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Stephen sat in his hiding place, lying in wait for his quarry to arrive. He was told it might take a while for it to get there, but this was getting ridiculous. It had been an hour. No respectable person would be this late for a meeting with a possible employer. He snickered quietly to himself. This person was far from respectable. Even still, his muscles were starting to cramp up, hindering his movement. His hands and feet were numb and heavy, his arms and legs tingling. He had been trained to ignore the pain in his back, neck and knees, but there was no stopping the inevitable tingling. He made up his mind: another half hour and he was going back. He couldn't stand it anymore. The suspense was quite literally torturing him. He shifted as much as he could in the tight confines of the vent, wincing as his half-numb shoulder struck the ceiling. The violent tingling lasted for a few agonizing seconds before returning to normal, which wasn't much better. He self-consciously looked behind him, but the vent was empty. Of course it was. There was nothing else here.
The door opened, making Stephen snap to attention, sleep sliding off his mind like water. He was here. The man was tall and muscular, visible even underneath his thick, powdered winter clothing. The specks of snow on his black trench coat melted quickly, the ones on his hat pooling in the gutter between the bowl and lip, some dripping out the back. His knuckles stuck out in the fabric of his left pocket. He was gripping something hard. A gun? A club? A Taser? His sharp blue eyes stared straight ahead, his cleanly shaven rugged face set in a scowl. Stephen didn't want to meet with that creep, but he had no choice. He carefully rotated his legs so that they were in front of him, then kicked out the vent cover with both feet. The man didn't flinch as the cover crashed and clattered on the floor. Stephen jumped out, his feet and legs protesting when he landed. He ignored them.
"Who are you?" the man asked with obvious disdain.
"I'm the messenger," Stephen replied. The man sniffed.
"I was expecting someone more..." he started.
"Aged? Experienced?" Stephen smiled. "Just because I'm not old enough to drive doesn't give me any less credibility."
"Hmph," the man said. "If you're so smart, then what are the addresses of the three Survivors?" Stephen began to panic, but quickly pulled most of himself together.
"They all live together," he said, voice as still as a lake. "At 2782 Anderson Street." The man smiled without opening his mouth. He nodded and turned to face away from him, absentmindedly walking away.
"You have been trained well," he said. Stephen relaxed slightly. He was winning. All of a sudden, a whirl of black erupted into a bright flash, followed by blinding pain. Stephen keeled over, clutching his bleeding stomach. He staggered onto his knees, eyes wide and mouth gaping. The man lowered his gun, sticking it back it in his pocket. He knelt beside Stephen, gripping his jaw and holding his head up. "But not by the Survivors." He grabbed Stephen's arm and hauled him to his feet. "Where's the real contact?"
"Burning," Stephen said hoarsely, pausing for a second to take in a ragged breath. "Burning in he-" The man backhanded him across the face before he could finish, splitting his lip. Stephen sagged, his vision sparking.
"Pureblood scum," the man spat. He then dragged Stephen to the door, throwing it open and releasing a pent-up gust of frigid wind. Stephen could barely find the will to flinch. The man gave him another final glare, ignoring the pitiful expression on his face. Then he threw Stephen out into the snow, ignoring his pained whimpers of despair. He slammed the door shut.
Stephen was glad that he had long hair and that he dressed for the weather. At least his death freeze would take longer. He forced himself back to sit on his heels, ignoring his stomach pain. He gripped his midsection with one arm while he fumbled for his phone. His numb fingers sloppily opened the fingerprint scan and got him in, barely hitting the speed dial button for "Home". He shivered madly as he sat knee-deep in the snow, turning on speaker-phone. As the phone rang, he pulled the bullet out of himself, gasping as blood squirted into the snow. After what seemed an eternity, someone picked up.
"Did it work?" a girl asked.
"No," Stephen replied. "He ended up almost assassinating me instead."
"Gotcha. Where are you?"
"Right outside the previous location."
"Got it. I'll be right over."
"T-thanks...Luna?" There was a pause.
"Steve?"
"...H-hurry."
"You know I will." Stephen smiled for a half second, holding the phone tightly until his numb fingers dropped it into the snow. Every second seemed like an eternity. After a million eternities, he heard the constant thop of a helicopter. He opened his frozen eyes that he hadn't realized were closed to see the blinding beam of a searchlight. He let out a ragged, smoky breath, blankly watching as medics gently hauled him onto a stretcher. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the snow swirling around the masked faces of the first responders.

            The man pulled out his cellphone the minute he shut the door. He held the screen up to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up. When someone finally did, he waited for a few seconds before talking.
            "Yeah," he said. "He was a Pureblood." The man smiled. "He won't be a bother again." The man's face fell. "I shot him and threw him out in the snow." He held the phone away from his ear, the word idiot blasting out of it. He put the phone back up to his ear after turning down the volume. "No Pureblood could do anything to save itself." He paused, listening to the mini-monologue he always got when he failed. "Yes, I know." He paused again. "He said he was under 16." Another pause. "I understand. I won't fail you again." He hung up, sticking his phone in his pocket and zipping the pocket shut. He took off his trench coat, revealing snow-white wings and no undershirt. He spread them out, revealing their span of about 8 feet. He tied the coat around his waist, taking his hat off and gripped his hat in his hand, walking to the door and opening it. The cold wind that came when he opened it blew his golden hair back out of his face, catching on his wings and telling him to fly. Fly he did, beating his mighty wings and taking to the sky to disappear in the cold flurry.
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{Author's Note: Hey, guys, if you enjoyed it, I would appreciate it if you voted and/or commented to show your support! It would mean a whole lot!}

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