"Ouch!"
"Sorry," came the half-hearted, preoccupied reply.
Rose clenched her hands into fists, but didn't raise any further complaints. Being poked and prodded was far from pleasant, but the less she grumbled, the faster this would conclude.
This was the first time Rose had ever had an outfit tailored specifically for her, not to mention the first time that she had properly worn a dress. Sure, she had slept in nightgowns as a child, but Liana had never forced her to wear anything but pants, so that was truly the extent of it. As both a tomboy and an assassin, dresses simply weren't economical or necessary.
Now, however, this lifetime streak of solely donning attire first and foremost intended for men was being broken. For some reason, it was impossible to complete this newest mission she had been tasked to complete without wearing a skirt. And a green one, nonetheless, not even black to fit in with her typical color scheme!
"Lockhart! I didn't know you were a seamstress." A large man with a booming voice entered the room without knocking. His ego immediately swelled to fill the space, his very aura demanding that he command all attention.
Rose frowned, but her expression of distaste was unable to match the pure vehemency of Lockhart's. The tall assassin gave his compatriot a shriveling glare, pausing in his task of hemming Rose's sleeve. "Just because I know how to sew," he seethed, "doesn't mean that I am any less of a man."
"Really?" Z smiled malevolently. "That dress you've made says otherwise."
In a fit of rage, Lockhart dropped the needle, letting it dangle down off of Rose's outstretched arm from its thread. "Z!" he roared, his face turning crimson as he stood to his full height, breaking six feet with overwhelming ease. "At least I have some practical skills beyond killing at my disposal."
Z's smile simply widened. "But what is more practical than killing?"
Despite herself, a twisted smile appeared on Rose's face. She would never deny her hatred for Z, but on some subjects they were in agreement.
Her change in expression didn't go unnoticed. Z locked gazes with her, and adopted a lecherous air. "So, sweetcheeks," he said, approaching her slowly, "has anyone ever told you that you got a real nice, ah, figure?" He chuckled darkly. "Never knew you were hiding that under that robe of yours."
Just like Lockhart, Rose felt her cheeks flush a bright red; Z seemed to have such an effect on people, whether he was speaking to someone easily riled up or typically calm. "You know what your problem is, Z?" she asked scornfully. "Killing is only your excuse. You can talk about death all you want, but you're only in it for what comes before the kill."
"That's where you're wrong." Z shook his head slowly, dramatically. "I live for every. Single. Moment. You need the first act in order to properly enjoy the grand finale. Without each scene, how could the ending ever properly take my audience's breath away?"
Rose could feel her skin crawl. Z was too close to her, and he was deriving too much pleasure from the mere suggestion of his common lustful activities. She wished to move away, but her dress wasn't finished yet, and she knew that Lockhart would respond very negatively if she moved. Even with her arm stretched out uncomfortably, she knew that he would become wrathful if she so much as let it drop a degree.
Was it better to follow her instincts and put distance between herself and an evil man, or to stay put lest she be chewed out by a man with anger issues? She was caught between two dire forces, and she wasn't a big fan of either nasty ideals or needles. Neither appealed to her.
Luckily for Rose, Lockhart wasn't too fond of Z's attitude, either. In fact, he was a few nudges away from lashing out physically. "I swear upon every angel, fallen and risen alike, Z!" he roared, snatching back up his dangling needle. "Either make yourself silent or scarce, because I'm in the middle of something!"
Rose took a figurative step back, just for a moment looking at this scene as an outsider. From a metaphysical distance, these interactions almost appeared comical; Lockhart was practically sweating with rage, and Z was teasing his overly touchy companion in an almost brotherly manner. Seeing one grown man getting on another's nerves so easily was almost enough to bring a small smile upon Rose's face.
Almost. But not quite. Step back into reality, and it was impossible to ignore the true nature of these assassins. Evil as they both were, there was no true comedy to be found between them.
"Ouch!" Rose was brought out of her thoughts as she got stabbed yet again. "Be careful, dammit! You weren't even aiming for the dress that time." She frowned, watching as a speck of blood popped up on her arm where her sleeves ended, a few inches below her elbow.
This time, Lockhart didn't bother to apologize. The only response she got was a dark chuckle from Z. He walked behind Lockhart, and touched where the needle had accidentally bit Rose. A dot of red clung to his skin, which he admired as though it were an elegant painting. Rose had to restrain herself from punching Z in the face for even placing a single finger upon her.
"Blood is so red," he said, almost dreamily. "As red as a rose." Z rubbed his finger off on his shirt and returned to face Rose. "You're just like a rose yourself, aren't you, Alister? It's as if someone decided to paint you red to accent the thorns you'd already grown. Either that, or you've simply decided to paint the rest of the world red to suit your color scheme."
"Cool it, Z." Rose shot daggers from her eyes. "Deep thoughts and philosophy don't become you."
