The place he was sitting was not exactly comfortable, no, but he’d sat upon many an unpleasant thing. Rocks, dicks, that one time where he literally had to lounge around in a tower like he was a princess waiting for his oh so lovely prince. Not that his knowledge about Disney princesses- or any other princesses for that matter- was completely rounded out, but he was at least relatively sure most damsels didn’t carry a sniper rifle in a trombone case.
Then again, Disney always surprised him. Not in a good way, but definitely in a way. Maybe they’d come up with a battle princess who only cowered behind their ‘prince’ who was secretly some new Luke goddamn Skywalker and instead the prince would go on to bang the Han Solo of the movie. Wouldn’t that be a twist! He couldn’t wait to see that in an animated kids’ movie. Fuck, he’d even go so far as to actually buy the tickets and see it in theater.
That didn’t really matter right now. He was finished assembling the aforementioned sniper rifle. The case had been discarded somewhere- who the fuck cared where, he would find it later- but for now it was simply lining up the shot and pulling the trigger. This was the usual. The job didn’t seem too hard, and the grainy voices crackling through his ear gave no indication of alarm. Wow, was he really necessary to hire for this shit? It seemed like someone else could do it. Yeah, he had a reputation, and yeah, it wasn’t guaranteed that someone else could do it flawlessly, but still. He had standards, or something.
Standards that should include not working for people who made fun of his accent. Fuck, if that had a problem, they could eat his ass and decipher his moans instead. He’d take the same amount of money for that, though. Or none.
The upscale restaurant he was staring at seemed like nothing special. Well, no, correction: it was irritatingly special and over the comm so thoroughly wedged in his ear he could hear the clinking of silverware against expensive plates. Fuck, they probably had at least 20 people on the dish squad. The idea of snooping intrigued him, but he shook that down and lined up the shot instead-- there.
Red Leader. What a fucking stupid name.
“S'like he ain't puttin' a damn lick 'a effort innit,” Kenny muttered to himself before letting out a totally attractive snort. His brows furrowed, though, slipping back into the view the scope provided him. Stupid hair that seemed to like to defy gravity, guards standing around and watching everyone else but him, acting so observant while seeing nothing. He heard RL chewing- wow, could he be any louder?- and a fork meeting the plate again.
He inhaled, and then he exhaled, and a bullet whistled through the unreasonably tall window and lodged itself comfortably in the brain of the dumb fuck trying to take over the world. Score.
“Pffhee! Ain't a goddamn cell to his head if there weren't a warnin' for that one. Blindest dictator I ever met.” He let out another ungodly snort before freezing, if only for a moment, when he felt something against the back of his head. Kennith Wilder, after all, was not unfamiliar with guns. One against his skull was simply not something strange or new.
“Turn around.” The request- the order was cut simple but not sweet. His voice was twinged with something European. Russian? Definitely not British or some shit; that was too easily recognizable. The mystery would have to wait for another time. Right now, Kenny was forced to turn, gun barrel still nudging his head in case he got any ideas. And boy, when he got ideas, they were dangerous.
His eyes looked from one soldier to another. It was almost ragtag how they were dressed- obviously from the same design, but little differences that made each outfit distinctly different and almost uncomfortable to look at. Fuck, who was this guy’s stylist? They should have a chat, Christ. Red Leader- because that was definitely Red Leader, no doubt- did not even seem surprised when Kenny’s lips quirked into a smirk, then a smile, and then a plain grin at all the people that were gathered around.
“Y’all thinkin’ you’re walkin’ outta this homefree, huh?” One hand slid into his coat, casual as can be, and he could see a couple soldiers tense. The telltale grip tightening, the slightest shake of their pistols and what have you. “‘Cause, I mean, I’m kinda partial t’ all my limbs bein’ intact, but I ain’t got shit t’ live for. With precious Reddie here dead, y’all ain’t got much t’ live for either.” His hand twitched just so and someone flinched, near the back, and he let out a whooping laugh before following up with “If ya walk outta this, ‘course.”
He had no doubt at least one would turn tail and bolt- and one did, near the back, and there was hardly a second’s difference from alive to dead. The man’s- the corpse’s face slammed into grass, bullet somewhere inside his head that no one bother to retrieve. Red Leader’s gun swung back to Kenny, centered comfortably between his eyes, and did what Wilder was not entirely expecting.
He laughed. He laughed a while, too, and everytime Kennith thought he was done he would just start up again, holding his stomach and cackling like there was no tomorrow. The remaining soldiers, either having learned their lesson from the other deserter or off put by whatever the fuck was going on now, still kept their own weapons trained on Kenny. Soon enough, however, the sniper was laughing too; it was hard not to. After all, how many times does the guy you tried to assassinate laugh in your face about another threat to his well-being?
Red Leader’s laughter died down eventually, and maybe there was some sort of cord struck or some sort of line drawn in what was happening, because his voice turned to the cold decisiveness of the first order. “Take in this one. He will serve useful yet. Ha! Blow us all up. Good one.” He went over, nudged the fallen corpse’s body with the toe of his boot. Red, just like the blood pooling on the ground. Kenny was forced to believe that that was the reason he took to the color. “A new 197 is necessary, after all.”
