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A Worse Idea 32

Shade and Anne sat there for hours, waiting for a killer.

At first, it was really intense. Shade was weirder than Anne had ever seen, almost as if she’d given up on life.

At the end of the first hour, doubt had begun to form. Neither of them could fathom what the assassin was doing. If the assassin had tracked Shade down, why not burst into Anne’s dorm and finish the job?

Of course, they never could have guessed that Praetor VII (an assassin from a future that would never exist) had been killed by a cyborg named Randy.

I mean, who would guess that?

Due to the lack of wild guesswork, Anne began to have some doubts. She didn’t want to have any doubts, but she figured that Shade really could’ve made the thing up. Why, would be the question.

Shade figured the assassin was already nearby. Instead of just bursting through the door to kill them, she figured he must be waiting for them to relax. Then, when they weren’t expecting him, he’d strike.

Shade thought he was a smart bastard. Shade would’ve cursed his name, if she’d known it (Praetor VII wouldn’t have even been in her “Top 100 Guesses As To The Assassin Guy’s Name”).

By the middle of the second hour, at the point in which night and morning began to blur, Anne changed her mind. There was no way Shade could’ve made the assassin up. Shade had a cooler head than that.

Anne’s thoughts moved from Shade’s head to the rest of her body: nice chest, curvaceous hips, long legs. Anne liked those legs.

Shade turned her attention to the window. She figured the asshole must’ve been able to see her through it. She watched the window, but couldn’t see anyone watching back.

Anne was definitely thirsty by the third hour, in multiple senses of the word. As the Sun began to rise, she really wanted to have sex with Shade. She also really wanted some water.

Would that be insensitive, grabbing a glass of water while someone’s life was in danger? To be fair, you can die from dehydration just as easily as you can die from an assassin stabbing you in the face.

Why, if this assassin didn’t show up soon, Anne might faint!

Anne tried imagining which would be a worse position, if the assassin burst through her door: drinking a glass of water or lying unconscious on the floor. She decided it would be better to have fainted, because then the assassin might assume she was dead.

Wy waste a bullet on someone if they’re already dead? Or, alternatively, why waste energy on stabbing a dead person in the face? Anne couldn’t decide if the assassin was going to be a face-stabber or a face-shooter.

She realized his preferred weapon of choice could very well be explosives. She grabbed herself a glass of water.

Shade didn’t even notice. She continued to stare at the window. Fuck that window.

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