes when I was young were good for something.

I check my machine when I get home, two messages, both jobs. If I take them both I might be able to take a vacation. Now I'm sure you're picturing me splayed out on a beach or jetting off to Europe and spending my days at a café drinking expensive wine but again that's not my style. Vacation means I get to live my life without having to kill saps for a while. I spend most of it people watching and cleaning my equipment; maybe getting laid a couple of times if the right target is available.

The jobs, right, I was getting to that. One is simple; a car bomb should wrap it up in a nice little package. The second is trickier; take out a whole family, the mark, his wife and their ten year old son. Fuck! I hate hitting kids. But I guess it's better than leaving an orphan. I did that once and I'm regretting it to this day. That one job ruined my life, but that's another story. I leave a message with the clients for them to send me the cases, that's what I call the profiles and pictures of the targets, then I drink myself into oblivion. It wasn't always this way but this is where my life is at the moment. Appealing no?

I dreamt about him last night. I think it was the booze; it was what I was drinking the night we met. I'd tell you about it but I've got work to do. I just picked up the cases from the drop point, two envelopes and a whole lot of headache. The first should be easy enough. She's a movie star, I've seen her flicks. She's not even that bad of an actress but apparently she's a bitch to work with. She obviously pissed someone off enough to want her dead. Probably some no talent director or someone she beat out for a part. That's not what's interesting me. The family…what a god damn mess. I can see what this job is a mile away. The picture is of four people, not three. The fourth, un-circled person is the client. Some spoiled piece of shit that wants his whole family wiped out so that he can inherit his fortune today. People disgust me. I'm sure you think that's hypocritical but I would never do something like that. If I had a family I'd be living the life people on the street think I have.

I take a sip of my starbucks and glance at the kid in the picture. He's looking up at what I can assume to be his older brother like he's a fucking hero. They look so much alike I could swear that I was looking into the kid's future. Hmph, no, they look alike but the kid isn't like his brother at all. No expensive clothes, no sadistic sneer, and black his eyes still have light and warmth in them.

I slide the pictures back into the envelope. I can't think like this. He's a mark and compassion is a weakness in my line of work. The time for the hit is five o'clock. I should go home and get ready. It will be hard to tell what will be best for the situation. Despite what I said earlier I a rifle from a window would work well. Clean and simple, plus there's such a small chance of getting caught. Something's gnaws at my insides. Killing a whole family shouldn't be done from a distance. It's a horrible crime and should be done face to face. Maybe I want to get caught. Maybe I want someone to stop me from doing this, to save this poor kid form both me and his psychotic brother. I'll get up close and personal. If I fail and someone lives at least they can put a face to their hate. It may not be my real face but at least it's something.

I spend the day cleaning my guns of fingerprints. I won't take my favorites incase I have to leave them. I actually don't like guns that much; they lead to too much random violence. I prefer knives if I have a choice, but few jobs are the type that knives are suitable for. Knives are sleek, concealable and almost always explainable. Try telling a cop that you have a silenced handgun in your jacket for protection.

Two o'clock, time to get into character. I slip out of my suit pants, leather jacket and black tee-shirt and into a pair of loose jeans and a ridiculously over-sized sweatshirt that zips in the front; it's the perfect outfit for a job like today's. I cram my silver spikes under a shaggy dark wig which I overlay with the hood from the sweater before applying make-up to darken my complexion. I apply brown contacts under thick framed glasses. I look about ten years younger. If I had the patience for vanity I would be amused that when I finally hit thirty-five I won't have to worry much about my appearance.

I ride the bus to the designated killing zone and pretend to study sociology, highlighting passages for pretense. They'll be here any minute. I steel myself for the job at hand.

A sleek limo pulls into a nearby space. It's show time. Three people get out of the car. The kid is holding onto his mother's hand, a gentle grin spread on his pale face. I reach into my backpack, pretending to search for something, my fingers clutching the gun resting there. My pulse begins to race. The kid is cute. He looks happy. I shouldn't have taken this job. I could have killed the movie star and still taken a vacation, but it's too late to back out now. I stand looking harassed, feigning that I've forgotten something important. I slide the gun to the top of the bag. A shot rings out. Fuck me. The spoiled bastard hired other hitters, other hitters who will kill me if they figure out who I am.

The wife is screaming over the body of her fallen husband while the kid stands by in shock. I search the windows of the nearby buildings. I'll have to take the competition out if I want to get paid. I have to be careful though, if there's more than one I'm dead.

Ha! I found him. Second floor third window on the right. Another shot from a sniper rifle. Fuck, the guy has a partner. He was already packing up his gun when the second shot was fired. The mother is writhing in a pool of blood belonging to her and her now deceased husband.

My body moves on its own. I snatch the screaming kid under his arms and pull him into the cover of a nearby alley. Why the hell did I do that? I'm supposed to be killing him. Aiming carefully I plug the first shooter in the chest, holding the kid behind me. A bullet ricochets off of the wall right by my head. I'm pinned down. This alley is a dead end and who ever is left out there will stop at nothing to kill the kid. I should leave him here. Every scrap of common sense I have is screaming at me to run like hell. I could make it. I hazard a glance at the trembling child at my back. His dark eyes laced with fear and denial. Fuck. I can't run without him and I won't make it with him. I peek my head out of the alley and pull back just as another shot hits the bricks right beside me. I know the angle now at least. Heaving the kid into my arms I instruct him to wrap is legs around my waist and keep his head down. I think I'm about to get shot.

