Prompt from here.
If you could guess whose faces I imagined when I wrote this you are very, very good. Or you’re in the same universal fandom with me. Off we go now.
A crumpled piece of paper was stuck into her fist right in front of the vintage bookstore she loved. Caught off guard! The redheaded culprit lost himself in the crowd before she realised what was happening. How humiliating it was to the twenty-year old claiming to be the best in the business. Cursing the downside of being off duty, the brunette girl continued to walk briskly until she reached her doorstep. She paused for a moment and bent down, pretending to tie her shoelaces while glancing around for any sign of flaming crimson. Nothing. He was fast and he was no idiot, but nor was she. She knew what it meant.
The little thing in her hand was a message. It was a classic hit-and-run, the easiest and the most desperate attempt of communication between people like them. Some call them assassins. Some other call them sweepers. They call themselves professionals, just because the amateurs boasting about the profession weren’t even worth the title.
The brunette girl stood up straight and pushed open her door just to find the sewing needle she put on the hinge lying on the floor. Break-in. Her hand flew to the holster resting on her belt as she altered her stance. Slowly but sure she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The note could wait. She pocketed the scrap of paper and readied her aim as she delved further into the drawing-room, careful to not step on anything …until all of sudden something moved in the corner of her eyes.
The next thing she heard was a silenced shot. Oh, she knew the sound so well. It was her silencer. She had used it on almost every job she had, and she remembered every single body dropping right after she heard that familiar sound – only this time the only one falling down was her own.
There was the shade of crimson she was looking for. There was the very same flaming red hair that slipped her that unread note. She tried talking. Once. Twice. No word came out – only gasps for air as she hit the floor, blood spluttering out of her lips. He was fast, and he was no idiot. Apparently, she was. Her amber eyes wandered to his blue ones as he wiped his gun clean, smiling down at her.
‘I tried warning you,’ he chuckled, ‘really, I tried. I was hoping you’re as smart as people said.’ He kicked the gun off her hand and bent down to search her pockets. Tears dwell in her eyes. The pain stung and everything began to blacken. She hated it. She hated the feeling of being handicapped in the worst way one could’ve imagined. Where had she gone wrong?
The young man finally pulled out the note out of her pocket, unfolding it with a sigh. He held the scrap in front of her to read.
They are coming for you.
There was where she went wrong. The message was clear. He did try to warn her. She thought too much and too long. Everyone else had told her that her brains would be the death of her, but she didn’t expect it to come this soon. Once again the girl on the floor choked, her perforated lungs screaming for air. Her eyes rested on the first and last mistake she made as she heard his footsteps heading to the front door.
The house went back to its original silence within seconds, the still body of its owner stained with a darker shade of red.