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"Thirty thousand beans."
Done, crawls on the tip of Purple's tongue. It's a sweet deal for one kill. Must be a valuable life—but money is money. Still, though: too sweet.
So Purple asks. "Any other details?"
The client grunts. Purple grabs the paper offered to them and uncrumples it, smoothing out the crinkles. A car runs over a puddle and splashes the sidewalk outside the alleyway.
Purple sees the image on the paper.
"I don't care how you do it," says the client. They're emerald-colored, dressed in a tattered coat, and reeking with the smell of rotten mint. "Just make sure they're dead."
"…Why them?"
The client scowls, their face wrinkling as if they've just smelt something sour.
Purple gulps. "I—"
"If you must know," the client interrupts, daintily holding up an insistent hand. "I believe assassinating MIRA's poster child at such a publicized event will sway things in my rebellion's favor. Cause the kinda chaos we need to tip the scales."
"…So you want me to incite the collapse." There would certainly be consequences to such a death…
And the client's demeanor just lights up at Purple's understanding. "Precisely! See, now you're getting it."
Purple lets out a short huff, glancing off to the side before looking back at the client.
"Why not one of your people?" they ask.
"I'd prefer an expert on the job. A hired gun like you will do perfectly. Ooh, bonus points if you kill them during their speech!"
"A speech," replies Purple. It feels like there's cotton in their mouth. "They're doing a speech?"
"It'd be a good moment to do it," nods the client, clear and smooth. Natural. "All attention will be drawn to the target. Security will be focused on crowd control. You'll have a good window to escape."
"This—" Purple bites off their sentence in disbelief. "This is… dangerous," they say, a note of realization pinning up a pitch right through the note, like a dart hitting bullseye through a tissue paper.
"As expected in your line of work, right?" they reply, not missing a beat. The client tilts their head, but raises their hands. "I understand if you're not the right person for the job. Perhaps if I added another contact…?"
"No!" This was the biggest offer they've gotten! No way in hell were they gonna split it. "I work alone," Purple clarifies with a narrow of their visor.
A relieved sigh, then a light chuckle.
"Okay, good. I was kinda already risking the plan being leaked by telling you before you agreed, so uh, heh…" The client trails off.
"Oh!" A brief, awkward pause. Purple scratches a bit of their head usually covered by their hat. "You uh, new to this?
"The whole hiring a contract killer thing? Yes. Absolutely."
"Ah, that's—that's okay. I, uh," Purple clears their throat. "…Me too."
Purple had to take the job before they could regret it. Thirty thousand beans was—a lot. Too much to say no to.
But they truth is they don't know if they can do this.
They really, really don't know if they can do this.
Which is a miserable thing to think. This was business. Real business, that was gonna get them paid. You know, money? Money, for eating? For food? Which they need to survive? Helloooo! Come on, Purple. Get real. It's just… killing your best friend. Ex-best friend! No biggi—FUCK. Hey, no. No!! None of that here! THEY betrayed you first! They left you with nothing. They threw you under the bus. They—
"Stop it," Purple hisses at their trembling hands. "Stop shaking!! Ugh!"
SLAM!
Purple plants their hand on the mirror, panting, their chest heaving as they stare themself in the visor.
"Okay, Purps. This is it! You've been talking to yourself in front of the mirror for—what, like, seventeen minutes? Stop worrying. It's FINE! You got it!! This isn't your first time killing people! You're gonna—you're gonna walk up to Red. Pop the—trigger. And you're gonna, uh—you know! Bam bam! Pow! K-Kill 'em! Yeah! Maybe even get a cool little one-liner out of it. Red would love tha—FUCK! Stop thinking about Red. I'm gonna kill Red. I'm gonna kill Red! WE are killing Red! Yeah! Yes! Woo!"
"…"
Purple narrows their visor right back at Heracles. "…Shut up."
Heracles wiggles their fin. A few bubbles tremble to the surface of the water. Purple sighs.
