The Game (The Game)

[Illyasviel von Einzbern]

Those random guards who performed their work so predictably, opened the door of the limousine. Said limousine was parked just outside a gala that the Target had just finished attending and skipped out early on. Why was anyone's guess, but it was very possible that he had been informed of the hit plans and intended to get away quickly.

She had studied his route carefully, as well as the schematics behind his safety systems, all of their features. Bullet-proof "glass" which was actually more of a transparent kind of metal - don't ask how - all around armour plating that could shrug off RPG's like water guns, and a satellite uplink that allowed instant access to the nearby military base. Most of these were actually mercenaries he'd bought off, so that would be another hindrance.

There were other features, sure, but these were the most crucial. The only problem was, she wasn't sure if he was the real deal. His body double system was so effective that only some kind of supercomputer would be able to figure it out for sure. But she had done her research, and this one had the highest probability of being the true Target, according to her observations.

The limousine started up and drove off into the night. "Well, Bob, it looks like our quarry is in quite a hurry. What say we show him what it's like to be in a real hurry?" She nodded at his response and put on a pair of riding goggles before mounting her beautiful bike. She was proud of it, that was for certain. And she had no need for a helmet. That was the best part.

Revving the engine once, the Highlander sped off in hot pursuit of the Target, leaving a quick trail of red tail light on her way.

Let the Game begin!

[Alex McCeol]

Cutter raised from the kneeling position, nodding. He released control of the security cameras from the Gala, as his electronic eyes watched the man who had made his life hell drive off. He had gone over all the routes that the man's escort might take, and had picked the one that was most likely. It was well planned, no overpasses, convenient nooks or crannies. However, no route was perfect. Indeed, one could hardly avoid the sewer system.

Cars drove over the opened sewer lid, as Cutter looked upwards. He was connected to the traffic control system, watching the limosine's progress and making sure it stayed on course. Cutter was wearing a gasmask to keep the refuse from entering his nose. It still smelled.

The plan was simple. As the car drove past, he would latch on to the bottom of the limosine, making his way undetected to the man's compound. Then he would capture and interogate the man, kill him, and move on to the next person in the chain. The entire operation was already set up.

Cutter moved into position, as the limosine grew close. "Eyes on the prize." he thought. This would require exact timing, to be completely undetected in this maneuver.

Three. Two. One. He grabbed the car, and grabbed it by the edges. He was now riding in cognito underneath the man's car. There was a smile on his face. Time for payback.

[Blake Mcdermott]

If it was careful planning and meticulous study that had brought The Highlander to her prey, it was sheer dumb luck and improbable coincidence brought the target to Terry, the plated limo speeding past her in the opposite direction as she was strolling on the sidewalks, and if that wasn’t eye-catching enough, the windows, although tinted, weren’t quite dark enough to hide the passenger’s face. And by golly that face sure looked familiar.

It was for half a second, only enough to catch a vague glimpse of the Target’s features behind heavily tinted glass before the limousine sped off to a destination unknown, but that was the strongest lead Terry had gotten all week, if only because she wasn’t searching particularly hard. The possibility that it might’ve been yet another fake registered in Terry’s mind, but that limo was too enticing a deal not to pass up.

Except she was on foot, carrying all her clunky equipment by hand, and she wasn’t particularly inclined to waste her time running after a car. Although her axe was quite a weapon, even Terry had to admit it was a pain to lug around everywhere. As ridonkulously superpowered as she might’ve been, even she wasn’t going to overtake a car with just her own two legs. It took precious moments to trickle away before Terry came up with the perfect solution.

Terry allowed herself a grin. In an instant, a grenade launcher flew out of the recesses of her trench coat and into her hand. The very next, several high-powered explosives hurtled towards their target, and half a second after that, the limo exploded into a shower of sparks and shrapnel. There was no way that the vehicle could’ve gotten through that unscathed.

Except it did.

She gaped in open-mouthed shock as the vehicle raced away, accelerating as it did, driving out of the smoking crater that should’ve taken the limo with it. It was only slightly infuriating to see the limo shrug off the explosion that had turned the guardrails around it into twisted metal.

When she heard the dull rumble of an engine once again, she knew what she had to do, grenade launcher in one hand, the axe in the other, blocking the road with her body. She’d just have to chase the Target down herself. Acquiring the means to do so should be a piece of cake. The means in question being a motorcycle didn't hurt either.

