The big guy's name is Asimov Solensen. He's an ex-Russian mobster with the muscles to prove it, and he fights like a rabid dog, smashing through chairs, and tables, foaming at the mouth. Before running out on the mob he and his pregnant girlfriend stole several hundred capsules of premium Red Eye, enough to make a fortune on the black market. It's in his system now, heightening his senses, increasing his strength and stamina, his reflexes, his aggression. The drugs have let him run wild for months now, slaughtering the mob hitmen who've come after him. When he's well and truly cranked, he can dodge bullets, and shrug off large-calibre gunshot wounds. He's well and truly cranked now.

He's still getting his ass handed to him.

The bounty hunter has yet to break a sweat. Hell, he's yet to change facial expressions. So far, he hasn't even tried to attack, preferring to stay out of Asimov's reach, ducking and weaving, occasionally stopping to kick a chair in the big man's way, hands never leaving the pockets of his long, black trenchcoat.

It's driving Asimov up the wall. Snarling, he lunges for the slender, black clad form again, arms reaching, trying to catch the bounty hunter in a bear hug from which he'll never recover. It's a fine plan, but it doesn't work. The other man's just too fast, and Asimov's arms close on nothing at all.

There's a crackle of a communicator as the bounty hunter dances out of range, and one hand emerges from a pocket, carrying the beeping device. He activates it, the bored expression never leaving his face.

"Would you quit playing around and finish it already?" The voice on the other end of the communicator is deep, gruff, and more than a little annoyed. "We don't have all day."

"Understood," the bounty hunter says, voice flat and unemotional, a perfect match for his face. He closes the communicator, even as Asimov charges again. The Russian has decided he's had enough. High as he is, he's managed to calculate all the angles this time. The bounty hunter's pressed up against a wall. This time he has nowhere to run.

He doesn't even try. There's the scrape of metal against metal, and suddenly a pair of bloody hands are sailing through the air, landing with a soft thump near the foot of one of the few tables that hasn't been smashed. Mind full of Red Eye, it takes Asimov a moment to realise they're his.

By the time the pain kicks in, the bounty hunter is moving again, sword raised before him like a bloodied crescent moon. Asimov tries to respond, but he's lost too much blood, and he can only watch as the sword bites through the back of first one leg, and then the other, leaving him hamstrung. With icy grace, the bounty hunter turns away from Asimov, sheathing the blade. A moment later, like some great monument, the Russian giant falls, his fogged mind still unable to compute just what has happened.

The cafe falls silent, the only sound the patter of feet, as Asimov's pregnant girlfriend flees the scene. She isn't quite fast enough. The bounty hunter's ears perk, and he turns, a throwing knife appearing in his hand. It takes her in the back of the neck, and she too falls. As she does her shirt tears open, revealing that her apparent pregnancy, was really just a sack filled with capsules of Red Eye. The bounty hunter didn't know that when he made the throw. He just didn't care.

Kneeling down he checks Asimov's pulse. It's faint, but he's still alive. Good. The communicator goes off again, and he straightens up as he answers it, brushing his fingers through his unruly white hair.

"What is it Jet?"

"Did you get him?"

"Yeah."

"Alive and intact?" There's extra stress on those words.

"Alive yes," he confirms, as his lips twitch, coming perilously close to a smile. "Now define intact."

There's a groan over the communicator. "Not again! How many times will I have to ask you to show some restraint, Vicious...?"