Redaction

by Dancewithknives

Rating: everyone
Tags: Alternate Universe, Human, Dark, Adventure
Length: 6993

Sometimes even extraterrestrial visitors get lost.

The following report is the classified [redacted] of subject [redacted] on behalf of the [redacted] Bureau of [redacted].

Rated teen for violence and sexual themes.
extraterrestrial

Editorial Assistance by:
Arcane Spirit
Verbose Mode
Fillyphil
Preread by:
InsertAuthorHere

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-07-08 01:14:29 UTC

The Gray Man

Three Years, Eight Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, Thirty-Two Minutes.

A dark overcast covered the urban cityscape. A heavy downpour saturated every surface of the concrete jungle, like Mother Nature was intent on drowning its children, turning the streets into makeshift canals and the overflowing drains into miniature waterfalls.

But as the rain drove all of the inhabitants to shelter, there was one predator out in the dying light, watching, waiting, stalking its quarry. From the inside of a black Honda Accord was a hunter, sitting in the driver’s seat with a pair of binoculars spying through the water covered windshield. He watched from his blind while studying the entryway of an old building, about two block away. Attached to the dashboard of the vehicle was his phone, wirelessly connected to a small earpiece.

“No activity,” he said, keeping his eyes on the door. “It looks like they’re settling in for the night. No sign of the target.”

On the other end of the line, a man’s voice responded, “10-4. We have reason to believe that the target is on the top floor, but reports are sketchy. Last sighting was in room G6, but take that as you will. It’s your call, Menelaus..”

The man in the car lowered the binoculars, welcoming the small pops from his joints for finally moving after so long. His eyes stayed on the distant building, still watching it as it blended into the dull cityscape like a tree in the forest. He blinked, then glanced down at the eerily green digital clock on his car’s stereo.

Three Years, Eight Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, Thirty-Three Minutes.

“Trojan,” he said, reaching into the ignition and pulling out the keys and placing them into the pocket of his black jeans.

“Roger that, Menelaus. Calvary is on its way.  E.T.A  30 Mikes.”

The occupant of the car removed the phone from its perch and was about to end the call, but stopped when he heard a distinctly female voice in his ear. Almost like a whisper, she said, “Good Luck, Sasha.”

He stopped for a moment, seemingly frozen in time at the sentiment, but then ended the call, stuffing the phone into the pocket of his dark grey spring coat. The hunter stepped out from his blind and into the rain. Before the cold downpour could saturate his hair, he slipped a gunmetal grey baseball hat onto his head, covering all but a few loose follicles of silvery blonde hair. He pulled down the vertical zipper of the left breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of leather gloves and put them both on.

He began to walk down the street, the hard rubber of the boots clicking against the concrete as heavy driplets of water patting against the bill of his hat and bouncing against the special water resistant fabric of his weatherproof coat.

It was as if the heavens themselves tried to wash away the grime of the city. Even then, it could never get rid of that smell: that unique blend of sun baked cement and concrete which mixed with the odor of decomposing garbage. The assault on his nose burned as much as the cold air to his exposed face. While still a building away from his destination, Sasha bowed his head down and pinched the black bandana wrapped around his neck and pulled it up, bringing the loose fabric up to the bridge of his nose before placing his hands back into his pockets.

With his destination ahead of him, one particularly inconspicuous brick apartment with broken windows, Sasha peeled to the right just before approaching the entrance and put his back to the wall. He had been all around the world, twice. From Taiwan to Kabul, Moscow to Chicago, and it always seemed like he had found that same exact smell. Now, while the enigma of the odor would indeed tickle his fantasy, it would have to wait until another day, for now it was time to go to his night-job.

Three Years, Eight Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, Thirty-Nine Minutes.

