I've had this piece sitting on my harddrive for several months now, and I never quite knew what to do with it. I'm not sure it's a young adult story, but this seems to be where most of my stories end up, so that's where I put it. Anyway, it did me no good leaving it on my C drive, so here it is.

As always, questions, comments critiques, all are welcome, but please be gentle. Also, I warn now, this is NOT a conventional story in a very particular way. Some people may be very put off by something I've done here. Just don't hate on me if you get to a certain point and scream, "WHAT THE F-K?" ;)

If it weren't for the off-beach location, 'The Café' would have been a truly insufferable place. No air-conditioning in the dead of a scorching Miami summer made any indoor location unbearable. But, the ocean breeze and straight-through breezeway of the café kept its air fresh and warmfor the most part warm, if not cool. During the day, The Café was a haunt for beach patrons. A place people could go to cool off during the sunny hours of the day. However, as the sun set on the horizon, there were but three people in the small eatery.

At a corner table by the front windows, the setting sun cast the three individuals in shadow. The eldest of the three was an older man smoking a cigarette, and donning a pair of dark sunglasses. Across from him, the distinct forms of a young man, and a young woman took shape. They sat in still, and absolute silence, until the boy tending the counter stepped to the front door, locking it and flipping the sign to 'Closed'.

The boy turned to face the older man before stepping away from the door. The man spoke without averting his attention in the least, "That'll be all for now, thank you." Without another word, the boy walked towards the rear of the building and slipped off his apron.

The front door locked, and the three of them left alone, the old man began, "Dreadful thing this heat." The children across from him offered no reaction to his words. His tongue slipped between his lips, almost as if the lick the smoke that leaked from them. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and slid the manila folder beneath his left hand across the table to them.

The young man centered the folder in front of him and the girl beside him, and the girl opened it for them. The first item in the folder was a large eight-by-ten black and white of a dark skinned man with a ponytail. As the boy carefully flipped to the next item, the older man took a brief drag from his smoke. "Subject's name is Fernando Oliveras. His name comes to us courtesy of one of our legal informants." His accent was distinctly Russian, though his English was perfect. Each word rolled cleanly off his tongue, clear and articulate. He took another drag as he watched the pair skim through the contents of the folder. "Apparently, Mister Oliveras had some fun with a little boy and somehow got away scot-free."

At hearing of the activities that put Oliveras on their list, the young man and woman still didn't seem moved. After flipping to the last page, the young girl closed the folder and asked, "Orders?"

Her voice was as light as the air she expelled, so very young and innocent. Her light brown hair was cropped just above her shoulders, neatly framing her face. She wore a white tank top, and only a white tank top. Her slender figure was so narrow, any additional support wasn't necessary. A pair of clean and low-fitting blue shorts rounded out her appearance.

"Turn him off like a light," the older man ordered, exhaling the smoke in his lungs. "The higher ups all have children that boy's age, and they want him gone immediately."

"Understood," the young man answered.

Like the girl at his side, the young man's voice was also light. By no means intimidating, that was for sure. His hair was a few shades darker than hers, cut short and neat, and his clothes also matched hers, at least in regards to color. A white t-shirt with a pair of good fitting blue jeans rounded him out.

The older man smiled from across the table. "You two are much quieter than they were, you know that?"

"One of the first things they taught us was that this job requires absolute professionalism," the girl replied.

"We're quiet, because we're dealing with our employer," the young man added. "It's our job to listen; not to speak unnecessarily, Vladimir."

Vladimir slid a briefcase across the floor, and the girl took its handle into her palm. "Do we need to count it?" she asked.

After taking a final drag, Vladimir replied with smoke billowing from his lips, "Fifty-grand; same as every other job."

The young man and woman stood in place, the straightening of their knees pushing their chairs out from beneath them. They were both nearly the same height, under five-and-a-half feet. Their builds were similar, the way they carried their weight was similar, their stance, everything. As if they were carved from the same piece of wood, by the same craftsman.

As their feet quietly traversed the floor boards, the young woman passed the briefcase from one hand to the other so that it was between them. The young man wrapped two of his fingers around the handle alongside hers so that they were both holding the case as they came to the locked front door. The young man reached to it just as Vladimir called out to him, "Hey Meyer?" The young man turned and shot him a glance that wasn't necessarily enraged or pleased. "Why don't you get Lucky somethin' from the case?"

Lucky looked to the case of sweets by the counter, and turned back to Vladimir. "I'm fine," she replied simply.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Vladimir waved them off. "Please have that resolved this evening if you could?"

"Yes sir," they replied in unison.

