alright, i wrote this at, like, midnight a few days ago and decided to post it. but be warned! because i wrote when i was dead tired it might have some issues that i might not have caught while typing (because i edit while typing). so, feel free to point any out, if you see them and feel so inclined to. also, it's kind of written in this really wierd hybrid of first and third person, which i've never really done before, so can't guarantee how it turned out. read at your own risk.
Captured Slaughter
It began as a simple scouting mission, there was supposed to be a mark staying in the area in a few days, and they had needed to get to know the neighborhood before they went in and killed to terrorist faction that would be staying there.
At least, that's what it started out as. But it all went downhill as soon as Jose was recognized, and the situation didn't improve as Henrietta discovered another infuriating weakness that the government still had yet to find a way around: she was still vulnerable to tranquillizers.
When she woke later, the first thing she did was realize that her handler, her Jose, was distinctly not there, that she couldn't make sure he was safe. The second thing she did was promptly steal the blade and gun and gun of the man who was apparently supposed to have been guarding her (incompetent fool, had he really thought that a couple of little pieces of rope were going to stop her?), and proceeded to "ask" him where to other half of her fratello was.
By the time she was done with the guard (somewhere in the back of her mind, she was vaguely impressed. she might not have been trained in torture because the Agency had gotten around to it yet, but she still knew how to inflict a lot of pain, and the hapless sentinel had held out for a while), her nerves were so jangled that she didn't bother taking prisoners or questioning anyone else, despite the fact that the Agency might want to know how this group had known about them. She was too out of sorts to care.
Eventually, she discovered Jose in an interrogation room (he was being questioned, she thought with a surge of rage, and fought the impulse to go back through the compound and further mutilate anyone who might not have immediately died, but she calmed as she noticed the evident lack of anything that might have been used for torture) she was glad that he had long since learned not to ask questions as she dropped the gun, walked over to him, and, losing the expression of anger, began to cry.
Whether they were tears of sadness (guilt, regret, over what she had done) or tears of joy (that Jose, her Jose, her everything, was alive and unharmed) he has never known.