I know, I know. I mentioned that the updates were going to be bi-weekly, or so, and I skipped one. Been ill. Y'all got two chapters in two weeks earlier, so the skip was covered! Heh.

Anyway, special thanks to my beta for putting up with the extremely raw version of this chapter, to my friend for assisting with the report, to a patient CBS 3 newscaster for answering my questions, and most of all, to my readers that were patient enough to wait through my sickness.


Dead man breathing, just taking up space
Calloused and weathered like the lines on one's face
Dead man breathing, my conscience is bare
The lining of my soul is torn yet I no longer care
Zakk Wylde & Black Label Society, "Just Killin' Time"

If there was one thing I hate more than headaches, it is having one and finding nothing to take for it.

To make matters worse, it is one of those types that feels like something is digging out from inside of my skull with cold, yet burning claws; scraping, scraping...and scraping. I thought I had gotten rid of it yesterday, but apparently that is not the case. Damn it. I knew I had forgotten to pick up pain killers. Yet, still, I rummage through the house, hoping to find anything that could get rid of the maddening ache.

As ironic as the thought is, it has to be this city; loud, smoggy, busy... Why do I find it ironic? Because I have lived in larger cities, ones that can drive a person crazy with its lack of silence. Strangely, I enjoyed those cities more. The more people, the less someone would focus on the individual with the unique appearance. In my case, a flesh colored mask. Not many people notice it immediately, but when they do...well, it became a matter of a staring contest then.

I always win.

I search from top to bottom and still I find nothing. If it was possible I might have attempted to turn the building over as well. While I would not have found something for the headache, it would have been a nice dose of exercise.

Just whatam I still doing in Philadelphia anyway? After my assignment I have no reason to be here, and it was my habit to leave a city before the body grew cold. This is not the first time I stuck around, no. Nor do I think it will be the last. There is usually some reason that makes me remain for a few weeks, or months, more. Perhaps it is because of the hospital I have driven by now and again.

Out of all the other things to see here; the Edgar Allan Poe house, Independence Hall, and The Liberty Bell – all of which are ironically more interesting to me than the Colosseum in Rome – it is a medical institution that grasps my attention more. Why? It is said that the Pennsylvania Hospital excels in craniofacial surgery.

The fact that I even think about such a thing was surely laughable.

I have lived this way all my life, and I should not have plans to change that now, even if I did have the money to throw into the endeavor. Besides, I have become quite partial to the feel of the mask.

The sound of the kettle's whistle draws me from my rambling thoughts, as well as my attention from the steady thrumming at my right temple, and fetching myself a mug from the cabinet, I prepare the tea, breathing in the sharp, yet subtle scent of the peppermint. This is my last resort in dealing with this annoying pain. Well...this or suitably knocking myself unconscious, though that will place quite a damper upon the rest of my day, and it is not truly guaranteed that the pain would be gone.

The steady clicking of the spoon brings a soft flinch to the corner of my eyes, and I try to mix the honey and tea without the sound as best I can, though it is proving to be most difficult. Instead, I turn my focus to the droning of the small TV in the background. Some newscast is on, CBS I believe, detailing the weather that was unusually warm for this time of year.

The news is the only thing I seem to watch anymore. I learned early on that it is best to keep track of reports, no matter how mundane they might seem. The smallest detail can be useful... Besides, I had become tired of watching movies when they started putting the annoying lyrics of "We Will Rock You" in the Medieval era.

Reclining into the couch, I pick up the remote and begin flipping through the channels, hoping to catch something worth listening to besides the further detailing of the weather and the sports scores that were to follow. I begin to believe that my search will be quite unsuccessful until a familiar face flashes across the screen, soon replaced by some cartoon image.

Flipping back a channel I shift my weight upon the couch's cushions, tipping the mug to my lips, drinking down the sweet concoction. The face was already gone, but I wait to see if it will return.

"The city's new Police Captain, Peter Barone, has reason to be proud of himself and his team," the tall blonde, with a smile plastered over her face, begins. A little blue bar with her name superimposed over it fades into view, partly concealing her navy blouse.

"Taking over for the recently retired Captain, Vincent Lopes, Barone comes into a force that's had a successful run with one of the highest annual success rates of solved homicides in nearly thirty years." This is not anything new for me. I had read about the recent change in percentiles when it came to the status of crime in this area. I had also read about this case a week or two ago. My eyes flick over the screen, searching beyond the woman's head for another sight.

I am soon rewarded.

The camera swings from the reporter to another, and I lower the mug, my eyes narrowing in immediate recognition. No longer is she wearing the casual clothing I had seen her in during that trip to the market. Her hair is still swept back in a tight tail, though it falls loose in dark blonde waves instead of a woven braid. "The newest bit of justice being doled out is thanks to their 'secret weapon', Christina Daniels; a thirty-two year old California native and homicide detective who solidified a first-degree murder case against Aaron James in the murder of his wife, Cecelia James."