"Aight," she hefted her axe, poised to strike as the Highlander and Bob approached, "Come'n'gettit."

[Miliardo Red]

The explosion threatens to activate my Battle Reflex Circuit, but I override; the situation is confused and I need full problem-solving capabilities, not instant reactions.

Passive scans and mission resources indicate that the vehicle is using transparent aluminum for windows, and is proof against the standard anti-material weapons; the Subtarget will not have been damaged, and nothing is stopping them from deploying further resources to take care of the situation. The Enemy is cautious; they will not let any direct attack on them go unheeded, though a subtarget might simply vacate.

Radio scans indicate the mercenaries were not called to react to the attack. I adjust probabilities that this subtarget is one of the body doubles, and find that it is likely; if the Enemy was here in person, they would not be as sloppy as to allow a explosive attack to stop them from calling in their protection.

My heuristic subprocesses report many conclusions: One, I could easily survive a leap from the roof onto the vehicle, which would damage it even with it's heavy armor, and tear out the subtarget with my bare hands. Two, this subtarget is low-priority and thusly we should not do so. A single explosive is a dangerous sign of attack, but it is singular and mundane. A robot descending from the heavens to crush one of the body-doubles underfoot and pull bloody parts of them out of the vehicle is decidedly not. Such an overt display would send all further subtargets and the Enemy to ground and cause a severe drop in my ability to search out and disassemble them. Finally, following this subtarget is now pointless; an attacked subtarget will go to a predetermined secondary defensive position that does not already contain the Enemy, so as to draw attackers away from the real Enemy.

I do continue to monitor the subtarget vehicle's radio transponder, as it must report the attack when they have a free moment, and it will give me a basic idea as to where they are going (And thusly where the Enemy is not). I may even be lucky enough to hear them discuss the Enemy's whereabouts, but I doubt they'd do so. The Enemy is not that sloppy.

The time it takes to follow these chains of reason gives the vehicle time to begin speeding away. If I leap and chase, I can still eliminate them, but I no longer consider the option viable.

I must conclude I have no immediate target worth tracking and it will remain that way until the paramilitary subcontractors are deployed or until another subtarget/possible Enemy exposes themselves. Waiting for an opportunity is all I can expect to do.

I... am not good at waiting. I want to know more about the situation.

Heuristic subprocesses report that the explosion would have been caused by one or more other seekers attempting to eliminate the Enemy; mission information recommends avoiding them. Similar targets does not mean similar aims or means.

It recommends, but does not order. And I desire activity.

I can calculate the location of the one that attacked the limousine based on the arc of the grenade and it's speed. I designate the firer as Assassin 01, for lack of a better handle. My heuristic subprocesses report that following this assassin is unlikely to bring me closer to my target; by all rights I should have discarded his existence right then. But as my designers have noted, I do not always act as expected.

Climbing down a building is relatively fast when you can simply jump off and use the walls as breakfalls. My landing is not silent, but neither is it's an unexpectedly loud affair; nobody should notice. My active camouflage shifts into one of the urban/night patterns, and I cautiously approach Assassin 01's position. I want to see who this person is, though I do not want to be seen.

[Zack Smith]

It was outside a gala, and it was preparing itself to leave. Bob merely stared at the limousine; it contained the Target, waiting to be killed and brought down to hell. Maybe he was also prepared to live, what with those preparations and those anti-RPG's protections. The tall man took a drag on his cigarette, expelling the smoke slowly as he stared at the vehicule, thinking about what to do.

Bob had let Alice do her thing as always. She was the one who tracked the Target's route and his safety system; Bob was only but a partner who could act like a bodyguard. However, that does not mean that this bodyguard was mentally dumb, but this is mere details.

Anyway, this Target could be called 'The Most Prepared Target Ever' and gain that little medal that came with the title as well as a cookie. Not only his limousine was freaking prepared to the apocalypse via assassins, but that guy had body doubles. Alice and Bob were not even sure if he was the real Target, even with this one having the highest probability of being the Target's real body.

"Well, Bob, it looks like our quarry is in quite a hurry. What say we show him what it's like to be in a real hurry?"

"Like we always do, Alice. Like we always do." Bob threw off his cancer stick as he mounted the bike just behind Alice. No helmet, no googles, only wearing a pair of sunglasses and a suit. Injuries were nothing for one like him. "What a wonderful night." The man muttered to himself. Sometimes words came out of their own.

