Typhoid Mary Walker inhaled deep, the smoke burning as it swarmed in her lungs, swirling around as she smirked. She opened her mouth, her lips forming a perfect 'O'. She puffed out a ring of smoke, watching as it floated through the air in a blue gray haze. She leaned back against the head board, her free hand holding the stiff sheet to her naked chest. Her eyes darted to the corpse beside her and she pushed it out of the bed.
Blood soaked half of the bed, and Typhoid occupied the other half. She took another drag on her smoke and flicked the ashes into the glass ashtray on the bed side table. She slid from between the sheets, breaking the hazy trails of smoke with her slender curves. Typhoid stubbed the smoke in the glass and ash, knocking around the other butts in the container a little before she stretched her arms over her head, cracking her back.
Her long, thin form was silhouetted in the dim light. A small golden glow kissed her breasts, the round curve of her rear, her flat stomach and her long legs. She was a specimen of pure physical beauty, and those seductively sweet curves were her greatest weapon. She knew she was hot. She knew she was irresistible. And she knew how to use it all to her advantage.
She stepped into the shower, watching away the small amounts of blood which had spattered on her bare body, as well as the sickening stench of sex which hung between her legs and all over her body.
The water caressed her like an old lover. One that had been away for far too long, but had returned. That thinking brought her to thoughts of Daredevil. Matthew Murdock. They were the same man, or should she say the same body. Oh, and what a body.
As she felt the spray push the shampoo from her long crimson locks, Typhoid remembered that hard body. The perfection of the male anatomy, down to the fact that his eyes did not work due to an accident when he was a child. Her heart beat was rising and her cheeks quickly flushed as she caught herself.
She turned off the shower head and stepped out onto the plush, shag-carpet bath mat and sighed. 'Don't think about him,' she scolded herself as she dried off.
The motels towels were harsh against her skin. They always had. Right from the first day when Mark had bound her to the bed with them. They had left marks in her wrist which had, eventually, healed. She licked her lips with the revenge which laid in a bloody mess in the other room.
She would check out as normal, and leave a handsome tip for the man at the counter, and he would think nothing of cleaning up the mess she had left. Her limited, but highly skilled, psy-powers would make sure of that.
Typhoid stuffed the fishnets and leather into a back pack, pulling on a pair of tight jeans and a baby t shirt that read: "Heaven doesn't want me and Hell's afraid I'll take over" across the chest. It suited her, she thought. She shrugged on her long, leather trench coat, the machetes hidden in the lining and headed out the door.
She paid and left the hotel heading towards her next hit, well, after she went shopping. She would need new clothes if she were to successfully infiltrate Stark Enterprises, not to mention that rather posh party that Tony Stark was holding that evening.
Indeed...
To be continued in...
I Want You To Want Me