LucianaGrace
Grace Changes Everything
- Joined
- May 4, 2017
- Posts
- 7,352
Currently seeking male co-writer. Please PM interest.
“Lola...what’s the status?”
There were only two souls that walked the earth that knew her name. A thorn from her past; and the man simply known as Sir. He was a man of few words. He commanded and she obeyed. That was the extent of the relationship. She had only ever known him by his voice. Well; his voice and the extravagant pay cheques she received for her loyalty and services. It was a voice that demanded obedience while subtly forcing fear into the most discerning of individuals. Perhaps that was why she respected him.
“We have him. He’s secure. We’re simply waiting for consciousness before we move to the next phase...”
“I don’t like problems. He is a problem...”
Delicate fingers massaged her forehead, her brow furrowed as the reality of the situation dawned upon her. A ‘problem’ Sir called it. The word ‘problem’ holding the possibility that the situation was fixable. She knew otherwise. It was information or death. That was how her game worked; always had and always would. But never in her lifetime would she prepare herself to kill one of her own. Least of all him. Unlike most in her field, she worked by a code; an ethical killer-for-hire. Who would have thought? Perhaps that was why she was one of the best and respected as such.
“Yes, Sir. “
There was silence; the soft shuffling of movement from the other end of the call before the deep rumble of his voice crackled through the receiver.
“You will follow through. I have no hesitation to dispose of you as I would any other agent if you fail.”
Agent? She had always found the hypocrisy of the term he chose to call his killers amusing. This time, however, his meaning was clear. Fail and she would die. Get the information, and she stood a chance of seeing another sunrise.
“Yes, Sir...”
The phone line went dead. She knew the routine. Flicking the phone over, fingers popped off the battery, slipping the simcard free. The deceptive strength of her fingers forced the flimsy microchip to bend, breaking in half with minimal effort. With a small flick of her wrist the pieces were disposed, settling upon the dirt of which she stood. She was now going ghost. She’d call in when there was news...if there was any.
Her eyes scanned the location; rusted corrugated metal barely supported the remaining frames of abandoned warehouses. Smashed glass windows, broken-in doors, discarded cars which wouldn’t even seem suitable for rodents to find shelter in. It was a genuine graveyard of rust and crap. Even the air seemed to carry the stench. She hated the site. It wasn’t her style. It was isolated, which gave it promise. But it was messy, predictable, filthy...which made her uncomfortable. And she needed to be comfortable. Especially now. Her head dipped, fingers once again massaging her forehead as she made plans to seriously hurt the individual responsible for picking this site.
Footsteps registered in her mind as they came closer from behind her. She didn’t move.
“Mistress L...”
“Hmmm?” It was all she offered the nervous lackey that tensed in her presence. She could feel his fear; it radiated from him in waves so powerful it was almost tangible. The slight tremble to his voice amused her. She smiled at that. The poor thing wouldn’t last a day in the field if he was on his own.
“It is time.” He barely managed to gulp out the words.
With that she spun on her heels; blonde hair swirling about the frame of her innocent-featured face as her eyes fell upon the poor thing. She took her time taking him in; her cold jade eyes drawing slowly down his frame. He was a scrawny looking thing; but he seemed to pack well in the nether department, as evident from the bulge that sat none-too discretely against his upper thigh. With an impressed nod her eyes found his before stepping closer. His fawn-like eyes widened; he looked more like a deer caught in headlights than a member of her team. It was rather pathetic, and she let her eyes show her distaste.
“Toughen up...” It was all she offered before she paced passed him, dropping the disassembled phone in his waiting palms on her way. Despite the command, the threat of the words she didn’t voice hung in the air. She had no patience for such things. The task ahead would be taxing enough. She didn’t need weak personnel to distract her.
