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You can’t do that just yet — there are so, so many other things you could do first.
Oh, but you can’t. You have no Earthly idea what suffering entails.
Dia just retreated upstairs, looking absolutely murderous — which is only appropriate, as that’s what she’s doing right now. But did she really have to take so long with it? Sis’s screams are already disturbing you, though you can’t hear a lot through the soundproofing. Knowing Dia, Sis isn’t gonna not gonna make it much longer, but that doesn’t mean Dia won’t resuscitate her and continue the torture for as long as she sees fit.
You’ve always been fully and completely aware of the fact that you are a shitty person. Two-faced bitch, a manipulative asshole, an ice-hearted and unrepentant bastard, ruthless, unforgiving… You could likely go on for hours. For as sweet as you are to the ones you love, the ones you hate see an entirely different person. Despite your massive guilt complex, you can’t summon up even the slightest bit of self-hatred in regards to your two sides. The best you can summon up is a dry chuckle, a shrug, and a “Well, I am a Gemini after all.”
Aforementioned loved ones rarely see the darker side. You worry sometimes that they aren’t aware of it, but you’re almost certain they are. There’s no way they wouldn’t be, really, considering your line of work. It’s practically a requirement to be brutal and merciless. But, if they somehow have remained oblivious to it, you don’t figure it’ll last much longer. This is the first time that one of your loved ones has crossed the line from the good list to your shit list. And even as shitty as you are, you hold true to your word. Stop means stop, no means no, and when you promise someone will not live to see another sunrise, they most certainly won’t.
Even if you used to call that person your sister.
The interference was really just a bonus. You figured Broderick was too busy with his cutesy-wutesy boyfriend to handle the job, and you… Had a long, long list of excuses. Laziness, disinterest, didn’t want bad blood on your nice suits, and your chest pains would prevent you from really handling things as you wished to. It’s just your luck that someone with the right amount of brutality would step in, so of course you just handed the job over. You are completely confident that your new acquaintance will do a good job. And hey, you might just get an ally out of it if you play your cards right. You like to think you’re pretty goddamn good at playing cards, anyway.
You dye the dress you sewed black and tuck it into your closet to be tailored to fit someone else in the future. You take back everything you gave, clean up the paperwork, and get everything nice and in order. Then, you go on about your life as if nothing had ever happened. You don’t sleep any worse at night than you normally do.
There is not a single drop of regret in you.
After all, you certainly were generous with your forgiveness and warnings.
You know exactly where she is going with this, and it’s nowhere good. “No,” you whisper, then, just in case she didn’t hear you, “No!” a little more emphatically. By now she has you by the hair, her fingers twisting in your cowlick and yanking you forward expectantly, and you’re practically screaming “no!” into the inside of her thigh and tearing your own throat open with your vehemence.
She cusses at you, and you know she’s awake. “Finally,” you whisper, and a smile splits your face. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Without sleep, without food or drink — waiting. Waiting for her to wake. Because you want her to be awake for this, oh yes. She deserves to be mentally present for her moment of redemption.
Technically, it’s not just you. Heidi’s on a roof, sniper scope trained on a certain window of Paris Las Vegas; Jacq’s creating a diversion in the hotel proper while Chloë tampers with the air vents leading to room 39. For your part, you’re waiting in the bistro of this hotel, enjoying a preemptive glass of champagne. Yes, you’re overconfident. There’s no way she’s escaping this time.
The chatter on your earpiece makes you smile, but you hide your fanged teeth on the lip of your glass. “Got ‘em off your tail,” Jacq whispers, the sound immediately followed by a hiss. You tap the plastic — interference right now would ruin everything — but then Chloë’s on the line. “Flooding now.” Though arson’s her specialty, she’s decent with paralytics, and she just triggered an aerosol that’s seeping into the room right now. ”No visual.” Heidi’s been quiet so far, but you needed to hear that. It means the room is fogged and the target has no way to avoid the toxin, or the target’s dropped from poisoning.
“Acknowledged, covering requisition.” You have no time to waste. Slipping a crisp hundred under your glass, you stalk out of the bistro and towards your ultimate goal. “Go, go, go, you don’t have much time,” Jacq warns you, but it’s nearly effortless to bypass the security on the target’s lock. “Still toxic in there,” Chloë confirms, and you slip on a low-profile gas mask before you open the door.
She’s collapsed in the middle of the room. Somehow, she looks much smaller than you remember. She was only an inch shorter than you, but she’s lost so much weight that she looks more like a shrunken skeleton. “Hrm.” Executing her may not be as fun as you had planned — she’s done an excellent job of killing herself. Getting your shoulder underneath her body, you hoist her up and sling her over your back, her hands hanging down to hit the backs of your knees. “Deuce, I need you on exit 7. Boxcars, get down. Noire, I need the car.”
Of course something had to go wrong. Something always goes wrong. Right now, though, you have an alibi. When the hotel staff approaches you, you put on your best face of distress and wear your most trembling voice. “She just collapsed, I don’t know what to do, I have to take her to a hospital, I’m taking her, she’s gonna be okay,” and before the staff can stop you to ask why you didn’t call emergency services, you’re in the fire escape stairway.
Jacq’s behind the wheel once you get out of the hotel; Chloë opens up the back of the van. A weight is lifted from your shoulders, and then Heidi throws the body onto the floor, ragdoll-like. When you glare at her, she merely shrugs. “Deserved it.”
You don’t doubt that for a second, but you want her intact. When you climb in after her, you make sure to check her breathing, her pulse — yes, still alive, vitals strong. To make sure she doesn’t wake during the trip, you tie a chloroform-soaked rag around her head, clogging her mouth and nose with chemicals. “Go,” is all you have to say in order for Jacq to peel out of the parking lot, wheels squealing.
Wagner — Strider — is yours.
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