A Hitman's Miss

Chapter One

or, The Inciting Incident

"Fuck this place... I wish I was home," America mumbled as he stomped through the snowdrifts, holding a case above his head. It was already a foot deep, hugging the middle of his calves, and it was still snowing. He made his way to the edge of the roof and sat down on a smaller snowbank, expecting to have a nice seat to carry out his business.

He fell straight through the snow with a yelp. Nearly busted his ass, too.

Clambering back up, he muttered some very distasteful words to the snowflakes as he dusted his pants off.

He set down the sleek gun case, the star-spangled banner sprawled across it, and unlatched it. His hands did not shake, although it was freezing, and he handled the sleek rifle as he would glass, lifting it out of the foam with the utmost reverence.

He took a single bullet and loaded it: that's all he would need for a clean kill. He delicately rested his sniper rifle on the edge of the roof's rim. There was a moment of hesitation before he took off his sunglasses, a minute, almost non-existent pause, caused by one thought: they would hear his brain if he didn't have them on.

All of his thoughts would pour out from his skull from his unprotected eyes, like a flood. They would pick up on everything. It always happened. Without his protection, he was an open book.

But he couldn't see in the dark, clouded area without them off, so he carefully placed them on the ledge, ignoring the burning, twisting wrongness that was churning in his stomach. Just a few moments without his precious sunglasses. His waves wouldn't travel that far in such a short time... Probably.

He squinted through the rifle's sights at the scene and quickly found his enemy and soon to-be-victim in the cross-hairs.

The USSR.

America's blood boiled at just the sight of him. His body had aged well past him, but his young arrogance stayed ripe. The red man stood out on the grey, whiteout background of the blizzard, a perfect target.

This kill wasn't exactly paid for by anyone, unlike the rest of America's work.

It was personal. He'd be paid in this man's blood. The USSR and America had both been Allies in the war, but the alliance had been the only thing keeping them from ripping the other's throat out. Now, nothing was holding America back from ridding the world from the communist scum. He had quickly derived the USSR's basic movement pattern in his small town, and as predicted, the man was right in front of the house America had been expecting.

America scanned the surrounding area, on full alert for any guards or potential witnesses. Whether fortunately or not, the only protection the USSR had was his posse of children, a human Aegis, although there were only three of them present out of many. Each one was branded with the USSR's propaganda. America's fists burned with a newfound hatred on top of his already well-established distaste for the man.

He eyed the largest one, whom he almost mistook for a younger USSR before the kid turned, exposing a light blue stripe on his left. If it weren't for that, America might have accidentally shot him instead of the USSR. He did want those brats out of the way, but shooting kids was a bit too far for him at the moment.

But the children weren't important right now. They'd come later. The sniper readjusted his aim to find the leader again. The communist's head quickly occupied all of the rifle's scope.

"Commie brains for tonight," he mumbled under his breath.

He steadied his grip, aiming right in where the golden hammer and sickle met on the man's face. His teeth dug into his tongue until he tasted blood. America tightened his grip on the trigger, keeping his hands impossibly still.

He pulled.

The trigger and the sound rang through his ears, the recoil slamming the gun back into his shoulder.

He quickly recovered and peeked over the edge to see his kill. The largest of the USSR's children was on top of him. He watched as the kid got up, and pulled his very much alive father with him.

"Oh, fuck."

The kid looked up at his father's hunter, and suddenly, the hunter was the prey.

"FUCK!" America slugged the gun into its case and threw the thing over his shoulder. The sprint down the stairs left him breathless, even as he swung his leg over his motorcycle. He struggled to turn it on in his panic but managed after almost dropping his key.

The motorcycle roared down the car ramp, heading for the road. But hurried footsteps echoed throughout the parking building. In a moment of swift but misguided judgement, America took a sharp left for the flight of stairs. A pit formed in his gut at the first drop and jolt, but that fear was a drizzle in compassion to the giant storm of being found by the group of communists. Each step almost bumped him off his motorcycle, his body shook in a pattern that he never wanted to get used to. He cussed on each sharp drop, with apologies to his motorcycle peppered in.

The speed was worth it, though. America got down all five floors in less than half a minute.

He pulled up the hood of his jacket with one hand, driving out of the building and onto the road with his body held low to the motorcycle to hide his silhouette. He swerved through the sparse traffic, leaning into each turn until his arm almost grazed the pavement.

Finally, the freeway opened up. America finally relaxed into his seat and came down from the adrenaline. "Missed. USSR's kid is gonna kill me," he spat at himself. America sighed and reached up to put his sunglasses down.

He pinched the air on top of his head.

Time froze for a moment.

Frantically, he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. He double-checked his head and face, empty.

He was unprotected.

"Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" America screamed. His heart was racing, thumping almost out of his chest. Finally, he groaned and revved the handle with all he had, causing the motorcycle to speed up to its limit.

America sighed, "Constructive thoughts... Constructive thoughts..." He tried to distract himself with his options: he could go into hiding for a while and hope that the kid who saw him kept his mouth shut. Go on with his life. After all, he was probably too high up on the building to be seen clearly.

"Just kill 'im before he talks," America concluded with a smirk. After all, he knew his strengths, and diplomacy wasn't one of them.

"Easy plan."