She made her way into the small room, the remainder of her team briskly standing to attention; their poker cards quickly forgotten upon the flimsy table on which they played. They were selected by Sir, and for a distinct purpose. Three of the five men were tall, brutish, bulky masses of muscles. The two Scandinavian twins were experts in weaponry. The other, who strangely enough reminded her of Rocky Balboa, was fluent in martial arts. They also served their purpose of the labour intensive tasks whilst giving her something pretty to look at. The fourth was the driver; lean, short, an Irish accent so thick she barely understood a word he said. But he was the best driver in the business, and all he had to do was listen to her orders. As long as his ears were clean, there wasn’t ever a problem. The fourth and last was the rookie that followed behind her like a needy puppy. Young, easy to manipulate, far smarter than he looked; technical support. He was good, there was never any doubt about that. But he irritated her. And he was replaceable.
With a nod of her head they all took their places once again; the card game instantly resuming with a rustle of the deck. She scanned the remainder of the room. A steel desk sat to the side of the dimly lit room. A small bag, laptops and a surveillance monitor took place on its surface, a rather flimsy looking chair nestled beneath. No windows or lights aside from the naked flickering fluorescent bulb above the poker game. Again it looked sloppy. She didn’t like it. With a dissatisfied grumble she flicked the monitor on, the screen buzzing and flickering before the image appeared.
A man. Alone. Unconscious. Bound to a chair. Almost naked.
Him...
The damned thorn from her past.
She studied her hostage; her gaze cold, unyielding and otherwise emotionless. The flickering of the monitor did little to distract her attention. She was a huntress; her prey located, captured and now sitting powerless and unconscious only a room away. From the angle of the footage the lackey hid the small camera next to the light directly above where he was tied in the cell a room away. The light was dim, but the angle allowed her to see every movement he made; including his hands. This pleased her. Despite her distaste of the current location, it was a seamless operation; clean, precise, quick...easy. And that was her style; the one her current reputation as ‘one of the best’ sat proudly on. Mistress L; Death’s Whisper.
It was one of two reasons why she was assigned this particular task...him. The importance of this entire operation was at stake; not only her employer’s life, but also her own. Anyone lesser in ability would have fucked it up in a heartbeat. Why? Because the man known as {Your Character’s Name} was that good. And she knew it.
Which lead to the second reason that she was assigned to him. It was easy to work out a person’s behaviour and ultimately catch them. Any low grade rookie with a week of surveillance could have worked that out. But he was different. He was one of the best...he was like her. That thought caused her heart to lurch, her body shifting uncomfortably as she inwardly cursed the past. She could still feel Fates’ relentless bitchslap as it continued to sting her metaphorical cheek. The truth was that she knew him passed an intimacy that left her uncomfortable. Why? Because for all her knowledge of how he worked; his thought patterns, his weaknesses, strengths, interests, passions, deeper soul-searing secrets of lovers...he also knew the same of her. And that was dangerous.
A glance at her watch and her brow furrowed in concern. He hadn’t moved. Not even a damn twitch. She calculated the dosage of the tranquilizer perfectly; her own unique formula of a sedative and a paralytic compound. He should have been awake by now, but his limbs would remain useless. But he wasn’t. He remained limp; head flopped low onto his chest as the ropes did their work to keep the rest of him upright. Concern quickly turned to worry, which lead to her second guessing herself. Had she put too much drug into dart? Perhaps his head hit the pavement too hard? Or worse. With each tick of her watch her worry grew...
Tick
Tick
Tick...
Finally her hostage’s head moved slightly. To an untrained eye it could have been mistaken for a jump on the TV monitor; but she knew better. Again his head rocked, his eyes flicking open. Relief rocked through her heart, setting her thoughts back a moment. Relief; she didn’t expect that in the slightest. For the briefest of moments she focused on that emotion. She was relieved her dosage was correct. Relieved that he was unharmed. Relieved that he wasn’t dead...
Fuck...