They then moved out and sped off, pursuing the Target. The night was wonderful indeed. Now he just wished that this was the true Target. And he also hoped that no one would steal their prey, like that random person who just started shooting explosives at the limousine...

Wait. Someone just shot several high-powered explosives at the limousine? This time, Bob blamed the heavens as he knew that tempting fate was wrong, very wrong. At least he knew that this gods be damned limousine survived the explosions; it could shake off RPG's for God's sake, RPG's!

Bob wanted to press his face to his palm as he saw someone placing him or herself in the middle of the road. What the hell he or she was doing? He then saw her raising an axe. So she was planning to attack, huh? Bob was not worried about being cut to pieces, since that would never happen. Alice, on the other hand... Well she can defend herself.

The tall man silently took out his handgun and shot at the body who was blocking the road. It was certainely not a headshot, but it could easily disrupt the body's movements.

[Alan Girm Moria]

Stepping out of the strip club Gustavo made sure to dispose of the shoes and bouncer guise he had used just moments earlier to dispatch a possible mark. Before stepping out of the alley he made certain to hide his fake mustache and the shoes of his victims into his back pack as well. To be honest he wasn't certain if this current job was worth what was being paid.

The guards assigned to watch over him had been pathetically easy to deal with so it in all likelihood was a fake. All he had to do was pay off a few of the dancers and separate the target from his precious guards. After that it was just a matter of silencing him and the witness before leaving. Gustavo silently prayed that the others would only be this easy. Better an over hyped and well paying job than the opposite.

After distancing himself a few blocks from the club, he decided to hail a taxi. If Gustavo could not be certain of which was the real target he would go in order. The next was on the west side located close to one of his safe houses. He intended to stop a few blocks away before equipping himself for the next hit.

Just one more job and he could finally begin his revenge against Nike. He would avenge his own childhood along with the other children of La Mancha. Silently vowing to himself Gustavo climbed into the cab and directed the driver to head for Boogie Boulevard. One of the weirdest street names he had heard in his career.

[Hassan-i-Sabbah the 19th]

Marco tried to suppress a yawn as his cab’s drifting along the road. Not getting enough nap before undergoing a midnight job doesn’t seem like a good idea in retrospect. A little bit of drowsiness isn’t going to hinder Marco much, but it’s still inconvenient to have. He’s hoping once the adrenaline kicked in the sleepiness won’t be a problem again. Now, the lack of anything interesting doesn’t help Marco’s case.

Fighting off the sleepiness, he tried to recount the information about the targets that he acquired from his contacts the night before. The biker bar said that a man matching the description is going to come at a strip club farther down the road. Not the best course of action, so Marco thought that this one is a body double, but he’s going to check that out regardless. One of his criminal contact told him the target’s holing himself up in a building in the center of the city, seems plausible enough. The hobos on the other hand, told him that the target’s going to a gala at somewhere on the rich part of the town. That one also seems plausible, and he’s going to check that out after he’s done with the strip club, after all it’s not that far from this neighborhood.

Checking out his handgun under his shirt, Marco prepared to park his taxi somewhere close to the vicinity. He used to hate jobs on foot, strictly because of his preference behind the wheel, but he’s now getting better at it. Besides, it’s time saving, and time is quite of the essence for this job.

He tried to park his taxi before one man exiting the strip club hailed the taxi. Cursing in his mind, Marco tried to ignore the man at first, but one fact popped in his mind before he did that. You see, Marco’s pretty connected in the underworld for a taxi driver, and he remember that he had seen that face somewhere on the notorious assassin list that one of his contractor gave him about two months ago. He’s a Hispanic guy who kills people by throwing something at them, Marco forgot what, but it must be a lethal object if he’s that successful as an assassin. And if he’s here that means he’s finished with the assassination of the target in the strip club.

A part of Marco wanted to just use this excuse to pull away, put on the hired tag, and sleep somewhere comfortable. Judging from the Hispanic man’s face though, this target’s not the real target. Shaking off the first thought, Marco pulled the taxi over to the walkway. Whistling, he waits for the Hispanic man to board his taxi, thinking that at least this night’s getting exciting.

[Miliardo Red]

Van sez: Assie's computer is causing issues again, so I'm posting this for 'em. Hence the lack of robot.