Sasha, his mask, coat, gloves, and hat blending into the shadows of the apartment building, looked down both ends of the alleyway, making sure that no passerby happened to be wandering by. When he was sure that no meddling eyes were upon him, he reached into his front pockets of his jacket once more and pulled out a black metal pistol with a cherry red wooden grip and an elongated barrel. He twisted the extension, making sure that it was tight and securely screwed on the barrel of the weapon. With his thumb, he pulled the hammer back until it locked into place against the tail. He looked down the side of the gun at the letters “PM GP9” stamped against it. He pulled back the slide, and saw a little brass soldier looking back at him.

When ready, he flicked the slide mounted safety to show a little red dot on the side of the gun and assumed his form. With his arms bent, Sasha held the gun high on his chest, both hands tightly around the grip and the barrel safely pointed at an angle towards the ground. Still on the wall, he crept towards the corner of the alleyway, keeping his weapon hidden in the dark, and poked his head around the corner.

Like before, the only thing that was outside of the old building was the constant rainfall and broken glass leading towards the entryway. He examined the entryway, and saw there wasn’t anything particularly alarming or unusual about it, but something didn’t feel right. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and it wasn’t because of the cold. Like how an antelope somehow knew that it was standing in a hunter’s sights. Sasha somehow could see that there was something…different, something that he was missing.

He retreated a few steps back into the alleyway and looked down the stretch between the buildings. Nothing was unusual, the rain between the two apartments filled the air between buildings while large garbage containers of varying sizes littered the passage. But then he saw it, a old white waterspout stretching down from the roof of the building all the way to the ground level.

Sasha holstered his weapon inside of his coat and approached the pipe. He wrapped a hand around it, and the metal groaned under the pressure, telling more than enough about its integrity, but that didn’t stop him from mounting the spout and climbing it. He couldn’t ever explain it, but he seemed to have a sort of intuition, be it from being destined to do his job or years of experience. Whatever it was, it was the reason he was still in this world.

When he reached the top of the spout he reformed his grip on the brick of the boundary around the roof and drew his sidearm again. He swung himself up, looking over the edge through the sights of his gun and saw nothing but lonely air conditioners and the rooftop entrance.

He slipped over the edge and crouched down, his boots kicking up water in the puddle trying to drain off of the rooftop. His hands closed together, tight against his gun and close to his body, he crept across the rooftop towards the brick face of the stairway access. Firmly against the wall, he crept across the empty span of the bricks until he reached the opposite corner, and two voices with it.

Sasha positioned himself at the corner, raising his gun up to his face to the point where it was near touching his nose, and slowly poked his head around.

Around the corner were two men, both not facing him, but one standing at the door while the other was crouched at a small air conditioning unit. Like a couple of animals in the wild, Sasha immediately identified them as the indigenous fauna of this place by their backwards hats and pants that didn’t seem to be able to stay fastened correctly. And like wild animals, Sasha knew to tread with extreme caution.

Three Years, Eight Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, Forty-One Minutes.

He rounded the corner, still crouched behind the one at the door, and silently approached.  Aiming at the back of the nearest gangster, Sasha rose to a standing position behind his target while less than an arm’s length away. The other one, with his head inside of the air conditioner unit, rose as well, turning around and saying, “Ha ha, got som- Oh shit!”

Sasha’s target began to turn, but was too late. Using his left arm, Sasha stuck his hand through the gap between the man’s arm and chest, bending and grabbing onto the back of his head with his entire palm. He forced his opponent’s torso down, right into his rising knee. Using his body as a barrier, Sasha pointed his gun over the target he was wrangling and squeezed the trigger twice, sending two silenced bullets into his target’s chest and forcing his limp body to collapse against the air conditioner unit. Returning to his first priority, Sasha forced his opponent down even further, flipping him onto the rooftop on his back. His hands shot up, begging a protest, but there was no hesitation as Sasha put a round between his eyes.

Smoke and vapors hissed out of the barrel of the gun, dissipating in the cold wind. Sasha viewed his work and watched as the red rain water drained off of the roof. It was at that moment that he noticed the rush that he had, like a weight was being lifted off of his shoulders and somehow made the rain stop falling on him.He looked at his watch and checked the time.

Three Years, Eight Months, Twelve Days, Six Hours, Forty-Four Minutes.

