I look at him and I look at his wife. My eyes dart back and forth between them rapidly, almost cartoon-like in nature. They both look back at me confused by what must looks like very strange behavior coming from me.

We are at a fancy dinner function. Many veterans were invited honoring some general who did a lot of blowing up enemies. I obviously expected to see a lot of high numbers today. I am used to it, this isn't my first rodeo, and honestly not much surprises me at this point. But this. This surprised me.

It is not too shocking when you see a military man with his kill count at zero. It happens all the time honestly. Maybe they are just stationed at base, maybe they are never in action, and maybe they are just a bad shot. But this guy was a war hero. His count should be higher. And his wife... she is a traditional military wife, hosting parties and taking care of the children. Where did this 200 come from?

I start talking to this guy, asking him all sorts of questions. Trying to be subtle but really digging for information at the same time. I ask about his medals, why he is considered a war hero. "Everybody is talking about it and telling me about how brave you are." Flattery and things of that nature.

But he is coy. He doesn't give. He says he saved a lot of his brothers on the field. Okay, so maybe he is a hero because he saved people, not because he killed people. This is possible... But it still doesn't explain the 200 over his wife.

I do notice immediately that they are the same height. And that their physiques are honestly not too different all things considered. She is not particularly curvy, and he is not particularly muscular himself. Is it possible? Could they have? But even if they did, then why?

I ask her a bunch of questions now. How does it feel to be married to a hero? Again, buttering her up. Things of that nature. She remains coy as well. I cannot get anything that I can really use to figure out this mystery. I decide to give up. What ever their secret is, I am not going to figure it out.

I soon start drinking and forget all about it and just start having fun. Every so often I will see that 200 and wonder, but I let it go. I've been drinking so much I finally have to go take a piss. I excuse myself from some military guy's boring story and beeline towards the restroom.

At the urinal, Mr. 0 Kills comes up next to me. We do an awkward greeting. The kind you can only do while you have to acknowledge you know the other person but your hand is on your wiener. As I wash my hands and then leave, he blocks the door. I laugh uncertainly, thinking this might be some weird joke. But as I try to move past him, he blocks me again. From one of the bathroom stalls out comes his wife in her dress. Oh, and she's pointing a gun at my face. Not cool.

Now it is their turn to start grilling me. Why I was asking so many questions. Why I was so curious about their lives. I try to answer their questions without giving away the fact that I had this weird power. I can tell they don't buy it. My eyes dart around so I lunge for her gun in a last-ditch attempt to get out of the situation but slip on a puddle because someone pissed all over the floor. I look up at the ceiling. I hear three loud bangs.

The last thing I see is a large 201.

“Is it hard?” I was just drunk enough to ask. “To kill a man?”

Ed took a long drink from his beer and looked away toward the horizon. The bottle looked small in his hand. It was easy to imagine that hand on a rifle, or a knife, or wrapped around an enemy’s neck. Easy, except for the zero floating above his head that only I could see.

“It’s hard for some people,” Ed said at last. Amber reached over and put her small hand over his. It was hard to imagine that hand killing anyone.

“Was it hard for you?” I couldn’t help myself. I had to understand the numbers.

“Here’s the thing,” Ed said, still looking into the distance. “It depends on your reason. Some guys, they do it for the country. Now, that gets abstract real quick. I don’t even like most people in the country, do you? But if you’ve got a good reason,” he trailed off.

“Every shot I took,” he continued at last. “I took for my wife. Not to keep her safe, none of that nonsense. I did it to make her proud.”

He looked at Amber now, and she looked back at him, and the intensity was enough to make me feel like I was invading their privacy.

“And it worked,” Amber said to me, her eyes still on Ed’s face. Then she turned, and reached for the zipper on the back of her dress. At first I thought she was going to climb on top of him right there, but then I saw what she was showing me. Her back was covered in ink: tattooed tally-marks, and I knew without counting there’d be about two hundred of them.

“I am so, so proud of each of his kills.”

