"You wanna bike!?  I'll give you a bike!"  Archer stormed out of Daniels' office... "I'll fucking run you ov..." ...slamming the door and drowning out the Sergeant's tirade.  Swearing and huffing and puffing, Archer marched through the office booths.  He passed, looking around at other people like [i]David Cartwright[/i] - 'by the book' agent, rarely in trouble... people like [i]Wynne Scottson[/i] - practically born and raised in the company, rose through the ranks in 'the right way...' every face he saw, he felt jealousy and undeserved anger towards.  It was such a difficult job to be an assassin - an agent for Lightning Corp - how the hell did [i]they[/i] not make mistakes that were highlighted and featured for all to see?  So annoying.  After crossing the office floor, he punched the button for the lift.  Other than getting out of his way, no one else paid much attention really.  This was nothing new.  The young assassin looked around, fired up and ready to answer any comments nevertheless.

"Risk my life [i]every[/i] night out there and this is the fuckin thanks I get."  When the lift doors opened with a [i][b]<BING>[/b][/i] the assassin walked inside and punched the ground floor button.  The doors shut and the lift began to descend.  Archer shook his head and breathed out audibly.  This job had been so much easier when [i]she[/i] was around....................


[i]Inside the Brunswick Road Cathedral, Archer ran up the spiral staircase of the steeple, taking the steps two and three at a time, golden guns in his hands.  He didn't stop at the top, shoulder-barging the door through and aiming his guns about as he strafed inside the upper-most room of the sanctuary.  When he laid eyes on the target, it took him a moment to realize the situation.

"Hahaha...!" he guffawed, holstering one of his twin desert eagles.  "Hey Mac!  Come look at this whoppin bannana!"

You could hear MacKensie Trydant's huge catapillar boots thundering up the staircase before she glided in, taking off her silver shades to put her emerald eyes on the vampire in the corner.  The creature had fled to the nearest building as sunrise came, which, unfortunately for it, was a holy building.  Now, even more unfortunately, it was trapped in the shadowy corner of the room, kept prisoner by the intruding rays of sunshine coming through the stainglass window.  It had nowhere to go.  MacKensie chuckled.  "Well ain't that some shit," she remarked.  Then, a little louder to their prisoner:  "Haven't you had just the worst night?"

The vampire hissed at her.  "One day, Trydant, you will get yours."

MacKensie waved away the retort.  "Please..." she shook her head derisively.  "I musta heard a hundred of you sucker-heads make the same claim.  Each one of them has tasted stake."  She drew a silver stake out to show him a sample.  "Medium Rare."  He hissed even louder.  "Finish the job, Brandon."

Archer stepped forward and put two bullets in the vampire's skull, then he caught the stake his mentor threw to him and knelt down to drive it into the vampire's heart.  The body started glowing gold before it burned up into sand and ash.  Archer fished around the remains and retrieved his silver bullet casings.  They could be salvaged later on.  "Less than 24 hours from business to pleasure.  That has to be some sort of record.  I could do this job in my sleep."

MacKensie turned on her heels, making her trench coat whirl behind her as she exitted the room.  "Good, because I'm leaving to go back to Italy today.  You'll be on your own from here on out."

"Wh-"  Archer span around, his face aghast with shock as he stared at MacKensie's back slowly disappearing down the spiral stairs.  "What?"

"You're training's done, Brandon.  You're an agent now."

Archer was rooted to the spot, the dusty remains of the vampire, Cicero, for company.

Outside the church, MacKensie was waiting, smoking a cigarette and watching cars pass with those cat-like, emerald eyes of hers.  Archer often wondered how on earth the woman smoked twenty a day and still managed to outrun him all the time.  She was special.  She was MacKensie Trydant - The baddest bitch Archer had ever known.  As he fell in beside her, she turned her head sharply to regard him, then sharply back with a smirk.  "Awwww," she purred.  "You're upset.  I'm touched."

Archer was a little embarrassed but no more-so than she'd made him before.  It had been two and half years since she'd saved his life in Ninth Avenue Subway Station, but it had all flown by.  Even with all she'd told him about her life, all the clues and hints she'd dropped, he never considered that she would one day leave America and him behind.  Or at least, he'd never wanted to consider it.  "I thought we were a team, Mac."

"Don't be such a pussy," she shot back as she waved a black cab down.  It did a U-turn and pulled up next to them.  "I don't fuck pussies."  She gave him that unsmiling but playful look that would normally melt his kneecaps, but today it didn't.  She dipped into the cab and Archer followed.

The ride was in silence, MacKensie studying Archer as he stared out of the window at the scenery.  He waited for her to speak so he could tell her, 'Fuck you, you could've warned me!' but she never did.  They never spoke another word to each other ever again.  Archer stopped the cab near his apartment in Brooklyn and got out without even so much as a glance at his former mentor.  He heard her give the driver directions before the cab drove off.  Immediately he regretted his decision, but what was done was done...................[/i]

[i][b]<BING>[/b][/i] - The lift doors opened.

