A/N: So I had a whole thing written out here about this new piece and everything, but then today I read a PM I had gotten last night from tommyjude21, asking me to update/finish Don't Stand. And I remembered I hadn't posted this first {which had initially been my plan when I had started this thing}. So I'm doing that now. I'm posting this thing. It's something I started when I was taking a break from DS and all the other stuff I've been writing. I hope you like it.
Summary: AU (Jommy) – 2 part song-ish fic. You were molded from the very foundation you believed in. The one that taught you right from wrong. Good from bad. Light and dark. But even you are not immune from the destruction of a hurricane.
Inspiration: Song – "Hurricane" by 30 Seconds to Mars.
Disclaimer: This stands for the entire fic – I don't own the songs that I'm using. I don't own anything related to Instant Star. I don't own anything music-related. I will, however, own a couple characters that you will see, but they're brief and fleeting. Other than that…if I don't say it's mine – it most likely isn't (even if I wish it was). :D
R&R or R&L please!
THANKS MUCHO!
Hurricane
Part I
Her eyes briefly left the lens and she wrinkled her nose at the pollen that sat heavy in the air. Sneezing was not an option. A warm summer wind blew through the lone open window and across her cheek, ruffling the strands of blonde hair that were exposed underneath her beanie. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her neck and she fought the urge to brush it away with her shoulder.
Slowly, she adjusted her rifle, pointing it to the clear sky outside the window. The moon was high above her, its beams of light cascading over the immaculately cut lawn and flower beds below. Crickets chirped in the distance and she quickly stretched the muscles in her back. Her thighs had begun to ache from the position she kept, leaning against the window sill, but she knew moving much wasn't okay.
The house stood unchanged – windows open and lights on in the dining room, but no other movement or noise for the past hour.
Her patience was wearing thin.
The street was deserted, barely lit by the lamp posts intermittently placed throughout the block. Suburbanites. They were so ignorant to the dangers surrounding them.
Like her for instance.
Staking claim in an empty second floor bedroom of the foreclosed house of her target's former neighbors. An M16 rifle just waiting to be used. Another operative in the alley if things went wrong.
In reality, things had already gone unplanned. He was late. 10 minutes late.
No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave
No matter how many breaths that you took, you still couldn't breathe
No matter how many nights that you lie wide awake to the sound of poison rain
Where did you go? Where did you go? Where did you go?
As days go by, the night's on fire
There were no other entrances or exits. She'd mapped out the house weeks ago in preparation for this very night.
Oh, how her partner was going to goad her about this one.
"This is why women stay in the kitchen."
"Do you need help with your gun, little girl?"
The only real reason things didn't go according to plan was –
Her head turned slightly towards the street, her ears straining to hear. She knew the noise anyway. The gentle rumble of a Mustang sounded. And then it was there – a loud and obnoxious 1965 cherry red Shelby – flooding the street with bright white light and turning into the driveway of the target's house. His house.
Her bottom lip found its way between her teeth as she contemplated taking him out next to his beautifully restored car.
But that wouldn't have been justice for all the things he had done.
Rape. Extortion. Arson. Murder. Men. Women. Children. Most, if not all, were innocent.
He deserved a worse fate.
The car pulled to a complete stop in front of the garage. When she had first followed his day-to-day activities, she was mildly surprised that he didn't park his show piece in his garage. But having watched him the rest of the week she realized she should have seen his arrogant, attention whore of a personality miles away. She did have to deal with someone similar on a regular basis after all – her partner. But he was less inclined to kill innocent people, she was sure.
It was her target's tendency to show off that had gotten him to this place – a visit from her.
He stepped out of the car and pulled a briefcase out of his backseat. If memory served her correct, which it usually did – it was probably full of empty bags of red licorice. With a flick of his wrist, he shut the driver door.
The front door opened and a blonde head popped out from between the wood and its frame.
He pulled at the knot in his tie as he walked up the front steps. If she had it her way, she'd have hung him from the rafters with the silk noose around his neck.
The blonde woman – who was almost as guilty as her target – opened the door wider and ushered him in with open arms. They exchanged a few muffled words that caused the blonde to laugh.
That would be the last time she laughed with him.
She gripped the semi-automatic rifle tighter in her hand, pulling it towards her, and focused her eyes on the lens.
The couple made it into the dining room and she took a deep breath. The crickets in the bushes seemed to chirp louder as if they could anticipate what was coming.
This was her one shot.
When his smiling profile appeared in the middle of her lens, her right index finger pulled the trigger.
Dead silence.
Tell me would you kill to save a life?
Tell me would you kill to prove you're right?
Crash, crash, burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground
It was like watching someone faint in slow motion. His back arched, head falling to rest on his own shoulder, knees buckling under his weight. She couldn't see his eyes, but she was sure they had rolled back into his skull. It didn't matter.
The job was done. One shot was all it took.
A shrill, hysterical scream sounded through the open window and she took that as her cue. She pulled back her gun and closed the window.
She hesitated for a split second in the dark before grabbing her bag. Then it came. She heard it more than she felt it. The sound of her blood rushing through her body.
It was the same thing every time. The only sure thing she counted on.
She unscrewed the silencer and placed it in its Styrofoam mold. Then she did the same with the body. She pulled her beanie off of her head and tossed it in her duffel bag. She clasped the gun case closed and dashed out of the empty room.
Down the stairs and out a back door, she ran. Across a weedy backyard with only the moon to highlight her presence. The constant screaming covered the sound of the door banging back into its frame. She tossed her case and duffel bag over the back stretch of fence and used her arms to propel herself over the wooden wall. The alley way was shrouded in more darkness save for some faint moonlight and a few lamps at either end.
She turned right and took ten steps before finding her appropriate bush and placing her belongings in it. The clean-up crew would come and pick it up soon.
Then she continued her trip down the street toward the lights.
He was waiting.
No matter how many deaths that I die I will never forget
No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret
There is a fire inside of this heart
And a riot about to explode into flames
Where is your God? Where is your God? Where is your God?
He sat against the roof of the blue Mustang, his arms folded against his chest, a smug smile taking up half of his face.
Even in the garish street lamp light she knew he was beautiful.
And he was hers.
Well, her partner anyway.
White light flooded his face. If she had been paying attention, she would have seen his eyes widen and his mouth open to yell at her. To tell her to move out of the way.
If she had been paying attention, the skills she had learned at The Farm would have kicked in. She would have heard the rap music blasting from the car stereo, the laughter from the two drunk teenagers through the open windows as they sped down the alley way.
But she wasn't paying attention. At least not to anything that wasn't attached to Tommy Quincy. Damn him and his perfect smug smile.
The impact from the car sent her flying into the driver's side of an SUV a few houses down. Her head hit the mirror, tearing it from the body of the car. She lay on the ground, breathing slowly, the sounds of car tires screeching, and the world around her getting darker and darker.
One shot was all it took.
Do you really want...
Do you really want me?
Do you really want me dead,
Or alive to torture for my sins?
Do you really want...
Do you really want me?
Do you really want me dead,
Or alive to live a lie?
A/N:
There is a Part 2. Promise. I'm not completely evil – just a horrible updater. ;]
Also, I did research, but finding actual CIA weapon information is hard, man! Why so secretive?! I know next to nothing about guns and such, so I can't tell you that I know for sure she would use an M16 in this instance – it just seemed like a good idea. And I'll explain the whole being Canadian and using CIA terms in the next chapter…