She darted out from behind the barrel, and flattened her back against the old warehouse wall besides the door. Her tight, black, body-con suit reflected eerily in the moonlight, which also made her pixie-blue eyes shine through the holes of her suit’s balaclava. As the door to the abandoned warehouse seemed to have been lost many centuries ago, she pressed her ear to the door frame, and listened intently for any sound coming from inside that might indicate his presence. Upon listening, she could hear the ragged breath and painful dragging of chains that gives the connotations of a close-to-death prisoner. She took her ear away from the door frame, and her eyes began to sweep the moonlit forest ahead of her, in search of any sign of movement. She kept her hand clasped tightly over her pistol, just in case. After a few minutes of staring into the depth of the forest, she was relatively assured that the Master had not thought to put any guards on duty out here; just as she had predicted, his pride was his weak spot.
She took a tentative step forward, and then marched straight into the warehouse, head and shoulders held high. She could just make out his silhouette against the rough breeze-block wall, and it suddenly hit her just how much she had missed him. Or was it just that she had missed the power? Because, now – by gods – now, she had the power. ‘Wait,’ she thought to herself. ‘I will allow him to notice me... allow him to think that I have come to his rescue. Witness the happiness flood across his face. I will watch him… I will watch him’. As she approached his cowering body, she realised just how badly he had been treated; the cuffs wrapped around his wrists had engraved deep, red, cuts, and the chains he was suspended from kept him at such an angle that he could almost sit down – but not quite. It must have been so infuriating for him. As she carried on walking towards him, she began to wonder which torture methods had been used upon him – for, nothing else could possibly inflict such pain upon one’s face. She began to imagine, with relish, how his distortions had become so major.
She was steps away from the quivering mass which, she perceived, must contain the body of her ‘lover’, when he finally noticed her. She could see the distorted Glasgow Grin, a torture method in which the victim is cut at the sides of the mouth and then forced to contort their muscles until the cuts have extended all the way up to their ears, splayed across his face. As he looked up, she removed her leather balaclava, and allowed her long, sweeping, black hair to fly free and settle gently upon her shoulders. She cocked her head to the side, hand on her hip, a cheeky smile displayed across her faultless face. She could see, as if in slow motion, his dying eyes raise up to rest upon her figure and, suddenly, he looked alive again. The prisoner-dying-in-chains look had gone; an I’m-tied-to-the-wall-but-I-really-don’t-care-‘cause-I-now-have-a-reason-to-live look had replaced it. She enjoyed this moment, because she knew exactly what he was thinking: that she had forgiven him for trying to kill her, and that she had realised that he had not attempted it in order to spite her. He was also thinking about how happy he was, because the woman standing in front of him had chosen to forgive him.
She drew her pistol. Her belt felt abnormally light now it didn’t hold her gun. She moved her legs shoulder-width apart, and held out her pistol with both hands, aiming straight at his forehead; the lazar emitting from her pistol sat directly in the centre of his head. She didn't shoot straight away. She wanted to witness his reaction. She watched as his entire body slumped back against the wall. She watched as he tried to sit down, but winced as his cuffs dug in harder, forcing him to stand back up. ‘Forcing… I like that,’ she thought. ‘I like it that he knows what it is like to be forced.’ Her expertly-trained eyes darted across his wrecked face, taking in every expression that crossed it: firstly, determination – she knew that look very well – his eyes turned fierce and sharp, his brow crossing in defiant belief; next, as he began to fully realise what was happening, his brow flew abruptly apart in confused disbelief, and his pupils dilated as his previously penetrating eyes unfocussed; lastly, the sadness kicked in. For all the hate and anger emanating from her, she was not prepared for that look of abysmal depression that entered his face in that final moment. The promised joy that she had savoured for twenty years left her as she realised that she did not want to kill him. She still loved him. ‘How dare I feel this?’ she demanded of herself, ‘after everything that he has done?’ She cursed, and lowered her pistol.
‘I still love him,’ she muttered. ‘I STILL LOVE YOU!’ She threw her pistol at him in rage. It hit him in the temple. Blood seeped down the side of his face, and he slumped, unconscious, crucified, against the wall. She stormed to the door, and cursed to the stars above her. The wind roared in anger, and the great forest in front of her began to scream and curse with her. Her fury was so great that the very nature felt sympathy with her; together, they thrashed and screamed and yelled all night until her expertly-trained eye, aided a little by the morning light, focussed upon the barrel of a rifle. She could just make out the small, green, ‘M’, surrounded by a red circle; the iconic mark of the Master. She swore, and ran inside. He was still hanging, unconscious from the blow, to the chains. She placed two well-aimed shots at the chains, and he fell to the floor. She slung him over her shoulder and ran for the door. She could feel his ragged breath against her back and, as his temple collided with her shoulder, warm, fresh blood began to pour from the recently closed wound that she had inflicted. She felt a jolt of anger at herself for it. However, this was quickly driven out of her mind as she reached the warehouse door, because it was then that she realised just how much trouble they were in. A platoon of the Master’s highly trained assassins had surrounded them, forming a semi-circle around the door. Their identical, scarlet uniforms stood out harshly against the forest. The fast approaching sun made their shiny, black, leather boots glint, and each soldier’s belt buckle, emblazoned with a sliver ‘M’, glinted innocently. Each held a polished wooden rifle to their eye, fingers on the triggers, trained directly at her. She turned to run back inside, but found more of them abseiling down from the ceiling to complete the circle and trap them both. She turned back to the outdoors, thinking fast, making a plan; she would save him, even if she didn’t save herself. She didn’t care anymore if she lived or died, as long as the man that she had just spent the last twenty years trying to kill survived. What an ironic, dramatic, turn of events.
She locked eyes with the soldier directly in front of her, and willed him to read the desperate longing in her eyes. She hoped he would take pity. Was it her imagination, or had he lowered his rifle a little? She stared intently at the man, as the faintest trace of a smile began to creep across her lips at the possible sign of hope. A loud noise made her jump, and she suddenly felt a pain in the centre of her chest. She put her free hand to it, and saw blood spurting out. The man in front of her lowered his rifle as she collapsed. Her last thought was of the man slung over her shoulder; had he survived, or had he been shot as well?
