The Henchwoman

One cold and lonely evening in a warehouse, a glowing computer is present. A costumed clad freak of nature sits at a laptop, scrolling through a plethora of photos, checking out each profile with dissatisfied interest. With each passing photo, he's getting more and more irate. The hours tick by, but it has no effect on him and his private quarters. He's desperate; he needs the perfect companion to complete his villainous image.

He noticed his nearly fatal flaw as a villain; the greatest villains had a sidekick. The Joker had Harley Quinn, Dr. Drakken had Shego; the most damage comes in twos. Hell, Hit Girl and Kick Ass fall into that category if you count Hit Girl's borderline sociopathy. He needs a henchman, a sidekick, a formidable ally that can pull him out of a tight spot and be a force to be reckoned with when they go toe to toe with Kick Ass and Hit Girl.

Preferably, female.

His search is halted when his mouse ghosts over a certain profile. Curious, he clicks.

First and foremost, the profile pic is tacky and unflattering: bad lighting, the mirror needs to be cleaned and her acne medication needs to be out of the shot. She's wearing a low-quality costume with makeup so cheap the white paint is washing away from sweat and her wig is clearly taken out of the barrel of a 99 cent store. The kicker is the information about her.

LADY LUCK

AGE: UNKNOWN

OCCUPATION: CERTIFIED ASS-KICKER AND MERCENARY OF DEATH.

MO: GADGETS AND EXPLOSIVES GALORE.

ALLIES: FRANK CASTLE

ABOUT ME: I am a vigilante with a strict code and knowledge of weapons, guns, and engineer of dangerous gadgets and traps.

First off, who does she think she is calling herself 'Lady Luck'? Did she not read the old comics from the 50's? 'Certified Ass-kicker and Mercenary of Death'? Are you fucking serious?

He'll humor her. Really he will.

He clicks the message button and starts typing.

TheM0th3rFu(K3R34: Hey, Lady Luck. I took an interest in your profile and I'd hate to admit it, but out of all the other profiles yours is the best one. I'm looking to hire a partner in my line of work. Hopefully I'll hear from you in a few days.

The Motherfucker

He hits send and lies back. What the hell, maybe she'd respond.

In less than three weeks, he does get a response.

LadyLuck55: I'm honestly surprised to hear from you. Would you like a resume?

He laughs.

TheM0th3rFu(K3R34: No, I feel a resume won't be necessary. Meet me at these coordinates and I'll give you a run through of the necessary requirements. You'll be given a test. If you pass the test, you land the job.

If she doesn't pass she'll simply die and he'll move on to the next one, but he won't tell her that detail. If she's hot shit like she says she is, she'll handle herself. He sends her the address and directions, curiosity peaked. Even if she fails, it could give him some form of entertainment.

They meet at an abandoned warehouse. Lady Luck strolls in, in full gear and a belt with what appears to be trinkets.

"You the Motherfucker?" She asks.

"Yeah, in the flesh. I wanna see what you got. Tonight, you're going to fight eight of my men. If you can take them all out, you get the job. Sound fair?"

"Yeah. So who are the guys?"

"Why, some of the most dangerous, violent, and homicidal criminals money can buy. Think you're ready?"

The doors shut themselves.

"Yeah, I think I can." Lady Luck smirks.

"Alright. Gentlemen," he calls out to the men. The light shines. Men are in prison jumpsuits, restrained by chains. They tussle and squirm against the restraints, gnashing their teeth at the applicant.

"Let her have it. Don't hold back. Enjoy." He unlocks the chains and lets them loose.

The Motherfucker is impressed. She definitely can hold her own in a fight. She's dodging, stabbing, slitting throats and cracking skulls with her boots. Despite the significant damage she receives, she fights back even harder. Her gadgets are ingenious: a bomb that latches onto peoples's faces and explodes on contact? Bullets that eviscerate a human body? Knives in her boots that activate when she clicks her heels? She's good. In less than three hours, she dispatches of all eight men. She limps towards him, bloody, injured, and victorious.

"I got the job, now?" She asks, before falling to the ground from exhaustion. Checking her pulse, The Motherfucker is impressed when he feels the heartbeat. She took a beating, kicked ass, and can still live to tell the tale.

She's hired.