Assassin-Nation: Preparation
A blinding flash of light left only the man clad in black and red in its wake. He was once again on the rooftop of the apartment complex that he called home. Quickly, the mercenary called Deadpool descended the fire escape, entering his apartment through the window. "South America, I hear it's a nice place this time of year." The mask was ever so slowly removed as the Hire Gun moved into his small kitchen.
It was homely little apartment, plain old-fashioned wood paneled walls, matching the hardwood floor. There was the occasionally picture or trophy on the walls or the shelves. He might have his own Swiss bank account, and it might have around the sum of two million dollars in it, but to just stand and look about the clean little place, one wouldn't guess it from his lifestyle.
The mercenary plucked a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, and quickly twisted off the top. As he took the first drink, Wade leaned against the counter in front of his sink. "I need to get ready. I'll be damned if I let some stuck up little girl beat me to two hundred big ones." He pushed off the counter, and carried his bottle into the small, but very lived in, bedroom.
Setting the bottle on the end table, Wade began to remove his costume. "I still don't have the slightest clue to what her problem was." He lifted his left arm, and took a small sniff, "Couldn't be that, I smell like a fresh spring rain on a Sunday morning." He quickly finished the removal of his costume, and grabbed a towel from the linen shelf just outside of the bathroom. "Shower, supply, and some food," was Wilson's personal take the man's three S's.
Approximately seven minutes and fifteen seconds later, he was out of the shower and toweling off. When that was finished, he dressed himself casually, in a simple pair of blue jeans, and tight fitting grey tee shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed, and lifted the telephone from its bed on the receiver, dialing the number for the airport.
Several long and rather loud spoken minutes later, Wade hung the phone back up. "Ten hours, what kind of airline is this? I swear I could get there faster alone, if I had a bigger teleportation device." Wade pulled a duffel bag from under his bed, and moved to his closet. After picking and choosing through his multitude of devices, weapons, and gear, the bag was almost too full to zip shut.
"Now, I'll run and get myself something to eat, maybe another drink at Tommy's," Wade mumbled to himself as he moved out the front door, bag slung over his shoulder. He tromped down the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk, taking a deep breath of the cool night air, before heading down the street.
Elsewhere.
A wide open room with vaulted ceilings, white walls and large bay windows over looking the cityscape is where Elektra Natchios stands. She is leaning on the wall, looking out one of the large windows. Her eyes are open, but she sees not the city before her. Instead she sees all those things that she's lost over the years. She sees the face of her father, and she can almost feel the breath of her love move over the soft skin of her neck.
With a shake of her head, these memories are dispelled, and the city once more looms in front of her. She may not have the technology, but she has other things to her advantage. She has a flight booked for Brazil, and her bags are already packed. She feels no hunger, so she doesn't eat
She pushes off the wall, and moves silently over to the large stereo system against the west wall of the large empty room. The song that began to blare out was just something random. It started incredibly slow, almost sadly so, and she stood in the center of the room, unmoving and with closed eyes.
The song suddenly picked up the beat, and the bass shook the floor from the sheer volume of each thump. A straight hand thrust, followed by a quick left-cross jab. Her right knee lifted quickly in a succession of three, followed by a pair of speedy kicks, which never touch the ground between each other. For the entire duration of the song that blasted, Elektra was constantly moving. She threw punches, and kicks, knees and elbows. She ducked, and jumped, all seemingly in time to the speedy beat of the song she never heard.
The song was loud, that enough anyone could tell, but El never heard it. Instead she felt out the rhythm of each individual beat, felt it in her bones, her heart, and what was left her soul. She felt her way through the kata that she had devised on her own. The song ended, and on the very last beat, she was once again standing motionless in the very center of the room, eyes still closed. She was ready. She would teach this, Deadpool, that she was not one to be trifled with nor underestimated or insulted.
A blinding flash of light left only the man clad in black and red in its wake. He was once again on the rooftop of the apartment complex that he called home. Quickly, the mercenary called Deadpool descended the fire escape, entering his apartment through the window. "South America, I hear it's a nice place this time of year." The mask was ever so slowly removed as the Hire Gun moved into his small kitchen.
It was homely little apartment, plain old-fashioned wood paneled walls, matching the hardwood floor. There was the occasionally picture or trophy on the walls or the shelves. He might have his own Swiss bank account, and it might have around the sum of two million dollars in it, but to just stand and look about the clean little place, one wouldn't guess it from his lifestyle.
The mercenary plucked a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, and quickly twisted off the top. As he took the first drink, Wade leaned against the counter in front of his sink. "I need to get ready. I'll be damned if I let some stuck up little girl beat me to two hundred big ones." He pushed off the counter, and carried his bottle into the small, but very lived in, bedroom.
Setting the bottle on the end table, Wade began to remove his costume. "I still don't have the slightest clue to what her problem was." He lifted his left arm, and took a small sniff, "Couldn't be that, I smell like a fresh spring rain on a Sunday morning." He quickly finished the removal of his costume, and grabbed a towel from the linen shelf just outside of the bathroom. "Shower, supply, and some food," was Wilson's personal take the man's three S's.
Approximately seven minutes and fifteen seconds later, he was out of the shower and toweling off. When that was finished, he dressed himself casually, in a simple pair of blue jeans, and tight fitting grey tee shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed, and lifted the telephone from its bed on the receiver, dialing the number for the airport.
Several long and rather loud spoken minutes later, Wade hung the phone back up. "Ten hours, what kind of airline is this? I swear I could get there faster alone, if I had a bigger teleportation device." Wade pulled a duffel bag from under his bed, and moved to his closet. After picking and choosing through his multitude of devices, weapons, and gear, the bag was almost too full to zip shut.
"Now, I'll run and get myself something to eat, maybe another drink at Tommy's," Wade mumbled to himself as he moved out the front door, bag slung over his shoulder. He tromped down the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk, taking a deep breath of the cool night air, before heading down the street.
Elsewhere.
A wide open room with vaulted ceilings, white walls and large bay windows over looking the cityscape is where Elektra Natchios stands. She is leaning on the wall, looking out one of the large windows. Her eyes are open, but she sees not the city before her. Instead she sees all those things that she's lost over the years. She sees the face of her father, and she can almost feel the breath of her love move over the soft skin of her neck.
With a shake of her head, these memories are dispelled, and the city once more looms in front of her. She may not have the technology, but she has other things to her advantage. She has a flight booked for Brazil, and her bags are already packed. She feels no hunger, so she doesn't eat
She pushes off the wall, and moves silently over to the large stereo system against the west wall of the large empty room. The song that began to blare out was just something random. It started incredibly slow, almost sadly so, and she stood in the center of the room, unmoving and with closed eyes.
The song suddenly picked up the beat, and the bass shook the floor from the sheer volume of each thump. A straight hand thrust, followed by a quick left-cross jab. Her right knee lifted quickly in a succession of three, followed by a pair of speedy kicks, which never touch the ground between each other. For the entire duration of the song that blasted, Elektra was constantly moving. She threw punches, and kicks, knees and elbows. She ducked, and jumped, all seemingly in time to the speedy beat of the song she never heard.
The song was loud, that enough anyone could tell, but El never heard it. Instead she felt out the rhythm of each individual beat, felt it in her bones, her heart, and what was left her soul. She felt her way through the kata that she had devised on her own. The song ended, and on the very last beat, she was once again standing motionless in the very center of the room, eyes still closed. She was ready. She would teach this, Deadpool, that she was not one to be trifled with nor underestimated or insulted.