The Amerrickan Fighting Force

"...and then Britain will fall, followed by the US." The gravelly voice of none other than the very intoxicated French prime minister was heard, followed by a hearty laugh from the members of his cabinet. A slender, well-built redheaded woman swayed their way with a smirk on her face. The secret to getting people to talk was not so much torture, she reasoned internally, but alcohol. The handsome prime minister turned her way, the corners of his mouth turning up in delight.

"Ah! Madame Desiree," the hazel eyed man winked confidently, bringing her pale hand up to his lips and kissing it gently.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Anton D'Aramitz," the woman purred, looking up at the prime minister through her dark lashes. The man's heart began to beat faster. Desiree laughed musically. She knew she had this in the bag.

"Sh-shall we dance, Madame?" Anton inquired, offering his hand to Desiree. The redhead nodded, smiling slightly, but not for the same reason that the man was.

"Oui." Her black, skintight dress fell to her mid-thigh, and she placed her hand in his. She'd have to thank Alex later for advising her to take those ballroom dancing lessons so many years ago.

"A lady as beautiful as yourself must be with somebody, no?" Anton's warm breath tickled her ear, and Desiree had to fight the rapidly increasing urge to unsheath her concealed dagger and end the mission early.

"Aha, no, Monsieur. I have been single for quite sometime." Her blue eyes gazed downward, to allude that the topic of love was a difficult one for her to discuss.

"Oh, my dear, I had no idea!" Anton replied, feigning sympathy. "I was sure a pretty girl like you would've been snapped up ages ago." Desiree faked a feminine giggle, twirling a strand of her short, choppy crimson hair with her free hand. "You don't have to be alone tonight." The whisper of intimacy was enough to stress the woman out.

"You sure?" She widened her eyes in an attempt to appear naive. The prime minster licked his lips slowly, as if to make sure that she got the pleasure of viewing the whole show.

"Absolutely."

Hours later, Desiree isn't sure how many, she found herself upstairs in an empty room with Anton, who was even more intoxicated than he had been before.

"Come here," he slurred, pulling the petite redhead down on his lap, sighing in satisfaction as they collided. Stifling an eye roll, the woman pretended to go along with his advances before whipping out her dagger and pressing it to the tip of his Adam's apple.

"When are you planning to invade Britain?" She hissed, drawing a small line of blood and a pained gasp from Anton, who ran a hand through his unruly brown locks.

"Wh-what? I know not what you mean!" He laughed nervously. As if that would appease the Viper. Or at least, that's what they called her, the sad little rag-tag group who liked to believe they were heroes. Defending the Earth one day at a time. She laughed huskily.

"Don't play me for a fool, Anton. I don't believe in mercy. Only mercy killings." The Viper bared her teeth in the semblance of a smile, narrowing her eyes menacingly. The prime minister audibly gulped, the fear in his eyes visible. The Viper relished it. "Okay, Anton. One more chance. When are you going to invade Britain?"

"I-I do not know! They did not trust me with that information!" Whimpers could be heard as Desiree pushed the knife harder against his throat.

"They?"

"My superiors, the Illuminati!" The redhead froze.

"The...Illuminati?" Her hesitation was all it took. Anton kicked her in the stomach as hard as he possibly could, watching the woman's slight form crumple to the blue tiled floor.

"Arrogant Americans. You always think you know everything, but in the end, all you are is stupid." The man chuckled with merriment, beginning to walk away.

"That would be funny if it were true." Just as he started to look over his shoulder, a black stiletto caught him in the thigh. He let out a puff of air as she drove her fist neatly into his nose, smiling satisfactorily as she heard the bones crunch and pierce his brain. Within a matter of minutes, Anton D'Aramitz, the prime minister of France, was no more. Dusting off her knuckles, she sighed. "Francophones."