She didn’t need the torrent of emotions from the past hitting her now. It was the last fucking thing she needed. She had a job to do. She needed composure and strength. Any sign of weakness and he’d jump on it, manipulate it, then beat her to death with it. He was too fast for her mentally to allow this crap to take hold now. Her eyes closed; fists tensed, knuckles turning white as she willed the emotions to fade. One deep breath, then another. With the next breath she was out the door; the wooden chair in one hand, the small black bag in the other, her mind determined, focused, sharp. She would beat him. There was no other option.
With a kick of her steel-capped doc marten boot, the door swung open violently; the solid thud echoing in the small room, causing him to jump in his restraints. She stood in the doorway for a few moments, a part of her mind thoroughly enjoying the visual feast of the vulnerable position he was currently in. Another part lingered with anxiety born of seeing him again. It had been three years since they last seen each other. Well, no; that wasn’t entirely accurate. She had been tracking him for two days now. He, however, hadn’t seen her for three years.
And she had changed a lot in that time. While she had always been petite and lithe, the years had moulded her into an athletic assassin. She was stronger, faster, leaner; the black jeans and black singlet she wore hugging to her new frame. The starkest of changes was her hair. As he would remember, it flowed in light-golden waves to cascade down the curve of her back. Now it was cropped; styled around her angelic-featured face. If she were to admit, the drastic change of hair was revenge against him. She knew how he loved it long. So the first thing she did was destroy it. On a practical note, the new length was easier to handle for her line of work. For the briefest of seconds her anxiety grew as she wondered if he’d approve of her new image.
No; she couldn’t afford to slip into that train of thought now. Instead she pushed that to the side not giving it a chance to grow and latched onto the last part of her mind; business. She was here to do a job. Come heaven or hell she would get what she came for. With several determined steps, she settled the chair directly behind his. Far enough way so that if he suddenly gained an adrenalin-fueled strength, she was out of direct range for a direct blow. But also close enough for her to pounce if the need called for. She could also monitor him from his position; keep her eyes on the mischief of his hands. An added bonus was that she was free from his hawk-like gaze; just in case of any momentary slips of composure.
Placing the small black bag on the floor; she settled into the chair; a lean denim covered thigh crossing over the other, arms folded distantly upon her chest. Then she waited; letting the silence morph until it was deafening.
The game had begun.
“Lola...what’s the status?”
There were only two souls that walked the earth that knew her name. A thorn from her past; and the man simply known as Sir. He was a man of few words. He commanded and she obeyed. That was the extent of the relationship. She had only ever known him by his voice. Well; his voice and the extravagant pay cheques she received for her loyalty and services. It was a voice that demanded obedience while subtly forcing fear into the most discerning of individuals. Perhaps that was why she respected him.
“We have him. He’s secure. We’re simply waiting for consciousness before we move to the next phase...”
“I don’t like problems. He is a problem...”
Delicate fingers massaged her forehead, her brow furrowed as the reality of the situation dawned upon her. A ‘problem’ Sir called it. The word ‘problem’ holding the possibility that the situation was fixable. She knew otherwise. It was information or death. That was how her game worked; always had and always would. But never in her lifetime would she prepare herself to kill one of her own. Least of all him. Unlike most in her field, she worked by a code; an ethical killer-for-hire. Who would have thought? Perhaps that was why she was one of the best and respected as such.
“Yes, Sir. “
There was silence; the soft shuffling of movement from the other end of the call before the deep rumble of his voice crackled through the receiver.
“You will follow through. I have no hesitation to dispose of you as I would any other agent if you fail.”
Agent? She had always found the hypocrisy of the term he chose to call his killers amusing. This time, however, his meaning was clear. Fail and she would die. Get the information, and she stood a chance of seeing another sunrise.
“Yes, Sir...”
The phone line went dead. She knew the routine. Flicking the phone over, fingers popped off the battery, slipping the simcard free. The deceptive strength of her fingers forced the flimsy microchip to bend, breaking in half with minimal effort. With a small flick of her wrist the pieces were disposed, settling upon the dirt of which she stood. She was now going ghost. She’d call in when there was news...if there was any.