They whip back around to the dirty bathroom mirror and jab their finger at it, smudging the grime on the surface. "Listen, you! I want—I want NONE of this shaky hand shit during the hit. Just—pull the trigger. Okay? Just do it. You have every reason to do it. The rebellion is counting on you. Emerald is counting on you! You're not the only one MIRA screwed over, got it?! What matters more? Your life and plenty others, or your shitty ex-best friend who's sucking ivory tower while you kill for money?! Kill to live?"
Purple breathes. Stares at their reflection in the mirror. Inhales. Exhales. Feels the empty weight of the pit in their gut. The tips of their fingers curl into a fist as a bitter tear forms in the corner of their visor.
They don't let it fall far.
A wriggling darkness worms its way around Purple's heart. Unpleasant, as a heavy fog settles in their stomach. Dizzy illness. Hatred and hurt. Love and betrayal. Disgust for themself. Disgust at them.
The reflection stares back. Unsteady, but certain.
"Well," Purple breathes out, harsh and ragged, like the edge of a knife held against their throat. "There's your answer."
This is happening.
Purple lays on their couch, practically suffocating in the heat that traps them in their shitty one-room apartment; not to mention the sweat that coats them, creeping over their skin like a hidden heat.
I have to kill Red, they realize all over again. I'm going to kill Red.
It's the best choice.
Red has their job, and Purple has theirs. Red doesn't get to bitch about Purple's career choices, considering what path they chose. Okay?
"Wouldja look at that?" Red drawls, tracing a teasing circle with their finger on the arm of the couch. "Murder-for-hire. Hah. I was right about you. Really! I was, I--I was always right about you."
"Shut up," replies Purple, rolling over where they lay on the thin cushions, shifting for a comfortable position they'll never find.
They can smell last week's lunch rotting underneath the couch. Right, they forgot about that. Is it bad that it's kind of making Purple hungry. That's probably bad.
Uh, anyway! Red chortles behind a hand as they manuever around the room, picking at Purple's garbage; they send Purple a particularly judgy look for a smelly pizza-patterned sock on the floor. "How do you expect to keep your principles when you can't even feed yourself?"
"I eat whenever I feel like it," Purple growls, instinctually clutching their stomach. The reminder of its existence makes the pang of hunger hurt a little more than it did when Purple was ignoring it. Their dizziness intensifies. It feels like their stomach is eating itself out of sheer hunger. Nothing that further curling into themself can't fix, probably. Fuck. Now everything just feels more hot and sweaty.
Purple takes a moment to scream into their pathetic, limp pillow.
Red scoffs, probably really cool and chill and of a moderate temperature in their weird noncorporeal form. Probably doing perfectly fine in real life.
"You're starving," says Red. "And I'm not just talking about food. Otherwise, I can imagine you'd have eaten Heracles right now… tsk. What are they, your emergency food?"
"Go away," Purple replies. "Get out."
"Oh, buddy… and leave you? No can do."
"Hey." Purple snaps, scowling as they shoot up in place. "I don't know if you got the memo, but this is not the time, Cryptic Hunger-Slash-Sleep-Deprivation-Induced Hallucination of my best friend who is dead to me. Ahem, literally!"
Red shrugs! In delight! Ugh! Of course they enjoy Purple's suffering! "You're the one losing sleep over me."
"Oh my god. Heracles, kill this dipshit."
"Wow, Purple. You can't even do your own job. You need your fishmate to do it for you... Yikes!" Red sucks in a breath and makes that tongue clicky sound. It's stupid and annoying and condescending and USED to only be reserved for the people they would make fun of at work, but NOT ANYMORE I GUESS.
Red selects this moment to taunt: "Oh, how the mighty have fallen…"
Purple chucks a couch cushion at Red.
Red gives them a dead, flat stare as it goes right through them and bounces off the wall. "Seriously? I'm not real. What did you think that was gonna do?"