With that, Meyer unlocked the door, and with ten steps, they were lost in the growing night life of Miami's beachfront. Both of their expressions remained somewhat blank, but after just a few minutes of walking in perfect step with one another, Meyer turned to face Lucky. Looking at her face for just a few seconds, a smile soon came. He loved her nose. It was so small, and perfectly placed on her face. Then there were her eyes. Large and doe-like, with a near three-dimensional quality to the intricacy of her irises. She was beautiful and he loved her absolutely.

Feeling his eyes on her, Lucky turned to him just slightly. Initially surprised by his stare, but soon offered him a little grin as well. "Stop staring, you'll trip," she advised, more than requested.

Meyer turned back to face forward, still high on the fact that the young girl at his side was everything he ever could have wanted in life. "So where did we leave off?" Lucky asked.

"Sorry?" Meyer questioned still in a Lucky haze.

She let out a light sigh as she replied, "Top five close range weapons. My number three was a lighter; what's yours?"

"Oh, right, sorry," Meyer replied. "Lemme think." He looked up and to his right as if that part of the sky held his answer.

"And you can't say your Glock again," she cutely barked.

Meyer's free hand wrapped the back of his head in embarrassment. He let out a chuckle before speaking, "It really is my favorite overall."

"I don't care that you like it, but if you limit yourself to just one weapon, your close quarters training is going to waste," Lucky replied, her eyes still facing forward. "That being said, it makes too much noise, is too hard to control, and has no style. It's a brute; you're not. Pick something else."

Meyer twisted his lips in thought. They maintained their steady advance down the street, still matching each other's pace, step-for-step. Finally, after a minute of deliberation, Meyer replied, "I've always enjoyed box cutters. They're easy to conceal, and are really effective in close range."

"Hmmm…" Lucky pondered, her eyes diverting to the concrete beneath their feet for a moment. "Do you mean a fixed razorblade, or one with breakaway tips?"

Meyer smiled confidently, "Breakaway tips of course. Open, penetrate, twist. The blade breaks off in the target and any movements they make multiply the effectiveness internally where it counts."

"Good answer," Lucky praised.

"Thanks," Meyer replied. "Your turn."

"I don't want to play anymore right now," Lucky replied.

Seventeen years at each other's side, he'd gotten used to most of her quirks. But still, he wished he could understand why she did that. Why she'd bring up a topic, then just kill it a few seconds later. It never made any sense, and she'd been doing it as long as he could remember. Then again, little of the lives they led made any sort of sense.

A few steps further and they took a turn into a flower shop. The attendant behind the cash register smiled and waved to his tenants, though they didn't return a glance even. They simply continued upstairs to their second-floor apartment. They'd finally taken a single-file formation with Lucky leading, case in hand. Their steps were silent on the carpet inserts, and as she came to the last step before their door, Lucky placed her ear to it. Within a few seconds she pulled away, confident no one was inside waiting for them.

They stepped across the threshold and as Lucky sat down to count and sort the contents of the case, Meyer locked the door and checked the peephole. Her attention on the stacks of non-sequential denominations, she asked, "Clear?"

"Clear," Meyer replied. He headed down the hall to their bedroom and called back to her, "What were you thinking for today?"

"The Blaser R93," Lucky replied without batting an eyelash.

Meyer merely smiled as he entered their bedroom. Their bed was a twin-size, and was perfectly made as they had left it that morning. He glanced at the bed for a second before pulling the appropriate case from the closet. He brought the case back out to the living area and laid it on the round table top opposite Lucky and the case. It wasn't much of a thing, the case he'd retrieved. Just a plastic drafter's cylinder, maybe five inches in diameter and about eighteen inches long. He unscrewed the top and carefully slid the components of the rifle out of their styrofoam holders.

He carefully examined each component before being fitting them with their mate, and every now and again, Lucky looked up to watch him as he worked. The Blaser was hers after all, and she just wanted to be sure that he handled it the way she wanted. She stood from the table after repacking the briefcase and headed into their room. Within the nightstand beside the bed, Lucky unlocked a hidden safe and deposited all of the cash neatly within it. She closed and locked the briefcase, closed and spun the dial on the safe, and finally closed the false fascia of the nightstand.

When she returned to the living area, Meyer had just finished attaching the top sight. "Ready," he commented as he handed it to her.

She pulled the weapon tight to her right shoulder, and took aim down its sight. Confident that the sighting hadn't been affected during reassembly, she handed the weapon back to him, and offered him a hint of praise, "Good work."

"Thank you," he graciously replied.

"I want to stop and get a few things on the way home tonight," Lucky commented as she stepped to take her seat across from him. She didn't gesture to pull the chair out. Without even looking, Meyer pushed the seat back with his foot, making it easier for her to sit down. The side of her face fell into the palm of her hand, and her elbow kept her head upright as she watched him. For a moment, she wasn't quite sure if it was Meyer that had captured her attention, or the weapon he held. Both were handsome, and both were deadly. They both fulfilled her needs in life, but only one of them held her hand. He was the only one she'd ever let in. The rest of the world could die for all she cared.

