~*~
Chapter One: The Pistol of Death
She moved silently and swiftly through the silent, dark streets of Harlem. If you looked closely you could see her shadow as she dashed from corner to corner. As she reached her destination she slowed ever so slightly and was more silent than ever. Her eyes continuously darted back and forth, suddenly locking on her victim. Stopping in mid step, she paused for a split second before she crept closer. Like a cat moving towards its prey, she advanced towards her unknowing victim. And just when she seemed to have gotten as close as she could without attracting attention she stepped out into the open revealing herself to the three men that would soon taste the bitter sweetness of Death.
"Hiya boys!" she exclaimed, a dangerous smirk on her face that, although they couldn't see it, it sent shivers down their spines. Three shots rang through the night air, muffling the screams of the three unlucky people; those that she assassinated.
She coldly and heartlessly blew the dust from her pistol, then through the stillness of the night she walked cockily away from the assassinated.
~*~
Truent circled the three bodies, identifying them as three of his own. "Cocker, Chaim, and Gamblah'." He whispered reverently, almost choking as he spoke. The silence that followed seemed to drag on forever and his loyal newsies bowed their heads in respect for the three fallen comrades.
"She was here." Truent said softly, his voice hoarse, and rough. In the next few moments her name was whispered through the crowd, like a ripple in water, it spread. "Terror was here."
Truent suddenly fell to his knees, tears were visibly flowing down his cheeks. Lifting his face to the sky he let out a cry of horror, pain, and anguish for his most loyal three. "Brooklyn!" he screamed. "I have done nothing to you! Nothing! Yet you send your assassinator, your Terror, here to distinguish my most faithful and loyal three! Why!" He screamed his words of anguish into the air begging for people to hear his pain, but they only came back to him, bouncing off the cold alley walls.
Truent sat there silently crying, and mourning the loss of his good friends, as two of his newsies carried them off to the Harlem Lodging House for holding till they could give them a proper burial, in a watery grave.
~*~
The Next Day:
Again she crept through the dark alleyways, seeking her victim, only this time it was in Queens that she sought her prey. Creeping about, her shadow always close behind, she resembled a lion, "roaming about, seeking whom it may devour". As she darted in and out of alleyways she repeated over and over again the name of her next victim: Harts. She repeated his name till she was subconsciously whispering it into the still, night air. She'd memorized his features during the day as she stalked him, and now, after sleeping for only a few hours, was she out to destroy this innocent soul.
She finally found him in an alleyway, alone, smoking and drinking. He was leaning drunkenly against the brick wall, every now and then laughing a drunken laugh, almost a giggle. She smiled maniacally. Enjoying her job, savoring it. She carefully chose her time, and stepped out of the shadows, instantly putting her pistol to his head. Stupidly he turned to look at his attacker, and being drunk did not recognize her for who she was. Yet he knew the minute he felt her dangerous smirk cross her face, and his face twisted with horror as she spoke.
"Heya Harts!" Her greeting seemed almost friendly, cheerful, but it simply marked the death of another victim. A single shot split the night silence in two, and a second one killed the silence altogether.
Blowing the dust off her pistol, she gathered herself together and immediately disappeared into the shadows. Finishing her job for the night.
~*~
She was ruthless. Creeping through the night, killing them off as if they were an overpopulated species. Cold hearted, and without mercy did she carry out her horrible tasks. Victim after victim did she distinguish, until it became a nightly sport. You could almost say she enjoyed it.
Her name was only whispered among the working children of New York, for fear that she might hear them and, in her perverted way, pick them as her next target.
~*~
~*~
~*~
Chapter One: The Pistol of Death
She moved silently and swiftly through the silent, dark streets of Harlem. If you looked closely you could see her shadow as she dashed from corner to corner. As she reached her destination she slowed ever so slightly and was more silent than ever. Her eyes continuously darted back and forth, suddenly locking on her victim. Stopping in mid step, she paused for a split second before she crept closer. Like a cat moving towards its prey, she advanced towards her unknowing victim. And just when she seemed to have gotten as close as she could without attracting attention she stepped out into the open revealing herself to the three men that would soon taste the bitter sweetness of Death.
"Hiya boys!" she exclaimed, a dangerous smirk on her face that, although they couldn't see it, it sent shivers down their spines. Three shots rang through the night air, muffling the screams of the three unlucky people; those that she assassinated.
She coldly and heartlessly blew the dust from her pistol, then through the stillness of the night she walked cockily away from the assassinated.
~*~
Truent circled the three bodies, identifying them as three of his own. "Cocker, Chaim, and Gamblah'." He whispered reverently, almost choking as he spoke. The silence that followed seemed to drag on forever and his loyal newsies bowed their heads in respect for the three fallen comrades.
"She was here." Truent said softly, his voice hoarse, and rough. In the next few moments her name was whispered through the crowd, like a ripple in water, it spread. "Terror was here."
Truent suddenly fell to his knees, tears were visibly flowing down his cheeks. Lifting his face to the sky he let out a cry of horror, pain, and anguish for his most loyal three. "Brooklyn!" he screamed. "I have done nothing to you! Nothing! Yet you send your assassinator, your Terror, here to distinguish my most faithful and loyal three! Why!" He screamed his words of anguish into the air begging for people to hear his pain, but they only came back to him, bouncing off the cold alley walls.
Truent sat there silently crying, and mourning the loss of his good friends, as two of his newsies carried them off to the Harlem Lodging House for holding till they could give them a proper burial, in a watery grave.
~*~
The Next Day:
Again she crept through the dark alleyways, seeking her victim, only this time it was in Queens that she sought her prey. Creeping about, her shadow always close behind, she resembled a lion, "roaming about, seeking whom it may devour". As she darted in and out of alleyways she repeated over and over again the name of her next victim: Harts. She repeated his name till she was subconsciously whispering it into the still, night air. She'd memorized his features during the day as she stalked him, and now, after sleeping for only a few hours, was she out to destroy this innocent soul.
She finally found him in an alleyway, alone, smoking and drinking. He was leaning drunkenly against the brick wall, every now and then laughing a drunken laugh, almost a giggle. She smiled maniacally. Enjoying her job, savoring it. She carefully chose her time, and stepped out of the shadows, instantly putting her pistol to his head. Stupidly he turned to look at his attacker, and being drunk did not recognize her for who she was. Yet he knew the minute he felt her dangerous smirk cross her face, and his face twisted with horror as she spoke.
"Heya Harts!" Her greeting seemed almost friendly, cheerful, but it simply marked the death of another victim. A single shot split the night silence in two, and a second one killed the silence altogether.
Blowing the dust off her pistol, she gathered herself together and immediately disappeared into the shadows. Finishing her job for the night.
~*~
She was ruthless. Creeping through the night, killing them off as if they were an overpopulated species. Cold hearted, and without mercy did she carry out her horrible tasks. Victim after victim did she distinguish, until it became a nightly sport. You could almost say she enjoyed it.
Her name was only whispered among the working children of New York, for fear that she might hear them and, in her perverted way, pick them as her next target.
~*~
~*~
~*~