I’m an investigative journalist with a strange skill. I can see people’s “kill count.” I’ve had this skill as far back I can remember, never understood what it meant until much later in my life. That’s probably because for most of my life the “kill count” on almost everyone I met was a big fat zero, even those who claimed to have killed before, for example sheriff Higgins who claimed to have killed at least a dozen skinnies when he was in the army and five perps when he was a street cop. No one really pressed him on his claims since he “doesn’t like talking about it, because it gives him PTSD.” It was in high school when I saw my first non-zero number. We visited the county courthouse and jail for one of my social studies classes, and that’s where I met the Blue Basin killer for the first time. They didn’t know who he was back then, he was picked up for shoplifting and causing a scene outside the local Walmart, but when I saw him and the number 12 on his head, I instantly knew what he was and at the same time what those numbers meant. I guess it was at that point when my career in investigative journalism began.

I’ve met, interviewed and investigated many people with non-zero numbers, even helped solve a few crimes, but solving crimes was not what motivated me to do what I do, I was just fascinated with the stories. I’ve interviewed dictators with some of the highest counts I’ve ever seen calmly talk about their deeds like it’s another day at the office. One of my more haunting stories was with a cashier lady who oddly had a count of two. She had a terrible life of abuse and two dead ex husbands from mysterious circumstances, which were both ruled as accidents. After hearing and verifying most of her stories, I decided not to pursue it any further. It also gave me some insights to how this skill works. For example, your kill count goes up only if you had the intent to kill as well. So accidents, even if negligent, such as drunk drivers who cause a fatal accident won’t raise the kill count. Self defense on the other hand does raise the count. So from a criminal liability perspective, the kill count isn’t that useful.

One of the more interesting stories I pursued was with a couple I met when I decided to shift gears from serial kills and war criminals to those who killed with intention and purpose, but not of their own volition, or quite simply soldiers. The husband, Sergeant Olson, was a decorated war hero who was campaigning on behalf of a veterans relief organization, normally I wouldn’t be interested in any veterans who had a zero count, but the way he talked and the things he described suggested that he absolutely was in the thick of the fight, so his zero count intrigued me, and I asked him for an interview, to which he begrudgingly agreed. The next surprise came when I got to his house and met his wife, who had a kill count of 200. Immediately the interview got far more interesting, I instantly shifted my questions which focused on the war, and focused on their relationship instead.

They met during the war. Sergeant Olson worked as a medic, and he received his decorations for immense number of lives he saved. He said that regardless of how bad the fighting got, he refused to draw his weapon, he also treated anyone he came across on the battlefield, friend or foe and it didn’t take long for the enemy to notice this. On several occasions, the enemy soldiers simply ignored him rather than shoot him, which allowed him to save even more lives. After one particularly fierce battle, Olson was severely injured by an artillery shell, which he seemed to heavily imply came from the friendly side, and was evacuated to the combat service hospital where his now wife, Natalie worked. She worked in the intensive care unit where the most severely injured and for the most part, the most hopeless cases resided. When I heard this, it all clicked. Natalie became the Angel of Death, or mercy depending on your perspective and had put down many of the worst cases. It was one of the most fascinating interviews that I never published, the story of a battle hardened warrior that didn’t take a single life and a healer that took so many. It’s an interesting look at the complexity of life, and easily the best part of having my skill.

200

That seemed odd to me. How in the world could she be responsible for 200 deaths? She seemed so sweet, they both did. I continued to smile as she spoke, but I wasn’t really listening.

203

Wait, what? How did it just tick up? I am literally sitting right in front of her. She hasn’t left the chair in the last 20 minutes.

204

I blink in confusion as she walks away from the table. Drinks. She’s going to grab us more drinks. Maybe I shouldn’t have anymore… after this one.

“I’m sorry, man”, I turn to her husband. “I’m a little sloshed. What does your wife do again?”

Her husband chuckles. “Don’t worry, it’s cool”, he assures me. “She’s a health insurance claims adjuster.”

I turn forward again as she gracefully places the last three drinks down on the table in front of us. I glance up above her head.

211

"You noticed?"

By that time, his wife had drawn her pistol, aiming it at his head. Calmly, he shot her in the side with a stun round. She dropped her pistol, and he caught it, flicking the lever to full-auto and emptying the magazine—all 60 rounds—into her body. As she collapsed, his kill count flickered to a 1, then back to a 0, then after a few seconds it changed back into a 1.

"Y-yes, I noticed..." I was still in shock at what happened. Most notably because of the assassination, but also because of his kill count. "How do you do that?"

