"Boom, headshot." Animated death. Pixelated gore. Imaginary hands ejected a carefully rendered magazine, sliding another one in with the rote memory of a computerized professional. "Boom, headshot." A meme in monotone, as devoid of humor as it was meaning. Having made the entire FPS genre his bitch during one particularly unmemorable summer while his classmates were out getting laid or smoking pot or whatever it was college kids did these days, there was little hope for the little shooter that could. Like an endless number of mechanically similar titles it would go into the disorganized stacks that surrounded his digital altar like a blocky halo. The stuff of geeky wet-dreams, a command center worthy of the movies that had inspired it, a dozen and a half monitors ran over with information. Video-feeds, text messages scrolling by in neat little windows, the muted, jagged patterns of phone conversations being zipped, encrypted and archived, it was sensory overload in its purest form. Which, of course, was just how Mamushi liked it. Leaning back with a low sigh, he let his digital-self die to some idiot with an AWP waiting for the lucky spawn-kill. Camping fuck. The motion disturbed the inch and a half long pile of ash at the end of his cigarette, toppling it down into what would inevitably become yet another grey smear on his black sweat pants, but who the hell cared? He had more. He could [i]buy[/i] more, if it came down to it, he practically owned stock in the damn sweat-shop company that made the stupid things. Somewhere in middle America were dozens of poor children, running around in once-or-twice worn black sweatpants--whoever it was that cleaned the place on the abysmally rare occasions he called for it donated them to some stupid charity or another, so look at that. He was, he snorted and flicked the butt of his Marlboro into an overflowing ash tray, a veritable philanthropist. Unlike what seemed like the entire rest of the local Syndicate, Mamushi couldn't give less of a shit about what he looked like. And why, his impeccably organized brain argued rhetorically and saved for witty-retort-fodder later, should he? He spent so little time outside he had a fucking prescription for Vitamin D, who exactly was he supposed to be impressing? A beep from the kitchen drew him out of his thoughts in the way that only food could. Trader Joe's Baby Backs weren't about to eat themselves. Another entirely [i]different[/i] beep brought him screaming back to the computer faster than he could tear off his oven mitts. Something had just gone dark. Dark was bad. The Crest cameras were out. It took him less than a second to find that much out--hot keys were his friend--but the question was why. They were [i]all[/i] out. A quick check to the parking lot cameras showed people filing out, but another quick check confirmed that there were no alarms sounding. No police, no fire, no nothing. Though speaking of police… "The fuck?" He muttered, typing one-handed as he reflexively snagged another cigarette. There [i]was[/i] some police chatter on the band, little ants swarming over--something. He moved in nano-expressions, without thought, winding back the recorded stream thirty seconds and playing it at time-and-a-half. Shots fired, squad en route, 43rd and… "The fuck?!" He demanded, more vehemently this time as he pulled up the traffic camera to watch some old motherfucker dragging the unconscious figure of Lex Mason out of what looked like a crash…involving two dead guys outside their car and what looked like their handguns on the pavement. His fingers were already moving for his VOIP when one of the smaller monitors caught his eye and, incidentally, froze his blood. It was the one connected to the little web-cam he'd installed just across from his apartment door, nestled gently in some trendy planter or another. The man it showed looked like no form of delivery men, utility men, or cleaning service. He could have, in fact, been one of Mamushi's associates considering how hard he was humping Tommy Hilfiger's fashion sense. He was also screwing a silencer onto a very-efficient looking pistol and leveling it for the deadbolt. Time stopped for a single, incredulous moment. More than terror, or rage, or any other emotion he could really discern, Mamushi felt on the verge of hysterics. [i]Really?[/i] Something inside him seemed to laugh, with a chuckle that almost made its way to a legitimate nervous signal. [i]Seriously?[/i] The answer, of course, was forthcoming. The door was in pieces, a black suited body moving through. Mamushi was running--since when, a moronic part of his brain was already snorting sardonically, did he [i]run[/i]?--for the bedroom, scrabbling over empty and full plastic cases, magazines, old pairs of sweat pants. Did he have a gun? He had to have a gun, he was a fucking mobster. Mobsters had guns. Except he didn’t. Why, really, would he? He wasn't muscle, he didn't do wet work. He was [i]protected[/i], dammit, anyone who knew where he lived wanted him there doing what he did. His apartment wasn't pent-house but it was close--gated community, new place, upscale. This sort of thing didn't [i]happen[/i] here. The silenced bullet impacting the wall just to the left of his head, as he dived into the bedroom and scrabbled to his feet across the plush white carpet, said otherwise. He had seconds. Three, if he was lucky, probably less, and he was already spending one of them stumbling to his feet. The shitty plywood of the door sprouted a trio of holes--Sergeant Asshole was apparently not taking any chances--and Mamushi looked for the first thing that could possibly be interpreted as useful for self-defense. 'twas nerdery that saved the beast. Mamushi, like any good geek worth his salt, had an unused daisho set sitting on top of his equally unused dresser. He'd gotten them for himself as a present when he was a teenager and had, at the time, been very proud that he'd gone through the trouble of making sure they were full-tang, 'combat ready' implements of murder. That he'd never actually done anything with them was beside the point--having them had instantly given him the sense of cred he'd desired, and they were summarily ignored for the remainder of his live-long days. There was no reason it should have worked. He was not a trained and lethal fighting machine, some ancient master of his heritage's long-lost samurai traditions. His hours of video-gaming did not prepare him for the probable trajectory or give him any insight as to how the hit-man was going to enter the room. The only thing working in his favor was very likely the fact that said hit-man realized just how stupid an idea it was, and as such was dumb-founded by kicking open the door to a wiry Asian punk with a katana. The wild swing caught the man's hand at the wrist of his gun hand…and took it off. Literally. There was…so much blood. So much more blood than Mamushi was expecting that he actually took a few steps back, shocked and wet from the arterial burst. More than the assassin was expecting as well, from the blank look on his face--he didn't really seem to process it, and for an awkward moment neither of the pair really knew what to do. They stared, dumbly, to the hand on the floor before all of a sudden the bond was broken. The man lunged for him, Mamushi fell backwards with a strangled yell-- It took him a moment to realize several things. One was that he was still alive; how he would have died in that time was anyone's guess, but somehow it was surprising enough on its own. Two, he couldn't breathe; falling backwards with about a hundred and eighty pounds of assassin on top of him seemed to have knocked the wind out of him. Three, he was soaking, and this more than anything else made him realize just how fucked things were. Somehow he'd managed to put the sword between them, and it was currently lodged surprisingly firmly in the man's solar plexus. Sticking out like a red crescent from his back, the blade itself hung quivering in the air above them as Mamushi struggled to push the weakly shuddering body off of himself. His head was spinning, he could barely get his breath back, he couldn't even think. What the [i]Hell[/i] was going on? The timer went off again. Impossibly, the fact that his ribs were burning did not escape him. --- One shower, two cigarettes and three text-messages later, Mamushi had the good sense to check his stupid phone. [i]Hope it's still safe. Omw.[/i]