Another ficlet. No definite timeframe as to where this one takes place. Originally based off an accompanying GearDQ-based storyline, though it could easily be another standalone incident. I'm quite sure there are plenty of them.
As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I solely own #476. #416 and #1000 are characters created by friends of mine, and are also GearDQ-played.
Do unto others, and don't fuck with Dethklok. That was the rule. #476 was reminded of it every day. She was reminded of it as she calmly assembled the sniper rifle she had been assigned for the mission. Looking up from adjusting the scope, she met the eyes of her fellow Gear, #416. Neither woman said anything. Nothing needed to be said. They had been assigned this mission directly from the Commander himself. Failure was not an option. #476 turned back to her work, as did #416. Bent over the weapon, #476 gave it a final check, gloved hands making sure the silencer was affixed. It would not completely silence the weapon, but it would delay the sound, giving them time to get away. She peered out of the balcony alcove they had stowed away in. The trial would begin shortly, and their target would arrive.
This was not normally #476's way of execution. She preferred up close and personal, slow and painful. Her beloved cattle prod, Tallulah, and her knives were generally all she needed. She knew #416 was of like mind, having heard her ideas of skinning their target alive with a smile, even as they had been assigned their weapons. This, however, needed to be done by the book. Their target had been identified as a known Revengencer, responsible for the near-death of their Commander and of their fellow Gear and friend, #1000, and for a break-in at Mordhaus that had resulted in the death of a valuable prisoner. Though the Commander had initially decided to trust in the Italian government to judge their countryman, he had assigned them both to make the decision for them. This suited #476 just fine. In her mind, vengeance had to be taken. The target had to die.
Peering over the balcony once again, #476 saw the magistrates assemble. She silently counted down as the courtroom doors swung open. As their target entered, she leaned over the gun once more, her partner doing the same. "Three." She breathed the number, watching as the target imperiously strode across the wooden floor, oozing confidence that his high position in their government would get him released. "Two." He passed the barrier between the courtroom floor and the empty spectator seats. "One." He had reached his seat. Both Gears pulled the trigger at the same time, each firing a shot at their target. One caught him in the chest, the other in the head. As blood splattered across the wooden table and the ivory cheek of the pretty lawyer assigned to defend the hapless target, both women placed their rifles on the floor, then reached into their pockets and dropped identical pieces of cloth next to them. Klokateer hoods. The Commander had ordered that there be no doubt who had taken justice into their own hands, and that they would never be implicated. After all, the Gears were the faceless masses that served Dethklok faithfully. None of them could ever be singled out when they were part of the whole. As quietly as they had arrived, the two Gears were gone.
Do unto others, and don't fuck with Dethklok. That was the rule.