heartless ; 𝐭. 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 , 𝟏

01 - mission report

june 2016

THE MOON ILLUMINATED her path down the winding road, her dark brown hair swinging across her face in the slight breeze that cooled her boiling veins. She breathed in short puffs of air, forcing the oxygen in and out of her lungs.

She knew what she was about to do, but her brain couldn't stop her from doing it. No one could, because no one was stronger than Hydra. Not even him, the hunk of muscle and haunted memories, the Winter Soldier. Even he couldn't get them out of his brain. Especially not now, not after he almost killed every one of his little army of friends. The Avengers.

The cool blade of a silver knife rested against her thigh underneath her dress, calming her nerves. Most of them would prefer a gun, a more efficient weapon. But not her. Not Asset 53. She favored the kill, she relished the look of the life leaving her victims' eyes.

Maybe she was a sadist for it, but she didn't mind. She was only doing a job.

Her eyes landed on the wooden, stained red front door of her victim's house. She grinned. Tonight's mission would be accomplished too easily unless they put up a fight. Even so, she thought as she deftly picked the lock, this'll be as easy as cutting through hot butter.

Her lips curled back into an anticipatory sneer. She could practically smell the blood rushing through her target's veins, keeping her alive as she slept through the night that would quickly become her last.

It felt as if she were gliding across the smooth wooden floors, her boots designed for fast getaways(not that she ever needed them). There were only three sounds in the house: the grumbling of the refrigerator, the hum of the electricity running through the house like veins, and the small breaths that were inhaled and exhaled by a dead man.

Perhaps it was her heightened senses that made Asset 53 so different. The ability to sense danger before anyone felt the wind shift on their face, or to smell out an enemy before they appeared around a corner, they set her apart from the rest. From every single one of them.

Walking silently through the house without waking her victim was a feat easily achieved due to the mounds of papers scattered on the floor, a narrow path leading to the bedroom. With a quick glance to a particularly large manila folder stuffed full of what had to be the astrophysicist's seemingly meaningless scribbles, she read the scrambled letters, her training in language letting the Norwegian words rise to the forefront of her mind:

Skjulestedet for torden gud.

The hiding place of the God of Thunder.

Curious, the asset smirked to herself and clutched the folder in her hand, itching to open it and read its contents, but she reminded herself of the inevitable consequences if that were to happen. Her superiors saw everything, and she would no doubt lose her high place in Hydra's ranks if she disobeyed a direct order. Still, she was sure that these documents would prove to be useful.

Placing it back on the table and planning to come for it as she left, the asset felt a satisfied warmth trickle to her hand that would hold the dagger. This discovery had undoubtedly made this mission much quicker.

The dark bedroom was stuffy from the Norwegian man asleep in his bed. She felt her hands start to tingle, her nerves kicking into high gear. It's so close, she smiled in the dim room, and she reached for the sheath on her thigh, pulling out the long, deadly blade. It glinted in the moon's gaze shining in through the opened window, making it look more like a historical artifact than her murder weapon of choice.