He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply before resetting the stopwatch.

Zero Years, Zero Months, Zero Days, Zero Hours, One Minute.

Opening his eyes, Sasha hit the magazine release button and flicked his gun to the side, ejecting his magazine before sliding another into place. He approached the rooftop access door, but before he opened it, he had to stop once more. He felt the same nerve, the same intuition from earlier that made him look at the drain to the roof. Something about the rooftop warranted investigation.

Sasha turned around and approached the ventilation unit that the one gangster had been toying with and took a look. Inside were large white packages, wrapped in plastic, it looked to be a powdery white dust, like sugar. But it didn’t take a sleuth or a detective to know that sugar isn’t stored in a rooftop Air Conditioning Unit.

For as tempting as his discovery was, Sasha knew that it would be too inconvenient to take some with him… but that was when he noticed the body of the previous person to visit the stock loitering atop the unit and the small white bag wrapped in his fingers. Sasha took the bag and secured it, thinking that it may be useful in the future, and then returned to the rooftop access.

It was dark, and the lights on the walls were either burned out or covered in so much dust and mildew that they didn’t adequately shine in the stairway. But that was to Sasha’s benefit as he slowly crept down the sturdy stairs, placing each step squarely on the centers of his feet and making only minimal amounts of sound. The information about the target stated that the last reported location was on the top floor, so that meant that he had to walk down only two flights of stairs to reach the highest level of residences.

Sasha crouched by the opened door to the staircase, hidden in the dark. He leaned his body to see down the hall while still maintaining as low of a profile as possible.

Much like the outsides of the derelict, the top floor of the apartment seemed to be abandoned, the lights were either dully shining in the hall, flicking the last of their lives away, or dead. Much like the smell of decaying trash outside, there was a very distinct smell that wafted through the room, a rather humid and wooden smell, like mildew.

It was all quiet, much too quiet then he would have preferred, but from his adopted shadows he could scan down the hall for anything of interest. It did not take him long to notice that, underneath a dull and dirty ceiling light, there was a door, and what made this door so interesting happened to be two characters. Vandalized to look more akin to the number “69”, he could easily notice the den of his prize, apartment G6.

Although Sasha was prepared to reach the door, but he could not do so. Not by a guard, or a barrier of some sort, but the light in the hall, giving off an uninterested and dull illumination right before the door as well as an ambient hum. The light, exposed without any sort of cover or shade as if it had been replaced and its head discarded, was of the classic design, protruding from the socket in the ceiling.

A light was just a light, nothing that he feared or posed a danger to him. But he was a professional, and in his line of work professionals are not given such a rank by taking undue risks.

It was only about ten paces away, an easy shot for him, but not worth the risk. Every door had a gun behind it, every corner had a half asleep guard waiting to be startled by the echoing sound of a suppressed gunshot. Sasha slipped back behind the wall once more and holstered his weapon. He couldn’t risk being seen, but he couldn’t risk being heard either, so that left one other option.

From the darkness of his jacket, Sasha reached inside and pulled out a blade, no longer than an adult’s index finger, yet not sharp enough to puncture skin. Perfectly balanced in trained hands, Sash flipped it over, holding it by its rounded tip and poked around the doorway once more.

Reeling his arm back, Sasha readied himself and then whipped his hand forward, releasing the knife and let it fly through the wind. Falling end over end, like a slice of moonlight, the instrument tumbled through the air, coming closer and closer to its target until it met the glass.

A shrill crack, a few last flickers of light, a rain of glass, and the hall became dark.

Beautiful.

Sasha, still crouched, walked in a hunch to the door to room G6, looked down the hall once more for good measure, and then holstered his sidearm. As with his seemingly endless assortment of items in his pockets, Sasha returned his focus to the door with a lock pick and tension wrench. He slid the wrench into the bottom of the key’s slot and was about to insert the pick, but stopped. It was almost like an ethereal wind passed through the building, through brick, concrete, and his coat alike and sent a chill down his spine. It was the same strange feeling from before, not hinting at a secret danger about to find him, but something… else.

