Anyone want to come buy a farm with me? We can make a pony paradise, with 24/7 inside/utside access, automatet water and feed, rubber matted floors with nice bedding on top, a nice healthy track/paddock system made for barefoot pons, good little arena and lots of riding trails.
This is a Criminal Minds assassin AU that I wrote for day 3 of #cmweek.
The BAU is a team of assassins-for-hire who are hired to kill you and you always inexplicably escape their moves.
Searching through the scope of his rifle, Hotch knew perfectly well that he had an infinitesimal amount of time to actually make the shot, and he had to make it count. This target had seemingly escaped the attempts by the rest of the team, proving to be a fretfully relentless escapee of death.
When Rossi had approached the group with a new assignment, the bearer of targets and jobs, always able to discover the clients most willing to pay, everybody had been elated. Rossi had done his part exceedingly well once again, utilizing his name and reputation to snatch up more clients. Low profile and still willing to pay full price. The best kind of job. Easy, really. But eliminating this target was proving to be anything but easy.
Now, who is this target that continues to escape the attempts of a highly trained group of assassins-for-hire? Now, that, would be you.
Garcia, just like any other job, had done the research, hacking medical records and financials that could easily be used to simply push the target over the edge, and she dispersed her information to the team.
Hiding behind the screen of her computer, Garcia could effectively drain the entirety of somebody’s life savings, leak personal information of any person, discover the deepest secrets of anyone out there, or if she really wanted, buy a kidney off the dark web. Garcia had the entire world at her fingertips and she could do her job in her bunny pajamas or extravagantly colored clothing if she wanted. It was a job made for one Penelope Garcia.
All she had to do was delegate the first task to a team member and suddenly that part of her job was done and she could move on to the next victim. Now for you, an assumably easy target, Garcia chose death by mind for you.
Death by mind signaled Spencer’s release. He liked to call what he did “Psychological torture”. Neurolinguistic programming, subtly messing with a target’s life from deep in the background, avoiding even the idea of a foreground all together, that sort of thing. Spencer had been dubbed the nickname “The Doctor” by his fellow assassins, and as he never exactly spoke out against it, the name seemed to stick.
His particular skill set had proven to be lethally effective in the past. But every move he made, going over the intercom while you were at the grocery store and muttering coded sentences meant to kill, having Garcia hack your computer and input ciphers in sentences, even connecting dangerous chemical combinations into your air conditioning to push you to a paranoid ending, all seemed to do nothing. You were seemingly immune to his attempts.
One day, deciding that his own attempts at your life were fruitless, Spencer called Prentiss. His voice was grave and unforgiving over the staticky voice mail. This wasn’t a call he liked to make.
“You’re up,” He said simply, hanging up without another word. There was no chit-chat, no conversation, no fillers. Just cold words meant to explain all. The life of a killer.
Prentiss was what you would consider a thief, but with the added timbre of an experienced spy. Athletic, knowledged, and armed with experience, she could easily slip into a building to gather imperative intel or eliminate a target without being noticed for even a second. This should be easy for her.
She had taken down entire tribes, clans, businesses, all sorts of intimidating groups entirely on her own in the past. Taking down a single person should be a piece of cake. She was entirely surprised to learn that the Doctor had failed, but she didn’t even begin to doubt herself for a single second.
For days before even thinking about making her move, Prentiss stalked you. The expert studied your habits, your moves, your routines. You had to be one of the most average, normal people she had ever met, let alone been instructed to kill. She almost took pity on you, liberate herself and let you survive peacefully as if nothing had ever happened, but she had a job to do.
Prentiss waited until you were alone after what must have been a full week and a half to take her chance. She slunk out of her car, littered with drained coffee cups, absent of all caffeine remnants, and casually trailed along behind you. Prentiss was careful to retain a half-block distance, not daring to be seen or witnessed.
As you wandered into a far-less traveled area of town, Prentiss began to cinch the distance, moving closer and closer to you, waiting for her perfect moment to strike.
But then, just like that, Prentiss’s best opportunity was yanked from her. A friendly face, an amicable personality, had spotted you, ripping Prentiss’s best chance right out from under her. She stalked away, a frown lingering upon her lips, shadowed by her overhanging hoodie.
She didn’t like losing.
As Prentiss settled into her car, she huffed indignantly and reached for her phone, “Mission not completed. Your turn,” And hung up.
This wasn’t how her missions usually went. They weren’t usually this easily thwarted, not after so many days and weeks of surveillance.
It was JJ’s problem now.
JJ didn’t like to put a title to what she did, she really didn’t, but if she had to, she liked to call it “grifting”. Essentially, JJ was a con-woman. She conned, changing her personality and wardrobe, even her dialect altogether. Pooling not only her natural charism, but her good looks, too, meant that JJ could do it so well, that it was dangerous, she became an immediate hazard to her victims that predominately led to death. At the most quintessential moments of her job, JJ was an absolute force of nature. She could kill a man with her masterful hands, being fluent in several martial arts, or with a single word, being trained in the power of the pen and the lip, all after expertly burrowing her way deeply into a target’s life.
And she was damn good at it.
JJ could go into the deepest of covers without blinking an eye, without flinching. Grifting was her true calling. She became her character, grifting as if she wasn’t at all. So, she sashayed into your life, flirting and giggling and getting as close as she possibly could to you.
Much like Prentiss, however, she had to wait. She had to wait for the perfect moment. And after both the Doctor and Prentiss had failed, she knew that pinpointing that perfect moment was absolutely essential.
She finally believed she had spotted her time, and JJ was well aware that the moment would slip mistakenly from her hands at the flick of a switch. She had to act fast.
The grifter approached you, throwing an amiable smile about her lips like a lapsing marble bouncing about a cage. This coffee shop, dainty in its pale doileys and delicate fixtures, was the perfect place for an opportune meet-up.
