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To Hunt, You Must Become [Part 1/?]
Feb. 24th, 2016 09:18 pmPersonal journal of Allison Argent
Search for the Banshee
July 4, 2014
Day 1
While the rest of the country sets off fireworks and sit on decks and barbecue, I am hunting. My work does not stop for an event that happened over two hundred years ago, especially an historically inaccurate event.
I take my time, checking and rechecking each potential lead. My client would rather I find the Banshee quickly, but a sloppy research trail would mean I would have to follow every lead twice. Why do more than once what you can do correctly the first time?
I don't ask my clients for details on my targets. I don't want the whys and the wherefores. Knowing too many details can cloud your judgment. Mistake number one, when you're a bounty hunter. Stick to the basics: physical details, any known aliases, last known location, allies, contacts, and any known abilities. People tend to notice a boy with glowing eyes or a girl who can absorb electricity.
Most of the time, I don't look too hard at my clients, either. I know most of them are unscrupulous. They're hiring a bounty hunter to do their dirty work, after all. As long as they pay me and don't ask me to do anything too illegal, I usually find that some questions are better left unasked. Fortunately, the family name carries quite a bit of weight, so if anyone in my family is ever arrested, nothing sticks.
Sometimes what I do bothers me. Every once in a while, I'll start thinking about how these...kids, for lack of a better word, don't have anywhere else to go. It's not their fault they are what they are. But I don't allow myself to think like that for long. I can't afford to. So when those thoughts come around, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and lock them away in a little box and throw away the key.
My services are discreet. I keep a series of burner phones, changed every three days. My clients never give names, and we never meet. Any relevant information is passed on to a contact service I keep, who put together a file and pass it on. Included is the contact number used when the job is done.
My target is known only as “the Banshee”. A pretentious name, to be sure. According to the files, she has the ability to sense death. It shouldn't be too difficult to find the one person who keeps finding the bodies. People like that tend to stick out.
Allison Argent closed her journal. She couldn't dally too long. The Banshee had a nice head start already, several days at least. Allison wasn't terribly worried though; she'd caught much more dangerous bounties with a bigger head start before.
Don't get cocky, she chided herself. Cocky hunters made mistakes and got themselves killed. Hunter rule number three.
She reached for her bag and traded her journal for a green spiral notebook and a thick folder. Once she'd arranged the contents of the folder to her liking on the table in front of her, she opened the notebook to a fresh page. While the university campus wasn't strictly closed during the summer, the library was typically largely unoccupied. No one would bother her here. And if they did, well...it was a college campus. No reason she couldn't say the unusual research wasn't for a project of some sort.
Allison's eyes flicked tirelessly over the pages, her hands mechanically jotting down pages and pages of notes. Years of research sessions nearly identical to this one had taught her focus, and honed her ability to block distractions. Even the most focused people, however, got distracted by a flashlight beam being aimed directly at their faces.
“Sorry miss,” she heard a voice say, “the library's closed. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now.”
Allison blinked hard several times, trying to clear the spots from her eyes. “Of course,” she said, reaching for her folder. “I'll be out of your way in just a few minutes. Just let me get my stuff.” She flashed the guard a charming, empty-headed smile. Authority figures tended to underestimate women they thought were brainless. It was infuriating at times, but ridiculously helpful at others.
The guard lowered his flashlight. “Don't take too long,” he said, and walked away.
Allison's stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in quite some time. She packed her bag, checked her watch, and cursed silently. It was already after 2:00 in the morning. No wonder the guard wanted her to leave.
She passed the guard on her way out. She stopped just short of the door and spun on her heel to face him. “Do you happen to know a place where a girl can get something to eat this late? Studying makes a girl hungry,” she said, plastering a sheepish grin on her face.
The guard's eyes slid up her body, pausing first at her short skirt, then at her low-cut top. “You hang around for half an hour or so, and I can show you a few places,” he leered.
Inwardly she sighed. Fantastic, she thought. The kind of guy who only cares about two things: my boobs and my ass.
“Actually,” she said, “I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend soon. He works the early morning shift and his car's in the shop, so he needs a ride to work. I'm supposed to pick up breakfast for us.”
His eyes hardened. “There's a UDF up the road that's open 24 hours,” he growled.
Allison flashed him her most dimwitted smile. “Thanks!” she chirped, turned, and walked out the door. She counted the ways she could break his fingers with every step.