"I can't even throw things on you," mutters Purple. "You ruin everything."
"So you'll kill me," Red smiles. It's slimy and wrong wrong wrong.
Maybe Purple really will shoot off their face.
"You'll kill me and make it right," says Red.
"I—" Purple shifts so that their feet touch the floor. It feels miserable, making naked contact with the horrid dusty floor, thinking of their next meal in the privacy of their own so-called home. The grumble from their stomach really isn't helping things.
"I'm," Purple tries, bare and reluctant. "I'm—I wish—I wish I was more… jaded, right now. More of a grizzled assassin."
"Why?" asks Red. Again, that smile. Disgustingly content. Pleased, so pleased with themself. Purple hate-hate-hates it, the resentment surging through every fiber of their being, yelling at them to leap and reach out and destroy Red. To rip out every last breath from Red's throat, a throat that Purple will choke, will close their hands around until their breathing staggers and fizzles and dies. It would feel so good. It would feel so good.
"So," concludes Purple. "So I can kill you without being scared."
"You'll always be scared," Red replies.
"I'll be angrier than I am scared."
"But still scared."
"Shut up," says Purple. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."
Purple's first hit was a clumsy affair. A hit and run, on someone they didn't really care to learn more about other than they needed to die. One muffled gunshot in an empty alleyway later, and it was done. Purple thinks—likes to think—they were evil. Probably a bad person. They wore a suit. Some nameless MIRA higher-up that someone was willing to pay a poverty-dwelling Purple to kill. Maybe a business rival. Purple doesn't care to find out. They just needed the money. That client might as well have just found Purple on the street and tossed a duffel bag of beans at them, saying hey kid, go kill my co-worker for me.
They more or less got into the swing of the trade after that. Their first client spread good word. Purple got a better gun and a few more clients. Rich people who didn't want to get their hands dirty, and had enough money to throw to dogs like Purple who were willing to do anything to get it. What a state the world must be in, for murder to be in such demand.
Purple had morals. Purple wanted to be a good person. Help people, real people, people who suffer for the 1% of their society that gets to walk on gold pathways paved by the labor of the commonfolk.
Purple can't afford morals.
Just when they were getting used to the contract killer thing, this happens. It's so much like Red to get into these stupid situations. God.
Red needs to die.
Seriously.
The masquerade party is held in this big hall, some kinda conservatory with a big glass dome as a part of the roof. It's all warm lights and floaty music and food smells and okay maybe Purple is scouting around the table with the appetizers because of an ulterior motive. Well, their ultimate ulterior motive is to kill, so. It can't hurt if the party was missing a few more hor-whatever-they're-called-duerves.
Purple feels like the mask Emerald provided does little to conceal their identity, but it does help them blend in. What Purple needs to do is keep track of Red, so that when the speech happens, they can be in the right position—since they don't have the equipment to be a proper sniper.
Speech, Purple scoffs internally. It's too easy to imagine Red getting nervous or just having no idea what to say. Purple tries not to wonder how Red's speech will go, knowing that they'll never make it to the end.
They depart the party in the main room in search of a bathroom. Purple takes to the second floor, unable to find one on the first floor. Purple is lucky enough to actually find the second floor bathroom. The tiles are marble and so clean they're practically glimmering; Purple gapes at the golden facet and thinks it's so ridiculous how much that could be sold for. Now is not the time to crunch the numbers for the months of rent that facet could cover, buuuut...
Focus, P! You're here for a reason.
Okay. Okay, yeah. Purple mentally walks themself through their tasks. Done with the bathroom. Check. Gun in my backpack. Also check. Back-up knife dagger thingamabob, also an option. Also also check. Alright! Okay. Breathe. For the good of everyone who aches for the dismantling of the corporation, breathe.
I am going to be okay. I am going to kill Red and get out and I'm going to be okay.
