(((Dedication: Dedicated to the two people who were with me when I watched Boondock Saints for the first time. You know who you are.
Summary: Brianna O'Keefe is good at what she does. One of the best. Yet, when confronted with the task of assassinating two young men in the slums of South Boston, she finds the stint beyond her. Is this a lack of skill on her part... or is it divine intervention?
Disclaimer: I don't own Boondock Saints or the things that go with it. I do own Brianna, Yochlov, and perhaps a few other characters that could pop up here or there. I think you'll know who's mine.
Info: This is a pure Boondock Saints strain and nonromantic. Rated for language. Post-movie.
Author Notes: I know that the general population is not sure which twin is younger, but I know... I know... that Murphy is younger. I just know. Sometimes you gotta go with the gut instinct.)))
The Things That I Am
By: Tjix
Introduction: Assassin
Nineteen-year-old Brianna O'Keefe picked her way carefully through the loft. The place was a mess. Clothes were strewn about everywhere. The beds were unmade and half a cup of cold coffee was still on the table. The refrigerator had been left hanging open. A damp towel hung over the bare shower-curtain rod.
Bri was careful not to touch anything. She could not leave any mark, any way of telling that she had been here. Although, in truth, she doubted that her targets would notice--they were hardly experts. Still, better safe than sorry--or rather, better cautious than dead.
Brianna surveyed the room with dark eyes that glinted green in the light. A strand of her wavy Irish-red hair had gotten loose from her efficient bun and drifted into her face. She brushed it back with a pale, freckled hand.
There didn't seem to be anywhere to hide here. The room was so bare--there wasn't even a shower curtain! The mattresses were on the floor. The table was tall--there was no way she could hide under there without being spotted. The refrigerator was pressed into a corner, with no space between itself and the wall.
She needed somewhere to hide. Her job was to scope out the MacManus brothers (who lived in the loft)--to find their habits, their strengths, and most importantly, their weaknesses.
Brianna had been sent as a spy--and, when the time was right, an assassin--for the Russian government. The MacManus brothers, the so-called "Saints of South Boston" had been slaughtering prominent Russian citizens in the dozens, and the Russian government had decided that it needed to stop.
Brianna O'Keefe had been selected for two reasons. First and foremost, she was good at what she did. One of the best, in fact. Top of her class. The youngest professional in the entire organization. A trained and talented spy. A trained and talented assassin.
Secondly, on the off chance that she was caught, it was assumed that the MacManus twins would show more mercy to an Irish female (especially a young one) than to a Russian male. The records showed that the "Saints" had an aversion to harming women and children in any way. The fact that she was Irish certainly would not hurt her cause for survival.
A faint noise made Brianna freeze and perk her head. Footsteps were heading in this direction. She judged that they were maybe fifteen or sixteen feet away. She had to hide now.
Bri looked around, keeping her cool. There's always something, she reminded herself. A good spy can always find something.
The rafters. They were her only chance. But how to get up there?
The footsteps were only about twelve feet away. Bri opened her eyes wide and looked around again. There's always something!
There was a chair standing by the refrigerator. She stepped up onto it and dug her fingers into the top of the refrigerator, pausing only to say a quick prayer that she would not pull the huge appliance over on herself.
Nine feet away.
Steeling herself, Brianna hoisted herself up, scrambling as the refrigerator groaned in protest. She dragged herself to the top and stood, whispering thanks that she had made it.
There was no time to celebrate; the footsteps were only five feet away from the door. Bri reached up into the rafters, locking her fingers onto a wooden bar almost twice as thick as her waist. She coiled her muscles and jumped, pulling herself up with her arms as she did. Her muscles protested painfully, but she managed to haul herself up onto the crosspiece.
The door opened.
Easily hiding her slim body behind the wide slab of wood, Brianna eased along on her elbows until she could see who had entered.
Connor and Murphy MacManus stumbled back into their home. Connor collapsed on his bed while Murphy dropped into a chair by the table. The younger MacManus twin peeled off his sweaty, hematic shirt, grimacing in pain. His chest was smeared with blood and darkened with bruises.
"Fuck," he breathed in his crisp, light Irish voice. He was examining a long gash on his side. "I really should have seen the fuckin' knife comin'..."
"Nah, that'n was a quick one," Connor said in his deeper, more thickly accented voice. "I didn't see the hilt comin' at me." The older twin reached up and touched his black eye, wincing at the stinging ache. He groaned and scrubbed at his dirty, bloody face. "I think I broke a couple o' ribs..." Sitting up slowly, he winced again and ran an agitated hand through his hair.
"Myself as well," said Murphy, pulling a face. He poked himself in the ribs, tightening his lips at the resulting jolt of pain.
Brianna watched them from the rafters. She took note of the blonde's well-muscled arms and shoulders, of the fighter's grace with which the brunette moved. She mentally reminded herself of the names; Connor was the blonde, Murphy the brunette. She could see the difference in their temperaments. Connor was filled with restless potential, a racing horse at a starting gate. Murphy was all passion and fun, an excited spark waiting to blossom into a raging fire.
"But it was worth it, eh?" Murphy continued. "Those motherfuckers won't be bothering innocent civilians again anytime soon..."
Innocent civilians?
"Definitely not," Connor said with a smile.
"I need a fuckin' shower," Murphy grumbled, and began to undress.
Brianna struggled with herself for a moment as Murphy removed his jeans. Prudishness winning out over her femenine curiousity, the redhead turned her face away from him. She could spend the time watching Connor instead.
The young assassin had been taking the measure of the brothers. They were both obviously strong fighters. They were well-versed in the ways of bar fights and alleyway tussles. However, when compared to her years of harsh training as a government assassin, they were practically rookies. Perhaps she was being cocky, but she had good reason.
"I hate how the people think that we're more dangerous than the fuckin' bastards we kill," Murphy said from the shower.
"Not all of them do," Connor replied without opening his eyes. "Why do you think we've been called 'Saints'?"
"Yeah, but some of them seem to think we'll be going after their children next..." Murphy sighed. "I mean, we only go after the gangsters and the drug dealers. It's not like we just attack any old motherfucker. Just the mafia, and the murderers, and the rapists, and the child molesters. I mean, we're like, the Dynamic Duo, you know? Vigilante justice. Batman. Lone fuckin' Ranger."
Is that so? Brianna thought coldly. That's not what I heard, MacManus.
"I know, Murphy, I know," Connor groaned. "But they don't know that. They only know what they're told. They only know that we kill whoever we fuckin' want. They only know that we haven't been caught. They only know that the police won't do anything."
That's what I'm here for, precious, Brianna wanted to say. I'm here because no one else can do a thing about you two murderers. Vigilantes, my foot. You're loose cannons. That's what you are.
"No one ever fuckin' listens to us when we tell them that God gave us this shit..." Murphy growled. "Is it so hard to believe? He's done it before..."
The sound of water stopped abruptly. Bri turned her face away again, listening to the rustle of cloth as Murphy got dressed. Although she would not admit it to herself, her resolve was wavering. If the things she had heard from the twins were true, they destroyed her reasons for assassinating them. They weren't just killing off Russian citizens; they were killing mafia members, and they just happened to start with the Russians.
"They don't know that. They only know what they're told." Connor's words resonated in her head. All she really knew of the Saints was what certain members of the Russian government had chosen to tell her. She had simply accepted the information and set out to do her job, as she always did. Perhaps that was a mistake.
"They only know what they're told..."