This story is a classic example of why when I was in High School one of my teachers thought I was taking drugs. I wasn't then, and I'm not now. The story wrote itself in about a half an hour and I swear when I started writing I meant for it to be about something completely different. Flames, CC, or OMG UROX are all good.

Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin is owned by Sunrise, Bandai Entertainment Inc and now apparently the Sci-Fi Channel. Only the plot is my own. I am writing this story purely for my personal entertainment and no money has been or will be made from the production of this story.

She didn't see the bullet.

The man stood in front of her, just a shadowy figure in the distance, she didn't need to see him to know who it was. He had a gun drawn, the silhouette of man and gun danced in the thin fog that always seemed to surround the river side this time of night.

She hadn't seen him for over two years, not since the night he had closed his heart to her, turned his back, and left her, breaking a promise that shouldn't have been made in the first place. That night the world had turned black. Useless. Evil.

That's what she was, now.

Nothing mattered. Not herself and not the man.

Four years ago it hadn't been like that. Four years ago they'd had honor, trust, and respect for each other. She'd loved him, and he, she suspected, had loved her. Two years of running had changed that. Two years of living in each other's pockets, of being Hunted, of killing. Little conflicts had become major eruptions. It was impossible to fight cabin fever when there was no escape, when he never let her out.

And then there was the voices, pleading, crying, twisting, hurting. She'd tried to block them out, to shut them away, to ignore them. It never worked. Even now she could hear them, distance and time changed nothing. The ones who were dead wanted vengeance for their deaths, the ones still living wanted her to be their savior, their Joan of Arc.

He wanted her to ignore them. She didn't, she couldn't, and when she acted on their pleading he'd turned from her. Because, he said, he couldn't keep his promise.

The voices had taken over, forcing action that perhaps only a few years before would have been unthinkable. They'd given her respite after the first killing, had faded to a murmur for a while and left her alone. Gradually they had grown again, until once more they were a thundering waterfall of sound, until there was no escape, and only another killing quieted them again.

The line between sanity and insanity was a thin, fragile thing.

She'd tried to hide it from him, she'd been able to keep the first few killings secret, or so she thought. But then came that night, the night he left, leaving her despairing, hopeless, and utterly bereft. She found another target, another person that the voices had said were the cause of their agony. One pure burst of flame and the tainted human had disappeared as though he had never been. She'd paused, savoring the silence in her mind, and a small sound behind her caused her to turn. And there he was, standing behind her, his gun trained on her just as it was this night. He said her name, his voice full of so many conflicting emotions that she almost didn't recognize the words.

And then he lowered his gun and said, "I can't keep my promise. God help me." He then turned his back and left. Left her. Thought shattered, splintered; fell still, like a broken mirror a thousand images of them and their time together. Falling buildings, Orbo, tortured witches, friends. He was gone and nothing made sense anymore. She was insane, evil, tainted.

He was gone.

The next two years were a blood soaked war. Nothing could stop her; no one could stand against her. Living Witches and Hunters turned their hands against her and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that the voices she now heard were no longer real, but then nothing was. The world had ended when he left; or she had died and was in Hell. She was Hell, her flames burned the damned. She was the Devil's daughter, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise anymore.

And now the man was back. She hated him. Loved him. Had been dead, truly dead, the since the day he'd left her. He stood, shadowed by the night and blurred by the fog; he stood in front of her, and leveled his gun. Relief flowed into her, one way or another it was over.

There were no words exchanged. She folded her hands and closed her eyes.

She never saw the bullet.