Purple hates Red. Red hurt Purple. Red is a class traitor. Red will go on to hurt many other people. Red needs to die. It needs to end here, before it gets worse. What if Red gets worse? Purple hates that: the idea of Red getting worse. They already hate them, for what they did—for everything. And a part of them can't fathom Red getting worse.
But there was also a part of the that couldn't believe Red signed the NDA.
Meaning, one: it's a possibility that Red can get worse. And two: there was a part of Purple who could believe that Red did that.
So, again. In case we didn't get the message here: Purple needs to nip it in the bud. Purple needs to kill…
Well. Red needs to die.
Red needs to die.
Red needs to die.
Red needs to die.
Red needs to—
"Purps?"
…
Purple doesn't look up in time. They just hear their name called and turn the corner in a daze. Someone is calling them.
But there's only one person who calls them that.
"Purple!" Stronger, insistent, desperate.
"Purple, over here!" Stronger, insistent, desperate… cheerful?
"Purps!!"
It's a mistake in the making, but Purple turns around anyway. They don't really think about it; it just happens. The mask is flimsy and fickle and does nothing to hide their identity. Purple is recognized.
The mask is useless. Red practically sees right through it.
Purple says nothing. They seem them, that brilliant shade of red, dressed in formal wear. Embellished in gold. Already running towards them. Smiling.
Smiling at Purple. Like sunlight on a frozen lake, dancing golden rays skating on ice. What a lovely little traitor they are. How awful. How cruel. Purple should kill them.
But Purple is frozen. Maybe it's fear, maybe it's shock. But it sure is something. Red embraces them like they were just interns yesterday; like they never said goodbye.
"You came back! You came to see me!"
"…Red." A low breath. Barely a whisper. Red hears it anyway. What a liar they are, hearing but never really listening.
It's not an illusion, Purple realizes the moment Red's touch crashes into them.
This is real. This is happening. They're here.
Red squeezes them tight—for a second, Purple thinks they might pick them up and spin them out of pure excitement. That's—that used to happen. Maybe once or twice, as interns. But it doesn't happen now. Red lets go, slow and grateful.
There is a party downstairs.
"You shouldn't be happy to see me," says Purple.
"But I am," says Red. "I—" I, what? I was wrong? I made a mistake? I want you to come home? "—…I missed you."
(Entitled, Purple bristles internally. Selfish. Cowardly. Everything I've always known.)
Purple briefly scans Red's clothing, and lets out a scoff. Everything about this is ridiculous.
"…"
Why can't I walk away?
"Purps—Purple," Red corrects after a glare from Purple. "I just—I wanted—I—I didn't know you were gonna be here."
Purple takes a step back. Fuck, they really don't know what to do here. They just need to get out. Anything but ruin the plan. Just—get out!
"…Okay," Purple replies. Cautious, as they draw back. Keep their distance.
But Red is greedy enough to take the space Purple gives them, brazenly stepping forward.
"I can take you with me," declares Red. Warm, a brand new sort of confident. Emphasis on brand.
"…What?" utters Purple, the word falling out of their gobsmacked mouth.
"We'll be together again. You won't have to worry about food or work or money. I'll take care of you."
"Red. You don't know what you're talking about," Purple warns.
Red continues anyway, faster than their hands can gesture along with their words.
"Please, just—marry me, alright? Please."
"Hell no!"
"But—!" Red seizes their hand, desperate to stop them from leaving. "Please! Think about it—I—I have money, now, I—I have a good job. A secure one! A-And a nice house. Like—everything you wanted. Isn't that... what you wanted? From me? People here, they—respect me. They'll respect you, too. If you'll be mine. If you let me save you—"
"NO!" hisses Purple, yanking their hand away; Red recoils as if scalded. "No, god, no!"
"Why?!" Red shouts. "I'm—I'm giving you a gift. I'm wrapping myself in a goddamn bow and giving myself to you. Why won't you just accept it?!"
"I don't want you," Purple snarls back.
Oh, Red is annoyed-annoyed now. All red in the face, seething.
