Iplier and Septiceye One-Shots/Imagines

Target (Wilford Warfstache X Hitman!Reader)

Suggested by: AntisepticeyeInHell.

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"Here's your money. Thank you for your hard work," the man in the suit said, smiling slightly.

"Hey, it's my job," you sighed, pocketing the cash in your duffel bag, in the side pocket beside the sniper rifle. "I just do it for the money."

"Of course you do," he smirked.

"Goodbye. If you need any more of my services, you have my card," you said, and zipping up your coat.

"Yes, I do. And I'm keeping it. I know now how helpful it is to have the number of a freelance assassin," he laughed, but quietly, nodding to your business card on the kitchen counter a few feet away. "You're quite good at what you do. I saw it on the news. Biking accident, huh?"

"It was simple, Mr. Donovan," you told him, calling him by his last name, like a professional would. Because that's what you were. A professional killer. "Mr. Nicholson bikes around the neighbourhood every Sunday morning at exactly eight thirty-five each week. I just had to run a bit of mechanical work, and boom. The chain slipped off the gears and he fell down into the river a few streets down from his house. The cold water put him into shock, and he drowned. An... unfortunate accident." You smiled grimly.

"And how did you know that it would kill him?" he questioned you, wanting to know how you did it so easily and efficiently.

"Simple. He has a large pool in his backyard, but only his wife uses it. She doesn't even ask for him to come in, but they aren't in any disagreements, so it isn't because they don't love each other. He doesn't have any wounds or diseases that would stop him from going in the water, so it isn't that either. Therefore, the only logical conclusion is that he just doesn't know how to swim, and if you include the shock factor from being in cold water at such an early time of the day with no one to help...." You finished putting on your gear, and turned to leave.

"You know, you shouldn't be going around telling your methods to everybody. Someone might hear in this apartment complex." His smile widened a bit. "Or I could tell."

"No, you won't," you sighed, fixing your hair. "I have a contract on you, too." And with that, you pulled out a silenced pistol from the back of your pants, and shot him. He fell back with a thud, dead before he could hit the ground. You picked up your card from the counter, making sure you didn't leave a trace of anything that could lead back to you. Satisfied with your work and that fact that you knew you would have no correlation to his death when the police found his body, you left his room, and closed the door softly behind you.

After you made sure it locked behind you and checking the scrambler you put on the security cameras to make sure they wouldn't see you entering or leaving, you knocked on the door beside Mr. Donovan's. An elderly lady stepped out, and peered at you through heavily-glassed wire framed spectacles.

"Hello, Ms. Graves. Just want to pop by to say my job is done. You won't be getting any more loud noises from your next door neighbour," you smiled, nodding towards the door you just exited.

"Oh, thank you so much, dear," the old woman smiled as she put down her cat, the name of which was Mittens. "Here's your money." She handed you a fat wad of hundred dollar bills. "Ten thousand, right there."

"Thank you so much." You put the money in the pocket with the others.

"Would you like a cookie, dear? I just made them." She handed you a tray of soft-baked chocolate chip cookies. Who knew a kind old lady with such a stereotypical life wanted someone dead?