Fuck it, she thought, getting into her car. There's probably a Waffle House somewhere near.
Search for the Banshee
July 4, 2014
Day 1
While the rest of the country sets off fireworks and sit on decks and barbecue, I am hunting. My work does not stop for an event that happened over two hundred years ago, especially an historically inaccurate event.
I take my time, checking and rechecking each potential lead. My client would rather I find the Banshee quickly, but a sloppy research trail would mean I would have to follow every lead twice. Why do more than once what you can do correctly the first time?
I don't ask my clients for details on my targets. I don't want the whys and the wherefores. Knowing too many details can cloud your judgment. Mistake number one, when you're a bounty hunter. Stick to the basics: physical details, any known aliases, last known location, allies, contacts, and any known abilities. People tend to notice a boy with glowing eyes or a girl who can absorb electricity.
Most of the time, I don't look too hard at my clients, either. I know most of them are unscrupulous. They're hiring a bounty hunter to do their dirty work, after all. As long as they pay me and don't ask me to do anything too illegal, I usually find that some questions are better left unasked. Fortunately, the family name carries quite a bit of weight, so if anyone in my family is ever arrested, nothing sticks.
Sometimes what I do bothers me. Every once in a while, I'll start thinking about how these...kids, for lack of a better word, don't have anywhere else to go. It's not their fault they are what they are. But I don't allow myself to think like that for long. I can't afford to. So when those thoughts come around, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and lock them away in a little box and throw away the key.
My services are discreet. I keep a series of burner phones, changed every three days. My clients never give names, and we never meet. Any relevant information is passed on to a contact service I keep, who put together a file and pass it on. Included is the contact number used when the job is done.
My target is known only as “the Banshee”. A pretentious name, to be sure. According to the files, she has the ability to sense death. It shouldn't be too difficult to find the one person who keeps finding the bodies. People like that tend to stick out.
Allison Argent closed her journal. She couldn't dally too long. The Banshee had a nice head start already, several days at least. Allison wasn't terribly worried though; she'd caught much more dangerous bounties with a bigger head start before.
Don't get cocky, she chided herself. Cocky hunters made mistakes and got themselves killed. Hunter rule number three.
She reached for her bag and traded her journal for a green spiral notebook and a thick folder. Once she'd arranged the contents of the folder to her liking on the table in front of her, she opened the notebook to a fresh page. While the university campus wasn't strictly closed during the summer, the library was typically largely unoccupied. No one would bother her here. And if they did, well...it was a college campus. No reason she couldn't say the unusual research wasn't for a project of some sort.
Allison's eyes flicked tirelessly over the pages, her hands mechanically jotting down pages and pages of notes. Years of research sessions nearly identical to this one had taught her focus, and honed her ability to block distractions. Even the most focused people, however, got distracted by a flashlight beam being aimed directly at their faces.
“Sorry miss,” she heard a voice say, “the library's closed. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now.”
Allison blinked hard several times, trying to clear the spots from her eyes. “Of course,” she said, reaching for her folder. “I'll be out of your way in just a few minutes. Just let me get my stuff.” She flashed the guard a charming, empty-headed smile. Authority figures tended to underestimate women they thought were brainless. It was infuriating at times, but ridiculously helpful at others.
The guard lowered his flashlight. “Don't take too long,” he said, and walked away.
Allison's stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in quite some time. She packed her bag, checked her watch, and cursed silently. It was already after 2:00 in the morning. No wonder the guard wanted her to leave.
She passed the guard on her way out. She stopped just short of the door and spun on her heel to face him. “Do you happen to know a place where a girl can get something to eat this late? Studying makes a girl hungry,” she said, plastering a sheepish grin on her face.
The guard's eyes slid up her body, pausing first at her short skirt, then at her low-cut top. “You hang around for half an hour or so, and I can show you a few places,” he leered.
Inwardly she sighed. Fantastic, she thought. The kind of guy who only cares about two things: my boobs and my ass.
“Actually,” she said, “I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend soon. He works the early morning shift and his car's in the shop, so he needs a ride to work. I'm supposed to pick up breakfast for us.”
His eyes hardened. “There's a UDF up the road that's open 24 hours,” he growled.
Allison flashed him her most dimwitted smile. “Thanks!” she chirped, turned, and walked out the door. She counted the ways she could break his fingers with every step.
Fuck it, she thought, getting into her car. There's probably a Waffle House somewhere near.