After screwing the lid back onto the plastic cylinder, Meyer stood from his seat. "Ready," he again exclaimed, waking Lucky from her trance.

"Yes," she answered. With nothing more than a glance, they stood from their seats, and slid them back under the table.

The sun all but set, Lucky and Meyer lay on the rooftop of an inconsequential building in downtown Miami. The Blaser was assembled and just a flick of the sight cover away from being ready to fire. Lucky lay on her stomach, the skeletonized stock tight to her shoulder, and her eyes on the target. Meyer lay beside her, also focused on the target, though with the assistance of binoculars.

"What's he doing?" Lucky asked.

"Looks like he's getting ready to fuck his wife," Meyer replied.

"And the child?"

"They just put him to sleep." He pulled the binoculars away from his eyes, though kept his focus on the building, "It's going to be the third window in from the left."

"Understood," Lucky mechanically replied.

Through the binoculars, Meyer watched as the target's wife slipped her clothes off. His expression blank as he ordered, "Go hot."

Lucky flicked open the sight cover on the Blaser's scope, finally giving herself visual on the target. Once lined up, she asked, "Correction?"

"None," Meyer immediately replied. He knew she was only being cautious, but at this distance, no trajectory correction was necessary.

As Fernando's wife straddled her husband's body, Meyer gave the order, "Fire when-"

As soon as she heard the word 'Fire', Lucky took the shot. They both had what was essentially a front row seat for the execution. They watched as the window shattered. As Fernando's naked wife was drenched in his blood while he was still inside her. They watched as a life was removed from this world by their hands. With that final thought, Meyer lowered the binoculars, "Complete."

Lucky closed the sight and reached around to unscrew the suppressor from the end of the weapon. Meyer packed his binoculars, and as Lucky further disassembled the weapon she held, she spoke, the vaguest of smiles on her lips, "I think I want tacos for dinner."

The pair were quite calm as they stepped about the corner bodega across from their apartment. Lucky had elected to keep the cylinder containing the disassembled Blaser strapped to her back, while Meyer's binoculars hid in an unassuming camera case. As Lucky retrieved fresh lettuce and tomato, Meyer let out a not-so-subtle sigh. Lucky knew what that sigh meant, and addressed it accordingly. "We've been over this. You need your vegetables; you know that."

"Yeah, I know," Meyer replied. Staring down the boxes of Taco mix, he asked, "Which one did we get last time?"

"I don't remember. It doesn't matter; we'll make do with whatever they have."

They stepped to the counter and placed the goods atop it. "Hey you two," the cashier commented.

"Hello," Lucky disarmingly beamed.

Meyer hated how she could do that. How easily she could hide herself. How one minute she could be human, and incomprehensibly cold the next. Lucky was the perfect weapon. There was no mistaking she was their favorite. She had all of the traits a killer needed, and not an iota of weakness. He had once watched her nearly lose consciousness as their target's hands tightly wrapped her small neck. She always was very good with her hands, Lucky was. They may have barely fit around his wide neck, but his death came far sooner than he could have delivered. Meyer never once entertained the thought that she might die that day. He knew that the only way that girl was ever going to meet her end was by someone who rivaled her prowess for death.

"Ten sixty-five," the cashier requested of their goods.

"Mikey!" Lucky playfully jibed. "Pay attention, and pay the man!"

"Right! Sorry, Layla," Meyer replied, snapped from his trance.

After paying, the attendant passed their bagged goods across the counter. "Have a nice night."

"Thank you," Lucky again beamed.

Lucky stood at the stove in their single-bedroom apartment, the sizzling of ground beef providing the soundtrack. At the table, Meyer ran a pipe cleaner through the Blaser's barrel, and every now and again, Lucky looked back to him, her gaze constantly shifting between him and the rifle. It took Meyer looking up to her, and meeting her eyes for her to focus on their meal as she cooked it. He grinned slightly as he saw what she did.

"What's on your mind?" He asked.

"Dinner's almost ready," she answered flatly.

At seeing her retreat into herself once again, Meyer merely shook his head, still wearing a knowing smile.

Dinner was soon set, and after taking a few bites of their meal, Lucky broke the silence that had fallen on them. "A vise."

"What?" Meyer asked.

"My number two would be a vise," Lucky clarified.

Immediately back in the game, Meyer asked, "Can that really count as a close range weapon?"

"When used properly. Close quarters combat to bring the target in range, and parrying is used to get them in its hold. Create the appropriate setup and you can use a vise to hold them, to break their bones, etcetera. You can do anything to a person with the right anatomy clamped in a vise."

