Welcome to Gaia! ::

I remain temporarily still as my body falls victim to an unmistakable sensation. It is an ever too familiar chill; a significant, yet scientifically fictitious decline in the temperature of my blood. The resident gray sky weeps silently upon the cobblestone streets from which I came, but I know this to be distant from the reason. As I adjust to the icy feeling, my hands colder than the Walther pressed steadily between the two, I proceed quietly through the dismal corridor. On either side it is littered with doors that, if given tongues, would complain about the issue of their personal space. The rain pitter-patters against the weathered steel frame and glass panels of the overhang.
These are called 'The Luxembourg Apartments,' which is a name that is ill suited for the likes of such a s**t hole. In the midst of my pursuance of the target, I reflect that if I had founded such a substandard establishment, I'd have given it a name like 'Desperate heights' and, in the place of where the sign reads 'For those who live lavishly,' it would instead read 'I guess it'll have to do' and correlation between name and reputation would be endlessly more appropriate. This chill; this dreadful ice in my veins that I have become utterly accustomed to is not the work of that which I have selectively become. It can only be attributed to the events that lead to my decision – the decision to lend myself as a weapon to those who could verily be the sentinels of peaceful society or the worst of corrupted politicians and bureaucrats. To me, it makes no difference. It comforts me to think of myself as nothing more than the gun – designed and built to serve a purpose and deadly efficient in doing so. This is just the sort of derelict mentality I need to prevail in an otherwise lonely and unbearable world.
I grit my teeth at the delicate sound of sand and road dirt beneath my shoe as I hastily take cover beside a large, dead potted plant. The target displays no reaction to the noise. A well trained operative masking his awareness of my presence? My instinct convinces me otherwise. Paranoia is a common side-effect of my vocation. It's not unheard of for an operative to become so careful that he begins to regard the slightest discrepancies in his plans to be monumental failures, despite their having little or no bearing on the completion of the mission. I also consider the fact that one would need access to top-tier counter-surveillance training in order to fully restrain the body's natural tendency to make even the most subtle changes in the way it moves once the brain is wary of watching eyes. The mission briefing mentioned nothing of the sort and the target's movements remain reassuringly consistent. Loud music begins to bellow from a window on the upper level and the corridor is soon flooded with brilliant sound of the Electric Light Orchestra.



A feint buzzing in my right ear moments after Jeff Lynne emits the first few lyrics carries the voice of the handsome, muscular, gray middle-aged man from Lester that I have come to know as Miles Parker, but this mission would have me call him 'Charlie One.' Miles is a veteran spook. He's been working for 'five' for a number of years – a high number that he's likely told me but I've apparently forgotten to remember.

“Party's on, Alpha One. Hope you like the choice in tunes, I heard it's your favorite.”

The words are projected into my head via a standard-issue earpiece. Television would have you believe that the earpieces used by spies are the same as those used by bodyguards and the like, with a black or white spiral chord dangling from your lobe into the neck of your jacket. When I was younger and I watched such television programs and movies like James Bond, I refused to believe this was the case. My suspicions were acknowledged the first time one was issued to me. It was molded to the shape of my inner ear, matched to the tone of my pale skin and had no chords, wires or strings attached. They told me that it had a battery life of approximately four months without need for a charge, it operated on some sort of ultra-special encoded radio frequency and that it listened to my voice mostly through the vibrations transmitted through my skeletal structure rather than external sound waves, so as to cancel out any unwanted background noise.

All of this was taught to me by the sort of nasty, snobby woman in her late forties that talks down to you, making obvious her presumption of your lesser intellect despite your not having gone so far as to part your lips. She hadn't recently begun to show her wrinkles; the demanding nature of her career in spy gadgetry had made certain of this – in fact, they (meaning the wrinkles) seemed to be older than she was. That was twelve years ago, when I joined them. Fidelity, bravery, integrity. Interestingly, these words, while plastered on the walls of their facilities, were never once spoken. Unlike my colleagues, my training was American.



I vividly remember the day that I, having decided that my life could be put to better uses than entertaining what had become nothing more than a mundane existence, tracked a man I believed to be an intelligence officer to an unmarked building in Manhattan. I walked through the front door into a lobby chock full o' suits. I had no way of knowing whether I had been right about the man I followed there; about him being a spy. Enthusiastically, however, I took my chances and presented the desk clerk with a six millimeter pistol aimed at her head (I believe it was a Beretta 21). A few words and moments later, I had effectively turned myself into the prey of sixteen or seventeen men, all of which had a clear shot at me and were poised to fire. I didn't know what value they placed in one desk clerk, meaning I might have easily died on the spot, but it didn't matter. I was there to join their ranks and made that much clear to them during the brief stalemate I had caused by taking a hostage. One of them lost his patience and put a hole in the back of my leg. It hurt like hell, and I faltered, but I didn't go down – at least, not right away. In retrospect, if I had intended to shoot the girl behind the desk, I could have done it even after they had shot me. I didn't, though. I dropped my gun and let my body kiss the floor. The pain was immense, but the loss of blood was worse. The latter caused me to black out and, from that moment on, I had placed myself at the mercy of an agency I knew nothing about.



