This was once an fanfic for an unmentioned film that I collaborated on with three other writers. I decided to do an original version from the perspective of one of the characters that occurs post-fanfic. I may make it a series, each from the perspectives of a different character with a few changes here and there to take out the little bits that made it a fanfic. I hope you enjoy it!
I had a lot of hair and it was moments like these that I considered just cutting it short. I turned to glare at the braid stuck in the door behind me. It was often an annoyance but what could I say, I was rather attached to it. Besides, it was great on undercover missions like this. I tugged it free, impatiently. Here I was, just like in the old days: a black mini skirt up to my butt, a pound of makeup on my face, boobs shoved up to my chin and a .32 Lady Ultra Smith and Wesson hidden in my purse. The only difference between then and now? I didn’t have backup doing a strip tease on stage. I gave the club a cursory glance, trying to hide my disdain behind the veil of a giggling, simpering woman looking for a good time. Places like this made me miss my beloved little village back home in the south of Alsace-Lorraine. It wasn’t hard to locate my mark for the evening. Just some dirty corporate official or another. They were all the same after a time. Just another sucker for a pretty face.
I sauntered and sashayed my way over to the empty table in front of him, just as his companion suit stood to leave. I caught his eye as I slid into the chair, crossing my legs far back enough that he got a full view of them in the black, shiny four inch heels. I would never be blessed with legs as long or as luxurious as Shiloh’s but I was a dancer and could make it work for me in these death traps that people called “fashion”. I’d take sensible pumps any day, if given the choice. This mark required a few…feminine charms, though. I set my purse down on the table, careful to disguise the heaviness of the gun concealed within. There was some singer on stage and I pretended to look over the drink menu placard on the table while I felt him eyeballing me up and down. It would have disgusted me long ago, but if being a member of Project V taught me anything, it was to use my looks for what they were best suited: Killing.
It wasn’t even five minutes before he was sliding into the chair beside me, a drink in hand and an oily smirk on his face.
“You’re far too lovely a lady to be sitting here alone tonight. And without even a drink? Don’t tell me you tee-total.” He put on his best, slimy slurred voice, in an attempt, I suppose, to sound sexy and inviting.
Mon Dieu. I gave out an over enthusiastic giggle, allowing my heavy French accent to work to my advantage.
In truth, I almost always ordered a sour apple vodka if there wasn’t wine. Sophia always used to call them “chick drinks”. It took some time before my experience with American slang allowed me to understand that her comment had nothing to do with actual poultry.
“Oh, then you are in for a treat, my dear. Then might I suggest,” He leaned in as close as he could get without being in my lap, all while pretending to look over the menu conspicuously, “the appletini? My treat of course, since you are new to our country.”
I could have barfed appletini up all over his neatly tailored suit. I gave him a coy, flirtacious smirk and settled in for a long evening, choking down his drink suggestion with a smile on my face.
I looked up at the waxing moon with a sigh, wondering if the other girls were looking up at the same moon. Were they still taking missions too or had they been deactivated. I snorted through the white medical mask over my face. Deactivated. They made it sound like we were computers or robots. I suppose to the big wigs, that’s probably all we were. Just pawns in their war games. What could we do, though? We were soldiers, there wasn’t any other life for killers like us. Whether we became mercenaries, assassins or kept “fighting the good fight”, there wasn’t really any difference. Murder was murder. The only difference was who was pointing the finger and giving the orders. Working for governments had it’s advantages though. Like making murder charges disappear.
It was moments like this, when everything was quiet, looking up at the sky with my foot resting on a 55 gallon drum of decomposing flesh that I missed my team. It didn’t matter how far away from each other we were or what happened, we would always be family. It was moments like this, when I wondered if I was really the only one left…Were the others even still alive? I had written to Sophia at the anonymous PO box she always kept but none of my letters had been answered or returned. Shiloh had gone off the grid as soon as the Project was disbanded, and if anyone was good at not being found, it was her. Leslie I assumed had gone back to her home in Tennessee but no one had heard from her since. She had tendered her resignation as soon as word got out that they were disbanding the Project and scattering us all to the winds, separating us for good. Darcy had disappeared, probably back to Germany but, with that girl, no one knew.
I almost missed the days of being on the run, of the feel of a trusty knife sliding between an unsuspecting ribcage. It was a lot like cutting through a pork roast, the human body. It was funny how superior we viewed ourselves when all we amounted to at the end of the day was a stinking pile of meat. I sneered in disgust before rolling the drum of dead body out into the waters of the swamp. Swamps were always ideal for dumping bodies. They could stretch on for miles and miles and any pieces that escaped would be eaten by predators. Bacteria from the upstream waste plant would help aid decomposition. No muss, no fuss. Disposing of a body was simple. I’d know, I did it for a living. I pulled my black gloves off and walked back towards my car. I hated the nostalgia of the night.
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