This is my first story on FanFiction, but not the first thing I have ever written. It is OC centric, so if you do not enjoy reading a story like that, please do not continue. Construction criticism will be respected and reviewed, but flames will be ignored due to the fact that they are both a waste of time and yours. I am trying to improve my writing skills on this site, not be berated by someone who doesn't really give a crap.

Warning: Death and slightly suggestive themes if you squint.

Disclaimer: I, in no way shape or form, own Avatar: The Last Airbender, it's characters, or it's storyline. I do own my OC, though.

Hope you enjoy, and hope this note wasn't terribly long.

Grit and Gold

Chapter One

I bend over my victim, analyzing him quickly. I hold him down with one knee pressed against his heaving chest and one hand clamped around his neck, just tight enough to make him squirm without smothering him. His heart beats fiercely, pounding like a pleading gong against my knee. The street where we are positioned is draped in tight darkness, yet I can see the dark pupils of his eyes dilating into pools of reddish-brown, the whites shining overbright in the night.

I can smell his fear.

He shivers as I run my hands lightly from his neck down his expensively clothed chest and back up. I can feel the blood shooting through his veins at a rapid, frantic speed, to keep up with that pounding heart of his.

Keeping my one hand on the smooth, ivory skin of his neck, I reach into my belt and slide out a small, short, deadly dagger. The sharp, lethal blade gleams under the light of the moon as I hold it up for inspection. The man whimpers, a whiny, throaty sound.

Wordlessly, I bring the dagger down slowly to his neck, so the double-edged blade traces his thick, bulging jugular vein.

It's funny, isn't it, how some people's veins just bulge when they are afraid? To me, those people are the ones who deserve death, and they know it. Their veins pop out, just asking—please, please, stab me, here I am, do it!

"No!" he gasps, under the combined pressure of my knee, hand, blade, and task. "Please. . . . I have money if you want money, I swear, there are a few gold pieces in my pocket right now, you can check, and I can get you more—"

"Shut it," I hiss, slamming my hand down on his neck quickly, with quick release. His head cracks against the pavement sickeningly, and those overbright eyes dim with a dazedness that fills me with sudden, unexplainable fury. I stop tracing and press the tip of the blade to his neck, so it just slightly pierces him. As I position my dagger precisely, and rearrange my position of control atop his shaking, sobbing, pitiful body, I think of my instructions.

This man is Huo Takang, an important government official of a rank I can't place at the moment. He cheated the capitol of the Fire Nation out of almost three hundred thousand gold pieces, money that was supposed to be used to build public schools for children who could not afford private schooling. He had done it secretly, and only few knew about this corruption, one of them being the man who assigned me this mission. If Takang were killed, his money will be left to the government, since he had no family to leave anything to, and the money will most likely be shared among the other greedy, blood-sucking officials, my assigner being one of them.

Still, Takang is going to be easier than most. He had no family, and no one to miss him once he was gone. I don't have to feel as much pity; I don't have to think about his mother weeping over his empty body, his young children wondering where their papa has gone, or even his wife struggling to maintain a new life on her own.

I tighten my hand on the handle of my dagger, and, envisioning that savory, magnificent reward I would soon receive clearly in my mind, I thrust.

The movement is quick and messy, because the client made it clear he wanted a bloody death. I'm not sure why; maybe he just takes joy in seeing blood splattered along a public street, blood running in rivers along the sides of roads for days after, blood dripping in thin trails down sewage drains.

The blade goes into his soft flesh easily, breaking the skin effortlessly. His jugular bursts in a spout of warm, crimson blood spilling out over my hand, staining it a dull pink. I push the dagger in until the blade is all the way inside his neck, and I twist viciously, savagely.

He only writhes below me for a second or two, already gone. He convulses as blood seeps from his neck like an overflowing dam, and then he lies still, blood still pouring from his mouth, ears, and nose.

I yank my dagger from his neck and slide off of him, for it is no longer any use to hold him down. He is dead.