Mr. Mouse had never been a made to turn down an assignment. It just wasn’t in him. The potential for adventure, for excitement, for the experience and for the acknowledgement that he had once again survived to see another day; all of it made the trip worth it. He was a man of the wilds and streets; money was only good to help him get from point A to B. In the Animal Kingdoms eyes, it just meant sending him to his next kill. They had been good to him over the years, yes but they could work a man to his bones. He hadn’t gotten himself a break in…god, four years? And that was only because of the Dimensional Hopper. Before that it was two when he wore his body down running away from the Bear Calvary. fucking Russians and their fucking bears. And before tha- you know what? Maybe they weren’t as great as he thought they were. At least Mouse at fun doing what he did best: killing people with his imagination.

His most current assignment was tracking down a man in some city in the middle of no where that Mouse didn’t bother to remember. The Animal Kingdom was quick to drop and quick to pick up in-between assignments and he didn’t think it necessary to remember the name of every city he had been in. Except the ones that had good garbage. He always remembered those cities names. As for his exact location, he was currently standing in the hanger to an in flight plane. Reason he was up is because they had reached their destination and he was preparing to move in. When he said “quick to drop”, he meant it.

“Mr. Mouse, Mr. Mouse do you read?” Mouse clicked on the intercoms button in reply. “You’re clear for drop, Mr. Mouse.” Another button push to acknowledge the man before pulling down the lever to the hangers doors. He strolled up to the exit; unafraid of the height the plane was currently at….Damn that was pretty high. He had done this repeated times before but even he got a little woozy at the heights they had him jump from. Taking a single breath, he took two steps down the door before leaping off it and into the sky. He was now diving from five thousand feet in the air. He flipped, somersaulted, twirled, moon walked: all of them done by Mouse within the first few hundred feet of his “dive”. Though the wooziness of the height got to him at times, he couldn’t deny the thrill of freefall. Unfortunately, it was one of those things that were too good to last. Imagining himself a parachute, he pulled the string and felt himself suddenly jerk up. He regained control of it, sailing himself towards a nearby skyscraper. Might as well get the high ground while he had the chance, right? Rolling as soon as he hit the ground, Mouse was quick to cancel his mimed object as to not be “Caught” in the parachute itself. Instead of getting off the ground he instead choose to crawl his way over to the edge. Upon reaching it he mimed himself a pair of binoculars to have a look around the city.

His target was in here somewhere. And that man would die tonight.

[Illyasviel von Einzbern]

An explosion rocked the limousine, but as expected, it continued on. Alice could only wonder what kind of careless person wouldn't bother to do her research on the Target, but the underworld was a very big place. Everybody had their own style when it came to hunting down their prey. Sometimes, this just meant 'direct confrontation', literally walking up to a mark and shooting them.

Bob here was one of them. She had studied the part of his career that predated the time they met, and suffice to say, his style hadn't really changed despite the partnership. Of course, Bob had never run into somebody this paranoid before, so the same thing would've happened to him - embarrassment - had he been alone.

Their meeting was a funny one. They had been hired to take out a common mark. They ran into each other in the midst of the hit, and fought over it, sabotaging each other's efforts while at the same time trying to get to him first. Both had quickly figured out the others' obvious strength, a no-brainer considering how their shared idea of sabotage was "kill the other person". Eventually, after losing several suits by way of being shot, stabbed, immolated, exploded, run over, and, in Alice's case, impaled and amputated, they decided to just join forces and finish the hit together.

That said, it was clear that they didn't find out each others' Achilles heel until they decided to make it an out and out partnership. But anyway...

Bob drew his sidearm and took a few shots at the new challenger unexpected disturbance.

"It looks like we're going to have to sabotage somebody's plan to make a hit, wouldn't you say, Bob?"

Now, she had learned, over the course of her extensive career, that the world's top assassins were never normal. Never. If it wasn't some unholy power, it would be some shtick so bizarre that you wouldn't believe them until they demonstrated it. Someone killed people by throwing bowler hats, for example. Yes, he showed up in James Bond, but where did you think the inspiration for that character came from?

That was the reason why they were so successful. They had an edge over all the others by having the element of surprise. You wouldn't expect someone to be able to kill you with a bowler hat, for example, especially since the Mythbusters busted that one. Therefore, this person with the gall to casually walk up to the limo, fire off a grenade - without researching its armour - then failing that stand up in front of the next vehicle without flinching and expecting them to back down, clearly had some sort of edge. She wasn't afraid of getting shot or having the police or whoever go after her.

She wasn't normal.

And she needed to be sabotaged.

