A/N: Okay, so I know I have a story in this fandom already ( raison d'être ), but after reading the end of the Assassination Classroom manga ( KARMA GOT HOTTER *hyperventilates* ), I couldn't help but wonder about an AU where Nagisa and Karma are actual assassins. This has fem! Nagisa in it, so be warned! I hope everyone enjoys the story, because I had a blast and a half writing the first chapter. Reviews, favorites and subscriptions are appreciated!
For the past half-hour, Nagisa has been crouching on the roof of the building, a sleek spire of gleaming sapphire that pierced the clouds, watching patiently, scanning the street through the scope of her rifle. She checks her watch for the third time with a frown. Kayano had told her that her target would be leaving at six thirty, and it was almost seven.
Nagisa adjusts the scope, rubs some warmth back into her fingers and resumes her wait. The sun had nearly set, the temperature dropping with each passing minute. Sniping had never been Nagisa's cup of tea – that was Hayami's forte – but seeing as how their resident sniper was currently on her own mission in sunny Singapore, Nagisa, having had fairly decent sniping skills herself, had been tasked with eliminating the target – a radical Presidential candidate, who was dangerously close to being elected.
The first rule loops in her head, in Professor Bitch's thick Croatian accent. "Never give your target a name. It humanizes them. They are targets, nothing more, and nothing less."
The sensory input is astonishing - the smell of vehicle exhaust mixes with food from vendor carts, the shouts of hawkers blend with music from street entertainers, the awe-inspiring range of faces and styles and accents, the gorgeous architectural wonders... And the cars. Jesus Christ. The frenetic flow of tightly packed cars is unlike anything Nagisa has ever seen anywhere.
There is always an ambulance, patrol car, or fire engine trying to part the flood of yellow taxis with the electronic wail of ear-splitting sirens. She is in awe of the lumbering garbage trucks that navigate tiny one-way streets and the package delivery drivers who brave the bumper-to-bumper traffic while facing rigid deadlines.
Real New Yorkers cruise right through it all, their love for the city as comfortable and familiar as a favorite pair of shoes. They don't view the steam billowing from potholes and vents in the sidewalks with romantic delight and they don't blink an eye when the ground vibrates beneath their feet as the subway roars by below, while Nagisa grins like an idiot and flexes her toes. New York is a brand new love affair for her. It's clear that she's a starry-eyed tourist and it shows.
"Forever Flat, can you hear me?" Voice barely above a whisper, Nagisa speaks into her ear piece. "The target has yet to show up. Are you sure you got his schedule right?"
Kayano's voice crackles to life, tinged with irritation. "'Course I did! Scrunchies and Boobs double checked it, too!"
Nagisa makes a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, eyes still trained on the doors of the Avery. Ornate copper framed revolving doors glitter in the fading light, and Nagisa can no longer hear the bustle and flow of traffic anymore, just the quiet whoosh of air as it enters and leaves her lungs and the rush of blood in her ears. The cold of the Dragunov SVD sinks under her skin, all the way to her bones, sending a cold pinprick down her spine and sharpening her focus.
She'll only have a split second to take the shot – the target will leave the building first, followed closely by his bodyguards, and it is that juncture in time that she would be aiming for. Her breath catches in her throat when right on cue, the doors open, a headful of garish orange hair and his massive girth waddling into view. A quick shift of the rifle ensures that its cross-hairs are centered on the target's lined forehead – one quick, clean head-shot, and then she can be on her merry way, with no one aware that she has just assassinated one of America's political figures . . .
Click.
BANG.
There is a beat of silence, and then the noisy cacophony of New York returns, assaulting Nagisa's senses. Kayano is screeching her head off on the other end of the line, squawking for Fluffy Stag Beetle and Scrunchies and Boobs to get onto the scene and clear things up, because things are most certainly not okay. All Nagisa can see through the scope's narrow lens is the man's prone form, the dark puddle beneath his head growing larger by the minute. She bites back a curse. She's missed. The man's chest is still rising and falling. Instead of a bloody hole in his temple, Nagisa sees a hole in his throat.
Red fills her vision once more; only this time, it belongs to her one of her target's black-suited bodyguards. Blood gushes out of the hole in his neck, and as Nagisa watches, her mouth agape, the red headed man takes a wad of gauze from a medical kit on his belt and thrusts it into the wound, pinching the artery shut. Eyes rolling wildly, the injured man screams, blood frothing from his lips as he does so, but to his credit, the bodyguard doesn't even flinch.
More bodyguards swarm in to take his place and the red-head pads away, perfectly at ease even among all the chaos and screaming civilians. People on the sidewalk are screaming, and scrambling to get out of the way, but some of them have pulled out their smart phones to video the whole event, ringing the fallen man in a loose circle. She watches, frozen to her spot on the roof, watches as the man pulls his own phone out of his pocket, having a rushed discussion with whoever is on the end of the line.
A smirk spreads across those full lips, and slowly, deliberately, the male lifts his head. There is something fierce about the gesture, one that reminds Nagisa of lions she's watched on the Discovery Channel, the way the big cats would raise their heads and sniff the air for prey. His eyes are golden, luminous and liquid, even in the dark. An icy fingernail skims up Nagisa's spine. It is dark, she's in camouflage gear, but she knows he can see her. The chill from the concrete leeches into her limbs and Nagisa resists the urge to shiver as she haphazardly throws her rifle into her violin case, heart kicking into gear.
"Forever Flat, get those two outta there." Nagisa pauses, still lying flat on her stomach. Her voice sounds like glass shards in a blender and she clears her throat. Stops fighting the urge to shiver. "Tell them to meet me at the safe house in Broadway. We're leaving."
Nagisa keeps her head down as she makes her way past the registration desk and exits the hotel through a side door. No longer dressed in camouflage, Nagisa is now neatly attired in a white button down, vest and jeans, with a pair of broken in cowboy boots on her feet. Her powder blue hair is in her trademark pigtails, and her rifle is hidden neatly in her Amati violin case. She can easily pass for a ( slightly feminine ) male, one on his way to music lessons, perhaps.
It is dark out now, the city taking on a whole new life and energy from what it had during the business day. Steaming food carts dot the sidewalks, along with a vendor selling framed artwork, another hawking novelty T-shirts, and yet another who has two folding tables covered in movie and television episode scripts. Nagisa trembles as she walks, the breath soughing from her lungs with every step.
All she can see is red.