BTW: Hey guys! I haven't been on Fan Fiction in so long, I forgot if I had published any stories on this account or not, but it appears I haven't, so technically, this will be my first story (on this account). If you don't have ANY idea of what TF2 is, I suggest you find out and then come back to this because it will make no sense whatsoever, or you could read it anyways and be totally confused. I know this is REALLY short (the actual prologue, not this BTW paragraph) but I just wanted to get people's opinions, and if people would like to see the first chapter come out. Thanks, R&R, and happy reading :)
Bittersweet: Prologue (ish)
Emily, fully healed now, stood in the corridor, quiet, invisible, and unmoving (forgive me for making up the word), with the sunshine streaming in from the enormous windows to her right, and the sounds of battle behind her. Being of the same profession as the man, she knew he would be watching, waiting in the shadows, and by now he will already have been alerted of her presence. Good, she thought, as she scanned the hallways, searching for any glimpse of the man. She uncloaked, thinking It's best not to hide now, and almost in that same instant, the man she had come to see was right in front of her.
The man chuckled quietly, but not in the warm, friendly, or more so good-natured kind of way normally presumed when that word was used, it was more like a taunt, meant to be diminishing in manner. There was also a haughty look on his face, a sneer of pure hatred, which made the woman frown inside, though on the outside, she kept a cold smile on her face as well. They both knew why she was there, and she almost wanted to start immediately, but she knew that being so rash would cost her dearly, so they merely cast looks at each other for a moment, assessing each other. Planning on how to kill each other.
It was the man that broke the silence, "So, you and your brother have managed to escape your cell. Impressive. But, I'm afraid that you and your friends will not make it out of this building. Well, alive, that is," he finished, producing a cigarette and proceeding to light it, and take a deep whiff of it, all in a nonchalant manner, as if he were oblivious to the fact that they were there to kill each other, and she supposed this was part of his little game she had been sucked into. He would just wait quietly while she burned with anger, hoping she would tip over her breaking point so he could gain the upper hand. This was to be expected. He was a Spy, after all.
The woman's brow furrowed; she had to choose her words carefully so as not to slip and say the wrong thing, "What are you talking about? We outnumber you by far. Your men do not stand a chance. It is over, you have lost."
"I think not, mon ami," the suited man said, the triumph all too evident in his voice, and yet again, taking another deep whiff of his cigarette, and blew the smoke upwards, exposing his neck, mocking her, showing her how confident he was, and she almost punched him, or whipped out her knife, but something stopped her in the knick of time. The Administrator's cruel, harsh voice blared through the hallway, and Spy thought it felt like bullets tearing through her: "You failed."