When I awoke, I found myself tied to a chair in a concrete room. The pain in my leg was ever present, but it was wrapped in a clean bandage and it felt as though they had removed the bullet from within. I was soon introduced to a man and, interestingly, a woman who beat me to within an inch of my life as I sat helpless, bound tightly to a severely uncomfortable chair. From what I understand, the torture and interrogation lasted several weeks. I distinctly recall an instance when the man, particularly well built, lifted me and my chair above his head and tossed both across the room. The chair was fine, but my body had seen better days. I can still feel the side of my head crashing, first into the concrete wall and second into the floor which was, not so mercifully, also concrete. In addition, the rope used to secure me was tearing away at my arm flesh. The pain was annoying. My thoughts were constantly fixed on the desire to die rather than endure more of the abuse and humiliation. Of course, after a while I decided to quit my internal bitching. Eventually they realized that my life was of as little concern to me as it was to them. It was ironic. One day, I was sitting in a chair being spat on, having the hair pulled from my scalp and hit continuously both above and below the neckline. The next, I was given a clean suit and my right hand became sweaty after having shaken with so many others. I did, however, expect it to occur precisely in this way if fate saw fit to keep me alive. For better or worse, it did.



Over the course of the next few years, I went through some properly difficult training throughout which I may have forgotten the definition of leisure. Shortly after I was activated for field duty was when I saw her face for the first time in eight years. I was told I was to be working with her. I couldn't bear to look at her or the ring on her finger. Having suffered various traumatic experiences since the last time we spoke, I can attest to the fact that none of them ever came close to the despair I felt on the night of her betrayal. Seeing her again, after so many years of working hard to forget, was equally destructive. She hadn't any idea it was me. By the time we 'met,' I already had a new name and a legend to go with it. As a result, she never confronted me, but I couldn't stand to be around her. That's why I deserted.



It wasn't long before they tracked me down. I was approached by a single man in a suit on a dock alongside the Hudson. I wondered why he came alone. He was a frail old man, the likes of which I could have dismantled in seconds with the training they had given me. He asked me why I left, and I told him with honesty.

“You'd better learn to control your honesty, young man. You're in the lying business, you know.”

That is what he said. He made me an offer, and I willingly accepted. I was transferred, first to the CIA. The CIA exchanged me for someone across the pond; it was what they called an 'act of good will between allied nations.' When I was flown to London and brought to Vauxhall Cross, I was told they needed to 'verify my validity.' I soon learned that this meant another opportunity to be tied to a chair. MI-6 were concerned that I might have intent to leak information to the Americans. It made me wonder if my limey equivalent was experiencing similar difficulties in New York. After their suspicions were put to rest, I became an active MI-6 field operative.
They sent me on a mission in Italy where I killed an Italian man believed to be an arms dealer in correspondence with the Al Quaeda powers that be. Sometimes I can still feel the prickliness of his abundant, somewhat greasy facial hair that seemed to thrash away at my palms and fingers as I jerked his head sideways, diverting his attention to whatever it is that succeeds earthly life. No more than three days after my return to London, I was told I'd be replacing a high ranking MI-5 operative, and two days after that I found myself on the other side of the Thames. The entire transition was instant, like the casual sex of a pair of goldfish. It had only been two months since I saw her face... Her ring. I often wonder what life would be like if she and I had been married, but not as often as I used to. She wasn't prepared. I do hope she's thought about it this time. The target approaches a door marked '17.' The music skips to the next track.



I watch closely as he raises his hand to knock on the door, but it'll prove to be difficult with a nine millimeter tunnel through his skull. I raise my weapon and fire a round, taking care to be sure it's lethal. The sound of his demise is brilliantly masked – the shot is silenced and the loud music hides the noise a body makes when it hits the ground. Quickly, I 'tip-toe' my way to the body and drag it thirty or so feet away from the door, out of sight. I speak in a soft tone.

“Charlie one, target has been disincentivized, over.”
“Copy that, Alpha one. Proceed with stage two.”

The dead potted plant from earlier provides for an excellent disposal of my gun. After hiding it there, I make my way back to the door marked '17' and knock on it thrice. A blonde-haired Welsh man opens the door, looks me up and down and says a few words to me.

“Men make their own history, but under circumstances already existing.”

I smile gently and give my response.

“Alas, the dead past lies like a nightmare on the minds of the living.”

