We both reached for the gun.
So, odd things have taken place since my last entry.
I was enjoying my psuedo-respite in Venice, taking in the city I fell in love with a piece at a time--rekindling the old flames I'd forgotten.
One night, feeling particularly adventurous, I decided to stake out one of the nightly hot-spots. Dressed to kill,( for once, not in a literal sense ), primped and gussied, I hit the dance floor. Or, more speciffically, the bar. I was falling slowly into the lull of a sharp, electronic downbeat, tapping the heel of my pump against the stool in time to the bass when I saw him.
He was one of those men that you could never forget. Captivating in the same way a big cat is. All streamlined contours and graceful movement; a promise of danger-- a silver-haired kamikaze pilot, spinning out of control in my direction, adorned by a rainbow of glowsticks. ( Not that they could compare to the color of his eyes. )
Of course, I was probably the only person in the club aware of how real that promise was. I watched him with an air of caution, guards high and hands drifting as close to my concealed holsters as possible while still making the gesture seem natural. Years of astute observation and experience have taught me how to spot threats. This man was a threat with a capital 'T'.
And he knew my name.
Always a negative. When another assassin knows your name, there are only two possible reasons as to why:
A) An obsessive self-proclaimed rival/weirdo-- never much fun.
B) You've just become a Mark, which promises to turn the situation bloody.
I was betting on the latter. And, later, it turned out he was from the first catagory. Whatever.
Anyway, gunfire and explosions ensued.
The next thing I can remember was waking up in a hotel room, wounds tended and my weaponry neatly arranged on the nightstand. The prick left a note in my pocket saying how 'nice' our little venture had been.
Some balls, huh? I took the most appropriate course of action one can in a situation such as this.. I got him back.
I had to survive a gas-filled room, an exploding apartment, a car chase, three gunshot wounds, and two stabbings--but I got my revenge. And a free lunch.
And then, the strangest thing happened while looking down on what should have become a beautiful corpse. I came to this eerie realization that I didn't want to leave him to bleed to death on the seats.
I swore, spat, cursed myself, and then made arrangements while calling in a medical team for both of us.
I even ended up sending the bastard to a private hospital out of pocket.
He didn't get off scott-free, however. I gave strict instructions that he was to take in all nutrients via IV. No actual meals. So, two weeks without solid food for him. My own little petty bit of revenge while I worked the muscles in my shoulder, to keep them from scar-stiffening.
It was something he said, though, that made me come back. He mentioned a facility where genetic alterations are being tested as cures for specific diseases.
It isn't common knowledge, but I suffer from a degenerative nervous disorder. Usually, it manifests itself in constant trembling--severity varying on the episode. And, there are siesures. Eventually,one of these will steal my mobility and send me into a coma.
This was of intense interest to me, since I've developed and immunity to most of my varying medications.
Now, we're flying out to Hong Kong.
I'm fucking suicidal.
I was enjoying my psuedo-respite in Venice, taking in the city I fell in love with a piece at a time--rekindling the old flames I'd forgotten.
One night, feeling particularly adventurous, I decided to stake out one of the nightly hot-spots. Dressed to kill,( for once, not in a literal sense ), primped and gussied, I hit the dance floor. Or, more speciffically, the bar. I was falling slowly into the lull of a sharp, electronic downbeat, tapping the heel of my pump against the stool in time to the bass when I saw him.
He was one of those men that you could never forget. Captivating in the same way a big cat is. All streamlined contours and graceful movement; a promise of danger-- a silver-haired kamikaze pilot, spinning out of control in my direction, adorned by a rainbow of glowsticks. ( Not that they could compare to the color of his eyes. )
Of course, I was probably the only person in the club aware of how real that promise was. I watched him with an air of caution, guards high and hands drifting as close to my concealed holsters as possible while still making the gesture seem natural. Years of astute observation and experience have taught me how to spot threats. This man was a threat with a capital 'T'.
And he knew my name.
Always a negative. When another assassin knows your name, there are only two possible reasons as to why:
A) An obsessive self-proclaimed rival/weirdo-- never much fun.
B) You've just become a Mark, which promises to turn the situation bloody.
I was betting on the latter. And, later, it turned out he was from the first catagory. Whatever.
Anyway, gunfire and explosions ensued.
The next thing I can remember was waking up in a hotel room, wounds tended and my weaponry neatly arranged on the nightstand. The prick left a note in my pocket saying how 'nice' our little venture had been.
Some balls, huh? I took the most appropriate course of action one can in a situation such as this.. I got him back.
I had to survive a gas-filled room, an exploding apartment, a car chase, three gunshot wounds, and two stabbings--but I got my revenge. And a free lunch.
And then, the strangest thing happened while looking down on what should have become a beautiful corpse. I came to this eerie realization that I didn't want to leave him to bleed to death on the seats.
I swore, spat, cursed myself, and then made arrangements while calling in a medical team for both of us.
I even ended up sending the bastard to a private hospital out of pocket.
He didn't get off scott-free, however. I gave strict instructions that he was to take in all nutrients via IV. No actual meals. So, two weeks without solid food for him. My own little petty bit of revenge while I worked the muscles in my shoulder, to keep them from scar-stiffening.
It was something he said, though, that made me come back. He mentioned a facility where genetic alterations are being tested as cures for specific diseases.
It isn't common knowledge, but I suffer from a degenerative nervous disorder. Usually, it manifests itself in constant trembling--severity varying on the episode. And, there are siesures. Eventually,one of these will steal my mobility and send me into a coma.
This was of intense interest to me, since I've developed and immunity to most of my varying medications.
Now, we're flying out to Hong Kong.
I'm fucking suicidal.