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They're the last ones left alive. Four people walked away from the gallows yesterday, after they agreed to lynch the Arsonist; the truce was over by sundown, as the last member of the mafia gunned down the Retributionist only to have his throat cut by the Serial Killer. Corpses lying in the street have become a familiar sight to everyone in the town by now, left there after the town's jaded and apathetic coroner finishes determining the cause of death, but knowing that there's no one but you left to slaughter adds a unique dread to the discovery.
The Veteran's clearly slept better than the Serial Killer, secure in the knowledge that no one would try to kill her in her sleep until they run out of alternatives. Her identity didn't stay secret for long, not after she shot the Consigliere and - regrettably - the Doctor in the same terror-fueled nighttime flashback. She'd been left alone after that.
By contrast, the Serial Killer's rumpled hair and shadowed eyes are a telltale sign that he's spent most of the night waiting for an opportunity to spring out of a shadow and murder the Janitor-turned-Mafioso. The fixed grin and the stare as piercing and unwavering as his knife, however, can probably be attributed to the same derangement that led him to take up murder as a hobby in the first place.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" The Serial Killer is the first to speak, affecting an air of carefree cheerfulness. He twirls his switchblade with one hand, the sharp end snapping into position as it spins. "Just the two of us. Do you have an alert left?"
The Veteran folds her arms. "Why don't you come and find out?"
He continues to grin. "See you later, then!"
They part ways, and the night passes without incident. The sun rises on empty streets; the bodies of their neighbours have all been laid to rest in the graveyard.
"I missed you last night," the Veteran says.
"You never miss."
The Veteran groans loudly and votes on the Serial Killer. "You deserve to be lynched for that pun alone. Never mind the stabbing."
Even though it won't do anything at this point, he can't resist matching her vote with one of his own. "I think my puns are a cut above the rest."
"I'm amazed we didn't catch you sooner."
"No one else in town was sharp enough."
The Veteran facepalms. "See you later."
Despite herself, she's holding back laughter. The Serial Killer gives her a jaunty wave as they part ways.
The next day, nothing's changed; both of them are still in one piece. The Veteran can feel the pressure to do something, anything, to break the stalemate. They can't wait forever. One of them has to die.
"I can see staying up last night was a waste of time," she says conversationally. "Could have used you and your stupid knife puns to liven things up."
"Are you just mad because you're no good at wordplay? I could give you some tips." The Serial Killer makes an unsubtle stabbing gesture to punctuate the double meaning.
"Stop that. Look, do you want to have lunch in the park or something? Before this is all over? We've got the whole day ahead of us. Plus, if you're stuffing your face that means no more puns."
"Thought you'd never ask."
It's a nice afternoon, and neither one of them can resist staying out well after they've emptied the picnic basket, trying to cling to their fleeting peaceful moments for as long as they can. Eventually, though, night falls and they have to return to their houses.
The Serial Killer steps through the Veteran's front door, knife ready. He has just enough time to register the Veteran's hyperfocused stare in the instant before she opens fire.
He collapses to the floor, bleeding from a dozen gunshot wounds, the switchblade skittering away into a corner. She rushes to his side and wraps her arms around him, the emptied gun forgotten. The Serial Killer coughs up blood, trying to speak. The Veteran shushes him, but he eventually manages to form a few words: "I'm glad it was you."
She leaves a bloodstained note on his corpse, although she doesn't know who for. It contains the single sentence, "Sorry about this."