Meyer felt an unwelcome pang in a very private place as the mental image settled. "Yeah, I can see your point."

Lucky smiled slightly to herself before taking another bite of her overstuffed Taco. "Your turn."

Remembering her deflection earlier, Meyer was feeling a bit of a brat. "I don't want to play right now."

"Play the game, Meyer."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a demand. It was an outright order. The words rolled off her tongue with a ferocity that told she just might kill him for not answering.

He could argue with her. Tell her that the game was pointless, and that they were only half-serious about their answers, or at least he was. Hell, he could even shove it in her face that should she have said the same thing, that he would have dropped it without a thought. Then again, he could simply appease her with an answer and keep her smiling for a while.


"Sorry?" Lucky asked.

"Two foot, Mitutoyo calipers," Meyer specified.


"Two feet, eight pounds of stainless steel, with a blunt point," Meyer replied.

"That hardly sounds like you."

He grinned deviously. "The trick is to open them just a hair and use the opposing side. The tips for inside measuring are incredibly sharp and durable. The weight of the blow penetrates the tips to their maximum depth, and pulling perpendicular to the wound tears it open." Lucky smiled as he continued, "Play your cards right, you can even grab and pull the bones."

Lucky placed her taco back on her plate and gave light applause. Meyer merely blushed and kept eating. "Well done," Lucky beamed.

"Can we finish eating now?" Meyer asked.

"Mmm-hmm," Lucky replied, her smile and mood astronomically improved from just seconds earlier.

They finished their meals and after cleaning up the kitchen, retreated to their bedroom.

They sat on the bed with their backs to one another. Their movements were slow and drawn out as they undressed themselves. Lucky slid her shorts, then her underwear down her thighs, while Meyer slid off his pants, followed by his boxers. Next came his shirt, and lastly, her tank top. Lucky slid her naked form beneath the sheet, and just a few moments later, Meyer did the same, positioning himself above of her. They looked into each other's eyes, completely still. Unafraid, uncaring, not pleased nor upset, they just were.

Every night it's the same. Meyer thought. No matter how we do this or how many times, you never smile. Do you really feel nothing for me? Will you never smile for me?

"What are you waiting for?" Lucky flatly asked.

Meyer held his sigh and delicately shifted his hips, bringing Lucky's body to tense in an instant. Her eyes slammed shut and her teeth clamped down on her lips as the pain settled. She wasn't much for gratuity, either giving it or taking it, but she was grateful that Meyer knew her so well. That he made that moment as brief as possible, and gave her the time she needed to adjust. Her breathing slowed and she slowly opened her eyes, once again finding his. "Kiss me," she requested. Meyer obliged, and slowly, they began.

Throughout their apartment, the sounds of their act barely echoed. It didn't need to be rough or fast. It didn't need to be something it wasn't. She didn't need to scream, and he didn't need her to, to know she felt good. It was only what they needed, and for that, they took their time. They occasionally shared a kiss, intermittently muting Lucky's light gasps for breath.

She was just barely audible as she spoke to him. "Harder."

Her volume increased with her request, and within moments, the vague sound of a male's exhausted sigh filled the apartment.

He lay beside and behind her, his right arm tightly holding her to him. She didn't mind. She wanted to, but even she couldn't understand her feelings after sex. Any other time, she would have pushed him away, but after sharing their bodies with one another, she could never seem to find the strength to tell him to stop holding her. She enjoyed the warmth he filled her with, enjoyed feeling his racing heart because of the pleasure she gave him.

It wasn't until he placed his lips on her shoulder that her moment of peace was ruined completely. She gathered the blankets, pulling them in a huff and disturbing Meyer's hold on her. He adjusted his arms to let her move, though he was no longer holding her. He knew he'd messed up and her flatter-than-usual tone confirmed it. "Good night, Meyer."

He rolled away from her, enjoying her body any way he could, even if by feeling her toned back pressed up against his. His eyes told of his sadness, though he didn't regret pushing her away. He hated that this was all she'd ever let him be to her. He wanted so much more. He wanted her love. He wanted to be able to hold her throughout the night and to be the man who could tell her that everything would be alright. It killed him that he knew she'd never have that. Not with him, not with anyone would she ever have those things. This was all it would be till the day they met their end.

He let out a frustrated sigh, before finally, and quietly saying his goodnights. "Goodnight, sister."

A strange start, a strange end, an uncertain future. Maybe if this gets any attention, I'll try and sort more of it out. But for now, it is what it is. A story about a brother and sister, born into a strange life, but a life that to them, is completely normal. They're killers, they're lovers, they're really just a couple of kids doing what they know.

Thanks for reading,