Kick Ass?

Boredom in creative writing class... I think I'll post up some of my story here... It needs to be shared. Here is the first chapter!


She was approached by an elongated shadow. Reclined back on a tree pulp chair, she set down her drink in the scorched sand and stared at the elongated shadow contemptuously. "Let me guess," she started beneath her dusty red hair and brimmed, brown leather hat, "I can run forever, but I can't hide for quite as long." She lolled her head over the back of the chair, squinting from the sun's scathing rays, smirking at the owner of the shadow, who stood a bit behind her right side.
The formless face stared at her, restraining to reveal his surprise and disgust for the woman sitting before him. "Where are my coins?" He managed through gritted teeth. His fists were slowly clenching.
"That's funny...", the woman remarked. "Yes, that's very funny indeed, 'cause I was just about to ask you the exact same thing." She heard a click and flashed her eyes fully open to find a black metal tube pointed directly at her face. Her smirk transformed into a disappointed frown. "Now why would you do that?" Her voice was smooth and serious.
"I want my shipment."
"Really, now? You want it so bad that you'd shoot me in the face for it?"
He nodded, slowly, truthfully.
"Well, seein' as your momma ain't never taught you any proper manners..." She shifted her left hand, pulling something out from under her corresponding leg, "...and since manners are so incredibly important when one wants their cargo of coins... And since these coins seem so dang important to you... Well, then I guess I'm gonna have to teach ya some manners myself."
The man raised his chin arrogantly, but still bracing himself for the worst. He didn't have too long to react, though, because before he knew it, he had a cocked gun in his face, heard a loud "bang!" and then he knew nothing. His death would cause great outrage later, when his body was finally found and the news had reached his superiors.
The woman looked down at the bleeding corpse. She watched, with joyous eyes, the blood soak into the parched sand. No matter how many dozens of company pawns she killed, the woman never lost satisfaction. Imagining the look on her father's infuriated face felt too good to ever lose its dose of malicious potency.
All joy drained from the woman, though, when she had realized that her drink that was resting in the sand had been tipped over and spilled. She stood up, over the dead body, and kicked it with a leather booted foot. She wasn't too worried about the drink, though, as she rummaged through the man's pockets and found her payment easily in his shirt, held in a small burlap pouch. She picked up his gun as well, pointlessly checking it for any flaws. Company weapons were always perfect. The small bag was slipped around the woman's neck, tucked into her shirt, behind her dusty brown vest. Her own gun was placed back in its holster. The company gun dangled in her hand.
Suddenly, the body's face was truly noticed. Curious eyes wandered over to the sunglasses that rested on the nose. Kneeling down, the woman whipped off the glasses with anxious fingers and stared into the still marbles of her brother's eyes. She fell back onto the sand, eying her brother. "Well, Jeremiah..." the woman sighed, "can't say you didn't have this coming." She hunched over, back onto her knees, and proceeded to shift through Jeremiah's pockets once again, with extended care. Several ID cards made their home in the dead man's front suit pocket, all belonging to various organizations and the company. After several minutes of thoroughly checking every single pocket on her dead brother's body, the woman held in her hands two very thick stacks of papers, IDs, letters(a few were packed in envelopes), and a cardboard package from some expensive city delicacy.
She carefully stood up, trying her hardest not to drop any of the collected goods, and trotted through the burning sand past her reclined chair and to the small mud hut that stood a couple feet from a brown pool of water. Inside the hut there was nothing special, just a short, round wooden table, a wooden chair that had only three legs that stood in a triangular formation, and a small cloth bed that laid at the back of the building. A single light hung from the palm tree leaf roof. The woman eagerly threw the stacks onto the table. She planted herself onto the chair, which stood a few inches above the table's surface. She immediately picked the envelopes out of the messy stack. Most of them were addressed to people several continents over with names like Daryl, Alejandro, Rebecca...
The woman's eyes widened significantly as she spotted her own name. She hastily tore open the envelope, finding several large, golden coins with her family insignia stamped onto them, and a short letter, written by Jeremiah. She unfolded it impatiently, tearing part of a corner as she did so.


Rebecca,

You have caused father great pain since you left so many years ago. He's heard about what kind of work you've gotten yourself into and he likes it. He thinks that you're the most worthy to take the seat of company CEO after he passes.
He's dying, Rebecca. You need to come home and take over what's yours. I highly disagree with father, of course, but what he says is pretty much law to us.
I know we weren't very close when we were growing up and it's been ages since we last spoke, but you need to trust me. Father needs you. The company needs you. Now I'm not one to beg, but please. Please go back. We need you.

With love,
Jeremiah
Rebecca raised a high brow with equally high suspicion. Why would her brother write a letter telling her this? Didn't he have the intention to tell her face to face? Most importantly, how in the hell did he manage to find her? It was good that he did write it down, though, she guessed, since he was laying dead in the sand anyway.
A sudden thought flashed through Rebecca's mind. She alertly raised her attention to the open door of the mud hut. She scrambled up and out of her chair, stumbling through the cover from the sun and back onto the sand, casting a weary glance at the corpse that lay next to her reclined tree pulp. Rebecca dashed over to the reclined thing, fell to her knees, and with her bare hands, she tore through the frying earth. With each frantic movement of her blistered, calloused hands, the woman became closer and closer to her intended target.
Her bright red knuckles hit splintered wood. She gritted her teeth and continued to unsurface the battered wood. Finally, after several long seconds, Rebecca had dusted off enough sand to open the buried trunk that she was digging up. She pulled a key out from her vest and used it to open the lock that securely attached itself to two metal rings and wood. Rebecca threw the lock aside and yanked the top up and open to reveal a chest full of shining, polished, sparkling company coins of various metals and detail. She picked one up, smearing a bit of blood on the surface.
The coin was platinum and as big as Rebecca's entire palm. She flipped it over. It had a name engraved on the back, Dwayne Shirkfield. She threw it back into the pile, panicked. Rebecca picked up another coin. It was smaller and made of nickel, showing an interesting contrast between her tan, bloodied hands and the polished, new, light colour of the coin. She flipped it over. Her eyes widened. She read the name "Donna Elwitz". Rebecca whipped the coin back into the trunk, closing it afterwards.
She leaned sideways, stretching out her arm towards the reclined chair. Underneath it was a large wood and rusted, metal shovel. She stood up and began to dig. She dug around the trunk, through the dry yellow sand, straining against her body's desperate signals for rest. At last, she reached the bottom of the wooden case. Rebecca dropped the shovel and used her last few ounces of strength to dash over to the hut. She slid on her knees on the dirt sandy floor over to the bed. She extended a weary arm underneath it and retrieved a small object decorated in cogs, hooks, and rope.
Rebecca stumbled back onto her feet and dashed back to the hole with the trunk. With an inkling of hope, a hook was attached to the lock rings. The cogged machine, no bigger than a small dog, got a switch flipped on and it began to crank and turn it's wheels. The entire trunk was painfully being dragged from it's shallow grave.
Exhausted from the excitement, the red head fell to her knees, momentarily defeated by nature, and then fell fully to the sand. An unsettling but comforting warmth fully surrounded her as her eyelids dropped and limp body rested.