Setting down my violin case against the foot of the queen-size hotel bed, I immediately start stripping off my gloves, then my coat, then my white dress shirt, and then my red ascot, and then my shoes, thighhighs, underwear, and my red hairband and toss them all onto the bed, one by one, before heading straight into the shower.

For a full fifteen minutes - I even time myself so that I don't waste even more time in the shower, because I will if I'm left to my own devices - I stand here underneath the showerhead that doesn't let out enough water for my liking. But I'm not in the mood tonight to complain about a stupid showerhead, so as usual, I let the water drench my long byzantium hair and the rest of my body, though at a slower pace than I'd like.

Now that I have the time to think and genuflect, I haven't been in that kind of a mood in a year.

Standing in the shower like this is a good way for me to soft-reset my mental facilities. Just like an eight-year-old computer whose performance worsens exponentially over time until something happens that causes them to freeze up and/or shut down if they aren't properly shut down or put on sleep mode manually, I've become the same way...with the only difference being that I am not eight years old. At least, not yet. I don't know if I will ever reach that age, but statistically, I don't see that happening.

After fifteen minutes, with my internal timer jolting me out of my stillness underneath the showerhead, I go about showering like a normal person: body wash, shampoo, conditioner. As I'm carefully washing my long hair, I gaze down at the bathtub in which the showerhead is located while the water seeps into them; as a T-Doll, my eyes can be open in situations where normal people might not be able to, such as showering. The sight of the bathtub reminds me of the fact that I once liked to take long baths.

It's not that that isn't the case anymore; it's just that my memories of the times when I liked long baths have decayed to the point where I'm not sure if I feel the same about them anymore. Though, I suppose if someone were to point out that those two things are actually the same, I wouldn't be able to refute that.

After my shower is done, I take another fifteen minutes drying my hair. I use a few tricks that DSR-50 taught me in drying my hair; without her, I'd easily be spending over half an hour. DSR knows a lot about beauty care; back when we were still in active service, I always consulted her for things about skin care and hair care - especially hair.

I miss DSR. Well, not just her, but...given that I'm drying my hair with the hotel's hairdryer, which isn't even as strong as I'd like it to be, DSR is the first one to come to mind. I make a mental note to myself to never book a room in this hotel ever again. Over a hairdryer, yes, I know, I don't make the best decisions sometimes.

After I'm done drying my hair, I turn on the flatscreen TV and set it to the FX channel where it's showing a movie about a guy fighting on the wing of an airplane or something. I'm not actually watching, though; rummaging through a side pocket of my violin case, I pull out a small circular target-like board with a gel padding to stick it against the wall next to my hotel room door. I return to my violin case to then pull out a pack of Caster, a pack of steel-studded playing cards, and a fresh cigarette lighter that I purchased from a 7-11 convenience store just before checking in.

Armed with these nightly necessities while still dressed in nothing but my bathrobe, I sit at the desk and light up a cigarette to put in between my lips while I pull over the ashtray. I made sure to book a smoking room specifically for this reason in case I felt like having a cigarette when I came back from my assignment tonight; I may as well take advantage of it. So I kill some time sitting in my chair with a lit cigarette in my mouth, absentmindedly listening to the movie in the background while tossing the steel-studded playing cards at the target that I've placed on the wall, the cards slapping against the memory gel as they dart out of my left hand.

Once all 52 cards are sticking out the memory gel like needles on a porcupine, I put my cigarette on the ashtray so that I can head back to my coat and pull out my Hardballers so that I can clean them. Stripping them down, I also grab the cleaning kit from my violin case and meticulously clean out the residual gunpowder grime, still smoking all the while. At some point, it hits me that I probably should have cleaned my pistols first, and then took a shower. Makes me wonder if I shouldn't pay a visit to the Repair Station when I return to Fort Detrick for some mental calibrations...

After completing maintenance, I put the Hardballers back together in less than six seconds apiece and snatch them both up off the desk, aiming them over at the card-studded target. I analyze my snap-aim: my left hand almost overshot the target, while my right hand is on point. I need to practice aim with my left hand, it seems - despite being right-handed and being right-eye dominant, I make it a habit to practice on both sides. In the old days of war, fortune favored the bold, but now, it favors the prepared...or so FAL told me. And she at least has a point with that.

Pressing the safeties on my pistols, I set them down on the desk and head over to the window, where they open up to a small little balcony that overlooks the streets below, which are a ways down, given that this is the seventh floor. I'm well aware that I've yet to change out of the bathrobe that I've kept on ever since I got out of the shower, and if this were before a year ago, I definitely would have never done this.

I don't really give a shit anymore, though. Even if someone were to see me, which is unlikely in the first place given the layout of the city in this area and the fact that it's now almost four in the morning, they wouldn't ever find out anything about me. And if they did, I would personally see to it that they forgot whatever they managed to learn about me, through any means necessary.

My dull red eyes wander up to the sky, peering up at the tiny moon in the sky. There aren't even any stars for me to gaze upon here...why does light pollution have to be a thing? Why can't a girl look up at the sky to see the stars these days? Is that so wrong? This planet sucks...at least having the moon out tonight is something, as it helps me relax, even if it's only for a little bit. But as with all things, my moongazing must end, and I retreat into my room and close and lock the window to get ready for bed.

Putting out my cigarette in the ashtray, turning off the TV, and washing my face and brushing my teeth, I carefully fold up the bathrobe that's hidden my bare body and set it on the counter of the sink so that the cleaning lady can see it easily for laundry. I also take my clothes and drape them over the chair so that I can wear them tomorrow in the morning later today, and before I slip into my bed, I kneel down next to my violin case to open it up.

My pride and joy, the scopeless Walther WA-2000, with its polished wooden and steel chassis, sits snugly inside, peeking back out at me from inside its own cozy daytime bed. But as tonight I have a whole bedroom to myself, I pull it out from the case and bring it with me into my bed, shutting off the lamp light next to me and tucking myself in with my sniper rifle close to my chest, over my left breast. With the light out, I snuggle with my rifle, pressing its cold wooden sides against my tired exoskeleton that humans call skin, setting my internal alarm clock to go off in exactly four hours.

Just before I fall asleep, I feel a prickle on the back of my right hand, as if something is being lightly branded into it. Even though I already know what it is, I still open my right eye to glance down at my hand underneath the sheets.

Staring back at me in the darkness is a glowing red symbol that depicts an unnervingly realistic skull flanked by two pistols, similar to a skull and crossbones, and a long rifle down through the middle behind everything else.

A lovely reminder that I am one of G&K's cream of the crop, what Mr. Kryuger and Kalina call the First Echelon...

...and what the rest of G&K calls the Demon Hunters.