The wind lifted PBlade’s coat tails up and around, billowing them in the gusts that played across the rooftop. He stepped away from the cracked flooring that marked his landing and walked on through the afternoon. A nearby door opened and a woman carrying a washing basket appeared, investigating into the large thud on the roof of her apartment, no doubt. She looked across at the strange-faced man pacing along with a quizzical expression, but all she received in return was an equally puzzled shrug as he continued on, regardless.
The afternoon clouds had given way, somewhat, and the bright orange sun shone through the remaining haze as the day drew on. ‘Same time next week’ he thought, smiling to himself. Perhaps it would be.
The shrill tone of his phone ringing broke the serenity of the moment, shattering the peace and tranquillity of his relaxation—an indulgence not often available—with the cold and stressful normality of his everyday business. He reached to his pocket to retrieve it, pulling it out and looking at the ID: “Operator”
The bullet sliced through his lower leg before he could answer.
He whirled around in an attempt to face his attacker, but his newly damaged right leg buckled under the strain and failed him. PBlade crumpled to the ground as pain flooded up from the wound. His phone dropped from his hand and snapped open on the floor. The distant voice of his Operator murmured from the speaker;
“PBlade! PBlade? We’ve got trouble… PBlade?!”
Alarm bells were ringing in his head, and pain was streaming from his leg, but PBlade managed to glare up at his attacker with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, determined to see the face of his assailant. When the enemy addressed him, his blood ran cold in his veins.
“Mr. Stewart”
The Agent dropped his arm—propping up his sleek Desert Eagle—and began moving towards the downed Operative, stepping over a fallen washing basket in front of him. PBlade considered trying to get away, but at this point it seemed irrelevant; with a badly damaged leg and considering his opponent, his chances of escape were slim to none. But he still had one ace up his sleeve, he thought.
“You are a slippery one, Mr. Stewart. I feel your demise will do much to exacerbate your Organisation’s eradication”
“Yeah? It’ll take more than a bullet in this fake hellhole to get rid of me and what I stand for, tin head!” PBlade spat back at the Agent through gritted teeth. His eyesight was faltering, and his arms grew weak from propping him up, combined with the blood loss. He coughed, and a little blood followed his breath.
“Quite right” the Agent replied, matter-of-factly as always, “which is why we have prepared a platoon of sentinels to attack your ship. Even now they move on your insignificant base of Operations”
PBlade’s eyes widened, “No. You won’t get the ship. They’ll detonate an EMP and blow your squiddies to hell”
“The destruction of your craft is irrelevant, Mr. Stewart, as are the lives of your crewmen. The detonation of your EMP will sever the connection you have to the Matrix, which will save me the task of shooting you. The destruction of your ship by Sentinel will also result in your demise” a dangerously malicious snarl grew across the Agent’s features, as his algorithms processed the eventualities before him, “I have no need to shoot you down, Mr. Stewart. I have done my part by immobilising you here”
PBlade’s breath grew shallow as a combined result of his blood loss and fear at his impending fate, his skin was pale and his arm support failed him. Prone on the ground, he muttered denials and incoherent babblings.
The Agent stepped away from the doomed man and put his hand to his earpiece momentarily. Turning back to him, he smiled at the delirious ranting he saw, “You are a man slowly accepting his fate, Mr. Stewart.” He looked down at the man he had brought to justice and smirked that evil smirk once again. “Rest assured, Mr. Stewart, I can tell you with near absolute, mathematical certainly, that your death is…inevitable”
- Fin