"Change my kill count? It's more of a filter, really. Since I've fought against so many terrorists, fascists, socialists, and communists, I've seen what they've done, so they're considered less than human. That's why they don't usually go on my kill count." He stood up, inviting me to follow him. As I did, he continued.

"If I wanted to, I could disable all filters on my kill count to show just how many people I've killed. Besides, I've had Geneva Scanners recording my kills, so no civilian was killed." He stopped at a certain lounge, decorated with lavish paintings, gilded decorations, and expensive wood and velvet furniture.

"I'm not proud of what I did, but I suppose it was just. I'm willing to let you see my true kill count, if you want."

I nodded, and soon after pressing some buttons on his wrist, his kill count shot up from 1 to 7,626,198,989. He noticed my shocked look, and he soon sighed.

"Tyranny is found everywhere in the galaxy. In the universe, even. Just get within a few clicks of an inhabited planet and you'll find some form of tyranny, dictatorship, or oppression."

This was true indeed, considering my experience. Astounded, I asked him "If they can be spared or redeemed, do you allow it to happen?"

"Yes," he said. "Every time they take the offer, I make sure they stay alive....one moment, please." Some officers had arrived. He walked over to them, and after a short conversation, they let him go. Walking back over to me, he explained the situation. "They found out about her. Turns out she was just a murderer killing people for their money. I would have been the youngest of her targets if she killed me."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Only 27, why?" Only 5 years younger than me.

"I think the stress is starting to show its effects." I was talking about his mustache and beard, which were going white in the center.

"It's nothing too serious, Colonel. That being said, I am feeling a bit hungry. Do you want to grab a bite to eat?"

"I could use a good meal, General. Does Terran Tom's sound good?"

"I was just going to suggest that. Let's go."

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He responded, angrily.

“Cut the bullshit man,” I stated. “You know why you’re here. Sitting in this room. I know you’re thinking that somehow I know. The only thing you don’t know is why IM the one sitting across from you.”

“I. Don’t. Know. What. You’re. Talking. About.”

Maybe. Maybe there was the slightest chance he didn’t know. Maybe he was just dumb enough to not think anyone would ever find out. Except I did. Because of my special gift. And someone higher up had to know too, otherwise I wouldn’t be here talking to him. I would have never had the power to question him like this without permission.

“Is this some Mulan type thing or what?” I said, with a soft chuckle.

And then I saw it. That look. For just a split second he gave it away. I knew then, in that moment, he knew what I was talking about.

“You’re wasting your time questioning me. Theres nothing to find.” He said.

I momentarily wondered if he was giving me an answer, or if he was still playing dumb, and decided to toss the distraction and continue questioning him.

“Okay, I’ll play your game then,” I said. I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote a big zero on it. “Explain this to me then. How is it that you, a decorated war hero, who has been on the news multiple times might I add, has the same kill count as a toddler fresh out of the womb?”

I slid the paper towards him, and again saw that look on his face. His facade was fading fast, he was getting vulnerable. Just where I wanted him to be.

“Bullshit.” He said. “I’ve got 200 confirmed kills.”

“Put your hands on the table sir.” I said, not wanting to waste my time listening to his lies. He slowly picks his hands up from under the table, and rests them palms down on the cold metal surface. I pulled out a trigger mechanism from my bag. Just something I brought along to help me close the deal on this specific case.

“Do you shoot right handed or left handed?” I asked, while setting the trigger mechanism on its steel base.

“Right handed.” He replied slowly, with a slight slur to his words. Good, I finally caught a slur. Maybe his secret medication is wearing off? Either way, more evidence for me.

“I want you to pull this trigger as many times as you can in three seconds.” I said to him, sliding the training tool towards his right hand.

He obliged, with a confused look on his face. I pulled out a stopwatch. “3…2…1…Go”

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Only 4 trigger pulls in 3 seconds. Way below average for a man of his status. “Sir, do you know how many rounds the average person can fire in under a second?” I asked.

“No.” He replied dully.

“Well according to FBI research, the average person can fire 3 rounds in under a second. They also found that trained shooters can almost double that number. So its pretty peculiar to me that you are only able to pull 4 shots in 3 seconds. Being the trained shooter that you must be and all.” I stated, watching his eyes the whole time.

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