Alice swerved to the inside of the street, barely dodging an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. It passed by with an earth-shaking rumble and a very annoyed honking of its horn. The driver probably thought they were crazy - and they might as well have been. Alice honestly wouldn't have had any problems driving right into it, but she liked this sport bike.

She whizzed past the crazy person with the giant axe, making sure to put a good enough distance between them - and swerved to a stop on a conveniently empty lot some 45 or so yards away. If she didn't want to be decapitated, she'd have to keep her distance. "Then in that case, let me help you out with the sabotage. After all, two saboteurs are better than one."

Alice got off the bike, unslung her trusty handgun, and started shooting. For the head, this time.

[Alex McCeol]

Cutter felt the explosion. Hard. He was jerked loose from the underside of the limousine, and narrowly avoided being run over by the tires. "Damn. It's a decoy." was the last thought in his head, as he slid on his back. His neural link activated his cloaking device as he came to a stop, making him invisible to any onlookers just in case.

He tore off the cracked gasmask from his faith, still lying on his back. Cutter knew he would be sore in the morning, but his training kicked in and he went on autopilot, reflexes honed from years as a PMC driving him. Get to cover, identify subject, observe, and then eliminate with extreme prejudice. Never think of the subject as a target, targets can be missed.

Almost subconsciously Cutter moved to the crater where the explosion happened, making as low of a profile as he could. Blinking twice, he activated his eyes scanner mode, taking in everything. The explosive had come from the girl standing in the middle of the street. The scanner detected some form of magic on her, though technology was nigh useless for distinguishing between types. "A paranormal, eh? Its not the first time I've fought one. Ended all of them too." he thought with a smirk as he pulled out his crossbow.

"I never miss." was all that escaped his lips in a quiet, yet gravelly, voice.

[Blake Mcdermott]

"Bloody-!"

Nobody told her that the folks on he motorcycle were armed. That first bullet had certainly taken her by surprise, nicking her arm even despite superhuman reflexes. Okay, sure, she probably just ignored decades of experience when her first reaction was the blow the shit out of the limo, and a few more when her very next was to go carjack a few fools, but seriously, this? This just had to be a bloody joke.

The shot was enough to make her drop her stance for half a second, but that was enough for that crazy driver to place a freight-truck between Terry and her target, veer off the side of the road, and for the Russian assassin to almost get run over.

"Whisky," she didn't bother being subtle; she all but tore a hole in the side of the truck with her axe as she pursued her target, explosives once again appearing in her hands, "Tango," she clicked the trigger without even checking the scope, "And. Foxtrot."

Okay, sure, exploding the motorcycle might've been rather counter-intuitive considering her original plans, but the bloody asshole shot at her. He deserved to die.

Terry didn't look back to see what might've become of the butchered vehicle, but she didn't have to. Her axe must've ruptured a gas valve, or screwed up the brakes, or did something that ended up making that eighteen-wheeler erupt in a ball of flame, basking the surroundings in an angry red light, the force of the explosion blowing Terry's nice hat from her head.

"Tch."

She clucked at that, but it made no big difference. Nice hats looked nice, but she could live without it. Besides, her shades were still sitting securely on the bridge of her nose. She still had most of that cool secret agent thing going on, and she now had an explosion to walk out of. Perfect. Movie. Entrance.

Now to see if that pair on the motorcycle hadn't fle-

"FU-!"

The very next thing she saw were several bullets. All for the head. And they were moving too fast for her to dodge. That was what you got for being too carried away with theatrics. Bullets couldn't kill her, but they could still hurt like hell. Her neck snapped back; by all rights, it should've been broken, and she staggered, almost falling over.

Should she have fallen over?

Pulled one of those vampire-revivy-things?

Too late now.

"That. Fucking. Hurt."

They were standing a couple dozen meters away. Even so, managing to shoot her in the face from that distance while she was still moving was no mean feat. She was going to have to kill them quickly, then. No room for flashy moves, or dramatic one-liners. She crouched.

Two seconds, her mind told her, but her body acted faster, kicking off the asphalt, launching her towards her target at almost not really supersonic speeds, gripping her axe tightly in both hands, coat slapping the wind as she moved, revealing the arsenal of weapons underneath.

Two enemies. One axe. A hellava lot of bullets trying to bury themselves in her skull. A niggling feeling that there was something else too, but she ignored it. Terry usually preferred decapitations, but she might have to opt for something a little messier in this case; the torso was a larger target, after all, and it'd make no difference when they were dead anyway.