Palming the lock pick, Sasha gripped the doorknob with the tips of his fingers and rotated the knob until the door opened on surprisingly silent hinges.

I love this country.

Returning to his pistol, Sasha opened the door enough that light poured through the cracks and looked in. There was movement, and there was noise, but for as much as he would want to find a better way, his time was running short. He opened the door some more, and made out the shape of a man being illuminated by what he assumed was a TV, and judging by the lack of interest on the opening door, he must not have been looking towards him. Gun first, Sasha pushed the door open just enough to slip in, and then just as silently closed it behind his crouched form.

Now in the room, he could clearly see his surroundings. His most pressing concern, the shape of a man which he could partially make out was indeed accurate, but to his fortune the target was standing with his back to the door and was talking on a cellphone. Before him, past the stagnant smoke rising from a hooka, were three men sitting on a couch, the table before them littered with fast food wrappers and drugs. The three were currently occupied with the TV, playing a videogame which showed a muscular man and a busty blonde woman fighting.

With the quick scan around the room, quickly glancing at the discarded beverage containers and stack of pizza boxes in the corner, or through listening to the rapid and hurried insults flung in the air by the contestants at the sofa, Sasha easily determined that his target was not in the room, but he couldn’t leave just yet. Still hidden in the shadow of the man on the phone, Sash rose from his crouch to a standing position and aimed his pistol at the back of the man’s head. Although it looked as if the room was not going to be the vault of his treasure, maybe a little bit of eavesdropping might just change that.

The man, still oblivious to the interloper in the room, spoke slowly into his phone in a relaxed, yet somewhat respectable manner, in relation to what respect was in that type of lifestyle. “Ah huh, yeah, we’re gonna ship ‘er out to Ruben tomorra. Yea… Those three bitches brought ‘er here on time, the story checks out, completely blank nut from the nuthouse outta town. Trev had the place check and the docs didn’t have nuthin on ‘er.”

Sasha’s eyebrow raised from the darkness of the shadows. Not only was this conversation fruitful, but it seemed that he could do some pre-emptive investigative work. For as much as he wanted to leave them none the wiser, it looked like he needed to get that cellphone.

“You sure this isn’t some sorta sting, cuz I gotta say when I heard some ladies were commin’ to drop off some crazy white bitch for cash I thought it was too good to be true. No… Naw, I ain’t sayin’ that, I just trying to think ahead, that’s all homie. ” He then chucked, scratching at his groin and slowly beginning to turn around, “don’t worry, we’ve been gentle. She’s got my approval, tighter than a fresh pair of Jordans.“ The gangster turned around, a smile on his face as he took the phone away from his earn and ended the phone call with his thumb. He looked up as he was about to head out of the door and continue with his life, but froze mid step when he made out the outline of a figure standing in the doorway with a gun pointed to him. “OH SHI-” he shouted, reaching into his pockets but stopped as light erupted from deep within cauldron- like opening of the pistol.

Even though it was suppressed, the muffled gunshot rang through the room like a lead baseball had been thrown at each wall at the same time. Although the walls and the storm outside would dampen the noise, there was no doubt that anyone in the surrounding area would hear the deep “THUD” of the round being ignited within the confines of the pistol. Sash, not sparing a moment from his detection, squeezed the trigger, not out of a sudden animal instinct or fear, but efficient and trained reflexes, sending the bullet through the small room and into his target, ending its flight by creating a 9x18 sized hole in TV and replacing the animated blood and gore on the screen with its real life counterpart.

Almost as if it were in slow motion, Sasha watched as the man on the phone fell to the ground, opening up an unhindered view of the three men who had been sitting at the couch. Like woodland creatures who had stumbled into the headlights of an oncoming semi-truck, the three reacted in unwarranted surprise and adrenaline fueled terror as they tried to save themselves from the once hidden gunman. While his two friends peeled out from around their respective sides of the couch, the middle gangers stood no chance as he jumped out of his seat with his controller in his hands and stood in the path of three oncoming pieces of hot lead.

