"Rouge. Command to Rouge."
The sound of flesh-on-flesh contact drowned out the shrill crackle of device on the nightstand. Tongue slid sensually along tongue as the telecommunication machine spoke once more to deaf ears.
"Rouge, come in."
The greasy, half-naked man beneath her broke the kiss and stared into her seafoam gaze with confusion in his drunken eyes. "What…" he rumbled as he gently shoved her away, his hands fumbling blindly in the black of night, "... what the hell is that?"
"Hush, darlin'," Rouge the bat comforted sweetly, her cold, glowing irises scanning the length of his body. "It's nothing."
Before he could retort, she had already fused her lips with his once more. The phone shrilled a third time.
"Rouge the bat, come in."
"What the hell is that thing?" the man asked again, his gray eyes alight with half-frustration, half-curiosity. He pushed the beautiful woman aside and sat upright on the bedsheets.
"Oh, honey," Rouge beckoned, her arms slithering around his neck and chest. Painted fingertips glided over sweat and skin. "You worry too much. Come back to bed, Mason. Pllleeasse."
"Get the hell offa' me," the man named Mason growled sternly, shouldering-off her advances. He rose to his feet and scratched his stomach, double-checking with the palm of his hand that his revolver was still tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
His thumb curled around the fine wooden handle, and his index finger found the cool steel of the trigger as he squinted at the small, bedside table. "I can't friggin' see," he grumbled through his thick, slimy beard.
The heavyset, hairy hedgehog turned the valve on the small gas-powered lamp beside him until a steady, amber flame flickered to life and lit the dim bedroom. Rouge pretended to be blinded by the sudden light as she reached into her boot and withdrew something small and silver from the darkness.
Mason stared dumbly at the nightstand now, baffled by the contraption he saw. It was a small, metallic thing that sat beside his lover's clothes, beeping occasionally in quiet, technical tones. He scratched his chin in confusion, still wondering what the hell the thing was even as he read the blocky, white letters printed into the face.
GUN
"GUN…?" he pondered aloud. Suddenly, his toes curled inside of his boots and his stomach fell into his feet. Coldsweat glistened on his brow as he began to panic. "W-wait! You're a friggin' spy! You're a-!"
His cries were cut abruptly short as the garrote wrapped around his throat and dug into his flesh. The man struggled to scream but failed when the silvery length of wire sliced into his skin and began to strangle him into breathlessness.
Rouge yanked backwards and pulled the large man into the dark, away from the warm, orange light and into cold death. He choked loudly and clawed wildly behind him, occasionally grazing the bat's slender arms but never fully grasping his killer. With a sharp gasp, he finally snatched at his pistol.
There was a click as the hammer snapped back and chambered a bullet.
Then there was a bang as Rouge's nimble fingers reached around his stomach and squeezed the trigger.
Still trapped in the confines of his pants, the round exploded downward and seared through tender flesh with a gross squashing sound. Blood spewed from within the denim and flooded the crotch of his clothes.
"Sonuvabitch!" he screamed in agony, jerking away and evading the choke-wire. He gasped for breath as he stumbled towards the nightstand once more, relishing in the gas-powered flame of the lamp before him. "You friggin' bitch! You blew my friggin' nuts off! Jesus Christ!"
Mason felt her hand on the back of his head but could do nothing as she threw his skull through the glass of the lamp. Fire scorched his nose and eyes and lips as the light shattered and smashed to pieces. Splinters of glass stabbed into skin. Blood dribbled like rain down his chin as he let out a weak cry and tumbled to the floor.
"Mason Malkovich," Rouge stated the hedgehog's name calmly, even examining her fingers to see if she had broken a nail. She had not. "Crime lord extraordinaire. Drug-dealing, extortion, bribing officials…"
The trained assassin raised a foot and jabbed the heel of her boot into his spine, tossing his limp and wounded body to the floor. His chin scraped against the hardwood.
"And the list goes on, doesn't it, sweetheart?" she giggled softly. She pulled the wire taut in her hands until she could see the fine, white line against the dying light of the lamp. Fragments of fallen glass reflected her image along the ground like kaleidoscopic mirror. Long, tan legs, beautiful, ivory-colored ears and hair, and gorgeous, sea-blue, sometimes sea-green eyes.
The perfect killer.
"Your one weakness," Rouge declared, tugging on the wire once more, "women. You really thought you were gonna' get lucky tonight, didn't you?"
"Rouge, come in," the phone said in the background. White noise.
