So, I was going to write some ridiculously snarky note to go along with this fic because I was incredibly irritated last night, but fortunately I wait to post things that make me sound like a total b-tch to when I'm in a much less emotional state of mind. Thus,I'm going to preface this by saying - this fic is rated T. Nothing in the content of this story is worthy of giving it a higher rating than that, since it is more of a character study than anything else with no graphic depictions of violence at all whatsoever.

However, due to the nature of the story and the character that is depicted, it is littered with curse words, and quite a plethora of them. There is an NPC character death but, well, apparently the only thing that's going to scar any poor children for life is the cursing because that's how this society works. I'm still rating it as T+ anyway because I don't believe that cussing warrants a rating change as opposed to, say, a sex scene. But do be aware that depending on your how your own personal rating scale works, this fic very well could be considered M instead.

Anyway, as someone who firmly believes in the wonderful fanfic policy of don't like don't read, I'm going to put this up anyway because I quite like it, and I trust all of you to be mature enough to be able to decide whether or not a story as crass as this one is something you're comfortable reading or not. I won't judge you in the slightest if you decide you'd rather not read it and click back instead. That's completely up to you. :) Whether decides to take this down because they don't agree with my decision, well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens.

Happy 2016 everybody!

The thing with riflery is that it's all about statistics.

Maths and physics are particularly important. Calculating the angle and trajectory of the bullet, along with outside forces such as wind factor, distance, and movement of not only the target but of all the people around them. An outsider's interference could mean that the bullet goes from a straight path to in between someone's eyes to embedded in the wall of a nearby building.

Now, there was no accounting for absolutely every possibility that could occur in the time frame between the pull of the trigger and the bullet reaching its intended destination, but you could get rather close. Making sure no one was around or would be able to reach the position to disrupt the projectile's path was a rather basic step. A bit difficult when there were a lot of people around particularly in a crowd, like there were at the moment, but still not impossible.

It was going to prove impossible, however, if her partner did not turn off that fucking music right now.

Because if there was one thing that was even more important for her than all of that statistical bullshit, it was silence. Or, at the very least, as close to it as she could get.

And Korn, crouched a meter or so away from her with his sights set on a different target and playing some sort of – was that fucking opera? - loudly through headphones, was not. helping.

They each had their own preferences when it came to their kills on their own time. Chianti knew that. Chianti accepted that, albeit begrudgingly. It wasn't as though the two of them couldn't shoot or even shoot well when not under these conditions, as was evidenced by the number of people the two of them had killed while having to listen to Vermouth and Gin having some sort of a bitch fight through the earpieces on a near daily basis. It was that if, given the choice, each sniper had their own tastes and got very testy when in a situation that they could do their work under the preferred conditions and were being denied it.

Like Chianti was, right fucking now.

Believe it or not, she was not a particularly patient person. Korn was free to listen to as much damned opera as he wanted to when it was time for him to take his shot, but as the situation was at the present moment, Chianti's target was scheduled to appear first and she'd be damned if she had to hear a single thing other than the blaring of traffic in the distance and her own damn breathing.

First step. Try asking, politely.

"Turn that damn shit off," she snapped.

Polite enough.

Normally, at this point she probably would have just decided to turn her rifle on her partner to get rid of the annoyance without the fuss, but there were a few reasons she didn't do that.

The first one was, primarily, that she didn't actually mind Korn all that much. Not compared to the last stupid cunt that the Organization had tried to pair her with, anyway. For the most part Korn was quiet and not inclined to get in her way. In turn, she allowed him a few extra niceties that she never bothered with anyone else. Such as allowing him the kill shot for a particularly tedious job or choosing his preferred location for the both of them to take their shots.

If she killed Korn, then she had an incredibly-fucking-likely chance of getting stuck with another dumb-arsed sod. Chianti tsked. After Vermouth had gotten Calvados killed, it had become very clear to her that the Organization's pick of their snipers were turning to shit. Most weren't all that bad at the actual working part, but god did they not know how to shut the fuck up?

The second reason she had for keeping him alive was the simple fact of her fucking biology. Because as much as she proved it to every man that she came into contact with that Chianti was not a force to be reckoned with, there was always that new and codename-less recruit that came to the conclusion that they could push her around because she was a woman. When she was alone, that was easily remedied with a fist or a gun in the face. Though sometimes a fight broke out with Chianti undoubtedly emerging as the victor. Depending on the size and stature of the man, however, she could still get scraped up. Essentially it was a giant waste of her damn time that was easily fixed by having Korn standing menacingly next to her to ward off any assholes that wanted to try something.

So yes, having him around could have its benefits. But the music had yet to stop playing, Chianti was building up a nice amount of anger, and Korn was apparently oblivious to the woman that was about to explode right next to him because he was too wrapped up in his head.

So it was time for step two.

Pulling out an extra magazine clip from her bag, Chianti looked away from her scope for a split second to lob the object right at her partner. It made contact, right on the side of the Korn's head.

Immediately his mouth curled into a frown – a deeper frown, if the way he'd been glaring through his rifle had been any indication – and he turned to her. Chianti tried again.

"Turn it off. Or down, I don't give a shit, just so long as I won't hear it. I can't even hear myself think."

Korn didn't respond. Chianti hadn't exactly expected him to. The man was quiet on most days and chose to talk minimally. That was completely fine with her, she didn't like idle chat anyway, but that did not mean she was letting him get away with this.

The music slowly softened until it was practically inaudible, and finally she could relax and concentrate on her hit.

A few minutes passed and her target came into view. The street had cleared and gave her a nice, easy shot.

Her lip curled in satisfaction and she pulled the trigger. There was a split second delay before the man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and Chianti uncurled herself from the uncomfortable crouching position and stretched, pleased and relaxed for the first time that day. Perfect.

At least until Korn turned his music back up the moment after she finished.

Asshole.