Without moving his hands, Sasha turned his chest on a swivel and aimed at the attacker on the right and pulled the trigger three times, but was only met with three clicks. Glancing his eyes down, Sasha was greeted with a live round stuck inside of the breach of his handgun preventing it from operating correctly. The assailant reacted quickly, but not quick enough, for before he could clear the breach the man on his right was upon him.

Standing in close enough proximity that he could sense the smell of alcohol on his lips, the gangster wrapped both of his hands around the elongated barrel of Sasha’s gun, jerking it and attempting to wrench it out of his hands. Sasha, trained to keep proper form in even the most trying of circumstances, used the jerking and forward momentum of his attacker to his advantage with his shooting stance. By keeping his arms close to his body and gun at chest height, Sasha rushed forward and swung his right elbow out. Like the Alpha  buck’s antler, his elbow met the cheek of his target, separating his hands from the gun and sending him back as a tooth flew out of his open mouth. Returning to his weapon, Sasha pulled back the gun’s slide, ejecting the bullet clogging the system and slamming the next one into place which in turn went into the target’s chest, as did the next round, and the round after that leading into his head.

With only one round left in the chamber, Sasha switched his attention to the last hostile in the room and took aim. But, as he got the last man in his sights, his target, armed with a baseball bat, swung and hit the gun, not only making the last bullet to harmlessly embed itself in the wall, but also send the gun onto the floor, locking the slide open as the casing hit the ground.

Unarmed, Sasha shoved his aggressor away to create separation before reaching down the side of his weather proof jacket and stuck his finger into a little metal ring. From the iron circle, he pulled, revealing a Malaysian folding knife clipped upside-down to the bindings of his coat. In the blink of an eye, he swung the closed knife around in his index finger until the very tip of his middle finger touched the spring notch of the grip. Pressing the latching with his second finger spun the weapon around once more, taking a metal casing with a clip and turning it into a thin tiger claw sticking out of the bottom of his fist.

The two men circled each other, edging against each other like a caveman with a club vs. a martial arts master with his instrument.  The gangster with the bat rushed forward swung, putting all of his upper body strength into the swing and opening his grip to extend the orbit of the baseball bat out even further.  But, with the grace of a prima ballerina, Sasha advanced with a swing to his body, crossing his legs to both twist down into a crouch and right below the woodgrain of the baseball bat.

The curved blade of the karambit, designed and perfected through centuries of combat, sliced through the air with its master’s momentum, not acting as a blade, but the adopted claw of Mother Nature’s greatest predator. The blade, enhanced by Sasha’s spin, penetrated through the seams of the aggressor’s ripped jeans with ease, slicing through skin and muscle as if there was nothing there.

Although nothing but a flesh wound, the gash to the gangster’s calf felt to be anything but petty. The cut sent the man to his knee, gripping the matching cut in his leg and his pants. But before he could cry out in agony, Sashy shot upwards, leading with hooked blade of the karambit up, slicing a canyon up through his basketball jersey and filleting his throat like a freshly blanched lobster tail.

The wounded man fell to his knees again, both hands wrapped tightly around his gashed throat. Although he pressed his chin against his chest and squeezed his fingers as tight like a little dam, he could not stop the red from seeping through the fleshy barrier and onto the floor. He no longer cared about the intruder, or the burning pain on his neck, the only thing he could focus on was the growing numbness of his extremities and the slow drip of blood into the woodgrain and cracks onto the flood. The morphine drip of his life consumed all of his focus as he heaved whatever air he could muster into his mouth while the warm red shower saturated his ripped jersey. He was so focused that he didn’t show any alarm as Sasha stood behind him until he finally relieved him of his pain with a knee to the back of his head.

