Weapons & Amour – Bring Your Kids to Work Day!
It was supposed to be a simple job.
One rooftop. One target. One clean shot.
Instead, a professional assassin discovers his guns can talk — and they have opinions. About morality. About career choices. About his love life.
Now trapped in a rooftop hostage situation with his own emotionally needy firearms, he must survive unsolicited parenting advice, off-key musical numbers, and the horrifying possibility of self-improvement.
Because sometimes the most dangerous thing in a hitman’s life…
is personal growth.
Unexpected Complications
A quiet street.
3:17 a.m.
Hospital side entrance.
From a rooftop across the road, a sniper rifle rests steady against the ledge. Its scope is trained on the door.
The target exits.
She hugs a colleague. Laughs. Adjusts her coat. Alone now. Walking toward the bus stop.
Wind: calm.
Distance: ideal.
No witnesses.
He exhales.
Gentle pressure on the trigger—
“She’s pretty.”
He drops the rifle.
In one fluid motion he draws both handguns, sweeping the rooftop. Clear. Empty. Locked access door behind him. No movement. No shadows.
“Ow. Careful.”
The voice is small.
Childlike.
He turns in a slow circle.
Nothing.
“Where are you?” he asks, calm but lethal. “Come out. I won’t hurt you.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m right next to you.”
His jaw tightens. “Kid, I don’t see you.”
“Look down.”
He looks.
The sniper rifle blinks.
The scope has an eye.
The barrel has a mouth.
“Hi!”
He stares.
“What,” he says carefully, “are you?”
One of his pistols twists in his hand and looks up at him.
“That’s easy. It’s a sniper rifle.”
The other pistol sighs. “That’s not what he meant.”
He faints.
New Friends
Voices.
Arguing.
“This is your fault.”
“I answered correctly!”
“Will you both shut up?”
He opens his eyes.
His guns are gathered around him.
His sniper rifle — now blinking nervously — leans nearby.
“…What happened?” he croaks.
“You fainted,” says the rifle.
“I don’t faint.”
“You did,” says a small voice from inside his duffel bag.
He freezes.
Slowly opens it.
A compact SMG looks up at him cheerfully.
“Not in here, dad.”
He screams.
“This isn’t happening.”
“What’s wrong with father?” the SMG asks.
“Head trauma,” says a handgun.
“Stress,” says the sniper. “Stress makes people faint. I read that somewhere.”
“I am not your father,” he growls.
The guns exchange looks.
“Then what do we call you?”
“You don’t call me anything. You are metal. Inanimate. Equipment.”
“…Equipment,” repeats the SMG softly. “That sounds cold.”
Insert Name Here
He grabs the sniper rifle and moves back to position.
“This hallucination can wait. I have a job.”
The target waits at the bus stop below.
“She’s definitely a nurse,” whispers the rifle.
“She is the target.”
“That’s a terrible name.”
“It’s not her name.”
“Oh good. Because mine is Barrett.”
“…What?”
“Barrett. That’s me.”
From the bag: “I’m Suzie!”
“I’m Glock,” says one pistol.
“And I’m Luger,” says the other.
He closes his eyes.
“Of course you are.”
“Do you like our names, dad?” Suzie asks.
He twitches.
Dating Advice
“So,” says Barrett, “are you going to ask her out?”
“I am going to shoot her.”
Suzie gasps. “With a bullet?”
“That sounds unhealthy,” says Glock.
“It won’t hurt,” he mutters.
The guns relax.
“It will kill her instantly.”
Collective gasp.
“That sounds like murder,” says Luger.
“It is murder,” he snaps. “I am a paid assassin.”
Silence.
“That seems like a difficult way to make friends,” Glock says gently.
“I don’t need friends.”
“That checks out,” Luger replies.
Career Counselling
“You could retrain,” Suzie offers.
“As what?” he hisses.
“Doctor?”
“Scientist?”
“Postman.”
“Elephant.”
“You can’t just become an elephant,” Luger says.
“Of course you can,” Glock argues. “Dream big.”
“You could start a family,” Suzie says brightly.
“I hate children.”
The guns go quiet.
“…But we’re children,” Suzie says.
“I know.”
Stress Relief
“That’s it,” he shouts. “I am ending this.”
He raises Barrett.
Barrett slowly rotates.
Now the barrel faces him.
“Don’t point yourself at me.”
“But then I’d be rude,” Barrett says.
“You are not sentient!”
“Then why are we talking?”
He grips his head.
“You are tools.”
Suzie gasps. “Tools?”
“Yes. Tools.”
“…Dad’s angry,” whispers Glock.
“You are not my—”
“You know what helps when I’m upset?” Glock interrupts.
He collapses to his knees.
“No.”
“A song!”
Before he can protest, they begin singing.
Off-key.
Loud.
Cheerful.
Repetitive.
It has hand motions.
They don’t have hands.
He sobs.
The Final Assault
The song finally ends.
“Well?” asks Suzie. “Feel better, daddy?”
A bus engine roars below.
He snaps to the scope.
Empty bench.
Bus driving away.
“No. No no no.”
He shoves them into the duffel bag and bolts for the stairwell.
“You’ll see her again!” Barrett calls.
“You don’t understand,” he pants. “If I don’t complete the contract—”
He misses a step.
Tumbles.
Hits every stair.
Lands broken at the bottom.
He can’t feel his legs.
Blood fills his vision.
Footsteps rush toward him.
A face appears above him.
“It’s okay,” she says. “My name is Alice. I’m a nurse.”
From the duffel bag:
“It’s The Target!” Barrett whispers excitedly.
“I knew she liked us,” Suzie adds.
“You’re lucky I missed my bus,” Alice says gently. “I heard screaming from the rooftop.”
She leans closer.
“Can you tell me your name?”
He coughs blood.
Looks up at her.
“…Bob.”
Inside the bag:
“Bob,” Suzie repeats happily.
“That’s a nice name, dad.”
He closes his eyes.
For once…
He doesn’t argue.
Featured Lore
Latest Lore
Random Lore
Oldest Lore