Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor do I lay any claim to the series and intellectual property they're a product of. No money is made off of this.

AN: This almost died in a desktop purge until I remembered how much fun I had writing it. Just something short, humorous, and tongue-in-cheek. It's OOC but with comedic context, basically. Fic is prompted by Lykke Li's song by the same name. Feedback is golden and appreciated! Oh, and I'd like to thank myself for proof-reading this. I did a great job. Um, I think?



I'm going to be blunt about this. Right. Well. Here we go. I have a confession to make:

I kind of like you.

Not only that, but I'm a little bit unsure how to go about telling you. You see, I killed, I think, maybe, like, probably your entire family. I say 'maybe', because in retrospect one of them kind of looked like you, and the other with the one arm had the whole golden-hair-I-can't-find-a-decent-stylist-to save-my-life thing going on too, but I killed them both before asking any questions.

Didn't even have any questions.

Still don't.

But that's not the point.

I say this even as you swung your sword at me just yesterday. Which, I'd just like to point out is totally ridiculous. You carry a sword. An actual sword. I don't know where you got it. I didn't even know they still made those things. I'm not sure why you bring it. It doesn't even work against my brother and I. Stop doing it. Maybe you're trying to compensate for something, I'm not sure...

Wait, I'm being a bitch again, aren't I? See, I didn't even realize it. Not my fault.

But anyway– anyway...

Don't hold it against me that I tried to kill you yesterday. That actually has to do with the second part of this. In considering this, I realized I should put things in perspective. I'm fairly shallow. I think if you're aware of it, sort of like insanity, it inoculates you. So I'm kind of shallow, but not really. But just because I like you doesn't mean I'm not going to kill you.

At least I'm going try, and I'm a perfectionist, so it means I probably will.

In the meantime though– yeah, I kind of like you.

Definitely not for your personality. Not a big talker. Your vocabulary seems a bit stunted, forgive me for saying. All colored green when it should be accented by red, blue, and magenta, but I guess that's my fault. It's all: 'I will defeat you!' and 'This is the end for you!' or 'You killed my father!' – which, by the way, is so played out. I don't even know if you realize that.

Again, my fault, I caused that.

Whenever we meet you don't talk much. Part of your charm, I guess. Not like someone else I know– cough-live-with-cough... Right, staying on track... I can't deny it would be nice to hear something else, anything else coming from your lips.

I'm sorry, lost my train of thought. Note to self: stop thinking about your lips. But I digress. I really would. Whenever I think about possibly what – notice I didn't use the word 'fantasize' – it always devolves into the familiar litany of the above. I get it: I'm evil. But I've also got a killer bod, do you ever notice that? No you don't. I'm a killer, fine. Then again, I've got nice eyes. Y'uh huh. I'm a cold, remorseless, psychopathic bitch, sure. But a cute – really cute – remorseless, psychopathic bitch.

I'm sure you've noticed that.

And whose idea was it to name you after underwear anyway? Not that I wouldn't mind getting in... staying on course...

Back to square one. I kind of like you, but there's a problem.

You kind of hate me.

Not totally insurmountable, actually. I read in one of those women's magazines I picked up off a magazine rack that love – or at least lust – knows no bounds. Lisa McClure of the 'Love and Leisure' section of the 'Newprint Times' said that true physical attraction knows no skin color or height; no ideology; no worry to class and upbringing, or prejudice against remorseless psychopathic bitches.

Like myself.

Just hot abs and those damn sexy eyes, and you've got both.

So there.


Nadine Ecoza of the 'Spirit and Health' section of the 'North City Journal' waxes that affection and deep emotion are like a strike to the gut: sudden and unpredictable– I do that all the time. That they're like an open wound, traipsing blood everywhere– I cause that too! Everyday almost. Scott Corbin of the 'Weekly Poster' says polar opposites attract. You're a boy, I'm... a cyborg... girl. You're... probably not human– if the hair is anything to go by. I used to be human. I routinely try to kill you, and you're always trying not to die!

But, again, we're back to square one.

You hate me, and I hate you.

But I kind of like you, just a little bit.


Eighteen snorted in disgust.

She didn't know why she wrote it, she just felt like it. Something she kept to herself, no harm done. Not that she'd ever act on it or let Seventeen see it. Whatever.

Eighteen sat, pen in hand, then got up, crumpled up the letter. They were going out, Seventeen and herself. Like always. More fun. Another town. With luck, this one wouldn't recognize them, and they could stroll about this time, at least until they decided whether they wanted to see fireworks or not, light up the town, so to speak. Until then it would be ordinary boy, girl, sibling, sister. Not sparing it a second thought, she stuffed the letter in a compartment in her back pocket. When she got back, she would burn it or throw it out. Or burn it and then throw it out.