The job wasn't difficult. Not for the Cleaner's.

The appetizers were a pair of short-range missiles, lobbed into the precise location of the ventilator system. And hadn't the location cost a pretty penny? Fortunately it wasn't their money after all. The donor who paid for this hit had said to spare no expense. Murphy expressed the opinion that those words might indeed be his favorite phrase.

Of course, Mr. Camier begged to differ. He much preferred, "Let us take to our bed." Mr. Camier was the romantic sort.

In any event, the operation went as smoothly as they always did. Mr. Murphy felt that he and dear Camier could well have conducted orchestras, but then assassination is an art more ancient than a symphony.

The patron had said, "Leave no one alive."

It might have been considered a waste, but once the Cleaners moved in to the laboratory, the work was a pleasure.

Death was an art that should be practiced by professionals. It should be elegant. The victims should not have time to feel fear. With the perfect kill, there should be doubt as to whether the stunned expression on the corpse was astonishment or awe at the honor of being the center of such a well planned endeavor.

These barbarians in this place deserved to die. If the Cleaners were not such sound businessmen, they might have returned the patron's money and done this as a gratuity.

Murphy delicately overturned a body, checking for signs of life. Mr. Camier scuttled around a corner, all odd angles and lean muscle, beautiful yet to Murphy's eyes. Well matched predators, there was never a moment when they were not aware of each other and of every movement in the lab. Although the lab would be destroyed in a fire so hot that all evidence would be destroyed, it would not do to leave a living victim. They can cause trouble in the long run, interfering with the final steps of sanitation.

A final room, past autopsy tables of mangled female corpses, past jars of deformed children in preservative fluid, past things beyond strange that lunged at the Cleaners through thick glass.

A scuttle of movement and then no more. There was a startled wail as the man dropped the child with whom he had been struggling.

"What the bloody hell was the bastard doing?" Camier asked as he checked the bio-hazard suit- clad body.

"I believe he was trying to dispose of evidence," Murphy said, stonily. He kicked at a syringe that had fallen.

The child was a little boy. He may have been five or six. His huge green eyes looked wild as he crouched in a corner, a broken glass clutched in his hand. That he was able and willing to use the improvised weapon was evident by the tear in the corpse's suit.

"He did say everyone," Murphy remarked.

"But my dear Mr. Murphy," Camier said, "It is my birthday."

"True," Murphy said, studying the child. He was a beautiful little boy, naked, leaner than he ought to be, but well formed.

"How often have we said that our love gives us only one regret...that we have no son to teach our ancient art?" Camier asked.

"Often," Murphy said, "Most often." "Well, boy, can you speak? Do you wish to stay here or would you like to come with us and be our son? Have you parents?" Murphy asked.

"They killed them," the child said. He blinked rapidly, but didn't shed the tears. He also did not lower his weapon, despite the trickle of blood coming from his hand.

"Ah, most unfortunate," Murphy said. "We can teach you how to avenge them."

The eyes studied the Cleaners carefully. "I can hurt the bad men?"

"Definitely," replied Camier.

The glass dropped to the ground.

OooOooO

Clad in a lab coat, the child trailed through the building in the wake of the Cleaners. He didn't complain nor ask questions but his green eyes seemed to take in every detail. He was made of the right stuff.

Watching later as the building was consumed with flames, the child finally wept. Mr. Camier held him to his narrow chest, rocking the boy. When the tears stopped, Camier said, "That's right. You never show emotion when you are vulnerable. Only when you are safe. And, my dear, the only safe place will be with us."

The boy put his arms tighter around the assassin's neck and said, "I'll be good. I'll be your good boy."

"Yes, you will," said Mr. Camier. "And what shall we call you?"

"My name is Alex," the boy said, "Alex Kraichen."

"We shall keep the Alex," Camier said, "but our son should have our name. What do you think of Alexander Camier-Murphy."

"Long," remarked the child. He frowned and repeated, "Alexander Camier-Murphy. I'm Alexander Camier-Murphy."

"Right," Camier said. "And how old are you?"

"Six," Alex said. "My birthday was in June."

"Charming," Camier said. "We shall celebrate mine today whence we return. You are my birthday present, Alex."

"And don't say I never get you anything," Murphy said fondly, enjoying the sight of his beloved with their newly acquired child in his arms.

"Never, Mr. Murphy," Camier said. He sighed happily. "How delightful. We shall be a cozy little family."

OooOooO

Much later that night, Mr. Camier draped over Murphy's lap, his tight haunches red with handprints. "A splendid birthday spanking," he remarked. "You do have the right touch, my most beautiful partner."

"And now, my darling," Mr. Murphy said, flipping his lover onto the bed. I have something else to give you."

And for Mr. Camier, it was a very happy birthday, indeed.

The end