Nipped in the Bud [solo/job]

A community was in need of pruning. 7 was new to the idea of puns, but if the job request letter had contained any more of them, she might have developed an aversion to them. Was it on purpose, or was this Ms. Coldflower actually so obsessed with gardening that it had seeped into her very speech?

Either way, 7 walked through the streets of the quaint little town. She chose the cover of night, finding it more suitable for assassinations. Everyone was in bed, the light was low. The moon and stars were bright enough over head to illuminate her path and destination, but dim enough that her cloak could disguise everything about her. She looked like a stranger passing through, meaning no harm, simply the shadow of a passing cloud. Too bad that wasn't the case. Turning toward the house holding her target, she noticed the lights were still on. No, no. This was easier if they didn't see her coming. She'd just have to linger around until it was time. Patience was key in these situations, she'd been taught. Many an assassination, let alone missions, failed due to rushing. She had all night. The woman had to sleep sometime, a peaceful end.

The town was absolutely festering with floral arrangements. Every house's yard was cultivated to the brim. Window boxes cascaded ivies and blooms. The town's epicenter still showed the evidence of the contest that spurred this murderous request. The entries around the fountain were stunning indeed. Did everyone in this little village have a penchant for growing things? Based on what little impression she had, she was surprised she hadn't been sent here before for an identical task since it seemed such a big deal. Her nimble fingers brushed petals as she walked by, admiring and puzzling over the strangeness of it all. Beauty worth killing over? It sounded like a book she'd read once, where a dashing young man fell for the most beautiful girl, only to love and keep her by making sure no one else had the pleasure of her ever again. Beauty, love, death...how did they truly link? There were still many complex mysteries she had yet to pin down, so for now she'd just mull it over.

These displays did give her an idea, though. Dr. Raelin encouraged her to think on her feet and draw from her environment, so she'd be practicing that in this case. Checking the windows of her target's home, she noted the lights were off. That was better. She made her way to the abode, but didn't yet intrude. 7 wandered into the garden at the back of the house. Ms. Cooper needed more time to ease to sleep. Personally, she found sleep horrifying and confusing, but her creator insisted that while it could occasionally be frightening for a normal human, most of the time it was a pleasant thing. She'd take his word for it, so she'd try to send her off into an endless dream.

Whether Ms. Cooper deserved her fate never occurred to 7. Even as she "got to know her" by enjoying the perfectly kept garden, no guilt plagued her. This was just a job. She was being helpful. She was being a useful weapon, both for the doctor and for Ms. Coldflower. The lady who found herself in 2nd place needed help, and 7 was more than able to oblige. It was a shame, though. Would this garden fall into disarray once the master of the home was gone? She couldn't imagine each expertly pruned rosebush looking anything but perfect, each plant's soil possessing the perfect amount of nutrients and moisture. The petals almost radiated health and vibrancy. Ms. Cooper was probably the same. Perhaps plants and flowers were similar?

In the average human, this line of thinking would either be disturbing given what she was about to do, or would just keep her from doing it, but 7 was a scientifically grown clone. At this point she could objectively admire the beauty that a person could produce, yet never consider failing her purpose of stealing that person from the Earth. She'd been sent here to kill, so kill she would do. Was there any other way?

Feet swiftly took her to the back door. It had been long enough. Reaching fingers out, they transformed into a lock picking set. Too easily the lock clicked, allowing the angel of death inside. Silent steps materialized her at the bottom of some stairs leading to the bedroom, her cloak fluttering around her as softly as dove's wings, even as she glided up. It was dark, but not silent. Soft snores warbled from a doorway. Slipping in, she saw two lumps in the bed. One a balding male; not her target. She laid next to him, serene in her false security. Holding out her hand, metal dust seeped from her pores and molded into a stiletto blade, looking much like the stem of a flower she'd been admiring. An ornate bloom formed on the end of the hilt, securing her design choice. 7 didn't understand poetry, but she imagined that this was poetic in some way. Looming over the dreaming, smiling gardener lovingly clasping the hand of her husband, she thrusted the blade deep into her chest, precisely into the heart.

And it was over.

[892/600]