This is expanded from a twitterfic I wrote a few weeks ago.
Toeing the line is the most difficult thing about my job. You never knew if you’re just a fraction too far. Sometimes you would find out – but always when it’s too late. My job scared me. But I was scary too. People cowered before me. Usually, it didn’t make a difference. I tightened the string on the high performance bow I was just given. The string was taut, I could feel it cutting into my fingers as I dragged it backwards. Damon smiled evilly as he loaded his own weapon. He was our dealer, maintenance man and neighborhood Berserker. I think he enjoys killing. He creeps me out. He won’t try anything with me though – he knows he wouldn’t survive.
“Hey, Girlie,” he says, as he locked the gun and put it away.
I glared at him. I did happen to be a girl, but I also had a name: Rita. He should call me Rita. No, actually he should just call me by my last name.
He gave me a greasy smirk and went to join the others. I sighed a little and loaded up my quiver. For good measure, I picked out a spare arrow and took aim a few inches away from Damon’s head. The arrow cut through the air and hit the wall by his right ear. He glanced at me and went back to his conversation. I smirked and joined the others. I was ready now.
My boots were heavy as I swung myself into the backseat of the armoured vehicle we had stolen a month earlier. For the cops, the thing simply dropped off the radar. They were too stupid to notice us waltzing out with it anyway. A low whistle. The truck started.
I could feel the road under the wheels, the feeling drenched in the power of the engine. I ducked down low, knowing that at some point it would all go to hell.
Well, that was the life of a mercenary. You always had blood on your hands.