First target. That moron who actually shot her in the face.

A bloody grin plastered over her features, blood flowing freely from those bullet wounds, gripping the shaft firmly with both hands, and swing.

[Zack Smith]

"It seems so. Let's just do the usual. And watch out, Alice."

They cracked. His shades cracked for some reason. As Bob reached down his suit for a second pair of shades, he watched that thing with the giant axe, moving around as she tore through a truck and started shooting at the motorcycle. The explosives barely passed by the vehicule; it was merely by pure luck that the bike did not explode with the immortal duo on it. Not that it would have affected them, but the bike had some value. For now, at least.

His newly-shaded gaze went back once again to that mysterious axe-psycho as she merely walked out of a truck's explosion. Bob had to admit that she looked kind of cool, what's with her shades; she looked like a secret agent like that James Bond guy. Alice parked her motorcycle on an empty lot, and the duo got off the vehicule.

He stayed silent like every time he had to concentrate, listening to those wonderful sounds Alice made with that handgun. Bob started walking toward this mysterious person, now eating lead in the skull. She would probably be dead by now, but judging by the explosion and her proximity, there was a chance that she would survive those shots. Sure, she was a good distance away so she would receive near to no damage, but the man had a bad feeling.

And she did survive those gunshots, putting her broken neck back in place like it was all new. Behind the shades, Bob's eyes widened a little. So she was some kind of an immortal assassin. Great. Of all the people the immortal duo would run into, it would be one of those.

Bob aimed his sidearm once again at the incoming enemy and fired at her as she started moving toward him with great speed. Damn, that woman was armed to the teeth. That coat had one hell of an arsenal. The tall man continued shooting, even though he knew most bullets he shot were useless against one such as that thing.

He has stopped walking and reached for the pack of grenades that was attached to his belt. Bob had made sure that before the hit, everything personal like bullets or even a spare pair of pants was stored in the bike. He pulled a pin and threw his sidearm away to a safe place as the assassin swung her axe right into his torso. Seven seconds were left. Six.

The gigantic axe chipped like it had just hit through the hardest metal in the world. Four seconds.

"Great... You just had to ruin my suit didn't you." Three seconds. He grappled the assassin into a bear hug, counting how much time he had left until the bang.

Two seconds. "You lose."

One. Zero. The explosion of a total of three grenades roared as they blew up at point blank. Great. Another suit was gone, as well as another pair of shades.

His body hair and eyebrows just started growing back too.

[Hassan-i-Sabbah the 19th]

The uneventful ride so far has beginning to get on Marco’s nerve…or more precisely, his lack of functional nerve. Pavement after pavement, sidewalk after sidewalk, he’s hoping that this sight won’t continue for much longer; else he’ll consider abandoning this job for a chance of getting a beauty sleep. Not to mention his passenger have been strangely silent for some reason. Marco knew some people psyche themselves by staying silent before a job, never worked for him though, he’d just fell asleep.

Bored, bored, bored…maybe there’s something good on the radio…

The radio came alive with a weird sound effect that sounds halfway between a strangled cow and an explosion. Marco made a mental note for a second to change the radio technician before he realized that this wasn’t the radio’s fault. It doesn’t sound like those weird experimental eurobeat songs too, though he will admit that it doesn’t sound too far off.

“…We’re reporting life from ****** street, where the gunfight has been continuing for the last 10 minutes…”

Huh, it’s the Street-That-Must-Not-Be-Named; Marco wondered if there were other assassins participating on the same job, now he got his answer. He can feel his passenger stirring up too on the backseat. Before you ask, don’t; it must be taxi driver sense or something.

“Now we’re trying to get a better look…OH CHRIST ITS A GRENADE! RU-…………….”

Static. Mute. Sound of a thousand bees buzzing for more honey. Marco didn’t quite get where the last metaphor came from, he wasn’t much of a prose reader, and maybe he was just getting excited. He can just feel his passenger stirring up, again taxi driver sense, or maybe he’s just as excited as Marco is right now. Suddenly the prospect for boring, sleepless night didn’t sound all that likely anymore. He probably knew some shortcut to ****** street too.

… Shame for the reporter though, Marco liked his voice. It doesn’t sound nearly as irritating as that CNN anchor guy he kept hearing on the TV.

