Thievery, Murder and Mischeif (Avengers Fan Fiction)

1. Transparant

I'm invisible. The weathered wall behind me grinds ridges in my back, but I hold my position. Somewhere in the bustling crowd lies my prize. Somewhere in the hordes of uni-sex bodies huddled in rain coats against the weather. They all look the same, if you don't know what you're looking for.

A woman sneezes, and a single lock of bedraggled bleach blonde hair falls from beneath her hair. As she walks her right foot falls a little further than her left. As she limps across the busy pavement, she runs her gloved hand across the wall. Her "designer" bag is fake leather. 

She doesn't see me. I am not hard to miss, with a bright red top and bare shoulders, apart from the fact I'm transparent. I'm not cold though, despite the low temperatures - I always had a flame in my belly. 

Her name is Hannah Brown. An average name for an average person. I suppose her newly blond hair is an interesting change from dull brown, but her face is round and aging, and the bleach played havoc on her wiry hair. Her vocation, however, was slightly more exciting. 

She slipped past, brushing her hand on her coat as she passed my hiding place. She wouldn't realise for quite a while that the contents of her bag was now sitting in one of the various pockets of my bag. My sharp Swiss army knife made fodder of the faux leather base. 

It was rather less easy to leave. A shuffled along the side of the building, but my concentration faltered. I caught the eye of a passing child, who spooked. From what I could see, only my eyes were showing. But I suppose a pair of deep grey eyes interlaced with ruby shards floating in mid air  would scare anyone.

I screw my eyes shut, and the boy's mother pulls him away. In one swift movement I pull a pack-a-mack from a passing strangers bag, revealing me for a few seconds. Then I'm away, huddled in a rather unfortunately coloured green waterproof. A little conspicuous, but it would get me off the street at least.

***

I watched anxiously as my handiwork was assessed. I'd laid the contents of Miss Brown's poorly made bag on the table in front of me. My assessor sieved through the junk, displeased. "Where's the documents?" he demanded, his wiry, weak black hair shaking. His face was old, though I knew he was only thirty. His name, address, age, family, background and any other useful information was recorded in a small notebook in the pocket on my thigh. Of course he never gave me such information, not even his name. But I had to keep track of my employers somehow.

"What documents?" I hissed, my voice low and disguised.

My employer laughed. "The vital documents, my dear. Your money maker," he sat back in his chair, his round stomach lolling out.

I shook my head. "And what do you mean by that?" I smiled at his obvious confidence. It was a game he could not win. 

"I'm afraid that's what I was paying you to retreive. No documents, no money," his voice dripped with mock sympathy. I wanted to spit.

"But... but," I stuttered, "you didn't specify that!" I cried.

He chuckled throatily. "No prize for me, no prize for you."

I began to protest, but my words failed me. I turned away, head drooped, almost crying.

Two thuds. The crack of wood, the cry of pain. Two frail blades wedging my employer's hands to the table. I lifted my knee's up to crouch above him as he pulled at the knives. "Now you don't want to do that," I giggled girlishly, "You'll split your hands in two!" I laughed as if it were the punchline. 

He stopped pulling. "Please," he groaned.

I lay one finger over my lip, silencing him. "Dragoness!" a voice called through the thick air. I reluctantly turned my head, angered at having my fun spoilt. "Let him go," the bar keeper ordered. It was unusual for him to intervene in any of our business, but he clearly didn't want to clear up any dead bodies today. Plus, bleeding to death was particularly messy.