...Hah. Serves them right.
"Clearly, you've contradicted your own statement," Red says smartly. A wannabe matter-of-fact tone. "You came back for me!"
"I'm not here for you!" Purple laughs, elated and bitter, a hollow joy that echoes over the party muffled downstairs.
"Then why are you here?!" Red demands. "If not to chase me, why else could you possibly be here?!"
"That none of your business." Ugh, they're technically right. I AM here to kill them. See! Now Purple is annoyed too. Way to go, Red.
"Oh," Red says suddenly. Their visor widens. "Ohhh. Oh, I know why you're here."
Purple goes cold. Fuck. Where's the gun. Where's the gun. Where's the gun.
"—You're here to apologize to me—!!"
"—The fuck??" Purple screeches; their fingers tense, clutching the air. "Apologize? I have nothing to apologize for—"
Red talks over them. "Oh, Redsy, I'm so sorry! Redsy, you were right about everything! I should've listened to you, I should've—"
"—No, no, no, NO, you don't get to do that, you don't get to act like you did the right thing, because you—"
"—I should've signed the NDA with you, I should've accepted your proposal, I should've said yes when you asked me out—"
"I don't regret that," bursts out Purple. "Hey, Red, get this through your thick skull for me, will you? I don't fucking regret that!"
"You will!! You will regret it. You'll regret saying no to me, you'll regret—y-you'll regret—all of this! Because I know the truth."
"You know nothing—"
"I know you missed me too." Red's claim is firm; their tone so very certain. Nothing can sway them from this truth that they convinced themself of.
Purple wants to tear it down. Call it a delusion, a made-up reassurance from this stubborn-hearted fool.
"I know you missed me," says Red, leveling Purple with a steel gaze. "Because I miss you. Because everyday, I wake up and wish that you chose to stay with me, or I wake up and ignore the fact that I feel that way."
Despite themself, Purple lets out a horrified whimper. They don't want that. They don't want to look weak in front of Red. Anything but that. The feeling of wanting to beam every ounce of suffering they've went through after the NDA deeply conflicts with the feeling of wanting to hiss and scratch and bark to hide the burning humiliation of the state they're in.
"I don't wanna fight, Purps." The floor opens up so that Purple can be tossed into the ice cold of Red's voice, a chill that runs a marathon up and down their spine. "Despite everything, I still love you."
The gun whips out in an instant.
Not a twitch in Red's face. No reaction aside from that assured calm that seems so unfamiliar on them.
Shoot them. Shoot them. Shoot them.
"It's time for you to go, Red." Purple steps forward. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Don't shake. Do not let Red see you shake. Don't let Red know how weak you are. Anything but that.
Red doesn't move.
Purple takes another step forward. Closer. Another one. Closer, again. Another step. The gap closes, more and more and more, until Red is forced to backtrack when Purple crowds them against the wall; a hand planted against their chest as Purple shoves, knocking Red's shoulders to the wall.
"I need you dead," Purple whispers harshly into Red's ear. "Do you know how many people want you dead?" Purple almost bites at Red when they demand it. "Answer me."
"No," Red answers. "How many?"
"A lot," replies Purple. "A lot of people, tired of waking up to see your stupid mug everywhere."
"They want a pretty face for the advertisements," Red responds simply. "I'm just attractive."
"You're really not making me want to kill you any less, you know?" Purple scowls, and moves closer, their hand planted on the wall. Red grunts, uncomfortable due to the way their head is angled so that their head is tilted up but their eyes flick down to Purple.
The movement is sudden and harsh. Red finds the barrel of Purple's gun pressed into the sensitive skin where the underneath of their throat and chin meet. Cold steel against warm skin; blood running so hot that Purple can feel the heat just standing here.
"Your life is gonna end," tsks Purple. "Why don't you cry or something?"
Red is silent.
"You don't think I can do it?" Purple jeers, then shoves their knee against Red's own leg. "I practically have you in the grave."