I amglad that I had not been drinking, for I would have surely choked upon my tea in laughter. That woman, a detective? Not only a detective, but one that has been overly successful in her job? Her regard of me had not gone unnoticed. The way her eyes had traveled over me was not in physical interest – her posture was far too closed for there to be any – but it was as if she were sizing me up. She smiles faintly into the camera's path and I tilt my head slightly.

"Mrs. James was believed to have been murdered by an intruder, but when Daniels and her team did extensive investigating, minute details discovered by the observant young detective led the guilt straight to the victim's husband's door step. When confronted with the evidence, James had no choice but to plead guilty to the gruesome death." The camera moves from her then, and I could have sworn that she released a puff of breath just before she turned away to speak with a tall, dark haired man; the Captain that was previously mentioned.

Bringing the mug to my lips once more, I let the mingling flavors rest upon my tongue before I swallow, suddenly noticing that my headache had finally decided to take its leave. The observation does not last for very long as the reporter continues. "This is Daniels' sixteenth successfully solved case this year, a rate not previously met by any other homicide detective in recent years. Barone certainly has reason to be pleased: with Christina Daniels in the field, along with her fellow employees, crime rates are sure to drop significantly."

"Thank you, Victoria," a masculine voice takes over as the screen again flickered to another face, and I turn down the volume then place the remote upon the coffee table. My long legs stretch over the length of the couch, sock-covered heels brushing against the arm at the other end, and cradling the mug between my hands I look down into the dark surface, a subtle smirk upon my lips.

I had heard about that case a week or two ago, and from what had been said it was a trying one. To think, I had been speaking with one of the "top detectives" of this city, and she had not the foggiest idea of who I was. Why would she know, anyway? I have not made a mark within this city, never mind the accomplished task. That particular "mark" would not be seen or heard of for some time.

Sixteen cases. While that might seem mediocre in some circles, this was a large city where such activities would be easily concealed, unless one is dealing with a fool, of course. I am hardly a fool. For a moment an amusing thought strikes my mind and I bring my mug to my lips again, only to pause before drinking.

Just how smart is this woman? Had it simply been a wild string of luck that she had successfully completed her cases? And how would she do with one where luck would not prove to be a factor, but intelligence? I laugh softly, shaking my head. Why would I even come to think of such an idea? I knew why...

All of this is becoming too easy, and it is boring the living hell out of me.

I need a challenge, needed someone to sit up and take notice just to get the drug like flow of adrenaline through my veins. How I did miss that sensation; the utter rush of the hunt, stalking, learning, and being so close that I could feel my fingers twitch in anticipation, only to let the game be drawn out longer. The challenge was gone, the people have become foolish and the authorities uncaring.

But her...she appears to take pride in her cases. Though it had been but one meeting between us, I can imagine that she had just come from the office, exhausted and worn, ready to rest the moment she got home. Did she stay up to find more information on the James case, pouring over reports and evidence until the answer came to her? Would she chase leads to the ends of the world if she must?

Would she chase me?

And most of all...would she find and catch me?

Suddenly the thought I found laughable lingers upon my mind, refusing to let go, digging in with determined claws that rivals those of the prior pain. I have to know how passionate she can become with her work. How determined and driven to do right by the justice system. You are being a fool to put yourself on the line for a thrill, Erik. Feh. I am a fool to be drawn into my first contract, yet here I am, many years later, and still taking pride in my own work, regardless of the near-torpor I had faced when hunting.

Finding no more desire to watch, or even listen to, the television, I strike the button on the remote, shutting off the cathode tube with a crackle of static upon its surface. Placing the mug aside I stand, looking upon the now drab gray surface of the screen, and slowly smile beneath the flesh colored lip of my mask. Already my mind begins formulating plans, steps to take, though this time I am the mouse in this particular chase.

I had not bothered to think of the fact that there could be a chance that she would solve the case, if she gained the case at all, something I was going to ensure she did. I knew she would not succeed, not unless I allowed her to. There is no chance of that happening; as far as I am concerned, she needs a break from her winning streak with a loss, perhaps that would make sure she continues with her efforts. Or perhaps that will crack her spirit.

Do I care? No. How she takes her loss is none of my concern.

Leaving the living room, I enter my own sleeping area and pull my gunmetal briefcase from beneath my bed. Flipping the latches with a click, I open it up and look over the compartment until my eye catches upon the titanium sheen of my phone. There are some calls to be made, and I have no intentions of using the phone within the kitchen; it simply is not secure enough for my paranoid tastes.

I needed equipment, plenty of it, but most of all I needed to find out more about Christina before I would make my first move to attract her notice. Like dangling a piece of string before a feline.I can alreadyfeel what I had thought faded long ago as I flip open the phone and start dialing a familiar number. While I listen to it ring, I close my eyes, imagining the various pieces that would be placed upon the board, and removed with equal vigor.

"Hello?" a groggy voice comes from the other end of the phone.

"Pack your things," I utter sharply enough to catch his attention, "you are taking a trip."

Let the game begin.