FIC: A Girl's Best Friend [Mission: Impossible Ghost Protocol]
Title: A Girl's Best Friend
Fandom: Mission: Impossible Ghost Protocol
Rating: PG-13 for violence. Potentially disturbing content as the violence, non-explicit, occurs to a minor and also committed by a minor.
Character: Sabine Moreau
Length: 1170 words
Summary: "I've killed the best." Written for this prompt at ghotocol_kink, requesting a backstory for Sabine Moreau.
She stands with feet together, hands by her sides, a perfect little statuette. One doll amongst many, a row of twelve.
The man is tall. She cannot see his face; her eyes must stay fixed ahead. His shoes are leather, polished to a shine.
The nuns tell her that she is very lucky. The man is rich and his wife desires a daughter, though neither has the patience for an infant. She is just the right age, they tell her, with just the right look. But she does not want to go. She weeps into the arms of her sisters, bonded not by blood but by circumstance. Eventually, she has to let go.
She sees the man's face for the first time once she is in his car. He has dark hair and blue eyes. He tells her to call him "Michel" and speaks no more for the next twenty minutes. The apartment he leads her into -- and not the estate with lavish grounds as the nuns described -- is sparsely furnished.
There is no wife.
*
"I kill people for money," Michel tells her. He is honest. If there is one thing she appreciates about him, now and in the future, it's that he is always honest with her.
His target is a widower, an important man who has lost his wife and daughter in a car accident. He is protected by bodyguards in dark suits and big guns. To use a woman who resembles his wife would be suspicious. A child, though, should slip under the radar.
Michel tells her in no uncertain terms: act the part and be rewarded, or else.
She plays the part.
The important man thinks with his broken heart and not his head, and so his house with all its guards and barbed wires and locks opens up to her, the lost girl who cannot find her mother. When night has fallen, she slips out of her guest bed, keys in the security code she spied earlier, and lets Michel into the house.
She waits by the door until Michel returns for her. With the door open and the wide world before her, she could've simply stepped out, but she is not so foolish to think she can make it on her own. When they return to the apartment, she asks Michel if he will kill her now or return her to the orphanage. He seems surprised, but only for a moment.
"I have not decided. What would you have me do?"
She knows her answer already: "Teach me to do as you do."
Her forthrightness takes him aback. He peers at her as though she is a novelty, as though the chick he has plucked from the ground has become a hawk.
"All right," he answers with a smile.
The good graces of his amusement will not last long, she knows, but she will prove herself. The nuns have told her once that should no one decide that she is worthy of a new home, she would have to learn a trade. Surely they must be proud that she has taken their words to heart.
*
Arms dealers, drug lords, kingpins, none of them ever suspects the little girl. Most of them actually have a limit to their cruelty and can't imagine an enemy who would exploit such an oversight in their imagination. People would urgently whisper in front of a child, never realizing what keen ears she has. A man who would go nowhere without a bulletproof vest would cradle a small girl close to his heart to comfort her tears.
Michel is not exactly proud, but he seems pleased. He is an exacting teacher, but she is a perfect student.
*
She makes only one mistake.
Jobs are, for the most part, dull. The bullet, the explosion, the well-timed injection are all the culmination of endless hours of reconnaissance, which is merely a fancy word for waiting and taking a lot of notes. Michel tells her: one who enters the profession of murder for excitement is doomed to a short life span.
She has no problem with this, save for the times when they're holed up in an apartment with a broken television and the radio is tuned to the police scanner and she has cleaned their tools a thousand times. When she is fourteen, she befriends a neighbor, a girl her own age. She learns the names of movie stars and the art of nail polish.
After the job is done and they have to leave, Michel kills the girl, her brother, and her parents. When the echo of the gunshots has faded and her tears have dried, Michel tells her, without cruelty, "You must leave no trace."
She remembers this lesson and never forgets.
*
She makes her first unassisted kill at sixteen. She tells Michel after: I want my share. He laughs, pats her on the head, and lets her choose.
There is cash on the table alongside a handful of Krugerrands, but she has long since inherited Michel's disdain for bills and she knows the pitfalls of gold. She has also seen a botched hand-off and watched as it rained bearer bonds.
She needs something easily carried but cannot be burned and will always be valued.
It takes her less than a minute to decide.
The diamond in her hand is cool and perfect. Unyielding, untraceable, and pristine. She is sixteen and she falls in love for the first and only time.
*
"$250,000, non-negotiable."
"That, Monsieur, is an unreasonable price."
"You are in need of quality service provided by a professional. If you require the best, gentlemen, you must be prepared to pay the price."
She watches as they murmur amongst themselves, a consortium whose concerns matters not to her, only their methods. The inevitable request will come; she has done her research.
"We accept that you are the best, but a demonstration will go a long way."
Michel scoffs. "I am not a bakery, gentlemen. I do not offer free samples."
That is her cue.
She feels little when she fires two bullets into Michel's head. He has taught her, but he is not her mentor. He has raised her, but he is not her father.
The men before her, blood splattered and startled, stare at her with gaped expressions.
"You ask for the best, you ask for a demonstration." She smiles. "I believe this should be satisfactory. $300,000 is my fee, non-negotiable." Her smile widens. "Payable in diamonds."
The consortium does not protest.
*
She unties the drawstring, tips the little velvet bag over, and a stream of stars pours into her hand. Smiling, she lets them fall, one by one, over her belly. She imagines herself a goddess, one who bleeds diamonds.
She doesn't think of her sisters at the orphanage, who may have died, may have lived good lives. She doesn't think of that neighboring girl with the gunshot in her head. She doesn't even think of Michel, whom she does not hate but did not love.
