Not Again…

Kitty was still deep in her work-out zone, not paying much attention to what was going on when, suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck became all prickly and stand-on-end-like ™. She dropped into a fighting crouch and surveyed the woods around her.

"Get a grip, Pryde." She muttered to herself, "You're getting paranoid in your old age."

"Or maybe intelligent." A figure stepped out of the bushes following the voice accented in something vaguely English. He was dressed all in black and was pointing a gun at her. Kitty hesitated for barely a second before she launched into an attack.

"Who are you!" Kitty aimed this question just as sharply as she aimed the elbow into his gut.

"Oomph! You don't remember me? I'm hurt!" The assailant ducked and launched into a complicated maneuver. Kitty easily avoided it, and kicked him in the shoulder. He went down hard, but was far from out of commission.

"I have a bad memory for ugly." Kitty scowled and swept her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. She punched him hard in the stomach as he rose to his feet, and knocked him down to the ground again. She placed the toe of her sneaker on his jugular. "Who are you?"

"I'm not gonna tell you, Colonist." He sneered. Kitty dug the toe of his boot into his throat and he whined. "Go ahead and kill me. In fact, if you'll let me get into my pocket, I'll do it myself."

"Why? What's in your pocket?" Kitty gazed at his chest pocket, and he took the opportunity to pull something out of the pocket of his trousers. He placed it under his tongue and smiled.

"Cyanide. Potentia Penetralis Sacrificum." Kitty could do nothing but watch helplessly as his eyes rolled back into his head and his system began to shut down. She had seen this stuff at work before. It actually wasn't pure Cyanide. Cyanide capsules were deadly cocktails of a number of different neurotoxins. They usually took about 3 seconds to take effect and killed the victim painfully and unfortunately very quickly. She sighed and waited, nonetheless, until his body gave the tell-tale death groan before she removed her foot from his chest. She wasn't stupid, after all.

"Why," She muttered, "does my life always eventually resemble a reeeeally bad James Bond movie?" She began to go through his pockets. She found nothing of real consequence for a few minutes. A passport, which was more than likely fake, a key to what was probably a rental car, seven bullets, two more 'death pills,' and finally, the object that she had been both expecting and dreading. A card, the size of the average business card, with an extremely stylized, yet very familiar, black sun embossed onto the back. She cursed. "Here we go again, Pryde. Hope you still have your international phone card."