The room was clear, but not for long. Sasha spun the Karambit around his finger and his the safe end of the blade against his pants, closing the blade and reclipped it to his coat. Sasha eyes then scanned the floor, in search of the cellphone from his first victim as well as his sidearm. When found, he slipped the cellphone into his pocket and flipped the empty magazine out of the weapon. Reflexively, he inserted the new magazine into the gun and the slide slipped back into place with a click, but then he stopped. He heard something, not through his ears, for as odd as it seems, but through something else. He hadn’t gone deaf in the engagement earlier, for he could still hear the static pops from the TV that had the bullet in it and the faint hissing of blood as it touched the hot cartridges littering the floor. This was the same feeling he had felt with the storm drain and the unlocked door. Through the ambient remains of the battleground, of the startled awakening of the apartment’s residents to his entrance, he could almost feel a certain specific sound, an unforgettable sound, the sound of the breach of a double barrel shotgun being flipped closed.

His initial assumption about the room was proven false in a heartbeat, because out of the corner of his eye he saw a closed door in the far side of the room.

He raised his gun, but before he could even put pressure of the trigger saw the knob separate from the door with a mighty kick. Soon after, a pocket sized cannon filled the room with chemically cultured thunder and a rain of lead balls. Mass majority of the scatter, including both wads, hit Sasha clean in the chest. Not only ripping his weatherproof coat to shreds, but knocking him off his feet and smacking the back of his head on the floor by the whiplash effect.

His vision was blurred, ears ringing, and chest felt as if a thousand daggers and been stabbed into him. Sasha heaved, feeling more twisting and digging in his chest. Everything seemed to be in a haze, all but one sound, the clicking of twelve gauge shells landing on the floor. Without giving it any thought, Sasha reaching his hand into the tattered remains of his coat, and reflexively grabbed in the area between his hip and his armpit.

He pulled out his hand which had a blurry object in its grip. Almost nothing of it was distinguishable in his disoriented state besides the word “Glock” and the number “18”.

The familiar sound of the shotgun’s breach clicked to a close once more, and between his legs Sasha could see a blurry dark figure standing in the midst of a halo of light.

In the same motion, Sasha pulled the slide back and pointed his savior with his arm stretched out and locked tight before pulling the trigger, once again filling the slum with pocket thunder and brass rain. His trigger firmly on the trigger, Sasha let the recoil of the slide flying back and resetting itself direct his aim, not stopping until the polymer slide locked in the open position, smoking casings lining the floor besides another body.

After the second “THUD”, Sasha’s neck gave out, returning his vision to the warped and molded ceiling. Everything hurt, everything. But he couldn’t stop now. Sasha used his arms to gradually lift his chest and lower his gaze onto himself. With one free hand, he grabbed the remains of his coat and pulled, ripping the frayed fabric around the broken zipper apart and revealing the secrets within.

Surprising him by the lack of blood that he had expected, Sasha looked down upon his secret ballistics vest, the Kevlar weaving and armored plates battered, but stalwart in their protection of their charge. Across his breast and abdomen, from the Valcro “O-” to the holster designed to carry his weapon with its silencer, throwing knife  quiver to magazine slots, was a thin peppering of a dark powder either ripping the cosmetic stitching of the vest or exposing parts of the plates.  Although the pain of six broken ribs tried to tell him otherwise, he was grateful for the sight he saw, for even though he had taken two barrels of a shotgun at near point blank range, their payload had been nothing but birdshot.

But for as rejoiced as he was at the moment he knew it was no time for rest. He had been working too long to know that a silenced shot in close quarters was much too loud to go unnoticed. Let alone the blast of a shotgun.

Although more than willing to vacate the scene before even more trouble would find its way to him, Sasha noticed something that was different from the latest arrival to the engagement that he had recently survived. Namely, he wasn’t wearing pants.

The new development, for however odd it looked to be, passed by Sasha without a second thought at first. But then he recalled something, and then dots began to connect themselves. The room’s number had been changed to “69”, the conversation that he had overheard over the cell phone, and now the pants-less man who had been in the adjoining room. Still a bit staggered, Sasha limped past the final body in the room and entered the destroyed door frame.