There are only her diamonds. She needs nothing else in this life.
Fandom: Mission: Impossible Ghost Protocol
Rating: PG-13 for violence. Potentially disturbing content as the violence, non-explicit, occurs to a minor and also committed by a minor.
Character: Sabine Moreau
Length: 1170 words
Summary: "I've killed the best." Written for this prompt at ghotocol_kink, requesting a backstory for Sabine Moreau.
She stands with feet together, hands by her sides, a perfect little statuette. One doll amongst many, a row of twelve.
The man is tall. She cannot see his face; her eyes must stay fixed ahead. His shoes are leather, polished to a shine.
The nuns tell her that she is very lucky. The man is rich and his wife desires a daughter, though neither has the patience for an infant. She is just the right age, they tell her, with just the right look. But she does not want to go. She weeps into the arms of her sisters, bonded not by blood but by circumstance. Eventually, she has to let go.
She sees the man's face for the first time once she is in his car. He has dark hair and blue eyes. He tells her to call him "Michel" and speaks no more for the next twenty minutes. The apartment he leads her into -- and not the estate with lavish grounds as the nuns described -- is sparsely furnished.
There is no wife.
*
"I kill people for money," Michel tells her. He is honest. If there is one thing she appreciates about him, now and in the future, it's that he is always honest with her.
His target is a widower, an important man who has lost his wife and daughter in a car accident. He is protected by bodyguards in dark suits and big guns. To use a woman who resembles his wife would be suspicious. A child, though, should slip under the radar.
Michel tells her in no uncertain terms: act the part and be rewarded, or else.
She plays the part.
The important man thinks with his broken heart and not his head, and so his house with all its guards and barbed wires and locks opens up to her, the lost girl who cannot find her mother. When night has fallen, she slips out of her guest bed, keys in the security code she spied earlier, and lets Michel into the house.
She waits by the door until Michel returns for her. With the door open and the wide world before her, she could've simply stepped out, but she is not so foolish to think she can make it on her own. When they return to the apartment, she asks Michel if he will kill her now or return her to the orphanage. He seems surprised, but only for a moment.
"I have not decided. What would you have me do?"
She knows her answer already: "Teach me to do as you do."
Her forthrightness takes him aback. He peers at her as though she is a novelty, as though the chick he has plucked from the ground has become a hawk.
"All right," he answers with a smile.
The good graces of his amusement will not last long, she knows, but she will prove herself. The nuns have told her once that should no one decide that she is worthy of a new home, she would have to learn a trade. Surely they must be proud that she has taken their words to heart.
*
Arms dealers, drug lords, kingpins, none of them ever suspects the little girl. Most of them actually have a limit to their cruelty and can't imagine an enemy who would exploit such an oversight in their imagination. People would urgently whisper in front of a child, never realizing what keen ears she has. A man who would go nowhere without a bulletproof vest would cradle a small girl close to his heart to comfort her tears.
Michel is not exactly proud, but he seems pleased. He is an exacting teacher, but she is a perfect student.
*
She makes only one mistake.
Jobs are, for the most part, dull. The bullet, the explosion, the well-timed injection are all the culmination of endless hours of reconnaissance, which is merely a fancy word for waiting and taking a lot of notes. Michel tells her: one who enters the profession of murder for excitement is doomed to a short life span.
She has no problem with this, save for the times when they're holed up in an apartment with a broken television and the radio is tuned to the police scanner and she has cleaned their tools a thousand times. When she is fourteen, she befriends a neighbor, a girl her own age. She learns the names of movie stars and the art of nail polish.
After the job is done and they have to leave, Michel kills the girl, her brother, and her parents. When the echo of the gunshots has faded and her tears have dried, Michel tells her, without cruelty, "You must leave no trace."
She remembers this lesson and never forgets.
*
She makes her first unassisted kill at sixteen. She tells Michel after: I want my share. He laughs, pats her on the head, and lets her choose.
There is cash on the table alongside a handful of Krugerrands, but she has long since inherited Michel's disdain for bills and she knows the pitfalls of gold. She has also seen a botched hand-off and watched as it rained bearer bonds.
She needs something easily carried but cannot be burned and will always be valued.
It takes her less than a minute to decide.
The diamond in her hand is cool and perfect. Unyielding, untraceable, and pristine. She is sixteen and she falls in love for the first and only time.
*
"$250,000, non-negotiable."
"That, Monsieur, is an unreasonable price."
"You are in need of quality service provided by a professional. If you require the best, gentlemen, you must be prepared to pay the price."
She watches as they murmur amongst themselves, a consortium whose concerns matters not to her, only their methods. The inevitable request will come; she has done her research.
"We accept that you are the best, but a demonstration will go a long way."
Michel scoffs. "I am not a bakery, gentlemen. I do not offer free samples."
That is her cue.
She feels little when she fires two bullets into Michel's head. He has taught her, but he is not her mentor. He has raised her, but he is not her father.
The men before her, blood splattered and startled, stare at her with gaped expressions.
"You ask for the best, you ask for a demonstration." She smiles. "I believe this should be satisfactory. $300,000 is my fee, non-negotiable." Her smile widens. "Payable in diamonds."
The consortium does not protest.
*
She unties the drawstring, tips the little velvet bag over, and a stream of stars pours into her hand. Smiling, she lets them fall, one by one, over her belly. She imagines herself a goddess, one who bleeds diamonds.
She doesn't think of her sisters at the orphanage, who may have died, may have lived good lives. She doesn't think of that neighboring girl with the gunshot in her head. She doesn't even think of Michel, whom she does not hate but did not love.
There are only her diamonds. She needs nothing else in this life.