[WP] Tell me a story about a hitman and his new gun, in a world where guns can talk, have personalities and will only shoot when they believe in the shot.

Couldn't sleep so trying this out. Sorry, my first time

A jagged scar ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth. He rubbed it absently as he stared out the window, watching as the early morning light peeked through the clouds and washed away the darkest of shadows, leaving the city a dull grey. He propped the pistol up in the corner of the window and lit a cigarette. He sighed. “It has to be done today,” said the pistol. “You know this.” The man inhaled the toxins, pushing them deep into his lungs. He held it a moment, reminiscing his first good drag, and exhaled slowly. In a different life he would die from this, the cancerous tumor already forming within his lung, nestled quietly between the secondary and tertiary bronchi where it would go unnoticed until he was too old for anyone to truly care about his remaining lifeline. His wife would be upset, and his kids would lament to their spouses, but no one would think much about it. He was a smoker, after all. Of course, in a different life with different choices, maybe he wouldn't have picked it up to begin with. Maybe instead of turning left down the alley, he would have gone straight, found a nicer bunch, gone to med school. He chuckled. Not med school. He tapped the cigarette over an empty beer can. “Smith.” “I know.” “Today.” “I got it.” A thought occurred to him, the vision of a face from years ago. He dropped the cigarette into the can and pulled himself out of the chair. “Just let me—” “They'll find you if you run.” He turned towards the pistol. “Shut the fuck up, alright? I'm not running. I'm getting my shit together, okay? You got that? Are you reporting to those dipshits now? Tell 'em I'm not running; I just gotta find out something first. I'll be back.” The sun's rays settled over the city, causing the pistol to glint in the light. It had one bullet remaining, the others currently burrowed in the heads of the Agrioli family, all but the youngest member who was still too young to walk. He had been left alone in a crib, the silenced shots enabling him to sleep through the eradication of his family, and later adopted by Luca Moretti, the man who ordered their deaths. “It must happen today, Smith.” The hitman closed the door behind him. The hotel was empty save for a drunken guest who never made it up to his room and a young woman behind the concierge desk. She was ignoring the drunk's wet snores by reading a philosophy text book. Smith brushed past them quickly and moved along, keeping his face ducked down. There was a witness, the woman next door. She wasn't a target; he couldn't shoot. He hoped she hadn't seen his face, but a police report with the sketch mock-up had already circulated the media. His face was on billboards, screaming at people to “Report any suspicious person of like appearance to the police immediately but do not engage: Target is of Violent Nature.” He made a mistake. It's not like he had the most unique of appearances. It got him out of binds before, once when he was a rookie and didn't aim well. The target got away, but he blended in with the crowds, escaped capture, and learned quickly not to mess up again. But the scar... He pushed his thoughts down and grabbed his holo-phone from his pocket. His face popped up immediately, which he slid away. He typed in the street address. It was about four blocks down. Not far. He booked it. The pistol would give him an hour before calling for backup. They'd work together for a few years now. They had some trust. Enough, he hoped.

The street was mostly uninhabited, it seemed. No cars were parked along the side of the road as they used to be back when the city wasn't going bankrupt and people still had loyalty. He feared he would miss his chance. He came to 4108 West Crest Street and stared at the decaying home. The roof was missing tiles and vines had crawled into the foundation, causing cracks to form in some places. The porch was rotting in slowly, the paint faded to a dingy brown. He couldn't imagine someone still living here but a bicycle had been left in the driveway, and he took that as a sign. He walked up the driveway and knocked on the front door. No one answered at first but shortly a small blonde opened the door. A piece of toast hung from her mouth and a baby cried from somewhere within.
She gave him a look, grabbed the toast, and chewed on the bit still left in her mouth. “Can I help you?”
He paused. It was her. Older, a few more wrinkles, but definitely her. He shoved his hands in his pocket. “Yeah, hi, do you remember me?”
“No,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”
“Oh.” He paused. “Well, my name is Sam, and we used to—”
“Sam! Oh my God.” She stared at him dumbstruck. “I didn't recognize you at all. It's been...years.”
“Listen, Kate, I don't have much time. I just...I just wanted to apologize. For back then. For...for what I did.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Her eyes gazed into his and then slid to his scar. She looked away. “You're on the news, you know.”
His heart stopped. His breath caught in his chest. A pain hit him then that he hadn't felt in a long time. He pushed them down. “I'm not here to kill you.”
Her brow furrowed. She glanced behind her, the baby no longer crying but cooing at the voice of another. She closed the door and crossed her arms. “Why did you come here?”
“Kate, when I left you, I was hurt, and I let that rule me, but I never wanted...I...” He took a breath. “I just need you to know that you were the best thing ever in my life, and no matter what you hear about me, it was never your fault.”
Kate nodded, her eyes gliding over to the bicycle in the yard. “He's yours by the way.”
Smith paled. “What?”
“My son, Owen. He's yours. I was going to tell you the day you ran off with those thugs. He's sixteen now. Not anything like you, but he does have your eyes. Soft blue.”
“Oh,” replied Smith. “Kate, I can't—”
“I don't expect anything, and I'm not going to tell him about you, but you deserve to know.”
The baby started crying again, and a loud “Mom!” came from somewhere inside. Kate got on her tiptoes and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Take care, Sam.”

The pistol was waiting on the window sill where he had left it. It didn't say anything when he walked into the room. He closed the door and discarded his jacket on the bed. He sat down in the chair, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the pistol asked.
He thought back to the pain in his chest but found it wasn't the same. “No.” He tapped the cigarette. “But I don't know what I was looking for to begin with, so...”
He finished the cigarette and dropped it into the can. He picked up the pistol.
“What happens to you?” he asked.
“I have not been given any direct orders concerning my future. I assume I will be...reassigned after debriefing.”
Smith grunted in response.
“You were a good partner, Smith. You were good at what you do. You had no way of knowing—”
“Stop making excuses. My whole life has been one fuck up after another, and it's all my own doing. I had choices, and I'll go down with 'em.”
The pistol remained quiet.
“Listen, do me a favor. Tell them to send my payment to Katherine Stein of 4108 West Crest, okay? Just because I'm gone doesn't mean I don't expect a large sum out of this, got it? They got what they wanted in the end. Oh, and go on and send the rest of what I got there too. Make it...”
“Done. No one will know its source.”
Smith held the pistol against his head. He listened to his heart beating in his chest, the city's rumble somehow both clashing and matching its increasing tempo. He thought about Kate, the son he'd never know. His vision blurred, and the city became an Impressionist painting of vibrant colors. 
“Maybe the world is beautiful.”
He pulled the trigger.
/r/WritingPrompts Thread