Archive of Our Own ^beta

Marissa quickly slipped under the half-closed door of the warehouse. She stopped crouching and, like a cat, slowly sidled to the large wooden boxes on her right. The first guard she saw was just turning back toward the door just as she ducked behind the crates. Mara's heartbeat quickened once more. "You've done this a thousand times before!" she scolded herself silently. "Calm down, or you'll just rush into things, Holmes!" She closed her eyes and waited. She took a deep breath of the stale air circulating in the warehouse, and waited. Waited, but for what? She was not quite sure herself... She felt her pulse dropping to the right level, her senses sharpening. Time slowed down around her, the guard's footsteps approaching slowly with heavy thuds. She concentrated harder, she had little time left. She caught the man's breath. He was gurgling as he breathed, either he had a cold or tuberculosis, which he was surely unaware of. Otherwise, he wouldn't be humming a song... Mara waited. Suddenly, she heard the breathing of another one in the distance. "Great, there are more of them. If this continues, I'll charge double!"

Apart from the squeaking and gnawing of rats and tiny woodworms, she could only hear these two men. She opened her eyes, everything returning to normal volume. Carefully, she crept to the other side of the crate and pressed herself against it. Her clothes were made of soft fabric, with steel inserts only where necessary for climbing. Her boots were covered with sound-absorbing fabric. Marissa felt like a shadow, and liked the idea. She peeked out from behind the storage box. An evil grin spread across her lips: besides the guard approaching her, there was another one on the other side of the building. She retreated and, with a smile on her face, prepared to welcome her guest. From her hip belt, she slid down her serrated combat knife and pressed herself even closer to the wood. The man was only about four meters away now. Mara gripped the knife, and when the guard's feet were in line with the chest, she jumped in front of him, slitting his throat with a quick cut. The man first grabbed his neck, where his blood was slowly trickling down. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out, only a sound, close to gurgling. Before he could collapse, Mara grabbed his shoulder and dragged him behind the box, then laid him down beside her without a sound. A deathly silence followed. All she could hear was the sound of the dead man's blood flowing.

She smiled once more praising herself for her clean work. She had cut his vocal cords, so even if the guy had had the presence of mind to shout, he wouldn't have been able to, his throat slashed... Mara waited a few more seconds, then crept toward the side of the warehouse. She found a suitably thick and stable support beam and began to climb it like a squirrel. She reached the top, her eyes already searching for the next climbing surface. A few meters to her right was a thinner bar that spanned to the other wall, slightly sideways. It was fortunate that she had put on boots with flatter soles than she had originally intended, otherwise it might have been very difficult to climb over, but in this case. .. Putting one foot swiftly after the other, she was above the second little guard in a matter of moments. She sat down on the iron and flexed her neck and arms. It was about ten to fifteen meters down to the hard concrete... or onto the soft guard. It didn't take much to figure out which one she wanted to aim for. Waiting a moment to see if the guard would move, she took a deep breath, took out her combat knife, and slid down the pole into the dim darkness.

Wilson Darmey happily and ignorantly—unaware of the danger lurking above him—chatted with his friends on the upper floor of the cannery, in the workers' living quarters.
"...and he told the old drunk that tomorrow he would return from the sea with two hundred pounds of gold," he told his friends, voice choking with laughter. "The poor guy was found on the rocks, stark naked, with half a pair of shoes on his feet." At this, the small room began to laugh and clink their beer mugs together, patting each other on the back.
"Wily, you big joker! But—admit it, you just made it up!" one of his friends slurred, already buzzed.
"I can see you'll be there soon too, Bob, if you keep drinking." Another burst of howling, then more clinking, and after a while, the contents of the mugs began to switch. Wilson took another big swig of his bitter beer, then apologetically stumbled behind the factory, into the courtyard that separated the workplace from the warehouse.
He stumbled down the stairs, slipping in places, and when his feet found solid ground, he went to the wall. He had certainly had too much to drink, so now he had to get rid of some of it to make room for the rest. He settled himself comfortably, propping himself up with one hand, starting to whistle. In a few moments, the magazine was empty, and after adjusting his pants, he turned and was about to head back to drink more pints. But as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a shadow fell from the sky above his head. It brought him crashing to the ground hard, and Wilson Darmey now felt only the cold, tight touch of steel against his heart.