Red Thirst

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It's been a few months since her last job, and Jen was starting to get antsy. Her work wasn't exactly heartwarming, but she knew there wasn't by any means a shortage of evil in the world to exterminate. That's ironic, coming from her, but Jen tries to tell herself she's doing some sort of good by eliminating her marks. How would she be able to pull the trigger otherwise? She tries to not ask questions. After all, it's not really her job to know why someone wants this person or that person killed. She just does the killing, and she's good at it. However, she's not shy when it comes to probing for information that will be useful depending on the chosen method of assassination. If they want her service, they'll have to cooperate.

Genevieve, or Jen, had quite a reputation in the murder-for-hire community. She wasn't picky with her clients or her targets, she was quick, she was clean. The Russian training program she took part in beat her bloody for nearly 7 years, requiring all sorts of humiliation and torture. No dipshit would've enjoyed that, but she remembers the way her heart pounded in her chest and the slight grin that formed on her face during the graduation ceremony. There were only two others that managed to make it. Despite the overwhelming number of bad memories, the experiences that broke her, she holds tight to the good ones. Sneaking off to some hallway closet and having conversations–really talking–with Mitch, beating Minnie in combat training, helping train younger recruits. She doesn't regret pushing through it. Nothing could add up to the pain she experienced growing up. Now of course, she's cut all ties to Russia and that mob of psycho-bitches. After realizing what they wanted to use her for, she backed off. But one doesn't simply "back-off" from Russia. She fled, and concealed herself. She never felt safe anymore, but there's an excitement to being chased.

Right now, Jen is in a small town called Dalry, Minnesota. Close but far enough away from home. Her real home. If a few states away is still considered close. Making her 6 am coffee, one sugar one milk, Jen pulls a white mug painted with black cat whiskers out from the cupboard. This was one of her two own lodgings, a small one-story house with a porch. She kept her grass cut, bushes trimmed, and paint neat. Plain, but neat. Inside there were mild decorations and furniture, enough to make the place look livable. Jen loathed doing the dishes, so she bought a handy countertop dishwasher that works perfectly for one person. After finishing her cup, she rinses it out and sets it in the sink.

I'll wash it later, She thought to herself.

Sitting down on the couch, the loose ends of her PJs flowing with each step, Jen clicks on the tv. Being here for weeks has left her with nothing much else to do. She tried painting, but the second she felt like she was actually getting somewhere, her phone beeped, scaring the sh*t out of her. The stroke of pale green she was in the middle of making–she was going for a misty forest landscape–swerved abruptly off course. Turns out it was just a notification to a game she had downloaded the night before. She should really throw that phone away.

Before she knew it, she was dozing off, the remote falling out of her hands and the noise from the television acting as some decent white noise. It didn't last for long. A sharp, loud knocking sound sent her straight to her feet–someone was at the door. Luckily for Jen, she stashed some sort of weapon in every spot of the house where she might be sitting or staying a while–the couch (the right side), under the table, under her pillows, in different drawers...She quickly grabbed the dagger she shoved inside the crack between the arm of the couch and the seat, placing it into her sleeve as she approached the front door with caution. She didn't know what was out there. What if it was just a neighbor? She didn't want to put a knife in just anyone's face.