"Hitman: Phantom Breed" by 47-Day-of-the-47-Night
Agent 47 was doubled over in pain, clenching his stomach as he continued to choke out dry blood. What did that bitch do? He had to pull himself towards a chair before he was able to stand again, and even with that he fell forward, nearly breaking his nose on the stone walls. The happenings of the last 24 hours were blurred, save for Diana's warning... 47, he knows your in Del Mar! His ICA Laptop had screamed, before a door had been nearly torn from its hinges, and he thrown into the mirror.
Remembering said mirror, 47 fingered his forehead before eying his fingers. As he had expected, they were covered in slowly drying blood. As he stayed in that knelt position, just watching the blood, his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He was in a cell, completely empty, save maybe for the occasional rat. His location still troubled him; he didn't even know if he was in the same Country he had woken up in.
"Good, Mr. 47... Your awake." came a voice from behind him, and, upon turning, 47 gave a low growl. Threw the cell bars stood a man of a towering height; wearing a formal black suit. His face was partially hidden by the shadows, bu 47 could make out a few scars etched on his lower chin. "I thought you had died after I injected the anesthetics into your blood stream... I had applied to much intro the medical syringe."
His name... What the hell was his name? 47 searched frantically threw his memory, only coming across Diana, and his alias Dr. Cropes. He fell onto his back, feeling an oddly strong pulse in his mid section. He choked and spat a smaller amount of dry blood, beginning to feel slightly light headed. "What... What do you want?" he asked the man.
47 could have swore the man had pulled out a gun, but his mind was playing tricks. It was a key, oddly square in make. "Mr. 47, I have nothing to gain from you. I could bury you hear under an exploded jail cell... Or I could send you to work in MY line of view. I understand Diana Burnwood holds your leash," he chuckled, "I wish to free you." Somehow, 47 doubted this.
Pushing himself into a sitting position, 47 saw that the room wasn't entirely empty. There was a door off to his right, probably a torture room. The man followed his gaze, "That is the shower. I have left your equipment inside, Mr. 47. Once you are done, I will be waiting here."
Perfect, 47 thought bitterly as he attempted to stand, I bet as soon as I open the god damned door I get shot. Shaking from the injections, and sweat on his brow, 47 found his way to the door in a sway of movement. His hand clenched the doorknob before he twisted it, counting the seconds before he would hear a loud BAM! Well, that would be just fine. And afterward, he would haunt the damned man holding him prisoner.
He nearly kicked the door open to accept his cruel fate before his eyes widened in disbelief. Unlike the cold jail cell, the shower was completely white, with a break off of wall to dress. He slowly closed the door behind him, taking a mental note how cold it was to be in his underpants, lying on a jail cell floor for how long. There were two knobs, like any shower. Hot, and cold. "This has got to be a trick..." he murmured, trying them before sighing. Maybe he wanted some kind of death attempt.
He didn't know how long he took, and he didn't care. Soon he was back in his suit and loafers, gloves on his hands. After his shower, most of whatever the hell had been injected into him had worn off, though he still felt highly drowsy. Maybe he should just sleep in the shower, lock the door and hope the man just went away. What have I become? From action to hiding away from problems?
Agent 47 entered the dark cell once more, seeming out of place in his attire. The man had pulled up a chair, sitting patiently for his captive. "Ah, Mr. 47. Welcome back," the man said cheerfully. With him sitting, his face was more readable. Slick, black hair and colorless eyes that seemed to be empty. Scars had been etched over his right brow, and that was it. "I have taken the pleasure of calling us a limousine. I shall explain on the way." he lifted the key, and soon a small click was heard. The cell door slid open, and 47 passed the threshold. "I, Mr. 47, am Harold Marinville." the man outstretched a hand.
Playing into the game, 47 took the hand and shook it, "Charmed." he said with obvious malice. "May I ask were you intend to take me?" he followed the man down a dim hallway, threw a set of double doors, and found himself in a large waiting area. It was deserted, with a single oak desk and a row of chairs.
"We are going back to the states, 47. Oh, I almost forgot," the man gave a devilish smile, "Welcome to Russia." 47 looked downward, noticing the man needed a cane to walk. Also, on his right hip was a holstered revolver. "I have made arrangements on my private ship for us."
47 neither enjoyed, nor disliked, this odd treatment. He didn't know a Harold Marinville, and didn't want to. "Mr. Marinville," he said, "I do believe you would need my permission before you took me across sea."
Harold gave a small chuckle, "Yes, I would. But, you see, once you try and deny, my sniper would have already turn this snow red," he said as they walked out into a small courtyard. 47 could feel it... Something peering at him from a distance.
"What do you plan," 47 began, "With I? Maybe you have gone completely insane, but I offer you, nor do you offer me, anything is of worth."
Harold smirked, "Mr. 47, I offer you the chance to live to see the light of day once more. Alls I wish in return is you do your specialty with a few of my rivals." 47 eyed Marinville for a second before cursing him silently. He had gone from Mr. I'm-Doing-You-Favors from Mr. What-Do-I-Get-In-Return?
"Well, Mr. Marinville," 47 said, "I don't have a contract, so..." he moved with surprising quickness for a man his size, colliding his elbow with the back of Marinville's head. A sickening groan was heard before the large man fell to the ground. And then, off in the distance, a whisper of a gunshot... It sored threw the wind, breaking time itself as it seemed to walk casually towards 47. Closing his eyes, he expected yet again death... And what a he got was a loud clunk as the bullet collided with the concrete of the docks. From the distance, he heard a loud curse. None of that mattered, however, as the lone assassin ran off into the night, heading nowhere in particular.