10 Lines: Galia

[Chrystenise]

The sights of the RKP90 lined up over the chiseled face of assumed victim. Lean, blonde, and possessed of striking blue eyes, he was just the type of man to give pause to any attractable types.

“The RKP90 is an obscure prototype weapon though to have never been finished after the fall of 2160. Russian Kinetic Projectiles – is she Russian? Who is the woman in red, Cruschev – enough games!”

Who was this man in her line of fire? More than a photograph in a manilla folder, for sure. Was he single, married – did he have children, immediate family? Was he an evil man, or would the world miss him? The sights slowly crept from his face to his chest – a man with much to lose would surely appreciate an open casket at his own funeral.

“You're asking the wrong question, detective,” Cruschev spoke condescendingly, a smirk on his thick lips. “What is the woman in red, will get you much more than you'll ever need to know about her.”

[Chrystenise]

The trigger was squeezed – the bolt left the rifle with frightening silence. Intense with heat, it lit up brightly for the brief second it was in the sky above the bustling city at night. Anyone lucky enough to catch sight of the thing would have swore it was a laser.

“She is a woman unlike any you will ever know, comrades. She is cold, she does not feel. Love, hate, anger – these are all concepts she has rid herself of. She only sees life...”

There was only an initial spatter of blood as the bolt struck home, and traveled through it's victim. A woman screamed, and then another. Bodyguards of the man previously in the assassin's sights scattered, weapons drawn and ready to retaliate.

“Man down, man down! Seek cover from the rooftops!”

The dark haired, older Russian exhaled a chuckle, “And how to end it...”

[Chrystenise]

“She is trained to never miss, to never lose... To never let down her masters.”

Cold, dark eyes narrowed upon the blonde man as his bodyguards pulled him to cover. The bolt had missed him narrowly enough to singe the hairs on his head – and behind him, a dark-haired man of angular features stood deceased, pinned to the store wall behind him by the bolt of the rifle.

“Then why did she miss, Cruschev?” Officer Simpson asked, her voice ruled by confusion. “Why was a Russian operative killed instead, by another presumed Russian operative?”

Stone cold in features; mechanical in her movements, the assassin quickly began disassembling the RPK90 and placing it within the small case at her side. The drugged security would awaken soon, and surely, there weren't going to be happy with the pizza girl and her rather disorienting delivery.

“All body and no brains, officer Becky Simpson,” Cruschev grinned. “I said, she does not miss.”