Mission

With a slight sway in her hips, Sacajawea headed for the two men that were starting to undress the poor woman that was being held by the smaller one. They were both pretty muscular, but most of Sacajaweas fear has been long lost, replaced by hatred and pain to those, who handle with nothing else but malice.

"What're you up to, you freak?" The taller one of the men let go of the black woman and faced the upcoming assassin. As Sacajawea sped up her pace from the distance between them, the man noticed that he wouldn't receive an answer. The man bristled and stepped forward, a silent but threatening challenge for the Indian, who's face he couldn't see, and who's gender he just couldn't unravel in that freakish outfit. "You lost from the carnival or wh-"

The next thing he felt was a slight sting of pain as the rope dart cut through his skull. Sacajawea tugged on the rope and retreated the blade from the man, wrapping the rope around her forearm and holding the bloody blade in her hand, whilst drawing out her gun. She was still marching up, coming closer and closer to the man's ally, who, in the time she killed his friend, let go of the black woman and started running downhill and over the flower covered field. But he had no chance. Sacajawea took off right after him and caught up, shot him in his right leg, and watched him tumble.

The man screamed out in agony and held his calve, muttering and cursing under his breath, insulting the assassin who was reloading his gun.

"No, please!" the man begged and got onto his knees. For once he ignored the pain, rather he'd live with a disabled leg than to die right here and know. "Let me live, forgive me! I did not mean to get intricate in such a filthy and humiliating act, please, have mercy!" the man begged for his life. Who was this person, and why did she want to kill him?

Sacajawea took a halt in front of the kneeling man. She loved his own humiliation, begging and sobbing like a baby, praying for his life, acting like she was some holy god. But she wasn't. She was a coldblooded killer, but with reason and intention in her murders, just a young Native American who seeks revenge for those who get harmed.

"Are you… are you going to kill me?" the man sobbed and looked up into the shadowed face of the assassin. He saw nothing but the chin, the full lips, and a stub nose, which gave away no information of the sex. "Please, don't kill me!" he started whining again, and waited for the bullet to sink in, but nothing happened. The assassin gave no sign of ending his life, but still, there he stood, aiming for his head.

"Don't you think that would be quite charitable for me to have mercy and not end your life right here and now, Alden Burchard?"

"You… you know who I am?"

"Of course I do, you prat. What I don't understand, though, is, how did they not catch you yet? Running around, raping young women, killing them and their family. What is the key to your success, if I may ask?"

"You're a girl?!"

"A young woman, I beg your pardon. Now tell me, why do you enact such gruesome crimes? Did you not get enough attention from the girls in your young years?" Sacajawea had to suppress the upcoming smirk that was tugging at the corner of her mouth. Alden remained silent.

"I'll tell the soldiers that you killed my friend!" he then threatened her, but all he received was a sarcastic, sinister chuckle.

"They know who I am. And I think as long as they're not over ten, they will not approach me. After all, you must know, I am not the only one of my kind."

"Then I'll fight you myself!"

"Try me." And with a bang, Alden's body went limp and dropped like a sack potatoes. Sacajawea took a look at his lifeless, pale face, before sheathing her gun, and heading back up the hill to help the black woman.

"Thank you so much, you saved my life." The woman looked up at the assassin that was carrying her across the field, edging closer to her home. "I have heard of them, but now that you got rid of them, we can live in peace. Thank you. May I ask of your name?" she tried to discern the assassin's face, but all she saw from the angle she was being carried in was the chin, the mouth and the nose. But what little else she could decipher was the silhouette of a long, braided pony tail that vanished under the cloth her hero was wearing.

Sacajawea ignored the woman's questions and gratitude. She kept on her way, enjoying the sounds her weapons were making with every step, the sounds her boots were causing, echoing through the area. She has always wanted to be an assassin; after all, she got saved by one when she was twelve years old. She will never forget that night, it was the night she swore herself to become a part of the Brotherhood, to help innocent and helpless people, and so she managed.

"We're here. You may let me down now. I think I can manage walking. By the way, I did not intend to be so rude, asking for your name, assassin. My apologies, and if our ways should ever cross again, my name is Prudence." Sacajawea still ignored the woman's plea. Instead she carried her to the front porch of her house, enjoying the confusion written over Prudence's face, and waited for her husband to open the door.

"My Lord, what happened to you, darling? Who are you? Why are you carrying her? Are you alright, sweety?" Warren started blabbing like a waterfall, completely oblivious to the assassin as he helped his wife into the house. Sacajawea took advantage of the situation and climbed a tree, vanishing in the crowns of the woods.