Iplier and Septiceye One-Shots/Imagines

Prey (Wilford Warfstache X Hitman!Reader)

Suggested by: Alexa-chan3.

Part two to "Target".

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Life's been fine, even though you missed that one target. It was the only one, and people still knew that you were, mostly, very capable of your work. Wilford Warfstache was a piece of work, and they knew that. They didn't underestimate him.

You, on the other hand, beat yourself up about it every day.

It wasn't often you let a target get away. In fact, before Wilford, you had a one hundred percent success rate. And he ruined it. He ran off, too, it wasn't as if he beat you in combat. He just... scampered, like the coward that man was.

Enough about that. You needed the mail, so you could get that at least done and over with.

"Where are my keys?" you muttered to yourself as you rummaged through your bedside drawer in search of your mailbox key that every tenant had in the apartment. Found them.

There was nothing inside the mailbox but a package wrapped in pink wrapping paper and some bills for other things. You took them out and headed back to your room to open the box.

"What the hell?" you muttered as you saw a fat stack of money and an envelope. "What sort of idiot sends money through the mail?" Searching the envelope for any name, you just skimmed through the rest. No name, but a lot of money, at least half a million. Who... or what... did your anonymous client expect you to kill this time? You assumed it was a client, because who else would send you this much money?

Maybe you should just read the letter to find out.

I know you, and that's good enough.

I need someone dead. You know him but aren't close to him.

Remember your last client?

I need him dead. The other half of the money will come when you're done.

"Other half of the money?" you muttered. This was already more than you usually ask for jobs, but a bit short for anyone important, like Wilford. Did you have to kill him again?

No, the person said your last client. That was the man that ordered Wilford's death. Someone needed that man dead, but how did he know that he paid you to kill someone? If you didn't kill him, would he reveal your secrets?

With these questions swirling in your head, you ran upstairs to get changed.

He was sitting in the lobby of a fancy hotel. You never even knew the name of the man that wanted you to kill Wilford Warfstache, but you didn't need to. He was going to be dead by the end of the day, anyway. You already had a plan to get rid of him. He was going to be in a meeting in half an hour in a building that was exactly seventeen minutes from this hotel, if traffic was optimal, and then he was going to pick up a cab and drive to a small café, where he was going to meet his girlfriend. He would be back before five, which would be when he was going to go to his room and get dressed to pick up his wife and bring her to a fancy restaurant. That cheating bastard. It sort of made you feel less bad about killing him. If you even cared in the first place.

"This is going to be too easy," you muttered, turning away and stepping into the elevator and pressing number fifteen.

You heard footsteps as you planted the poisonous gas in his vent. You didn't mind it; he was already gone. The footsteps passed, and you closed up the vent, hopping down from the desk and wiping your footprints off of it.

You observed the man walking his wife to the hotel, and heard him say, "I'll be home tomorrow, but you know why I have to stay here."

"I know, dear," said the woman. "I love you."

"I love you too, darling," the man replied, and kissed her forehead. With a wave and a quick goodbye, the man left. The woman somberly sighed and turned away to hail a cab. You didn't follow her though, for just a few minutes later, the man who was alive and cheating moments before fell from the fifteen-floor balcony, killing him upon impact.

The next day, the news said something about some fumes from the furnace had been mistakenly drafted into a few rooms, causing four minor injuries and one death. He had jumped from the balcony in hopes that he could get the agonizing gas out of his lungs. Unfortunately, it didn't occur to him that people couldn't survive a fifteen-floor fall.

You put down the calming cup of tea on the table on your right and grabbed the remote to change the channel. Then the doorbell rang, making you groan quietly.

"You remember me, don't you, dear?" you asked as soon as you opened the door. Wilford Warfstache was standing in the doorway with a package the same shape and colour as the one you had gotten yesterday.

Wilford-fricking-Warfstache," you scoffed, leaning against the doorway. He smirked, and you scowled. "My one mistake."

"I apologize about that, madam. That's why I sort of... paid you a little extra," he said and handed you the box. "It's the other half."

"You... you're the one that paid me?" you asked as you took it. "Come in, before anyone hears us." You ushered him in quickly and made him a cup of tea, which he took gratefully. You placed the package on the countertop to open later.

"I am. I did it for two reasons," he said as he played with a revolver, taking the clip out and putting it back in rapidly as if bored. "I couldn't have the man that murdered me walking around still holding a grudge."

He paused for a second, so you prodded him. "And the other reason?"

"I needed another chance to see you again," he smiled. "I do believe we started off on the wrong foot the last time we met."

"I'm pretty sure we did. I was paid to kill you and you were the one that had that revolver pointed at my cranium." You sighed bitterly at the memory, still unable to forget about it.

"Yes, that's how I also remember it," he said, a bit sheepishly. "But anyway... that's your money. It's enough for the "accident" and my apology, yes?"

"I'm a trained and hired assassin, made to kill anyone, anywhere, at any time, for a whole lot of money. Most times, more than a normal family makes in a year. My whole life depends on money and the people I kill for it. Ask me that question again," you mocked. He raised his hands in mock surrender and stood up.

"Very well. Maybe we can get in touch, and I can give you something else," he smirked. "Call me, darling." With that, he left the room.

"I don't have your phone number, idiot!" you called to him as you heard your door shut, but he didn't come back in and give it to you. Huffing more in amusement than in annoyance, you went to open the package.

There wasn't an envelope this time, just the money, and a small sticky note.

It had a phone number on it.

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Word count: 1221