[Alex McCeol]

Cutter watched from his position, his crossbow steadily on the three combatants. It was becoming quite a firefight. The cybernetic relay plugged into his brain allowed him to follow everything, all the while identifying the players. All the while, he kept the crossbow ready to fire. He didn't want to blow the element of surprise on a shot which wouldn't do nothing.

Profile Match: Terry Dolohov, The Doc. Has been active under various aliases for at least ten years as a wetworks operative, and maybe more. Expert marksman. Often carries an enormous axe on missions. Status: Paranormal. Has been shown to survive wounds which would kill or incapacitate regular humans. Shows signs of textbook sociopathy, and attention deficit disorder. Known Associates: None. Proceed with Caution.

I'll keep that in mind. thought Cutter, as he swept his eyes to the faces of the other two, as the larger man grappled "Doc" after deflecting the axe. Something wasn't right here.

Profile Match: Real Name Unknown, alias "Alice". Upperclass contract killer, has been active for five years under current alias, though may be linked to "The Highlander", active since 1897. Prefers submachine guns, pistols, and a scottish claymore. Status: Paranormal. Has been documented as able to heal from any injury in minutes. Methodical. Beheads victims with sword as a calling card. Known Associates: "Bob". Proceed with caution.

Profile Match: Real Name Unknown, alias "Bob" alias "The Juggernaut". Upperclass contract killer, has been active for for fourteen years. Demolitions expert. Expert Marksman. Status: Paranormal. Has been documented being completely impervious to small arms fire and explosives. Proceed with Extreme caution.

Cutter watched as the man detonated an explosive device, apparently incinerating himself and the rival assassin with him. Cutter quickly replaced the tip of the bolt in his crossbow, knowing that this wasn't the end of it. The new tip was silver hollowpoint soaked in hydrochloric acid and filled with garlic, holy water, and the prototype chemical N(apalm)₂ "Promethium" incendiary. It was affective against most supernaturals, especially vampires and werewolves, and would burn upon contact. This won't kill them. It will slow them down though. Cutter thought as he lined up his shot on the unmistakeable form of the man who had undoubtably survived the explosion. He pulled the trigger.

The bolt flew through the air with such speed that it could be mistaken as a lightning bolt, before impacting on the bare chest of "Bob". The bolt shattered on impact, and the N2 spread wildly, a conflaguration which stuck to anything it contacted and burnt as bright and twice as hot as magnesium.

Cutter himself never saw this, as he was currently sprinting toward an oncoming police vehicle which had heard the gunfire and was coming to investigate. The police officer had just enough time to report the scene before a fist punched through the safety glass window and threw him out of the car through it. As the deputy rolled on the pavement, Cutter turned the car around and checked the tracker he had been able to plant on the limo. Even though it was likely a decoy, Cutter knew that it would lead him to his next clue. If he could get his hands on their comms, he would know the location of every private security detail used by the Man.

[Illyasviel von Einzbern]

"Hasta la vista," Alice watched the inevitable happen, taking the brief moment to reload in exact synchronisation with the grenade's timing. By the time it had detonated, a fresh clip was in, and she was back to shooting the axe-crazy person in the head, even as Bob had started to regrow all that lost hair.

Fortunately, they always kept spare suits in the bike, for when things got messy, such as this particular moment. Alice holstered the sidearm and drew her sword, the voracious Scottish sword, forged from the ancient stars that fell upon the shores of Loch Schiel thousands of years ago, worshipped in awe even before the Romans arrived, and used by the greatest warriors of the clans.

It was a sword with history, taken fresh from the fallen star and forged while still hot. Once cooled, it could no longer be changed, and many Scotsmen fought over these weapons, killing each other over them. As Alice prepared to make a swing, however, the sound barrier broke. Before she even realised anything, there was a second, more powerful explosion. Oh, and Bob and the other assassin were on fire. What were the odds of that?

She spun around to find that whoever it was, he was headed for that oncoming police cruiser at inhuman speed. She now began to wonder just how many assassins were hired to take out the Target. He had many enemies, yes, but it wasn't everyday that so many of the underworld's deadliest denizens were simultaneously called upon to handle the grisly and lucrative task of taking him out.

Why were so many assassins coming out now? That thought would have to be saved for later. Right now, there was a fight or fly response going on in her mind. There would only be enough time to do one thing. Go after the assassin, or help her partner out. Well... actually, she had two hands, and had practise swinging the sword around one-handed.

Alice drew her submachinegun with one hand, sprayed in the escaping new arrival's general direction, and then swung her sword to cut off the regrowing, burning head of that crazy lady with the axe. Fun.