Taking a deep breath I dash into the line of fire, bullets raining around me. There were more than two shooters. That's unheard of in this game. Only Akatsuki works in teams and even then it's not teams of three. Something strange is going on. I want to slap my forehead for being so stupid but my hands are occupied with the kid and my weapon. This is a shake down. Along with the money Akatsuki's price was the elimination of some competition. Sly sons of bitches.

I zigzag between the parked cars, glass shattering behind me. If I can get around the corner we might make it, assuming that is that there aren't people waiting for us there. I can hear footsteps following me. Anyone who isn't involved in the gun fight has either taken cover or is bleeding in the gutter. I slow my speed, drawing my gun behind me clipping my pursuer, a man with vibrant red hair in the knee.

Pain sears through my body. I hesitated to long blood is now pouring from a graze in my right arm. I switch my gun to my other hand bracing the kid with my right and praying for both our sakes that I don't pass out from the pain. I'm around the corner. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I can see them positioned around on either side of the street, trying to look nondescript. I plug the blonde with the long hair who's pretending to talk on a payphone. The woman across the street takes cover. She's better than most of them. I might have been able to take her if I was unburdened but that unfortunately is not the case.

My saving grace arrives in the form of a very fat cab driver. I ditch my gun and wrench open the door, tossing the pale body into the back seat.

"So where you headed to Mack?" A bullet shatters the cab's left tail light.

"Drive you moron. Drive!" The cab's tires squeal and I swear it's the second most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I throw two hundred bucks at the cabbie and I know he won't ask any questions. I tie a bandana from my bag around my arm and my head swims a little less forcefully. Slumping back against the seat I force my body to relax while not allowing myself to submit to the overwhelming urge to pass out. What a fucking mess I've gotten myself into now. The cab stops a few blocks from my place and tell the disgusting man to drive around the block until we return, waving a wad of bills just out of his reach. I drag the kid from the car. He still hasn't said a word, aside from screaming in fear when I got shot. I kick open the chain link gate to my yard, staggering as I climb the worn back steps to my door, dropping my keys as I go. The world spins as I bend to retrieve them and I have to brace myself on the wall to keep from collapsing. I need pain relievers, and strong ones.

The kid scoops up the keys, holding them out for me. I reach to take them but my stomach churns and I almost empty it all over the stairs.

"Silver square," I whisper to him and he slides the key into the lock opening the door and helps me inside.

I sit on the edge of the tub and spill my stomach contents into the toilet. The kid shifts nervously, wondering what to do. He's in a strange place, with a strange man who is bleeding everywhere.

"Fist-aid kit. Bottom shelf." At least he listens well. I hiss as I dump peroxide over the wound; it stings like a swarm of fucking bees. I'm sure you're all thinking 'gee Kakashi; it's just a flesh wound!' Well, when was the last time any of you pansies were shot? It hurt's damn it! I bandage the wound and it bleeds right through. I wrap it again…and again. Finally it seems to have found enough fabric to contain it. I point to a cup beside the sink as I pop the lid off a pill container. Seconds later I'm swallowing the sweet relief of Tylenol 3's grinding one under my tongue hoping it will get into my system faster.

"Wh-what happened to my parents?" Hmph, so the kid can speak after all.

"What's your name kid?" He doesn't answer. We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.

"What happened…"

"I'm sorry kid. If they weren't dead then they are now." His pale face falls if possible even more. Poor thing. I want to comfort him but I'm somewhat lacking in the role of a father figure. Father figure…of course. I know what to do now.

I run around the room gathering bundles of money and sliding my favorite guns into the backpack along with my favorite orange book. None of my other possessions mean shit to me and I might not be able to come back here. I quickly throw on new clothes, a loose dress shirt and dark jeans.

"Kid! Come on let's go." Fuck, where the hell did he get to. I stick my nose out of the bedroom to see the kid finish dialing a number and bringing my phone to his ear.

"Itachi? Something hap…" I wrench the phone from his grasp, whipping it against the wall.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The child cowers in fear of me.

"I-I was calling my brother." I respond without thinking.

"Who the fuck do you think just tried to kill you!" The kid, if possible, goes even paler. His mind piecing together what I just said. After what seems like five minutes, "How do you know that?" Just my luck, the kid is smarter than I thought.

"He hired me to kill all of you too." The kid takes a step away from me as if I would run at him in a psychotic rage. I can't blame him.

"Relax kid. That was before he set me up. It's nothing personal…so what's you're name?" He hesitates for a moment but quickly realizes the severity of the situation he's been placed in.

"S-Sasuke Uchiha." I nod before rising to my feet. The pain killers have thankfully started to sink in.

"Sasuke is fine but never say the name Uchiha again. It could be deadly. Now come on, we have to get out of here."

"Where are we going? Why am I still in trouble?" I lock the house, dragging him down the back lane before I reply.

"The job isn't done kid. The bad guys don't get paid until you're dead or dying." I flag down the cab, which is probably on his thirteenth time around the block, opening the door for Sasuke.

"But where are we going?"

"We're going to see an old friend of mine." An old friend, hmph, like he would still consider me a friend after what I put him through. Fuck. He is not going to be happy to see me.