Snippet #1910257

Sitting up, she pushed herself to the wall where she rested her head on an old empty crate. 

"Forgive me for prying, but I must ask you something: Are you a mercenary or a bounty hunter? Judging by your choice of weaponry, clothing, and your mannerisms I'm inclined to guess that you are a bounty hunter."

His observation was astute, peering through her shallow facade like a window. She brought her hand to her head and brought it through her hair, trying to comb out the myriad knots that had formed in the last few days. It was a shame, really; she had such nice hair, free flowing and soft, silky and clean. She might have to cut it. 

She realized that she hadn't answered his question. It was a seemingly odd one, but perhaps he was trying to a general idea on her background or as to who she was. Deciding that the truth was better, or safer, she answered honestly. 

"A hunter."

She pondered for a moment, trying to think of a question to ask him, perhaps pertaining to her...well...survival. She wasn't unhappy to be alive, but she was now more curious as to what he could want, keeping her well. She decided to probe a little, for the sake of at least learning a little bit about the man she had been hunting from the "Shadow" himself. 

"Why am I still alive?" 

She figured that she could of thought of something better to ask, but she also thought that it was best to move onto the buisness of life and death first. She was a bounty hunter after all.

"I mean--" She attempted to clarify, trying not to give him any ideas. It was curious though, how unviolent he seemed at the moment. She thought him to be a cold blooded killer without the capacity for civilities, not a quiet gentleman with a penchant for saving wounded women. 

"--err...I mean, is there something that you need from me?"

That sounded better. He was partially melded into the darkness, but he didn't seem like he was about to strike. Not that he'd need to try very hard; she highly doubted that she had the ability to fight at the moment, let alone battle a famed assassin. Not that it would've been the first time that she had fought an assassin, she just doubted that her luck would hold up.

It was a few years ago during the high times of her career, filled with  booze, song, and hunts. She was in some nameless, faceless inn at the edge of nowhere, sitting at the bar, thinking about nothing when she noticed the sound of merry drunken song, frantic dance, and womens sheer cries of delight, piercing the air like a bird's call. She had been pursuing a contract, but had very little luck in it, losing him at every turn, much like her pursuit of "Shadow". Having mostly given up, she was in a state of melancholy, hardly interested in the festivities.

"May I sit here?"

A cheery face stared down at her, his bright eyes illiminated in the darkness. He was tall, well-toned, and had short hair, dark and beautiful in the tavern light. She murmured an affirmative as he lowered himself into the chair and she brought her mug up to her face. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. 

"Lovely night, no?"

He was friendly, she'd give him that, but she wasn't quite in the mood for a friend.

"I suppose." She replied stoically, never averting her eyes from the cup. He continued to smile at her cheerfully, never wavering or halting.

"What's the matter? You look down."

Concern was nice, but she'd rather have her target. She glance over at him, taking in his familiar features, but no bells ringing. She would be gracious, it was part of her job, but nothing more.

"My prey escaped, and now I have nothing to hunt."

Maybe not courteous, but fear often worked just as well, but the man sat there, still smiling widly like an idiot. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

She was fed up. She didn't feel like talking, and the man, finally, seemed to realize it. Giving her a little nod, he left cash on the bar and waved goodbye. She sat there stilly as guilt started to wash over her. Perhaps she should've been nicer, even of she didn't want to be. She visualized his features as she sat, the images flowing through her head. His nose, eyes, hair, lips--

The light turned on as her eyes widened and she unsheathed her anxious, hungry blade. She ran out of the bar without paying her tab, looking frantically for the rogue assassin. She spotted him quickly, walking down the lonesome street, as she began to charge, her form sloppy in her excitement. As she neared him, he spun on the spot and disarmed her flawlessly, bringing his fist down on the back of her head. She fell to the ground, scooping up dirt and flinging it at his face in a heartbeat, using the distraction to grab the blade sticking conspicuously out of his boot. She was too late though, as he kneed her in the face and sent her flying back to the ground. He looked down at her, still smiling, as her brought the flat part of his blade on the back of her head, knocking her out. 

When she woke up, he was gone and she was in bed. They said that the man had brought her in, and to a bed, retreating into the night without ever giving his name. Her search ended there, as days later the contract was retracted, his face fading from her memories and from the fliers. 

Were all assassins like that? Kind but stern, smiling but killers? Looking up at her captor in the pale light of the warehouse, she didn't think she wanted a real answer.