[Alex McCeol]

Cutter was in the midst of navigating a three point turn after tearing out the (very much delayed) airbag from the driver seat and unlocking the computer locks placed to prevent the car from moving after an accident, when a spray of 4.6x30mm rounds went through the car's armored plating and impacted on Cutter.

The rounds were teflon coated, but Cutter's armor was state-of-the-art and could take a sniper round if it had to.. It still hurt like hell though. "Good to know I'm still human." he muttered, backing the car up while overlaying a realtime city map from a satellite uplink he had hacked for this mission over his eyes. The Limo showed as a red spot, racing toward one of the numerous warehouses used by the Man. One that Cutter had already visited earlier this week. If they attempted to switch vehicles there, they would find that the other cars would become firebombs if they left the perimeter, turning the denial safety feature the Man had installed into his vehicles into an instant booby trap. He had done the same to every safehouse he knew about in the city, which truth be told he estimated was not even half.

That was the good news. The bad news was that the shenaningans of his competition had awakened the sleeping dragon. The Limosine was now ignoring traffic laws, and the private security companies had just dispatched several clean up crews to handle the problem. In 5 minutes, anyone in the area would be detained (by a wetwork team consisting of techboys, psychics and supernaturals who were well trained in fighting and subduing their opposite numbers), questioned (most likely with sodium pentathol and a blowtorch), and most likely neutralized. What was worse, the satellite feed he was piggybacking on to watch this spectacle belonged to them, and though they did not know he was accessing it, they probably had identified him, and the other combatants. He couldn't do anything about that without revealing his presence in The System. Damn that crazy chick. Her carelessness made this a lot harder. he thought internally.

While all this was running through his head, he continued to drive the battered police car, the siren turned on while he did so. Putting his foot on the gas, he pushed the six year old interceptor to it's considerable limit in speed, acting for all the world like a police officer who has a subject to chase. Well, all of that is true except for the police officer bit. he thought as he made his way to the next area on his list of potential hiding spots for The Man.

[Blake Mcdermott]

The explosion was deafening.

But that wasn’t really the problem. The main issue was that she now had large pieces of metal shrapnel sticking out of her stomach, got half her face blown off, her very stylish shirt go up in smoke, and her shades melt. And before she could properly recover after the explosive consequences of getting caught in that bear-hug, she found a few more lead rounds buried in her face.

“Yooouuuu,” she hissed in a low, harsh voice, Target forgotten in favour of her new foes,” you’re dea-“

And then, of course, she suddenly found herself on fire.

“SO. VERY. DEAD.”

Her longcoat was, fortunately, made out of some special weave that made it sturdy enough to withstand most anything or something, and her locket was sturdy enough to weather through those pitiful explosions like nothing, but that didn’t stop her flesh from catching fire. Terry probably should’ve been worried for that locket she wore around her neck, but her current circumstances only elicited rage. Lots and lots of rage.

Repositioning her grip on that giant Lochaber axe of hers, she prepared remove that guy’s head from his body. Except it was her head that somehow found itself hitting the ground with a dull thunk. Scorched beyond recognition, it was nothing more than a charred hunk of smouldering flesh. Except Terry was using that charred hunk of smouldering flesh. And, well, having your head removed from your body was surreal as hell.

For one, she was now running around minus a head. And as for two, she was kinda running around minus her head. Even despite her many hundreds of years of experience, being headless was most definitely a new experience. She had often wondered what would happen if she got decapitated. Now she knew. And, well, it was sort of disappointing she wasn’t getting any sort of sensation from her missing appendage.

O-kay. This was awkward.

Some small voice in the back of her head? Brain? Mind? Soul? Well, some small voice in the back of whatever she was using to think reminded her of the matter at hand.

Right.

Dismembering the fuckers who did this to her?

Yes please.

Something told her she could’ve very well dispose of these two with conventional methods. It was irritating; annoying, aggravating, frustrating, infuriating; that her axe couldn’t cut that man’s skin. But she would work around that eventually. She’d find a way to make him die as long as he was still living. For now, she might have better luck with the girlie who chopped off her head.

Without missing a beat, she swung her Lochaber axe one handed, full circle, in an effort to sweet them off their feet, giving her more room to manoeuvre. The myriad of firearms and explosives she had brought were either destroyed, or had already blown up in her face. It was just her and her axe. And that suited Terry just fine.