He stepped into the room, and although it was in as much disrepair as the rest of the apartment, it took only one look to know that he had found it. It was the Helen to his Menelaus, the treasure hidden in the vault of grime and guarded by four ruffians.

The room, being lit by a small lamp and the few dying beams of light through the window, was all but bare except for a bed. On said bed, which looked like it hadn’t seen the inside of a washer in years, was a girl who looked to be eighteen years of age, stark naked, and bound to the four bedposts. Her strawberry blonde hair was draped over her eyes.

Her eyes, a sore looking pink color due to an excessive amount of crying, jolted even more alert than how they already were. As if her stay in room G6 hadn’t already frazzled her nerves, the ground shaking commotion and new visitor almost made her jump out of her skin. But, whatever cocktail of emotions she was feeling at the time, she did not make a sound. Like her arms and legs, a ball- gag was inserted tightly into her mouth.

With a renewed hop in his step, Sasha hustled over to the bed and cut the bonds with his karambit. When free, he took a seat on the bed and removed the gag. “Sunny,” He said, “Is that your name?” The girl didn’t respond. The only thing she could do was breath. She was in shock, it didn’t take a trauma surgeon to see that, but now wasn’t the time. He repeated the question again, this time pulling down his mask for her to see his whole face. Once again though, she didn’t show any response besides slowly shivering in her spot.

This wasn’t good. Sasha turned around to make sure that the sounds that the footsteps that he was hearing weren’t outside the room yet.

Then he recalled something. Sasha reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a very special piece of equipment, something that he had never been given before. Wrapped in his fist, Sasha moved his hand in front of his charge. Surprisingly not broken from his fight, Sasha opened his gloved hands to reveal a toy, a small yellow plastic horse with crimson red mane and tale. The girl still looked like she was in a frightened haze, but upon seeing item in the man’s hand she slowly reached her hands out and gently took the figurine in her fingers. Sasha didn’t understand why the Director had stop at the toy store before he got into his stalking position this morning. He was expecting the sales clerk to hand him something more dangerous a miniature horse with pink packaging with the name "Sunset Shimmer".  Yet as he watched the young girl tremble and tear up as she held the gift in her hands, he somehow knew that she was the Sunny that he was after, even if she didn’t.

Sure that he his prize was secured, Sasha over to the window and grabbed the curtain. In one mighty pull he ripped them off the railing and said, “We’re leaving now. Stay with me and keep your head down.”  As he gathered the curtains together, he looked out the window and saw a fire escape outside.

Sasha threw the curtains on top of Sunny who was gently feeling the hairs on her doll and said, “Wear this and follow me.” Before checking the slide of his silenced handgun once more. Sunny looked at Sasha but did not move from her spot even though the damp curtains had landed on her.

“Oh shit!” someone shouted from outside the room.

“We need to go. Now!” he said before grabbing Sunny by the arm and draping the curtains around her shoulders like a makeshift dress. Sasha helped her through the window before turning back to the door. He removed a flash grenade from his ballistics vest and pulled the pin before throwing it into the room, bouncing off the broken door and rolled into the foyer.

Back on the fire escape, Sasha grabbed Sunny by the arm once more and lead her down the metal steps, but for each step the girl took she winced over the feel of wet metal grating on her bare feet. A deafening boom was heard, and the windows of the room lit up as the Flashbang did its namesake. Soon after, sporadic and clumsy gunfire began to fill the air.

Sunny fell against the railing of the fire escape and cupped her hands over her ears. Sasha, even against the protest of his ribs, bent over and wrapped his arm around her back, picking her up and draping her over his shoulder like a caveman with his new bride. He raced down the stairs listening to the different reports of the room above, hitting the dangling limbs of his charge against the cold wet rails of the fire escape until he finally rode the locked ladder of the fire escape down, delivering them both to street level.

Finally having to give in to the burning in his chest, Sasha set Sunny back down on her feet. The concrete, just as wet and cold as the metal of the fire escape, didn’t hurt as much as the grating from before.