The man nods and proceeds with his fondling of my person. Finding no weapons, he allows me into the room. The place is a goddamned mess. There are three sleeping bags laid out across the floor and empty snack bags and fast food cartons strewn about as they are in a landfill. I begin to fraternize with them, as this is the first step in earning their trust which is, despite this mission's nearing closure, vital.

“Place is a shambles.”

“That's what happens when you work as hard as we do.”

“Naturally. It reeks of the noble sweat of noble men.”

“Right, that and s**t as well, ey? Doesn't matter. Tomorrow's greatness is to be spawned from the filth of today.”

“And yesterday, and last week, it seems. How're you getting along with the device?”

“It's in place and our equipment is in working order. We're ready, so long as you've confirmed.”

“I have. We have a green light to launch the operation.”

“Good, then.”

I follow the man to the desk at the far end of the room where another man sits in a chair, staring at a computer screen. Open on the screen is a command prompt with a large amount of recent activity, presumably tests and preparations. The cursor blinks at the very end, awaiting the next command. By observing the past activity displayed, many of which are 'ping' and 'tracert' commands, I can surmise that the bomb has been wired to a workstation somewhere in London and will be triggered upon receiving a ping from a specific address. A number of IT experts in the 'terrorism industry' use this method, as it allows for the use of existing protocols rather than having to write new ones. It's a crude and simple but relatively foolproof method of remote bomb detonation, nearly undetectable to hackers because it's mostly independent hardware responding to a ping which is the simplest form of communication between computers connected to the internet.
The man in the chair says nothing and begins to type away. He inputs the four letters, PING and starts to enter an address. Thinking quickly, I improvise.

“All power to the Soviets!”

I raise my hand and yell, in an attempt to rouse the two men to join me. They both do the same, repeating my words.

“All power to the Soviets!”

I repeat it as well, loudly, in chorus with the man in the chair, who has stopped typing but his gaze hasn't diverted from the screen. The man standing beside me, however, isn't allowed the chance. The yelling of both myself and the man at the computer allows me to neutralize him. I place my left hand on his left shoulder, using it as leverage as I bury my middle and forefingers deep in his vagus nerve, causing immediate paralysis and, maintaining the same pressure for another second until the other man is finished with his words, death. I make no effort to hide the fact that I've killed him, as there is no need.
As the man in the chair begins to turn toward me, I plant a well-placed punch in the side of his head, sending him to the ground where, a few moments later, I pin him and strike his adam's apple with the hind of my palm. Sitting on him for no more than a little while, I watch his desperate yet brief fight for air before he finally suffocates. Crawling over his body, I make my way to the computer screen and my eyes scan that which has been entered in the command prompt. He hadn't the chance to input the full IP address of the target computer, but he had input most of it, meaning I could use his previous inputs as a reference and find the closest match.

“Charlie one, IP address is one seven two point one six point two five four point one. Repeat, one seven two point one six point two five four point one. Copy?”

“Roger, Alpha one. Let me read that back to you. One seven two point one six point two five four point one. Copy?”

“Acknowledged.”

“Right, we'll cut all power in the vicinity of that address until we locate the device. Good work, Alpha one. We'll send in a clean up team.”

“Roger. Two hostiles have been neutralized, over.”

It is at this very moment that I come to the realization that I may have made a grave error. Two hostiles... Three sleeping bags.

The faintest noise from behind me puts me at high alert, albeit too late. I feel the knife plunge deep into the flesh of my back, one and a half to two inches to the right of my spine. From my mouth there is a loud shriek of pain and I fall backward, trying my hardest to land on my wrists so as to avoid letting the knife dive any deeper inside me. I am barely successful in doing so and, as I struggle on the floor, I watch as the third man whose presence I was unaware of takes a seat at the computer. He begins to enter characters on the keyboard and, using all of my energy, I kick the wheeled chair out from under him so that he falls sideways unto the floor. I manage to crawl on top of him, holding him down, all the while hearing in the back of my mind the sounds emitting from my ear transmitter – Miles calling to me and asking me to respond. I hear the sound of the door being forcibly opened and, just before a great blackness clouds my vision, the words “Freeze!” and “MI-5” and the still continuing lyrics of Jeff Lynne.



My thoughts, slowly dwindling, become fixed upon her. Her silken hair upon her pale freckled skin shone beautifully in the evening sun as she softly emitted the word “forever” and I wish, with every lasting part of me, that forever had never ended.

I thought the piece was good,However It reads a touch awkwardly at times.Also the fact it wasn't explained who this woman was, is rather irritating.Also disincentivized isn't a word disincentivize is(apparently) however another word would perhaps fit better

Addendum:How is he able to follow a trained agent to their headquarters with no known training? It seem's like a logical flaw in an otherwise good story.(Hypocrisy)