"Okay. Do it."
"Oh, so now you're agreeing with me? I thought—"
"Purple," interjects Red. "Just do it."
"Okay," says Purple. "I was. I—was."
…
Oh.
Oh, no.
Purple is shaking
There is a party downstairs.
And Purple's hand is shaking.
It's so easy, to pull the trigger.
They just need to grip the handle, rest their finger on the trigger—then pull.
It's easy.
It's so easy.
"You took all the fun out of it," Purple remarks with misery so obviously threading their voice. "You're not even gonna fight back or anything?"
Red scoffs, genuinely annoyed. "I told you. I'm handing myself to you on a silver platter."
"Can you die already?"
"Up to you."
"Ugh."
"Hey. You're the one with the murder doohickey in your hand—"
Purple shoves the barrel further into Red's chin, forcing them to look up higher, straining their supposedly pretty (unscarred!) neck. "Shut up."
(There should've been scars there. Purple would know.)
"You can tell me to shut up, but I'll just keep talking until you kill me. I'd like you to hear my voice when I go out, y'know? In fact, I can straight up just keep talking—"
This is the part where the gun goes boom. The part where Purple pulls the trigger and gets it over with. The part where Purple is free of Red, forever.
But that doesn't happen.
The bitter tears return, and there's only so far that Purple can shove this gun up against Red until they notice them.
The tears don't fall, but they build. And that's still horrible, and Purple is still shaking.
Purple shoves Red against the wall as they get off them, quick enough so that Red can't say anything. Red yelps in pain at the slam. Purple backs off, lowering the gun and glowering at their traitorous hand.
"Purple—"
Purple thrusts the gun right back at Red, pointed square at their chest. "I'm not sparing you."
"I—"
"Shut up." Purple withdraws the gun. "I'm not sparing you."
Purple breathes, their visor wrinkles in disgust as their look down at their hands. An expression cross between a scowl and just plain disbelief spreads across their face. It turns into a wildly disgusted grimace that pangs with desperation.
...They can't do it.
(Trembling, useless hands. Untrustworthy bones. Traitorous body.)
Purple can't fucking do it.
They tilt their head back up, but don't take their eyes off Red. Is their cowardice rubbing off them or something?
"I'm ashamed," Purple ruminates. "I want you to die, but I can't kill you. That's pathetic. That's weak." Purple exhales half of an incredulous cackle. "God, I'm—" Purple cuts themself off, then looks up to Red with a pitiful sneer. "Fuck! You were right about me. Not about any of the bullshit you just said, but about what you said before. I can't do this right now. I fucking hate it, but I can't. I can't!"
Purple snags a sharp breath from the air; then an exhale rushes out of their mouth, flowing into the empty space between them.
"I'm going to let you go," Purple tells Red. "But I'm going to get stronger. Red, the next time I see you, I will kill you."
What the fuck is Red supposed to say to that?
Purple decides they don't want to hear. Red's stupid mouth is about to blab again; Purple's hand shoots up to cover it before another vile word can slip out.
"So I don't owe you anymore." Purple pecks a kiss on the knuckle of their own hand (slow, barely grazing the skin), the one that seals Red's mouth. Then, looks directly at them with a gaze so intent and piercing. "The only hope for you is me. And I hope you suffer. I hope you burn. I hope you learn that you really, fucking suck. I hope it rips you apart."
Purple removes themself from Red.
"Break a leg," Purple wishes, then disappears around the corner.
There is a party downstairs.
There is a party, and there is a speech. There is a gunshot that rings out, and there is a glass ceiling that shatters, and there is news coverage on the incident in which the shards rained down and cut the skin of the wealthy until they bled. There is a MIRA officer who is promoted in haste to cover up the disaster, and there is someone who goes home with the ghost of a feeling around their neck. There is a contract killer that does not gain thirty thousand beans, but there is a contract killer who receives an offer to join the rebellion.