Terminal

Chapter 8

I should wear fedoras more often.

I adjust the black and white striped fedora on my head, looking in a dusty mirror. I had a black trenchcoat on, with a black suit underneath with a white shirt. I straighten out the navy tie, did a quick dusting on my pants, and called it good. I wouldn't be using my gauntlets today, as they would be a bit too obvious, so instead I would be bringing Kamira with me. Kamira was an old weapon of mine, I used it while I was still in True Power. To the ordinary eye, it would appear that I was just wearing two silver bracelets. In reality, underneath my sleeves were two folded daggers, a three in one gun/dagger/sword combo that changes forms at my will. My white, gloved hand straightens out the black streak in my hair. It was a mistake I made when I bleached it the first time, but I decided to keep it for stylistic effect. I grab a cane, completing the look, which also doubled as another gun, and slid into the plane I stole. I did some redecorating with it, mainly so it didn't look like a stolen military vehicle, and added some additional technology of my own to boost its performance.

Around 30 minutes later, I set the plane down in a nearby field, and I start walking towards a nearby city. This one was much more crowded, but I wasn't intending on shutting it down. At least, not yet. I came here about once every two weeks, mainly for one thing: intel. Same place, same time. As I neared the building, the sounds of heavy bass filled the streets, and only grew louder. I tip the rim of my fedora lower, take a deep breath, and open the door of the night club. Cigarette smoke fills my nostrils as I step inside, the bass ringing in my ears and deafening me. Glasses clinked, the sound of laughter barely heard over the echoing booms. I make my way over to bar, crossing my legs as I sit on the worn-out cushion of a stool. A man's paradise. A woman's nightmare. Well, except for the few strip dancers that make a living out of a pathetic job. I look away in disgust, my eyes drifting up to the bartender standing in front of me.

"May I get you something to drink?"

"Perhaps some... dihydrogen monoxide," I smirk. The bartender looks at me strangely, and after a moment's hesitation, walks away. A few seconds later, a different bartender approaches me, placing a glass of water in front of me. He could easily pass off for a punk rocker of some sorts, his bright, spikey, neon green hair very noticeable in the dark lighting, and a small reflection shone from his nose piercing. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up, and I reach my hand out as we perform our little handshake. Samuel Zoroth, my partner in crime, if you want to call him that. He supplies me with all the info I ever need for my missions.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he says in a horrible French accent. He always tries to impress me in a new way somehow every time we meet. "Care for something else to drink?"

"The usual, bitte," I say.

"German today, huh?"

"¿Me prefieres hablar español?" He looks at me with confusion, and plants his hands on the table.

"Yo no... uh... understando Spanisho."

"Gold star for you," I mutter as he pours a glass of aged whiskey. I used to be an alcoholic, but my drinking habits have long disappeared. I still don't mind the occasional drink though. He sets the drink down in front of me and slides a black folder across the table. I take a sip of whiskey while he lights a cigar, and carefully look at the contents inside. "You never cease to amaze me Sam."

"And you never cease to adore me Sasha." I've made the mistake of telling my real name to someone too many times, it's for the best that Sam doesn't know it as well. He leans closer to me, attempting a kiss, but I swat him away, absorbing the information inside the folder. He puffs some smoke out, waiting for me to finish. I flip a page over, looking for something, and not finding it, I look back at Sam.

"There's a person missing from what I asked."

"Now, mademoiselle, this person was extra tricky to find. However, I am very close on his trail. Give me one more week, and I'll have what you asked for." One week. I wasn't hoping for a delay, but Sam has always kept his promises.

"One week it is." I finish the glass, and stood back up. "Gute nacht Sam."

"Au revoir, mademoiselle."