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SUMMARY: This is my submission for the "Famous Title Flash Fiction Contest". Enjoy.

He splashed cold water into his face and scrubbed hard with his hands. Partially to wake himself, partially for the pain, the distraction. This was supposed to be his off week. Two on, a hit each week. One off, time to spend with his wife Annie.

Looking into the mirror he saw a stone cold face. "John Sans" he said. "Ace hitman, flop of a husband." The lips moved with the words, but the rest didn't. Cold.

Annie reappeared in his head, it was the last week he had spent at home. She was packing. "I need some time John,"she had said. " I don't think I want this life, I don't want an absentee husband, or father of my children." She seemed sad. Hell. She seemed like an episode of Dr. Jill on Info View. He had followed the code of man, he nodded. She left.

Now his off week wasn't. All he'd known was his wife and the hits, and she's gone. It wasn't hard for his agent, Simone, to find a contract. After all, in the great list of priorities, killing came in a tight fourth after eating, drinking, and shagging. The mark's name was Jacquin Fedder, Mockingbird for the purpose of the contract.

So here he was, on the cruise ship Darwin. It was running a four day trip from earth, around the rings of Saturn and back. Ball dancing was it's big draw, and the gala was tonight.

He stepped back and examined himself in the mirror. The skin tight grey suit covered his entire body. A slim pack rested squarely between his shoulder's. "Tonight," he mused. "Requires something fancy." He stretched his fingers apart wide, activating his finger-type transmitters. A small screen in his contacts appeared, he scanned through wardrobe for something appropriate, but conspicuous. Suit and tails he decided and activated the selection.

The gray suit shimmered and then visually transformed into a long tailed tux, complete with white gloves. He reached behind him for a small canister from his back pack which was now invisible. Placing the tube on the ground he pushed the button on it's side. The top third of the cannister slowly rotated and then opened. Five little nano-ticks crawled out and immediately moved towards and into the ventilation system. John imagined their search for the ship database cables. Three minutes later a blip on his contact confirmed his access to the data base. Quickly moving through the guest list he found Mockingbird. His room key card was sitting at table fifteen in the ballroom, presumably in his pocket.

With the job at hand, John forced his personal life into his back pocket. He reached under bed for his compact suitcase and left.

Walking along the top floor of the guest rooms, John found what he was looking for. A door, one with the eternal "staff only" sign printed boldly in it's center. There was a guard, barely. There was a guy standing by the door. John worked his blowgun, a custom piece, free from the wrist of his suit. He loved ancient cultures, especially their hunters. During his studies he had found the blowgun, accurate, and when used properly deadly.