Z smirked. "You just dislike the connection because I'm comparing you to a flower. Too girly for you, sweetheart?"
"I dislike the connection because it's unnecessary," Rose countered coolly. "You know, you really ought to keep your mouth shut. Your attitude isn't the only thing that stinks."
Lockhart snickered, but Rose didn't feel any satisfaction in delivering that rather smooth insult. Instead, she was too busy feeling somewhat unnerved by how close to the mark Z had actually hit. When all was said and done, both things that he had said were true. Rose had been painted red to suit Liana's vision, and that had then become the only color that she saw fit to project upon the world. She didn't kill for the sole purpose of gaining money or power like most other assassins did, though it was pleasant to know that her pockets and her ego would never be empty. Nor did she polish her knives with the lust of abusing power and taking a life. She had been raised to see life in monochrome and was clinging to that singular hue.
Miller killed to live; Lockhart killed to direct his rage; Z killed for the sheer satisfaction of it. She was only compelled to continue down this violent, treacherous path out of habit alone.
Liana had referred to her as the perfect human weapon multiple times throughout her childhood. Filled with glee, the ambitious assassin had often fallen into bouts of excited muttering. Thanks to thin walls and open doorways, Rose had managed to hear a lot of these scenes. As a kid, Rose had been confused; now, however, she understood perfectly, and it put an uncomfortable feeling into the pit of her stomach. She knew that she was little more than a well-programmed robot wired for destruction
As a child, she had been confused. Now, however, Rose understand perfectly: she was little more than a perfectly trained puppy, a robot wired for destruction. Truly and utterly the ideal human weapon.
And that was the reason why Rose saw the world in red, as Z had so sagely made comment upon. She had grown up seeing no other color, and intuitively wanted nothing more than to dutifully color everyone else the same way, too. Whether due to her nature or her nurture, Rose pursued Red.
Disregard labels such as human and machine . . . . Wouldn't that just make her a monster?
"Why do I need a dress, anyhow?" Rose asked, changing the subject abruptly. "I've never been on a mission before that requires anything more than pants. Why does this have to be any different?"
Unexpectedly, both Z and Lockhart gave Rose a look of surprise. She glanced between the two of them resentfully. "What?"
"It's been nearly a week since Shilah gave you your debrief. Have you even bothered to look at it?" Lockhart completed the sleeve, tearing off the extra thread as though it was as insubstantial as a piece of a spider's web.
"Well, of course!" Rose put her arm down as Lockhart stepped back to admire his finished product. She could feel the blood rush back into her limb. "Just not in detail."
Z snorted, treating her with the same disappointed disapproval that a parent would give to a child that had failed to complete her chores. "This isn't your typical in-and-out mission, Princess."
"You can hate us and what we stand for all you like," Lockhart chimed in, "but don't disregard instructions just for the sake of being difficult. The only person you'll hurt in doing that is yourself."
Rose didn't know what she hated more: the lack of knowledge that she possessed, which made her look both foolish and sloppy, or the fact that she was being lectured by two of the people she disliked most in this world. "Don't be so uptight," she chided, pushing her irritation deep into her own personal recesses. "I've got a few days. More than enough to finish reviewing the rest of the mission."
"Ri-ight." Z was obviously doubtful, but he didn't press any further. "Well, Lockhart, if you're finished, you're needed in the other room."
Lockhart set his needle down on the table with his other sewing supplies and nodded. "You can go ahead and change, Alister."
"Thank the Heavens!"
Rose waited until the two other assassins had left the room before moving. She flew over to her discarded robe and dug into its pockets, pulling out the file that she had been given so many nights ago. It had been opened, but she had only looked a couple of the papers enclosed. For some reason, she couldn't quite bring herself to look at all of them in detail, as though it would make her reality finally seem real.
The assassin pulled out the image of her target from the file first. Out of all the papers enclosed in the file, this was the only one which she had looked at countless times, memorizing the face easily due to her repetition And, sure enough, what she saw hadn't changed since the first time she had stared at it.
Alexander -- that rich kid from the Fennec Tavern -- wasn't just some rich kid, as it turned out. And that wasn't even his real name! Sure, he was more of an enigma than most rich kids tended to be, but this was more shocking than Rose could ever have dared to believe.
How was it possible that Alexander was truly Prince James?
A/N: Woo, it's almost the end of the semester for school! At the same time, though, it's also one of the more stressful times of year with finals coming up in a multitude of classes . . . . Leading to this question.
QOTC: How do you deal with stress?
AOTC: Honestly, by ignoring the fact that I'm stressed. If I have a lot of math homework, I'm still going to be watching youtube instead of working on it; if I have a chemistry test, I'm probably going to be writing or messing around online instead. I guess I'm just livin' the life of denial lol