There was plenty of work to be done and the night was young, so Archer walked through the through the city to Club Brood - always his first port of call when he had a new assignment.  A man called [i]The Wizard[/i] owned the place.  MacKensie had introduced him to The Wizard, a man that was no mortal, to be certain, but Archer wasn't exactly sure what he was. MacKensie neither.  Some kind of demon, perhaps.  Apparently, The Wizard was everywhere.  Literally everywhere.  All the time.  He owned property and businesses all around the world and he personally attended every one, every single hour of every single day.  Apparently.  He was, as to be expected, always well-up on current events in New York when it came to the underground, non-human scene.  An indispensable source of information who was always happy to help his friends, and Archer was a friend... apparently.

He turned up at the club and bypassed the queue of punters, walking straight up to the double doors that were sentried by two, six-six mountains.  The music was thumping even stood out front.  The bouncers recognized him and stepped aside.  Reaching into his pocket, he leisurely pulled out his silver shades and placed them on carefully, nodded to one of the bouncers and walked in.  Club Brood felt like it was literally shaking and it had only just turned dark outside. Inside, the only light came from neon blinkers, traffic lights and strobe lighting, illuminating the crowds of sweaty people dancing to synthesized techno beats. His sunglasses made it harder to see in the dark club but it was worth it. The non-humans in Club Brood always recognized the silver shades. They feared them. It represented MacKensie Trydant. 

He navigated the crowds with a turn of the shoulder here and a gentle push there, arriving at the bottom of a metal staircase blocked off by someone with his back turned.  Archer tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around, a mean look on his face until he saw who it was.  Promptly, he raised his hands in surrender and stepped aside.  Archer gave a teethy grin, his laugh completely muted by the deafening music.  He went up to the second floor and there, a man was waiting with open arms. "Archer. A pleasure to see you." He didn't shout, yet his voice was clear in the ears of the agent. "Go on up," the man continued. "I am waiting."


[h3][center][b]***[/b][/center][/h3]

High up above, at the massive window of his private quarters, Sergei Romanov, also known as [i]The Wizard,[/i] stood and watched his club. He stood with his hands linked together behind his back. His suit was jet-black and expensive. His slick, black hair was gelled back and shiny, highlighting a thin, pale face.

"The post-modern age..." he mused. "Don't you just love it, hmm?" The man sat over on the cushioned seats smiled, exposing the short fangs of shape-shifted demon. Serge continued. "Elves and dwarves, dungeons and dragons... witchcraft and wizardry..." he turned from the window and strolled into the centre of the room. The room itself resembled the lounge of a penthouse suite. Decked with a fine, white carpet - there were leather, cushioned seats, a bar in the corner and cream wallpaper. "...The Great Cataclysm... The Sumer Empire, the Romans, European feudalism... I've seen it all, my friend. But [i]Western Capitalism[/i], well... I have to say; it has been the greatest age. Perpetual-growth business, the military-industrial complex, Wall Street, lightspeed communication... and it turns out, after all these years, that the stars are not gods nor heaven but [i]places to go[/i].  How can you not love that?" The demon laughed out loud this time and Sergei smiled, though he needed little encouragement for his eccentric soliloquys.  He was about to continue when he was suddenly distracted. "Ah... we have a guest."

Not longer after did a knock come at the door and it opened, revealing Mr Brandon Archer.

"Come in, my friend," again Serge greeted him with open arms. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Archer took off his shades and put them in his inside coat pocket. "I think you might know."

"Tell me anyway," Serge shot back playfully, gesturing to a set of sofas on the opposite side of the room to where the humanoid was sat.  Archer sat down and Serge carefully placed himself on the sofa opposite, then crossed one leg over the other.  Here, Archer explained the situation, about the mysterious beast that was attacking innocent civilians. Serge listened tentatively, but the young assassin got the feeling that he knew all this already. The Wizard was everywhere, after all.  All the time.  When Archer was finished, there was a brief silence, then Serge got up. "Would you like a drink?" He made his way over to the bar. "Jack Daniels," he said, reciting Archer's favourite drink. "And you, sir?" he asks the humanoid, who politely declined with a shake of his head.

"Cheers," Archer said not very enthusiastically.  He knew he had to play along with the Wizard's game to get the prize but he wasn't known for his patience.  Sergei had noticed this about Archer from early on in their relationship and he liked to push the assassin's buttons.  He would do as entertainment, for a while.

"So..." Sergei started.  In his glass was a large ice cube sculpted perfectly into a rosehead.  With the vodka it swirled around his glass.  "...Lightning Corp joins the race for Aurora."  Archer's chin raised slightly as he tried to keep a poker face.  Sergei smiled.  He was so easy to read.  And so fun to toy with.  "For every point you earn, I shall tell you something about your Lycan.  I think that sounds fair, hmm."

"What's the game?" Archer asked, radiating a hopefulness that it would be something he was good at.  Sergei wasn't sure exactly what that game would look like.  His private room wasn't big or suitable enough for any kind of athletic challenge.

"The Game of Kings," Sergei replied, getting back up to retrieve a chess board and two bags of pieces from nearby.

"Oh yeah, what's that then?"  Sergei handed him a bag of the white pieces, and placed down the board on the table between them.  "Please be checkers... aw, for fuck's sake."

That made Sergei chortle, and even got an involuntary laugh from the humanoid in the background.  "I trust you know the rules."  Archer replied affirmatively.  "One piece of information per point."