Got behind so I'll be posting 9, 10, and 11 in whatever order I am capable of writing them in.
Meet Archer, she is an emo bitch raised by the Institute to be their perfect killing agent. No wonder she's depressed. She's usually a sniper but that wasn't going to work here.
CW: death, gun violence, alcohol reference, gore mentioned
The alley was a dead end. Brick walls extended upwards, blocking out city lights and functioning as a catch all for the refuse blown by the wind.
Trapped, the target scrambled at the wall, desperate to gain any traction that might boost them out of there.
A cry slipped from their lips as the dark shrouded figure turned the corner, stalking towards them.
It had been a boring night for Archer. Not even a fun target, just some loser with no friends or family who looked a little too hard into the Institute. Idiot even went to the same bar every week, sat in the same fucking spot. There wasn’t any hunt in that.
The target began to blubber as she got closer, falling to their knees. They promised her anything: money (he had $53 in the bank as of two hours ago), information (he knew almost nothing), a chance to get out of whatever deal the Institute had trapped her in (fat chance).
The pistol was a comfortable weight in her hand as she drew it to hang at her side. The silencer doubled the length of the gun. Panic overwhelmed the target. It was embarrassing. They didn’t even think to call for help. They panted, eyes wide like an animal.
“Sorry,” came her stock reply as she clicked off the safety, raising the pistol to their forehead, “I’m just following orders.”
The execution was perfect. The blood painted a sunset on the brick wall. Archer tilted her head, picturing the dripping bone matter as falling stars.
Her silencer wasn’t perfect, not that it mattered much in this neighbourhood, but she left the scene quickly. A quick swipe on her phone dropped a marker for the clean up crew.
Alcohol would kill the boredom. She needed a drink.
