Returning the Favor

     This is perplexing: he's never had someone fail to die before.

She pulls the knife from her chest and smiles. "Was that supposed to hurt?"

What the hell? he says to himself. Will he ever have a normal job?

He tries to brush off his surprise and says, "Well, considering that I just stabbed you in the heart, I'd say yes."

"I appreciate the cleanliness of the wound," she mindlessly says as her eyes scan the area, her hand covering her still bleeding injury. "It heals faster that way."

"That hit should've killed you."

She smiles at him again. "You're correct. I assume you're not going to try it again now."

"It's pointless, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Shit. At least he already paid me."

"Ah, so you are a hired gun."

"Did the stab to the heart give it away?"

She laughs. "No, it was the skill and speed of the attack. You're good."

"That's why people pay me."

He stays in place while she circles him and the room, swinging the knife that was recently imbedded in her chest.

"Then tell me where your employer is hiding, and I'll have a job for you."

He raises an eyebrow. "I have a tiny sense of loyalty, you know."

"I have the incentive."

"And what's that?"

"We're pretty equally matched skill-wise, but I can kill you and you can't kill me." She stops walking and holds out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you won't leave this room alive."

"Why do you want him dead?"

"He ruined me; I intend to return the favor."

He grabs her hand. "Then you've got a deal."

****

A hired gun and a revenge-seeker working together?

I suppose weirder things have happened, she thinks.

Her temporary apartment was a clean-freak's worst nightmare: it's obvious that the landlord hasn't bothered to dust in months, boxes lay strewn across the floor and furniture, and the peeling paint's original color is indistinguishable. She pays only cash every month for it, under a false name, of course.

She makes room by removing the boxes off the couch. "It's livable," she says to her guest.

"That's the only thing that matters," the hired gun responds. He collapses into the space she made for him, showing a calm exterior toward an unkillable girl.

He runs his finger across the dust that's gathering on the top of the couch. "So," he starts, "what's the vendetta you have against Trémaux?"

"Why are you interested in the details of a job?" she retorts from the kitchen area, where she's trying to find something edible.

He raises his hands in surrender. "Can't a guy be curious?"

"Not about things he doesn't understand."