027. An Origin Story


"Fuck".


Anna sighed theatrically.


Being a state sanctioned hitman was nothing like it was in the movies. At least none of the blood-soaked, heart-thumping Stallone, Norris, and van Damme-epics she was raised on. Sure, not that long she'd been in a scuffle and had the rare pleasure to toss a henchman through a window. She'd watched him careen down to his splattery death and lit a cigarette as midtown Shanghai bathed her in blue, switch, pink, switch, green lights.

"When God opens a window..."

SPLAT.

"He closes a casket.

"Fuckface."

She'd mumbled the profanity while taking another drag on her cigarette. Even in the close-up they could edit that part out.

But that was well over ten years ago. The last villain had gone legit and hung up his black hat. These days all her assignments seemed to consist of the same thing: Watch. Wait. And Make It Look Like An Accident.
Her kills were impersonal and always from a distance. Slow poisons and cut break lines. Heart attacks and vehicular accidents. Gone were the energizing stand-offs with mad professors and third world dictators who held the world hostage with creative doomsday weapons. Anna was now perpetually stuck with the white collar criminals. CEOs and investment bankers that lived in the suburbs with the norms. They dressed like the norms, ate like the norms and were generally just as boring as the norms. Breaking into a Westchester Castle Apartment and rigging a Twin-Eagle JustLuxe outdoor grill to explode required minimum effort. Yes, she got to slip into the black spandex and a ski-mask. To ninja up. But rappelling down hollowed out volcanoes and punching laser-powered magma-sharks were nothing but distant memories.
"Ah James, we'll always have Monster Island".

She whistled a little tune Horace from IT had taught her. In Hong Kong that melody had triggered the tone-sensitive bombs placed strategically around the headquarters of the Triad mafia and bought her precious seconds to escape their delightfully elaborate death-trap. Now it merely filled the air of the rented Prius for a few seconds and then died without echoes against the soft, leathery seats. It was a boring car, completely devoid of headlight missiles and ejector seats. Another effect of the cuts. Stupid thing couldn't even flip the license plates.

"Fuck".

The boredom had leached its way into whatever part of her brain that stimulated creative profanity. Her Medula Fucking-gata. Her HippoCuntus.

"Gaaaah!

In exasperation she broke cover and thrashed wildly in her seat. She thumped the wheel so hard the whole car shook and the carry cup of coffee she'd completely put out of her mind flipped to fill her lap with cold coffee.

"Ballsplundering fuck-amagog!!"

That's it, she thought. Fuck it all to hell.
Next week I'm going supervillain.

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