Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2015 12:57:55 GMT -8
There was a loud bang that reverberated off the walls and a bright flash that illuminated the darkened room for a fraction of a second. However, despite the fact that the initial action occurred in less than a blink of an eye, the effects that followed seemed to be stuck in slow motion and there was nothing the Seborgan could do to stop it. It was both sickening and exhilarating; frightening and liberating.
Marco’s hands trembled as they gripped the gun all the tighter ; clinging to it as if it was his very last lifeline. It felt that if one finger slipped from the grip of the weapon, he’d soon find himself slipping as well—perhaps into unconsciousness. His mind told him, however, that if he dared to lower the gun, he’d be falling just like the poor man in front of him: slowly, helplessly, into an even darker abyss. It seemed to take centuries for the other to hit the floor, gripping his chest and snarling over at Marco, but the brunette hardly heard the swears and insults being hurled at him. The ringing in his ears and his own heartbeat did well to block out the other’s fury.
A second shot from Marcello’s pistol did well to silence it.
It was needed, he knew it. From the corner of his eye, he had seen something being drawn—it was a glint of silver in the dim room—a smaller, concealed gun. It was his life or this man’s, and the other had already proven that the only thing he had to offer was villainy. Besides, his mission had called for the other’s termination if an agreement couldn’t be made or if Marco’s own life was threatened first. It was, unfortunately, the case of the latter.
The man had brought a knife with him and had acted out first, chucking it at Marco in hope of striking his heart. The spy had managed to turn in time that so that it struck his arm instead and had pulled his own weapon and fired with the help of the rush of adrenaline that had shot through his system. And now, as Marco stared wide-eyed at the man stained red and crumpling before him, the pain set in.
Guilt and horror soon followed.
Marcello realized it would have happened sooner or later, but he had always hoped that he’d be able to find some way around killing someone like this unless it was the very last option available. Regardless, what was done was done, and he had to deal with that. Furthermore, he had to get out of there; there was supposed to be someone waiting for him nearby. Pulling the knife from his arm with a sharp but brief cry of pain, he dropped it to the ground and pressed his left hand firmly against the wound to keep it from bleeding profusely. He’d need stitches—there was no doubt about that.
As he turned toward the exit, a black figure stood before him.
“No this isn’t right, it didn’t happen—“
There was a third blast accompanied by a blinding light and a sharp pain in his stomach.
Marcello gasped, eyes snapping open as he sat up in his bed, covers falling from his shoulders and beads of sweat dotting his skin. Instinctively, he touched his abdomen, hoping not to find a sudden wound, and thankfully, he didn’t. Twisting his shoulder and arm around, he did, however, find the old scar from the knife wound he had sustained two years ago during an M16 mission in the Czech Republic. With a heavy sigh, he shifted upwards to sit in the bed properly and swept his fingers through his dampened hair. This hadn’t been the first time he’d suffered through that same nightmare, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but at the very least, he hoped that it would pass away in time.
After a few moments, the Sleeper Agent reached over to check his alarm—surprisingly, he had woken up a few minutes before it and was about to lay back down to waste those few minutes with (hopefully) restful sleep when a low buzzing in his nightstand caught his attention. Furrowing his brows, Marco kicked the covers off and sat on the side of his bed to pull out the drawer and to rummage through it to no avail. With only a few seconds pause and a look around the room, he dropped to his knees and opened the secret compartment in the stand, bringing out the disposable phone. It buzzed once or twice more before silencing itself. Flipping the phone open, the dim glow of the screen revealed a single message—or a single word, mind you.
Awaken.
Marcello had been waiting for that command for quite some time. After a quick shower and throwing on some decent business attire—namely the only black suit he had at the moment— he gathered the appropriate identification and accessories required to access Headquarters. Thankfully, he had remembered the way toward the SIS building (albeit with some minor instances of becoming lost). After all, this would be the first time he’d been there since he’d arrived in London as a Sleeper Agent, but that was to be expected.
He’d not had orders to engage in any activity until now, and his biggest priority had been locating Ciel for the royal family of Monaco. He’d had very little luck in locating the runaway princess—his (former?) fiancée—and that was frustrating within itself. At least now, perhaps, since he was being activated and would have access to the usual equipment, he’d be able to do proper work and use legitimate channels to track her down when he wasn’t being issued missions. He did, however, wonder what exactly had made M16 call on him now of all times. Then again, he’d been more or less out of the loop and living as a civilian for quite some time, and they only told him things on a ‘need to know basis’. Not that he complained too terribly about that.
Navigating through the halls, Marcello kept an eye out for the office of one ‘Cash Jingly’. Or that’s what Marco had thought the man’s name was. Having not heard the name in about a year, and even then having it come from a rather accented receptionist made it difficult to say for sure. Still, the Seborgan found it to be a mildly amusing name and looked for some name tag that was at least SIMILAR to it.
After passing by a few other curious agents in his search, to whom he offered a smile and a “Ciao,” the brunette finally settled in front of the door of one “Vash Zwingli”. That was close enough to ‘Cash Jingly” for him. Raising a hand, Marco knocked thrice on the door and waited to be called inside—he’d hate to interrupt an important phone call or the like. In the meantime, he straightened his tie and inwardly cursed himself for not buying a newer, better-fitting business suit a few weeks ago and before this impromptu meeting. He could have sworn it wasn’t as tight the last time he had put it on.
Marco’s hands trembled as they gripped the gun all the tighter ; clinging to it as if it was his very last lifeline. It felt that if one finger slipped from the grip of the weapon, he’d soon find himself slipping as well—perhaps into unconsciousness. His mind told him, however, that if he dared to lower the gun, he’d be falling just like the poor man in front of him: slowly, helplessly, into an even darker abyss. It seemed to take centuries for the other to hit the floor, gripping his chest and snarling over at Marco, but the brunette hardly heard the swears and insults being hurled at him. The ringing in his ears and his own heartbeat did well to block out the other’s fury.
A second shot from Marcello’s pistol did well to silence it.
It was needed, he knew it. From the corner of his eye, he had seen something being drawn—it was a glint of silver in the dim room—a smaller, concealed gun. It was his life or this man’s, and the other had already proven that the only thing he had to offer was villainy. Besides, his mission had called for the other’s termination if an agreement couldn’t be made or if Marco’s own life was threatened first. It was, unfortunately, the case of the latter.
The man had brought a knife with him and had acted out first, chucking it at Marco in hope of striking his heart. The spy had managed to turn in time that so that it struck his arm instead and had pulled his own weapon and fired with the help of the rush of adrenaline that had shot through his system. And now, as Marco stared wide-eyed at the man stained red and crumpling before him, the pain set in.
Guilt and horror soon followed.
Marcello realized it would have happened sooner or later, but he had always hoped that he’d be able to find some way around killing someone like this unless it was the very last option available. Regardless, what was done was done, and he had to deal with that. Furthermore, he had to get out of there; there was supposed to be someone waiting for him nearby. Pulling the knife from his arm with a sharp but brief cry of pain, he dropped it to the ground and pressed his left hand firmly against the wound to keep it from bleeding profusely. He’d need stitches—there was no doubt about that.
As he turned toward the exit, a black figure stood before him.
“No this isn’t right, it didn’t happen—“
There was a third blast accompanied by a blinding light and a sharp pain in his stomach.
Marcello gasped, eyes snapping open as he sat up in his bed, covers falling from his shoulders and beads of sweat dotting his skin. Instinctively, he touched his abdomen, hoping not to find a sudden wound, and thankfully, he didn’t. Twisting his shoulder and arm around, he did, however, find the old scar from the knife wound he had sustained two years ago during an M16 mission in the Czech Republic. With a heavy sigh, he shifted upwards to sit in the bed properly and swept his fingers through his dampened hair. This hadn’t been the first time he’d suffered through that same nightmare, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but at the very least, he hoped that it would pass away in time.
After a few moments, the Sleeper Agent reached over to check his alarm—surprisingly, he had woken up a few minutes before it and was about to lay back down to waste those few minutes with (hopefully) restful sleep when a low buzzing in his nightstand caught his attention. Furrowing his brows, Marco kicked the covers off and sat on the side of his bed to pull out the drawer and to rummage through it to no avail. With only a few seconds pause and a look around the room, he dropped to his knees and opened the secret compartment in the stand, bringing out the disposable phone. It buzzed once or twice more before silencing itself. Flipping the phone open, the dim glow of the screen revealed a single message—or a single word, mind you.
Awaken.
Marcello had been waiting for that command for quite some time. After a quick shower and throwing on some decent business attire—namely the only black suit he had at the moment— he gathered the appropriate identification and accessories required to access Headquarters. Thankfully, he had remembered the way toward the SIS building (albeit with some minor instances of becoming lost). After all, this would be the first time he’d been there since he’d arrived in London as a Sleeper Agent, but that was to be expected.
He’d not had orders to engage in any activity until now, and his biggest priority had been locating Ciel for the royal family of Monaco. He’d had very little luck in locating the runaway princess—his (former?) fiancée—and that was frustrating within itself. At least now, perhaps, since he was being activated and would have access to the usual equipment, he’d be able to do proper work and use legitimate channels to track her down when he wasn’t being issued missions. He did, however, wonder what exactly had made M16 call on him now of all times. Then again, he’d been more or less out of the loop and living as a civilian for quite some time, and they only told him things on a ‘need to know basis’. Not that he complained too terribly about that.
Navigating through the halls, Marcello kept an eye out for the office of one ‘Cash Jingly’. Or that’s what Marco had thought the man’s name was. Having not heard the name in about a year, and even then having it come from a rather accented receptionist made it difficult to say for sure. Still, the Seborgan found it to be a mildly amusing name and looked for some name tag that was at least SIMILAR to it.
After passing by a few other curious agents in his search, to whom he offered a smile and a “Ciao,” the brunette finally settled in front of the door of one “Vash Zwingli”. That was close enough to ‘Cash Jingly” for him. Raising a hand, Marco knocked thrice on the door and waited to be called inside—he’d hate to interrupt an important phone call or the like. In the meantime, he straightened his tie and inwardly cursed himself for not buying a newer, better-fitting business suit a few weeks ago and before this impromptu meeting. He could have sworn it wasn’t as tight the last time he had put it on.
Vash Alois Zwingli Marco got wordy, but I hope this works for you =w= let's wake him up, properly and get this agent in gear, no?