Ficlet!
Before the Slavers...
Before the Dragons...
Before the Battle of Camden Court itself...
Daylight hits.
Lezvie despised daylight hits.
There were too many risks involved, and not enough benefits. But her
client had insisted that this be a daytime venture, so Lezvie had done
all she could to hide her identity. Taking care of her rather distinctive
hair was easy enough; she simply dyed it blonde and plaited it into
scholgirl braids, which she then wound around her head and pinned into
place. Well aware of her youthful face, she dressed in a style that would
mark her as attending a local private school - with a few small
differences, of course.
She had a Browning 9MM strapped to her thigh under the skirt, as well
as knives hidden up either sleeve, ready to drop into her hands with a
simple flick of her wrists. The pins in her hair were a bit longer
than what was considered normal, and she could fling them with deadly
accuracy. A combination of a sports bra and ace bandages flattened her
enough that her guise as a pre-teen was all but perfect.
Her current identity was that of Kirsten Bjørnson, a second-generation
Swedeish immigrant to the United States just going into the eighth grade
at age twelve. She had not broken from that role until just now, on
spotting her quarry.
He was a big man, especially when compared her her lack of height, but
Lezvie had taken on bigger men and won. Something about this man, though,
made her nervous. She wasn't sure if she could pull this off, and she
hadn't doubted herself since her first hit.
Lezvie shuddered and continued climbing up the maintenance ladder to the
roof of an abandoned fast-food restaraunt. Once there, she crept to the
opposite side, peering down on her target and the woman he was conversing
with as she drew her weapon, aiming carefully at the dark-skinned man.
Her finger pressed against the trigger... but she didn't fire. She
couldn't fire. Something in her very being screamed against casually
killing this man as she normally did.
No... that wasn't right. This man... something about him made her think
that if she were to take his life, she would end up regretting it for the
rest of her own. Which probably wouldn't be very long.
With a sigh, she holstered her pistol and rolled away from the edge,
moving back to the other side of the building and climbing down the ladder
again. She almost yelped in surprise when she turned around to see her
target right behind her.
Morpheus.
"I would have aimed a little to the left."
Lezvie blinked. "...Excuse me?"
"I think you would have found that shot to be less than acceptable,"
Morpheus said.
He knew what she was, and would see through any innocent act she cared
to pull, so she didn't bother to pull one. However, she didn't bother to
keep her incredulity from her voice. "You came around to meet me so you
could tell me my aim was off!? I could kill you!"
The black man smiled. It was not a comforting expression. "You could
try."
Lezvie paused, looking him over, and realised that she was actually
afraid of this man. "I don't think that would be healthy," she replied
slowly.
His smile grew broader before he started to walk off. Without thinking,
she blurted, "Just who'd you piss off? I've never been offered that much
on a hit!"
He turned to give her an unreadable glance. "The answer to that would
take too long to tell. You could say it was Hypnos, if you wished."
"Who the hell is Hypnos?"
"The father of Morpheus," Morpheus answered. Then he turned a corner
and was gone.
Before the Dragons...
Before the Battle of Camden Court itself...
Daylight hits.
Lezvie despised daylight hits.
There were too many risks involved, and not enough benefits. But her
client had insisted that this be a daytime venture, so Lezvie had done
all she could to hide her identity. Taking care of her rather distinctive
hair was easy enough; she simply dyed it blonde and plaited it into
scholgirl braids, which she then wound around her head and pinned into
place. Well aware of her youthful face, she dressed in a style that would
mark her as attending a local private school - with a few small
differences, of course.
She had a Browning 9MM strapped to her thigh under the skirt, as well
as knives hidden up either sleeve, ready to drop into her hands with a
simple flick of her wrists. The pins in her hair were a bit longer
than what was considered normal, and she could fling them with deadly
accuracy. A combination of a sports bra and ace bandages flattened her
enough that her guise as a pre-teen was all but perfect.
Her current identity was that of Kirsten Bjørnson, a second-generation
Swedeish immigrant to the United States just going into the eighth grade
at age twelve. She had not broken from that role until just now, on
spotting her quarry.
He was a big man, especially when compared her her lack of height, but
Lezvie had taken on bigger men and won. Something about this man, though,
made her nervous. She wasn't sure if she could pull this off, and she
hadn't doubted herself since her first hit.
Lezvie shuddered and continued climbing up the maintenance ladder to the
roof of an abandoned fast-food restaraunt. Once there, she crept to the
opposite side, peering down on her target and the woman he was conversing
with as she drew her weapon, aiming carefully at the dark-skinned man.
Her finger pressed against the trigger... but she didn't fire. She
couldn't fire. Something in her very being screamed against casually
killing this man as she normally did.
No... that wasn't right. This man... something about him made her think
that if she were to take his life, she would end up regretting it for the
rest of her own. Which probably wouldn't be very long.
With a sigh, she holstered her pistol and rolled away from the edge,
moving back to the other side of the building and climbing down the ladder
again. She almost yelped in surprise when she turned around to see her
target right behind her.
Morpheus.
"I would have aimed a little to the left."
Lezvie blinked. "...Excuse me?"
"I think you would have found that shot to be less than acceptable,"
Morpheus said.
He knew what she was, and would see through any innocent act she cared
to pull, so she didn't bother to pull one. However, she didn't bother to
keep her incredulity from her voice. "You came around to meet me so you
could tell me my aim was off!? I could kill you!"
The black man smiled. It was not a comforting expression. "You could
try."
Lezvie paused, looking him over, and realised that she was actually
afraid of this man. "I don't think that would be healthy," she replied
slowly.
His smile grew broader before he started to walk off. Without thinking,
she blurted, "Just who'd you piss off? I've never been offered that much
on a hit!"
He turned to give her an unreadable glance. "The answer to that would
take too long to tell. You could say it was Hypnos, if you wished."
"Who the hell is Hypnos?"
"The father of Morpheus," Morpheus answered. Then he turned a corner
and was gone.