Project: NIGHTWAVE

II

The cab ride was excruciatingly long and dreary. The interior smelled like sweat, vomit and cheap cologne, which made me sick in my stomach. When the car finally pulled in front of the shabby and frowzy motel, I pulled out a 100$ bill from my black leather backpack without checking the bill and yelled hurriedly, half way out of the cab, "Keep the change!" and vanished quickly into the building. Once inside, I made my way to the front desk, which looked like it had been there since the Second World War, and said without looking at the receptionist, "Do you have any vacant rooms here for one night?"

While the receptionist took their time respond, I looked around the room I was in. It was small, with high ceilings which were covered with peeling green floral wallpaper and spiderwebs. Looking down I saw under my blue converse a gray rug with multiple stains and mysterious holes. While I was waiting, I saw a mouse running across the room, disappearing in its den. The stairs were on my right and an elevator on my left. It was the worst of the worst, but it was the only one I could afford, after buying myself free from the Serbian mafia.

After a while a rich and creamy man's voice said in a low seductive tone, "Of course, princess. Are you here all by yourself, because I could keep you company at night. It tends to get a but chilly here."

I rolled my eyes visibly before looking at him. He was bald and had an impressive beard, and he looked like he drank 2 liters of strong spirits before smoking an ounce of crack every night, not a really pretty sight; sunken in eyes, which were surrounded by dark, almost black circles, ulcers all around his bony round face and neck, big nose, and cracked lips, which were more violet than pink.

"I just want a room princess," I said in a mocking tone before continuing, "tell me how much is it, so we could both go on with our lives. You don't want me as your enemy."

"You should watch your tone with me little missy," he said before slowly standing up from his moldy armchair, which, I'm guessing, came with the table. He was almost my height, with fat all around his body, not in the best shape, wearing a grubby tank top and some 6 months old boxers. He looked like he could have a heart attack any moment, but nonetheless less tried to look intimidating. When he was about a foot away from me, I grabbed his disgustingly sweaty hand and yanked it behind his back, slammed him onto the reception table, inflicting a great amount of pain to the point when he let out a sound that was a mix of a growl and a screech. I pulled it harder and lowered myself, so I was at the same level as his ear and whispered harshly, "Darling, if you don't give me a key, I'll rip all your limbs off one by one and take it myself. So how's it gonna be sweet cheeks? Are we going to have a problem?"

He grunted a quiet no and I let him go, wiping my hands against my worn out jeans. He rubbed his arm and wrist, and made quickly walked back to the reception desk. He handed me and key and said angrily, "It's on the house," looking at me with fire burning in his eyes.

I snatched the key from him with my sweetest smile, took my backpack and suitcase, thanked him with a voice as sweet as honey and made my way to the stairs. The number on the plastic part of the key said 215, which meant I had to climb another set of stairs. With no effort I reached the second floor and walked down a dirty hallway with beige walls until I found my room.
I opened the door and stepped inside. It smelled like bleach and stale bread. There was a bed with grimy blue sheets, a desk and a bathroom, which was also from the 40s. I sighed audibly and dropped all my bags on the floor.

I started unpacking my suitcase. On top of all my clothes were my weapons: a 9mm gun, .45 revolver, a silencer, 10 double-edged throwing knives, a hunting knife, and finally my all time favourites, 5 grenades. I laid them all out on the dirty bed and continued unpacking. Next on the pile was my uniform, nothing too special, but it did the job. It consisted of a simple deep blue, almost black body suit, enhanced with bulletproof fabric and vibranium enhanced plates around the torso; combat boots with knife compartments, which were also deep blue, the color of the night sky; and the most important part, my mask. It was made of leather, covered almost half my face, and was a shade darker than the rest of my uniform. It was an inseparable part of my outfit, because it helped me to remain unknown, anonymous. Holding my mask triggered a flash of memories from different assassinations the mafia had me do. I held back my tears and placed it quickly on the bed along with the rest of my arsenal.

As I had finished unpacking my gear, I fished out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. The digital clock on the lock screen said half past six. That meant I had exactly two hours to prepare myself. I had to look decent if I wanted any chance to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.

I took a deep breath before entering the small bathroom, preparing myself for the worse. I opened the door slowly and stepped inside. It wasn't as bad as I had expected it to be, it was somewhat decent and surprisingly clean. In front of me was a plain white bath, on my left a toilet and facing it a sink, a small mirror hanging over it. I walked over to the reflective surface to check my appearance after my long flight. I look tired: my green eyes dull and sunken in, accompanied by dark bags under them, my face looking even paler and slimmer than usual, and my lips chapped and bleeding. My short blonde hair was messy and quite greasy. I sighed again, mostly because I didn't look strong nor reliable.

I got the water running for a bath and stripped off my sweaty and dirty clothes. I hoped the bath would relax my sore muscles and my tense mind, and washing would make me look more like a human than a zombie. Sinking into the steaming water, all I could think of was my future and the possibility of happiness.