I kneel on the side that isn't gushing sticky rivers of blood, and trace my fingers down his still warm face, my lips parted with curiosity. I feel his energy ebbing slowly away, disappearing with his life, mind, and soul.

Soon, slowly, he has leaked out, and becomes an empty shell, a nothing, nothing that can haunt me.

The last thing I do before leaving the scene as quietly as I had come is swipe my dagger across a metal band I wear on my upper arm, too heavy-duty to be called a bracelet. The scraping, slightly screechy sound of metal scraping metal pierces my ears as a thin gash is added to the others there.

:-:-:-:-:

Slinking into the shadows, I leave Takang's body in the alley; it will be discovered in the morning. My route is easy enough, but I took the long way back, which is a series of backroads and alleyways; I am too noticeable in my dirty, ratty clothes, not to mention my blood-stained hands. My heart is fluttering in my chest from a sweeping, stomach-turning rush I always experience after disposing of a victim.

The problematic thing is, though, that I only feel the rush. I am incapable of guilt.

With every step I take, I feel heavier and heavier; and when I was only a short street away, it is as though I am carrying a sack of enormous, dense rocks over my back. My palms are already sweaty, and in my mind I was keeping up my hopeless chant of: No, no, no, I don't want to, just leave, run, you can make it, just don't go back. . . .

It was no use to run from them. I have no way to leave, in the first place. They will find me if I go, and I will be punished so severely my mind hurts to think about the prospect. It is better to appease them, give in to what they wanted me to do, and then, eventually, be awarded with that sweet freedom I have been dreaming of for months. Years, really.

I reach the path leading to the prison and dart up it, every cell in my body shrieking "No!" I run because it's easier that way; maybe if I go fast enough, I'll barrel right through that place and the people and the problems and get away from it all.

But I'm not fast enough. I enter the prison silently, my bare, calloused feet patting softly on the dirt floor. There are guards standing by the doors, but they don't acknowledge me at all. They are the elite guards, the ones who aren't allowed to speak or laugh or joke. They can only stand there, straight-backed and solemn, as though they are leading a funeral procession. The most emotion I had seen on an elite guard's face was a twitch of annoyance in his cheek, but that was only because a moth-fly had landed on his lunch.

However, if anyone were to suddenly run from the prison with every intention of escape, these guards would leap into action. They are all firebenders, and they are all perfectly capable of striking you down without mercy. And they know of the conspiracy I am involved in, so they know whether I have an assignment or not.

Behind me, the two guards close the doors, slide out a wall of bars on tracks, and slam one more solid steel door.

I walk through the halls of the prison, knowing them too well for my liking. I cringe, as I do every time, when I pass the groups cells, where twenty or so prisoners are crammed into one dirty room. The cell has a solid, clay wall; the only air holes are the bars, which are located in a thin strip at the top of the wall separating the cell from the hall. Those tall enough to reach shove their hands through it, beckoning, pleading, scrabbling in poor, out-of-their-mind attempts to escape. I hear the screams and wails from the other side and flinch, knowing what could be going on in there from personal experience.

I open the door at the end of the hall a crack and slip inside, my insides tingling numbly with apprehension. I step forward into the dimly lit room. Cigar smoke fills my nose immediately.

"You're back," grunts the voice of my greatest enemy, a man named Tsuong. If he has a last name, I know it not. He's very secretive, because if any real authorities had a clue what he was up to in his office, they'd arrest him without a bat of their eyes. That's how this place works.

Tsuong is tall and burly, but not as muscular as he looks. He has a potbelly from many years of sitting on his backside and doing as he pleases, which includes drinking many forms of alcoholic beverages. A large cigar is always sticking out of his mouth, emitting foul-smelling smoke and waggling when he speaks. Tsuong's eyes are grotesque; they are small and piggy with a nasty glint at times, but the worse thing is the irises. Tainted the color crimson, swirling between the white and black, they remind me of blood.

Tsuong puffs on his cigar as I come forward, and I hold my breath as a thick cloud of smoke drifts lazily towards me. Wrinkling my nose the slightest bit, I take a seat on a rickety, foldout chair in front of Tsuong's desk. This is his office.

