Title: Strawberry Blond
Spotlight On: Gin
Word Count: 630
Summary: A random piece of fanfic I wrote when I wondered how a typical job might go for Gin and Vodka. Then, I thought to myself, 'What can I do to annoy Gin?' And so what you read below you was born…written…you get what I mean.
Annoyed, I grumbled to myself, "Asshole. Just had to grab my hair with your bloody hands as you died, didn't you?"
Attempting to wash out the stubborn blood, I cursed some more.
"No, please! Please don't! I swear, I'll come back!" the man begged, on his knees and crying pitifully.
"You had your chance already." That hard voice betrayed no mercy.
The warm water pounded against the back of my head like it was a drum. Only managing to increase my anger, I turned off the water, admitting defeat.
Emerging into the hotel room, I grabbed some clothes to replace the towel around my waist.
"Aniki!" Vodka gasped.
I grunted. Understanding I was asking him "What?", he nervously said, "Aniki, it looks like the bottom of your hair is now, um, strawberry blonde.
"Asshole," I hissed, surprising my partner.
"But, my family!" He scrambled for an excuse.
A cold grin perfectly matched the executioner's cold ice eyes. "You'll see them soon. They'll be disposed of too, in case you told them anything."
"What did I say?" I gave Vodka a quick glare and looked away.
Relieved when he realized I wasn't talking about him, Vodka asked me, "There was so much blood even the shampoo couldn't wash it out?"
"…"
"You forget to pack it."
He was referring to a special soap made by the scientists at the organization that was specially designed to remove blood (or anything else).
The one we hadn't packed before heading off on our assignment.
Silence descended on the dark alley shot with listless patches of lamplight, and broken by excited squeaks of mice spotting more to be salvaged from an abandoned garbage can.
"Any last words?" the standing man asked in a mocking gesture of courtesy. His shorter shadow standing at the edge of the alley snorted.
Orders had been simple: kill Takanashi, a weapons dealer who had decided to stop negotiations with the Black Organization. Of course, he couldn't live to tell anyone about us, meaning that if anybody who bothered to turn on the news the next morning would be confronted with Mr. Takanashi's corpse on their television screen.
Staring own the dark hole gleefully promising his death, Takanashi sobbed, "I don't want to go to hell!"
"Too bad," was the reply accompanied by another icy grin, "because we're giving you a one-way ticket there."
There was nothing audible to announce Mr. Takanashi's death. The silencer did it's job.
Vodka and I successfully found him hiding out in Osaka, of all places.
We'd followed him late on night and waited until he walked down an empty street or alley.
Staring at the red trickle streaming from the hole in his target's forehead, the man frowned, disappointed. Turning around, his long blond hair fanned out.
"Shit!" he cussed as one of the corpse's hands caught in his hair.
"That's what you get, Aniki," the stockier man told his tall companion.
Silencer worked perfectly. There were no witnesses.
"You shouldn't have shot him teasingly before killing him."
Ripping the bloody hand from his precious hair, the assassin snarled.
Crunching the hand purposefully underfoot as he walked away, the two black crows of death vanished into shadow, leaving behind the corpse.
Another accomplished job.
One of the dim amps illuminated a growing pool of red eating away at the paved ground and a broken hand still desperately reaching for salvation that never came.
The only things I loved war myself, my gun, and my job. Sherry, I doubtfully supposed, had once been on that list. But her betrayal moved that woman to the To Be Disposed Of list, right above Vermouth.
I loved my job, as I mentioned earlier, but of course, there were some downsides.
For example, I am not a strawberry blond. Never.