by evilgrin on 08 Feb 2006, 16:55
Title: INTERVIEW WITH AN ASSASSIN
Rating: NC 17 sex/seduction, consensual, hetero, and F/F, violence
Fandom: Pitch Black / ::ODD COUPLE::
Pairing: Riddick/Ava Black(OFC) + Janette Harding(OFC)
Disclaimer: Riddick is a character from PB, and so belongs to someone else. Ava, well, she’s a whole other story. She’s mine. All mine. Janette is a plaything for this story, and is also mine. John Stark and Angela Furgale are based loosely on a highly romanticized version of the real life American spree killer/s Charles Starkweather and his lover Caril Ann Fugate. If you’ve ever seen the movies True Romance, Natural Born Killers, or the film Starkweather, then you know where this is going. I, of course, changed a considerable amount about the couple, but I would like to acknowledge where the characters come from. As they are based on a real set of circumstances, I would like to add further that this is not an attempt to glorify REAL murders, or lessen the horror of what those real families faced. I make no money from this story, and it’s written for my enjoyment.
Summary: a sequel to odd couple. Valentines Day special
Notes: Almost completely from the POV of Ava Black
More notes: a special thank you to njrd, who gave me an idea for a story about an interview
Archive: VX, FDB
Feedback: In this thread only please. No shreds; I write for fun only
Copyright © 2006 xxxevilgrinxxx
I have always said that the waiting is the hardest part. I am an assassin. I have been trained to wait, for hours, days, weeks, even longer, for the perfect opportunity to kill. I had for so long accepted it as part of my life that I scarcely was affected by it. Until now. The wait for him is killing me.
It had seemed the only logical choice. I would wait here, on the Midorian, while he took the eight day trip to the Bellstar Mining colony. A colony made up of convicts, and not a place he would tolerate me being, the risk of me being captured more than he could bear. Eight days there. One day, to get hold of a single picture, held within the computer files of the man who ran the colony. A picture of a man, a former employee, who would be on the Midorian, speaking at a convention of Old Earth historians. I was to wait here, for him to send me that picture, kill and dispose of the target. Eight days for him to travel back. Seventeen days apart. We have never spent a single night apart in the year and a half that we have known each other.
The why’s and the wherefor’s of the kill hardly seem important now, but, at the time, it was the only logical choice. So I stayed, and I waited. Those eight days without him, waiting. Pacing our room, haunted by the smell of him in this place. Waiting to hear his voice. The picture he was sending almost unimportant. Listening to the beautiful deep rumble of his voice. So close, it was like he was right here, with me. Riddick. The kill was unimportant, the disposal easy. It is the Midorian, afterall, a favourite haunt of ours, for just that reason. All that mattered is that in eight days he would be back.
The man I was to kill was an historian who had developed an unhealthy fascination with serial killers. It probably wouldn’t have become a problem for him, except that he decided that he had to know what it felt like to actually kill, instead of just reading and fantasizing about it. Strangely enough, he had kidnapped, and killed, the daughter of a mercenary that we were about to kill. I suppose it’s ironic how the target died, killed by a pair of such killers, on the dying words of a man who hunts us.
It’s one of the few times in my life as an assassin where I have been distracted. A distraction that can’t totally be explained by my ache at missing him.
The convention was interesting, in it’s own right. The historian, before the podium, with his slides, and his presentation. Dr. Baumgard, an assumed name on his part, but no matter, he wouldn’t live to see the end of the day, no matter what he chose to call himself now. The doctor had neither the looks or the charisma to distract me, being a small and weasely man, with beady eyes and an insignificant voice. It was the subject of his presentation that held me transfixed.
The doctor found murderers fascinating. Not just the killing, although he was more than willing to try that out on his own, but he was fascinated by the notoriety, by the sway that killers held over the public. This particular presentation showcased the lives of an early twentieth century pair of what, at the time, were referred to as “spree killers”. What were later called serial killers. Mass murderers.
John Stark and his young lover Angela Furgale.