But, of course, her plan had to be just as spoiled as the rest. JJ mustered all her nerve and adrenaline, snuffing all apprehension, as she approached you kindly. Of course you were intercepted once again. The intruder wasn’t the jubilant smile of a fellow acquaintance like it was with Prentiss however. No, JJ was only intercepted by the mere, oddly powerful misgivings of a bad day flustered with bad luck.
Taking a step forward, you accidentally plunged yourself in your own coffee. Suddenly, you were standing in the middle of the coffee shop drenched in your own drink, your rapidly blushing cheeks morphing against a beet-red tint.
Just like that, JJ was forced to abort her own mission. Her plans were thwarted and she knew that she had missed her opportunity. Eliminating you was no longer a job for a mere doctor or thief or grifter. No, now they would have to bring in the big guns. Or rather the big muscles.
It was time for JJ to give Morgan a call.
Derek Morgan was a legend. He, unlike the majority of those around him, relied on his muscles and strength as well as his mind. He liked to call himself a “retrieval specialist”. Retrieval specialist essentially was a hitter, an abductor, a torturer, eliminator, a protector. He was a lot of things, but most of all, he was the type that would stop at nothing to eliminate his target.
Morgan’s past was blurred with forgone memories of pain, an added boost to the life he lived and the life that had learned to support him over the years.
Borrowing the gathered Intel from the other assassins, Morgan created a certain profile at yet another “unthwartable” location. This time versus the other times, however, he was going to abduct you. His speciality. To him, there was no greater weapon than fear. And a little bit of pain of course. Or so was the plan.
Morgan trailed behind you in a crowd like a bloodhound with a scent on its tail. Turning ever so slightly to examine the hectic world around him, and within a moment you had already dispersed into the crowd. They never got away that easily. Not for Morgan.
He tried to think on his toes, Morgan really did. Despite his facade of numb, pure muscle, Morgan was well aware of his effortless mind and body. But that didn’t make this job any easier, and soon enough, he found himself stubbornly handing the case over to Hotch.
After receiving his call from Morgan, Hotch pulled together a meeting of all the assassins, a frown on his face.
“How the hell is this girl beating us? How is she still alive?” He barked. Hotch watched a muscle twitch beneath Morgan’s shirt. He watched Spencer comb his fingers hopelessly through the dorky mop stretching across his scalp. Hotch watched as JJ and Prentiss simultaneously crossed one leg over the other and silently tightened them awkwardly together, chins dripping to their chests. He watched the unfamiliar inhabitance of disappointment march across Garcia’s lips. But most of all, Hotch recognized the upset frown making up Rossi’s stubborn countenance.
Hotch huffed an irritated sigh, “I’ll get her finally.” He scoffed, exhaling, reaching for a matte briefcase that only some could know contained his beloved rifle, and shuffling out of the room.
This was Hotch’s moment. Very high up in an even more incredible building, breathed an impossibly stoic Hotch. His eyes searched through the dissuading scope for your tempting mirage, any mere image of you really.
And then he found you. Staring inexplicably for a moment, Hotch wondered how you had survived so long without being eliminated by the highly trained assassins fire set out against you. For a moment, he wondered if your twitching escapes from death had been a sign to him and the rest of the team. A sign that maybe their ruthlessness wasn’t quite as acceptable as they had told themselves.
But in just as quick of a moment as the thought had crossed Hotch’s mind, a bang rang out through the streets. And maybe that was finally the end to you. Maybe Hotch had really eliminated you after such a seemingly impossible battle. Maybe not.
You don't have a job right? You just go to school? How do you afford to live? Can you teach me? Is it a sugar daddy? Do you sell your organs? I have so many questions
Nope, no job. I may start bartending a couple weekends a month just to get some spending money, but that’s about it. Jobs are highly discouraged. I read a statistic that was released by the AAMC in an article about how to explain medical school to loved ones and friends and stuff, and it said that one block of medical school (usually 6-10 weeks of work) is the equivalent of 36 credit hours in terms of an undergraduate system. It’s ludicrous, and i.e. extremely not prudent to try and work. But a lot of kids do, because debt sucks.
Hahaha my medical school career is strictly funded through loans, which is SUPER fun… but I think this rings true for any medical student, unless you have uber rich parents to support you or a significant savings to help in some ways. It’s viewed as an investment, and a good one at that. That being said, any medical school program gives you loans meant to not only pay for tuition itself, but for the cost of living. There is a minimum amount we’re required to take out (tuition), and a maximum cap. It’s not fun, but it’s life.
Luckily, I had some scholarship money that was never utilized through Rice, so that helped a lot my first year, although that money is now high and dry. Also since I moved back home my parents help with little things like paying for my gas occasionally or picking me up some groceries when they shop, so that’s super sweet of them. But we agreed when I went to undergrad that any higher education past undergrad would be on me, since they helped me significantly (re completely) with Rice.
It’s pretty daunting right now knowing how much debt I’ll be in, but I know friends @ other medical schools who are already 5x deeper in debt than me. Not that that’s comforting, but the price-tag of coming to my home university was one of my main deciding factors. Like I mentioned above, it’s pretty much accepted (at least with American medical schools) that you’ll front the bill by taking out loans with financial aid.
Of course, there are outside scholarships and stuff to apply for, like grants and stuff, but most medical schools that I know of do not offer any sort of tuition-lowering scholarship or anything like that, even for super low-income students. Most of us end up going on Medicaid bc we literally have no feasible income (loans don’t count!!!!), and it’s cheaper than the university’s insurance options (around $1,000 a year for my school, for instance).
Anyways, any sugar daddies who wanna pay my tuition hmu, or anyone who wants my right kidney (the left is my favorite). I think it’s worth at least 8k.