Her eyes scanned the location; rusted corrugated metal barely supported the remaining frames of abandoned warehouses. Smashed glass windows, broken-in doors, discarded cars which wouldn’t even seem suitable for rodents to find shelter in. It was a genuine graveyard of rust and crap. Even the air seemed to carry the stench. She hated the site. It wasn’t her style. It was isolated, which gave it promise. But it was messy, predictable, filthy...which made her uncomfortable. And she needed to be comfortable. Especially now. Her head dipped, fingers once again massaging her forehead as she made plans to seriously hurt the individual responsible for picking this site.
Footsteps registered in her mind as they came closer from behind her. She didn’t move.
“Mistress L...”
“Hmmm?” It was all she offered the nervous lackey that tensed in her presence. She could feel his fear; it radiated from him in waves so powerful it was almost tangible. The slight tremble to his voice amused her. She smiled at that. The poor thing wouldn’t last a day in the field if he was on his own.
“It is time.” He barely managed to gulp out the words.
With that she spun on her heels; blonde hair swirling about the frame of her innocent-featured face as her eyes fell upon the poor thing. She took her time taking him in; her cold jade eyes drawing slowly down his frame. He was a scrawny looking thing; but he seemed to pack well in the nether department, as evident from the bulge that sat none-too discretely against his upper thigh. With an impressed nod her eyes found his before stepping closer. His fawn-like eyes widened; he looked more like a deer caught in headlights than a member of her team. It was rather pathetic, and she let her eyes show her distaste.
“Toughen up...” It was all she offered before she paced passed him, dropping the disassembled phone in his waiting palms on her way. Despite the command, the threat of the words she didn’t voice hung in the air. She had no patience for such things. The task ahead would be taxing enough. She didn’t need weak personnel to distract her.
She made her way into the small room, the remainder of her team briskly standing to attention; their poker cards quickly forgotten upon the flimsy table on which they played. They were selected by Sir, and for a distinct purpose. Three of the five men were tall, brutish, bulky masses of muscles. The two Scandinavian twins were experts in weaponry. The other, who strangely enough reminded her of Rocky Balboa, was fluent in martial arts. They also served their purpose of the labour intensive tasks whilst giving her something pretty to look at. The fourth was the driver; lean, short, an Irish accent so thick she barely understood a word he said. But he was the best driver in the business, and all he had to do was listen to her orders. As long as his ears were clean, there wasn’t ever a problem. The fourth and last was the rookie that followed behind her like a needy puppy. Young, easy to manipulate, far smarter than he looked; technical support. He was good, there was never any doubt about that. But he irritated her. And he was replaceable.
With a nod of her head they all took their places once again; the card game instantly resuming with a rustle of the deck. She scanned the remainder of the room. A steel desk sat to the side of the dimly lit room. A small bag, laptops and a surveillance monitor took place on its surface, a rather flimsy looking chair nestled beneath. No windows or lights aside from the naked flickering fluorescent bulb above the poker game. Again it looked sloppy. She didn’t like it. With a dissatisfied grumble she flicked the monitor on, the screen buzzing and flickering before the image appeared.
A man. Alone. Unconscious. Bound to a chair. Almost naked.
Him...
The damned thorn from her past.
She studied her hostage; her gaze cold, unyielding and otherwise emotionless. The flickering of the monitor did little to distract her attention. She was a huntress; her prey located, captured and now sitting powerless and unconscious only a room away. From the angle of the footage the lackey hid the small camera next to the light directly above where he was tied in the cell a room away. The light was dim, but the angle allowed her to see every movement he made; including his hands. This pleased her. Despite her distaste of the current location, it was a seamless operation; clean, precise, quick...easy. And that was her style; the one her current reputation as ‘one of the best’ sat proudly on. Mistress L; Death’s Whisper.
It was one of two reasons why she was assigned this particular task...him. The importance of this entire operation was at stake; not only her employer’s life, but also her own. Anyone lesser in ability would have fucked it up in a heartbeat. Why? Because the man known as {Your Character’s Name} was that good. And she knew it.