Office isn't exactly the appropriate term, though; it's more like a closet that used to be full of misfit items like extra toilet paper and rusty weapons, but is now cleared out and filled with moldy old furniture. Tsuong sits at a desk so small and unstable that it's a wonder his mug of coffee and flagon of beer are being supported by it; there is one other chair in the room next to the one I am seated in, but that one is so moth-eaten I am afraid to sit in it, for it could collapse at any moment.

"How'd it go?" Tsuong asks. You'll notice, he doesn't ask how I'm doing. Of course not.

"Fine," I say stiffly, holding out my hands, palms up, so he can see the blood stained on my skin. "As always."

Tsuong grunted again. "Go wash up. Get rid of the evidence, or you'll be caught—red handed." He chuckles at his joke, even though I remain silent and still.

"How much were you paid?" I ask.

He sits up, leaning towards me, his mean eyes narrowing. "Is that your concern, girly?" he asks me, his cigar waggling like a disapproving mother waving her finger at her child.

"Yes," I say, trying for the rare spurt of bravery that grabs me now and then, "it is. I'd like to know how much you've made so far. You said you would reward me when you reached a certain amount—"

Tsuong interrupts me by standing, sauntering up behind my chair, and placing his hands on my bony shoulders. I sit still, tense, and stoic, even though my dearest wish at the moment is to reach up and twist my knife into his awful eyes.

"You'll be freed when I see fit, girl," he says, tracing one of his greasy fingers along my exposed collarbone. He presses his fingers down painfully hard on a spot just above my collarbone, where my neck meets my torso. The spot is a yellowish bruise from many incidents worse than this.

I refuse to wince. I refuse to even blink.

He chuckles softly, and, to my extreme relief, takes his hands off me. I sit still, staring straight ahead of me, before he says, "You may go. I am not in need of your services at the moment."

I stand, clenching my hands into fists to keep myself from lunging and strangling him. I leave the room quickly, close the door behind me, and stand by it silently for a few moments, my hand still resting on the metal knob.

These thoughts go through my mind often. Why not kill Tsuong? I am more than capable, stocked with weapons and skills that would strike fear into the heart of the most intrepid man in the world. I have my sick fantasies of torturing him . . . putting him through what I was put through . . . but they are visions that cannot escape my mind. Thoughts that make my heart pound—with fear or anger, I am not sure—because no living being, even one as twisted and malicious as Tsuong, should have to undergo what I have suffered. And I tell myself, the worst of my lies, that what I do to the victims I am assigned doesn't match up to that, that they're not exactly living after I'm through, and that I make is as clean-cut and painless as possible. But even I, who have little or no morals left, know this isn't true.

I dart down the halls and through cell yards, down tightly spiraling staircases and up long corridors, until I end up in the smallest, most unoccupied courtyard of the prison. It was so uncared for and forgotten the grass is brown and dry; as I walk it crackles under my footsteps, tickling the soles of my feet.

At the far end of this courtyard there is a wash station, as there is in every courtyard. Yes, we have the topmost quality here in prison, and are given the luxury of washing with brown water that smells like elephant-donkey droppings. But at least it replaces the red stain on my hands with brown.

Wiping my stained hands on my dirty pants, I walk straight back into my cell in hell with my head held high.

Ah! First chapter of first story; I'm so nervous about posting it. It's not as long as I had wanted, but I hope it wasn't a complete waste of your time. Please review with constructive criticism and please tell me if you spotted any spelling or grammar errors. I proofread it myself but I'd like a beta, so if anyone wants to please message me! I'm, again, new to this website, so please be patient when I have no clue how anything works.

I know some of you may be thinking my character is a Mary Sue (I don't know if it comes across that way, if so could you please tell me and what made you think that?) but I'm going to definitely make sure she isn't. And she doesn't have yet a name for a reason, you'll find it out soon.

I apologize for long-winded author's notes; I just wanted to make sure I got everything across right away.

:-:-HungryNerdWithRabies-:-: