Final Waltz of Mr. 47
Chapter 1: I'm no good at good-byes.
My room was completely empty. The very cheap and down trotted Hotel, crawling with rats and other form of various beasts. I lingered on the top floor, the so-called New York suite, coincidentally located in New York. Depressingly, all wasn't well for me, the greatest Hit man in the history of assassination. I, Agent and clone number 47, found myself intertwined in the most complicated situation of my prestigious career. A solitary table stood bold in front of me. My dual Ballers were lingering on the surface, clips pulled out and bullets laying indolently beside them. One by one, I stuck a bullet inside of the clips. My glove-masked fingers inspecting each one of them, those baby-blue eyes cursed into my head assisting in the examination. When all was done, and all was well, the clips were full. Shoving them deep within the chasm of the hollow compartment within the handle of my weapon, I stood. The dual .45 ACP weapons would be holstered upon my side, and the sides of my very expensive suit would conceal them--for a time. For a very odd and strange reason, I was not scared. In no way did I find myself cowering at the though of CIA agents bursting into the room, or FBI agents storming through windows. Yet, you ask yourself, why am I not scared? In my line of work, in my field of deadly combat, fear gets a disease. In the beginning, it is latent, a sleeping monster. As you kill, more and more, this virus awakens. Fear is consumed, and it finds itself at the height of you, and suddenly poof! Gone. Well, there I went. A simplistic step toward the door and I was walking down the slummy hallway. A light and sinister whistle escaped my pale, dead-looking lips. And if you were lucky enough to spot those eyes I had, you'd come to terms with the fact that it would seem I hadn't slept in a thousand years. Time was against me. It always was. The clock was my worst adversary, constantly laughing in my face, taunting me with the moving it's hands. But, like my enemy, I was swift, fast and cunning. Hell, I was good.
The spine-chilling echo of my footsteps treading down the main flight of stairs would become a crescendo, those who could hear it might possibly wait for it to stop. Wait for the infernal noise of Agent 47 to cease. And in time, it would. In time I would open the two large doors leading out of the Hotel, outside in New York the scene was much different. Inside it had been a noir fairy-tale, hookers and whores, left and right. But out here I could look up to the sky, and see those stars. See them lingering and smiling down at this demon I have been created into. Beautiful. For the first time in my ravenous and sadistic life, I saw beauty. And all it was worth, this would indefinitely be the final time I saw such a magnificent scene. Just as quickly as beauty entered me, it left. Eyes fluttered open and close, and once again I was shot back down to the sickening reality. It was clear to me where Diana was, they gave me the directions. They called me, the blasted cell phone when on for at least 15 minutes before I dared to answer it. So, at the very second my thumb squeezed the TALK button, a malevolent voice could be heard. "You will meet us at the Wooshu diner at 4:00 AM, alone, or Diana is dead. Mr. 47, we are the Government, do not fuck us over." He ordered, without remorse or my side of this wicked tale. Thus, he hung up and then my final waltz began.
Diana was a good friend of mine. Though she was like me, cold, merciless and brutal, there was a sense of womanly beauty within her. Of course I had been created and conceived without the thought of love, but unlike the Terminator, I would never come to develop any of these feelings. That is exactly what made me so different. Compassion was absent in me. No matter the victim, no matter the age, sex, race, or even handicap, it ceased to matter. I derived from pain, from the very start of my existence, I was delivering hurt onto others. Including the doctors at the hell-hole I was developed in. Every moment I thought of my creation and my creator, it was another proverbial bullet penetrating me. Be that as it may, there was no stopping me from getting her back. Diana guided me through thick, and through thin. If the situation was drastic, she would give me even the smallest amount of advice. Even though, of course, she was going to deny all accounts of me. And the streets of China town, those were rather dirty. But it was all silent. Darkness loomed over, shadows preparing to vanquish in the coming sunrise in the East. Gently closing my eyes, I knew I was approaching the Restaurant. Balling up a tight fist of anger, I slammed it directly into the nearest wall. God, it was so obvious. Knowing the damned CIA, they would've already executed Diana. And this was simply a ploy. A trick to get me in their trap, a divine plan set together in order to bring down the Grim Reaper himself. Pathetic. Alas, I was sad to say goodbye to Diana. Although I simply muttered it to myself while strolling down the street.
And the sick, sad truth was...I'm no good a good-byes.