Which lead to the second reason that she was assigned to him. It was easy to work out a person’s behaviour and ultimately catch them. Any low grade rookie with a week of surveillance could have worked that out. But he was different. He was one of the best...he was like her. That thought caused her heart to lurch, her body shifting uncomfortably as she inwardly cursed the past. She could still feel Fates’ relentless bitchslap as it continued to sting her metaphorical cheek. The truth was that she knew him passed an intimacy that left her uncomfortable. Why? Because for all her knowledge of how he worked; his thought patterns, his weaknesses, strengths, interests, passions, deeper soul-searing secrets of lovers...he also knew the same of her. And that was dangerous.
A glance at her watch and her brow furrowed in concern. He hadn’t moved. Not even a damn twitch. She calculated the dosage of the tranquilizer perfectly; her own unique formula of a sedative and a paralytic compound. He should have been awake by now, but his limbs would remain useless. But he wasn’t. He remained limp; head flopped low onto his chest as the ropes did their work to keep the rest of him upright. Concern quickly turned to worry, which lead to her second guessing herself. Had she put too much drug into dart? Perhaps his head hit the pavement too hard? Or worse. With each tick of her watch her worry grew...
Tick
Tick
Tick...
Finally her hostage’s head moved slightly. To an untrained eye it could have been mistaken for a jump on the TV monitor; but she knew better. Again his head rocked, his eyes flicking open. Relief rocked through her heart, setting her thoughts back a moment. Relief; she didn’t expect that in the slightest. For the briefest of moments she focused on that emotion. She was relieved her dosage was correct. Relieved that he was unharmed. Relieved that he wasn’t dead...
Fuck...
She didn’t need the torrent of emotions from the past hitting her now. It was the last fucking thing she needed. She had a job to do. She needed composure and strength. Any sign of weakness and he’d jump on it, manipulate it, then beat her to death with it. He was too fast for her mentally to allow this crap to take hold now. Her eyes closed; fists tensed, knuckles turning white as she willed the emotions to fade. One deep breath, then another. With the next breath she was out the door; the wooden chair in one hand, the small black bag in the other, her mind determined, focused, sharp. She would beat him. There was no other option.
With a kick of her steel-capped doc marten boot, the door swung open violently; the solid thud echoing in the small room, causing him to jump in his restraints. She stood in the doorway for a few moments, a part of her mind thoroughly enjoying the visual feast of the vulnerable position he was currently in. Another part lingered with anxiety born of seeing him again. It had been three years since they last seen each other. Well, no; that wasn’t entirely accurate. She had been tracking him for two days now. He, however, hadn’t seen her for three years.
And she had changed a lot in that time. While she had always been petite and lithe, the years had moulded her into an athletic assassin. She was stronger, faster, leaner; the black jeans and black singlet she wore hugging to her new frame. The starkest of changes was her hair. As he would remember, it flowed in light-golden waves to cascade down the curve of her back. Now it was cropped; styled around her angelic-featured face. If she were to admit, the drastic change of hair was revenge against him. She knew how he loved it long. So the first thing she did was destroy it. On a practical note, the new length was easier to handle for her line of work. For the briefest of seconds her anxiety grew as she wondered if he’d approve of her new image.
No; she couldn’t afford to slip into that train of thought now. Instead she pushed that to the side not giving it a chance to grow and latched onto the last part of her mind; business. She was here to do a job. Come heaven or hell she would get what she came for. With several determined steps, she settled the chair directly behind his. Far enough way so that if he suddenly gained an adrenalin-fueled strength, she was out of direct range for a direct blow. But also close enough for her to pounce if the need called for. She could also monitor him from his position; keep her eyes on the mischief of his hands. An added bonus was that she was free from his hawk-like gaze; just in case of any momentary slips of composure.
Placing the small black bag on the floor; she settled into the chair; a lean denim covered thigh crossing over the other, arms folded distantly upon her chest. Then she waited; letting the silence morph until it was deafening.
The game had begun.
