Assassin 

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She’s gone rogue. All the throats she’s slit, the shots she’s fired, and knives she’s plunged into her gasping victims,  victims of unfortunate circumstance. For they had the misfortune of treading in her path, and now they watch the consequences of doing so, with eyes wide and unblinking, and faces contorted in pain and tinged with shock, woefully without enough time to really process anything.

Let’s take a look at our friends dressed in crimson gowns. Look at them carefully. Look, not just with those scientific eyes- she’s clearly not one for smooth, neat kills- but with eyes that understand the whims of human emotion.

1. The Gores.

Look at that dagger, sunk in so deep that the hilt is all that’s visible. Right below our hapless friends’ hearts.  Look at the flesh, twisted and gnarled. She knows how to make it hurt, and make it long. And she’ll be dammed if she lets anyone get away any easier.

2. The enfilade of artillery

Not one is shot in the head. She’d definitely be unsatisfied  with that. And why shouldn’t she be, she’d be robbed of the scores of quite lovely music and the sight of  little gushing red springs. Knees, feet, hips, guts, shoulders  – these are her favorite spots. She’s in a frenzy, yet insistent on getting every shot just right. She’d look at the numerous ruby lips, gaping right at her, nod slightly to acknowledge a job well done, and glide away.

Every kill seemingly follows a pattern, but the victims’ identities don’t. Chances are even she doesn’t know who her next target is. And how do you find someone who doesn’t know where they’re going themselves?

More importantly, how do I make sure I’m the next one she stumbles upon?

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