Without any further rest or hesitation, Sasha grabbed Sunny by her hand and pulled her down the street. Sunny, almost as if she was not used to walking on her own two feet,  commenced a continuous tripping-stumble forward as her rescuer lead her with an iron grip on her already bruised wrists. A mere few blocks away from the derelict apartment building was his car, waiting to take them away to safety.

The gunfire from before returned, no longer the booming report of blind shooting, but instead of wizzing and whistling projectiles flying towards them and skidding across the pavement. Sasha turned around, wrapping his arms around Sunny and protecting her with his armored back before lunging into a nearby alleyway.

Sasha took cover behind the brick wall, setting Sunny back down on the ground. He was about to reach for his weapon when he heard the all too familiar sound nearby rounds being chambered and stocks being stuffed into shoulders.

Careful not to make any sudden movements, Sasha slowly raised his vision, keeping his hands frozen in mid air. Sure enough, nearby in the alleyway was a twelve man firing squad, all focusing directly on him with steely grips and true aim. But unlike before, flashy jerseys and name brands were replaced with body armor and blue tactical gear,  the exposed jewelry and flamboyant accessories were instead the yellow block letters D,E and A.

Sasha looked back down at himself and his partner, a girl using her arm to hold up a wet curtain around her body while he, his jacket still smoldering, was covered in enough weapons and ammunition that all of the permits in the world would not be able to convince them to let him go. Returning his gaze to the agents, Sasha saw more of the operation behind them, detectives, dogs, investigators, and whatever else he could imagine was sliding into place like a noose around the gang’s hideout.

Sasha slowly began to reach his left hand into his coat’s pocket, testing the patience of the DEA agents in front of him, but revealed the bag full of white powder that he had taken from earlier. Holding it in his fingers, he then pointed over towards his right hand, of which the dozen men followed by his request. Curling up his fingers into his palm, Sasha reached into the sleeve of his tattered coat, flicking out his hand once more with a small white business card between his middle and index finger.

From behind the twelve armed men a man in a windbreaker labeled with the same agency walked up to Sasha and timidly took the bag out of his hand. While he opened it, Sasha offered the card to him as well, saying only the words “Probable Cause.”

The agent took the business card, flipping it over and, upon seeing the name, had to check his glasses to make sure he was not mistaken. But when he checked it again he waved his tactical team off. Ordering them to disregard the armored man and his naked friend.

Soon after, the sporadic gunfire was met with an automatic response as the government agency came out from its many hiding places and fought the gang that had emerged from their hideout.

Yet, as the fighting escalated and went deep into the night, Sasha and Sunny were gone, disappearing into the stormy night, leaving like the quiet before a hurricane, a shout in the storm.

One wrong turn at Albuquerque

My oldest friend,

I write you with utmost urgency and duress, for I need your help. A student of mine happened to have made a rather rash decision, one that I am quite guilty in facilitating for that matter. She did all they could to defy me, and at that she has succeeded, but I fear for her safety.

Although it goes against our agreement, I beg you for help to find her keep her safe.

I would normally wait for your response, but time is of the essence. Enclosed is the profile of my student and, from our most accurate estimations, her whereabouts. It saddens me that I could not contact you with better news, but you are my only hope.

With the Utmost respect,

Your other half,

Celestia Invictus

My other half,

Fear not my friend, for your cries have been heard and shall be answered. I have reviewed the enclosures and have made it my top priority. I have predicted that such an event would happen at some point between the two of us, and we have a contingency named after a figure of speech here that fits our peculiar circumstance. Although it may not make sense, we have enacted the “Wrong Turn at Albuquerque ” initiative to find your student as fast as we can.

I have called in some overdue favors and am sending my most trusted associate to apprehend the stray. You need not worry any more, for I have no reason to believe that our mutual interest will not be within our grasp by the time this message reaches you. For as much as I would share his qualifications in order to help ease your mind, I have a feeling we both know who we are talking about.

As for not reaching out to me with happier news, fret not, for soon enough I will be very happy to share something that would make us both proud.

Sincerely,

Your oldest friend.

Sierra Caelum