That's the problem with us.
Bullets rained down heavily on a crouched figure, their noises ringing loudly in the target's ears. One move left, a bullet to the side. One move right, a bullet to the heart. The target was trapped and the car they were hiding behind could only shield them for so long.
"Spike!" A cry from the target's lips, the voice undeniably female. "Get your ass down here and help me!" A misstep caused a bullet to rip through the woman's side, forcing a loud curse from her mouth. And that's when a new sound entered the scene, the undeniable sound of an aircraft.
Red and sleek, the sight of the all too familiar Swordfish II filled the woman with a sense of relief. Pointed at the front with a large wind span, the aircraft hovered threatening over the area. The cavalry had arrived.
Within seconds the ship's guns were out and wreaking havoc on the hidden attackers. It didn't take long for the area to be cleared of all threat, leaving the wounded woman and the pilot of the aircraft the only surviving people in the area.
We're both stubborn asses and always want to get our way.
"Took you long enough," the woman growled. She stood shakily to her feet, one hand clasped tightly to her bleeding shoulder. She watched through a heated glare as the aircraft lowered for a landing.
"You should be saying thank you," a smooth voice screeched through the speakers of the aircraft. The pilot maneuvered the ship expertly and landed before the woman. With the hiss of the now dying engine, the cockpit door lifted open, reveling a cocky, green haired man. "I did just save your ass." A bitter truth.
We both hate to be wrong and love to be right.
"Fuck you Spi-" the words fell short as an intense pain raced through the woman's side. A soft cry of pain replaced her harsh words as she fell to her knees, pressing tightly to her bleeding wound. Through her haze, the woman picked up the sound of rushing footsteps.
But that's the thing about love.
Having little strength to move let alone talk, the woman allowed the green haired man to remove her hand from the wound to get a better look at it. She listened quietly through her haze as he muttered curse after curse as he fretted over the wound.
"We have to get you back to the ship," the green haired man grunted. Paying little attention to her moans of protest, the man lifted the woman into his arms and carried her towards his ship. The last thing she remembered seeing before she slipped into unconsciousness was the man's mismatched eyes.
No matter what happens, we always come back for each other, one more time.