"Baby," the dying man whimpered. He flopped over onto his back and struggled to sit up. His eyes were sparkling with bits of glass and flecks of blood, his eyelids swollen shut. Pink and crystal clouded his vision. "We can talk about this. Y-you can work for me, or-or somethin'…"
"As much as I'd love being, well…" Rouge lunged suddenly, quickly and viciously tying the garrote around his neck. "… your personal slut, I'm afraid you just couldn't handle me."
She puckered her lips and grinned, her eyes flickering with lustful, evil pleasure. "So sorry, hon. It's nothing personal."
The man sputtered gravely, saliva dripping down his bloody face. He needed to breathe. He absolutely needed oxygen. Or else he would die.
But Mason couldn't breathe after Rouge forced her tongue into his mouth and locked him into one final kiss. He felt the life fade rapidly as she sucked playfully at his lip until he was cold and dead. Blood trickled from his mouth and stained her lips scarlet.
She backed away from the criminal's corpse and licked her own lips clean.
"Rouge."
The bat stood up and backed away from the lifeless body. She scooped up the phone and answered sharply. "This had better be damned important. You're interrupting me in the middle of some passionate lovemaking, Commander."
"I'm sure I am," the deep voice of the Commander replied sarcastically. "I assume that Malkovich…?"
"Is dead," she finished, glancing at her handiwork with a hint of pride.
"Excellent." Static growled over the line for a moment. "I'm afraid your work isn't done just yet, however."
"Oh?" she asked with a smirk. Rouge held the device to her ear as she strolled over Mason's body and retrieved the bottle of wine he had brought for their evening together. She poured a glass of blood-red alcohol and held it to her lips.
"There's a train scheduled to depart from the city at twelve o'clock, midnight tonight. I need you to be on that train," the phone commanded. "It's headed for a place called Westown. A man named Ivo Robotnik will cover for any expenses you may have. Once you arrive, you will be given a…"
"Cut to the chase, Commander," Rouge almost snapped, annoyed with the ceaseless, chattering details. She sipped the crimson drink in her hand and pulled away, her lips stained red for the second time that night. She licked them clean and stared out the window and into the starry evening sky. "Who needs to die?"
…
"I must say, you seem to have outdone yourself, Amelia."
The preacher beamed proudly at his daughter as he pushed another forkful of food into his mouth. Amy smiled back.
"Thank you, father." She glanced at Shadow, who was too preoccupied with half of a baked potato to notice the ongoing exchange. "Do you like it, John?"
The dark and mysterious stranger from parts unknown had to remind himself not to chew with his mouth open as he faced the pretty girl across the dinner table. He swallowed the steaming, buttery foodstuff down with a gulp as he thought about what to say. Aside from confrontations, gunfights, and various obscenities, Shadow the hedgehog was not very well versed in dinner-table manners or casual conversation.
He drank half of his glass of water and restrained himself from belching as he covered his mouth with his fist. "It's fantastic," he admitted. "You'd make a dam-…"
Shadow quickly caught himself and coughed suddenly and conveniently as he corrected his mistake. "Pardon. You'd make a darned good cook."
Amy grinned, seeming not to notice or simply not caring. "Thank you. I've always seen myself as more of a farm-girl, though. The ranch is definitely where I belong."
Father Rose almost snorted, but preachers aren't generally known for their ability to snort, and so it came out as more of a kindly chuckle. "The ranch is no place for a woman, Amelia."
Amelia Rose was, however, well-known for ability to snort, and so she did so as she retorted, "I've been workin' the ranch since I was tall enough to handle a pitchfork. And I believe-!"
"Working," her father interrupted with a smirk, winking at Shadow. "Speak proper, dear."
Amy's face turned a vicious rose-red, and she crossed her arms across her chest in frustration. "I been working the ranch…"
"I've been working the ranch," the Father corrected again.
Flustered, she sat upright in her seat and stabbed her fork into a chunk of meat. "It don't matter how I-!"
"It doesn't matter how I," Shadow interjected quietly from his end of the table.
The Roses stared at the stranger with separate emotions; one with eyes full of laughter and good humor, one with a gaze of righteous anger and disbelief. The pastor concealed his mouth as he tried and failed to contain a chuckle, and his daughter fumed as smoke rolled from her ears.
"Oh," she sputtered angrily, "you hush up!"
Shadow's stoic face broke momentarily into a genuinely happy smile as her emerald eyes burrowed into his own crimson ones. He made sure to aim his rare and small grin at the pink hedgehog before returning his gaze to his plate. He tried not to think about how cute she looked when she was mad as he shoved another bite into his mouth.
