The scratching of a pencil is all that is heard in the small room. It is slightly untidy, a strange thing for him. There is a small pile of decent sized boxes in the corner. At the desk, a man in a pinstriped suit and mask is sitting at the desk, writing a note. Beside the man's paper is a silver revolver with one bullet in it. One solitary bullet. The scratching stops, and the man looks down at the paper filled with his own fancy, yet neat, handwriting. It was the slightest bit shaky, but he couldn't tell. He reads it over.

Mon amour,

I apologize for my recent behavior. I never meant to make you feel that way. I've come to realize who I really am and what I'm here for. It is nothing good. I am putting a stop to it. By the time you find me, I will be gone. You never really needed me. I was simply a roadblock, a distraction, and that was influencing the way you work. It's worse than ever now. I shall take my leave.

Farewell,

Spy

Part of him couldn't believe he had written this, but he had. He stood up, picking up the paper and gun. He stowed the gun away in its usual spot for the last time, hidden within his jacket, and walked out of his room. He walked outside to the Sniper's camper, slid the note under the door and left.


All was quiet until he heard the shuffling noise. He started up, maneuvering his long limbs from his seat, where he was reading peacefully, and over to the piece of paper on the floor. He plucked it off the ground and read it, mouthing the words slightly. His grip on the paper got tighter as he neared the end, then his eyes widened. He drops the paper, grabs the handle to his door and yanked it open, sprinting outside.

He found the Spy not too far from his camper. "Spoi!"

The Frenchman didn't even turn. He was holding his gun in his shaking hand. Sniper stopped running as the other slowly loaded the gun, the barrel turning to select the chamber with the bullet in it. "Spoi, you can't do this!"

"... I have to, Sniper. I can't be in your way anymore."

The Aussie gritted his teeth, "Don't do it!"

He turns, raising the gun to the side of his head. He smiles. Tears have been falling from those gray-blue eyes, staining the baklava. "I'm sorry, mon cher."

Right before he pulled the trigger, Sniper runs up and moves his hand away, the bullet missing entirely. When he looks up at the taller man questioningly, he said something that changed his mind entirely.

"I love you too much to let you go."