Full Circle

TITLE: Full circle

AUTHOR: ShyBob

SUMMARY: (The Professional) Seven years after the events in the movie Mathilda has moved on with her life. Something happens to turn her back to the darker path.

WARNING: Graphic violence and profanity.

RATING: R for this part

DISCLAIMER: The Professional and all associated characters are property of Columbia Pictures, Gaumont/Les Films du Dauphin, and Luc Besson. This work is not for profit, and no ownership of aforementioned copyrighted material implied, nor any infringement intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Stream of consciousness. *Denotes past events.* Feedback will make or break further additions.


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The blood drip-drip-drips into the sink. The steady patter sounds almost like rain. God, I hope I don't need a doctor. I look in the mirror. The vision out of one eye isn't so good. No wonder. Blood is matting my hair, running into my left eye, down off my cheek into the sink. The bastard. I straighten my skirt, and try to re-button my blouse. My hands tremble a little.

I've been with a few guys. Very few. When you call out another man's name during sex, it kind of puts a damper on things. Even if he has been dead for seven years. So you move on, try to find someone else. Forgive the hell out of me for going out with the boss at work. I knew it wasn't a good idea, but I figured dinner at a decent place, one time, what the heck?

I walk back out of the bathroom and look down at the cooling body of my ex-boss lying on the floor of his apartment. The blood from his slit throat is starting to thicken on the floor. I can feel the side of my face throb with every heartbeat.


* * *

EARLIER:

"Stop. Alan, stop. I don't want to." We were standing his living room. A crystal vase is on the table near the door. It's gorgeous.

"Come on, baby. See what you've been missing." He moves closer, forcing me back against the wall. Grabs me.

"Let go of me!" One of his hands is on my wrist; with the other he starts to unbutton my blouse. I slap his hand away.

"Come on, you little tease, you know you want it." His hand now starts to slide between my thighs. I try to knee him in the crotch, but he must have been expecting it. I only hit the front of his thigh, hard. "You whore!"

I haven't been slapped since I was a kid, by my step-dad. I hadn't remembered it hurting this much. The second slap is worse. His ring must have hit me, because it feels like a little rock hit me in the side of the head.

"Get off!" I don't even realize the voice is my own. I wrap my hand around the lip of the vase. It shatters when it hits the side of his head.

"You wop bitch, I'm going to kill you." I feel calmer as he says the words. I look at the jagged shard of the vase still in my hanhen hen down at him sprawled on the floor.

"No, you're not."


* * *

So the next morning I walk into Fat Tony's place. I've been in once a month for the past seven years. You'd think he'd get tired of seeing me. He looks at me long and hard. Takes in my battered face, my borderline-hostile demeanor. Signals to Gino for a glass of milk. "You're in trouble again?"

He hasn't seen me look like this since that day six years ago when I came to ask--to beg--him for a job. As a Cleaner. I haven't begged anyone since that day. And now I'm back. To beg. "Any job openings?"

He doesn't look up as Gino sets down my glass of milk, then moves off to wipe down the tables. Tony sits back, face gone serious as a gun barrel. "What the hell kind of work would I have for you? I thought you went to that school so you could get a real job. A better job."

"I did. I didn't work out. Now I need a another job." I take a slow sip of milk from my glass while I watch the wheels in his head turn through the windows of his eyes.

"Cleaning." He says it evenly-- no hostility, no contempt. It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. "Well, the last guy I had Cleaning got in over his head over a month ago. I haven't had anyone to do work since then. Maybe I could use you. How out of shape are you?"

"Not bad bad."

"How much time do you need to get back in the game?"

"Two weeks."

He looks thoughtful. "Not much time."

"I've done this before."

He looks at me with a sad smile. "I remember."

"Tony, I was just wondering."

"Hmm?"

"How much?"

"Of Leon's money is left? A little over a hundred thousand."

I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. "Dollars?"

"Yeah. Told you your money was safe with ol' Tony."

I reached across the table to clasp his hand. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Now, what do you need before you get outta here?"

"Leon's case. The beginner's one. And do you have anything else I could buy?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. The last guy had a couple of things that got left here." He gestures to Gino. After a few moments Leon's case is placed on the table. Then a smaller red leather briefcase. "Check 'em."

"Okay." Leon's rifle is in place; it looks the same as it did when I tagged the jogger in Central Park so long ago. The case that belonged to the last Cleaner holds four pistols: a silenced .22, a .45 auto, a little .357, and A Cannon. Scoped, single shot, looks like a freakin' dueling pistol on steroids. Box of ammo for each. It'll do. I look up at Tony.

He smiles. "Consider it a 'getting started gift.'"

"Thanks. Tony, if I leave a list with you, how long 'til you can have it filled?"

"Two days."

"Great." I scribble a short list on my napkin, and slide it across the table to him.

He looks it over quickly, and smiles. "Nice to be working with a professional again."


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