Title: And thus I cleanse my brow with blood
Characters: Cassandra, Cain
Prompt: #9, Sociopath
Word Count: About five hundred.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
A/N: AU. I wrote and posted this fic for the first time back in February; clearly, this fandom comes with some prompts built-in.
She enters your study seemingly from nowhere, silently flowing from the stormy night to a spot in front of your couch. You notice that she is standing over her turned-over cloak to avoid wetting the persian rug. She doesn't care for rugs, or for the late Shah's old spot of blood in one corner, but she knows that you like it, and thus she cares for it.
It's been a few years since you first realized that you truly love her like a daughter, like other people love their daughters. The weakness would worry you, but you seldom work yourself these days. What point would there be in being an assassin if you won't be the best anymore?
The best one in the world is waiting for you to get over already with the pointless routine of questions and debriefing. You smile and do it anyway, because if there's one weak spot in your daughter is that she hasn't been defeated yet.
"Did you have any problem with the bodyguards?"
She takes off her mask and shrugs, trying to pretend she's taking the question seriously. "They gave too much attention to the radios on their ears. Too many guns and body armor behind the suits. Bad at fighting." She shrugs again. "The cameras were difficult."
Ah. Good. She knows you couldn't or wouldn't hurt her, not anymore, but it's good that she still feels the need not to fail you. One day, you hope she'll learn the need not to fail herself.
You turn on the monitors on one wall of the study. None of the news channels are reporting the death of the US President yet. It's impressive, as spin control goes, but it's delaying your payment.
Your five million dollars "cellphone" rings.
"Mr. Cain. We have gotten news of your success. We are very pleased, and have another job for you, if you are interested."
Perhaps the delay won't be that long after all. And the order of the jobs - first the US President?- is intriguing.
"Lady Shiva. Five hundred million dollars."
You close your eyes. "I'll get back to you on that."
"But..." You hang the phone and turn to your daughter. She is looking at you with a puzzled expression. You've never before given anything but an straight "yes" or "no" answer to a contract offering.
"Cass, the contract is for your mother."
She frowns, still puzzled. You feel both proud and vaguely ill. You know you'd probably be diagnosed as a sociopath if a psychiatrist could ever live enough to finish interviewing you (self-awareness is, after all, a necessity for an assassin); it's quite different to see your own mind reflected in somebody else's. It's somewhat... unsettling.
"It'll be the most difficult job you've ever done. She could very well kill you," you add.
Her eyes open wide with interest, and she smiles, for all the lethality in her every move, as a kid.
You resist the irrational urge to hug her, knowing fully well that she has read it anyway but won't understand. Neither do you.