(no subject)
"The game is only fun until you get caught, isn't it Sin? Yeah, I know how your mind works. I've been chasin' scum like you for fifteen years... After that long, you really learn what it's like to be inside the head o' some o' the worlds sickest fucks. An' believe me, 'Simon Sinclair', there ain't no one sicker'n you. 'Cept maybe me." His voice echoes hollowly through the warehouse's main hold. Stealth is not this man's modus operandi, I can tell you that much right now. Niether is rational thought.
I hear him closing in on me, about twenty feet away. Ten... Seven... And there it is, a rookie mistake. The barrel of his gun comes around the corner before he does, the maw of the beast ready to bite what it cannot see. It's only a moment, the briefest second, but our lives are measured in the slow, steady beats of our hearts... second by second.
I flash forward, garrote wire stretched between my hands like some kind of sadistic cat's cradle, wrapping it about his wrist with lightning speed. The gun goes off once before his hand his severed from his wrist, all before I've even seen his face. Losing one's hand is usually something to give you pause for thought, for reflection... a pause that may well last long enough to get you killed. But I have to give credit to this guy, he's a pro. Without hesitation, an axe comes around the corner next, bound for my neck. I smash my watch against the side of the crate I'm pressed up against, and try to keep from tossing my cookies as a moments temporal and entropic dissassociation hits me. As luck would have it, the head of the axe comes flying off, inches from my neck. Sure, it still cuts me a good one, but at least I get to keep my noggin. Gotta run, can't take him on open ground.
The next few moments are the run across the knife's edge. Fall too far to either side, and you're kissing the fleshless lips of death. Spend too long on the blade, though, and it'll cut right through you. I jump straight up, manipulating the gravity around me for a brief moment, with but a thought, taking me to the top of the box. A few shots ring out beneath me, but those are in vain. That's right, you fucker, keep waisting your ammo.
I race across the shipping crates and old boxes littered throughout this room, my hand reflexively going to my side, where the black 9mm beretta rests. This is going to be a long night, and one I'm not particularily certain I'll live to see the end of.
((If you wanna read more of this, lemme know. *nod*))
I hear him closing in on me, about twenty feet away. Ten... Seven... And there it is, a rookie mistake. The barrel of his gun comes around the corner before he does, the maw of the beast ready to bite what it cannot see. It's only a moment, the briefest second, but our lives are measured in the slow, steady beats of our hearts... second by second.
I flash forward, garrote wire stretched between my hands like some kind of sadistic cat's cradle, wrapping it about his wrist with lightning speed. The gun goes off once before his hand his severed from his wrist, all before I've even seen his face. Losing one's hand is usually something to give you pause for thought, for reflection... a pause that may well last long enough to get you killed. But I have to give credit to this guy, he's a pro. Without hesitation, an axe comes around the corner next, bound for my neck. I smash my watch against the side of the crate I'm pressed up against, and try to keep from tossing my cookies as a moments temporal and entropic dissassociation hits me. As luck would have it, the head of the axe comes flying off, inches from my neck. Sure, it still cuts me a good one, but at least I get to keep my noggin. Gotta run, can't take him on open ground.
The next few moments are the run across the knife's edge. Fall too far to either side, and you're kissing the fleshless lips of death. Spend too long on the blade, though, and it'll cut right through you. I jump straight up, manipulating the gravity around me for a brief moment, with but a thought, taking me to the top of the box. A few shots ring out beneath me, but those are in vain. That's right, you fucker, keep waisting your ammo.
I race across the shipping crates and old boxes littered throughout this room, my hand reflexively going to my side, where the black 9mm beretta rests. This is going to be a long night, and one I'm not particularily certain I'll live to see the end of.
((If you wanna read more of this, lemme know. *nod*))