A2:TR - Official Reports Thread

[Amorphous]

Hello, all! Here is where the reports will go... eventually, when stuff happens.

Players may not post in this thread. It's not a prima donna thing, it's to try and keep things easy to find instead of having reports get lost among 'healthy Sinner debate'.

Have fun playing!

Amorphous - The Scribe and Assistant Umpire

[Frank]

Quoting Amorphous from 11:42, 13th Nov 2006'healthy Sinner debate'.

I believe it's been established to be pedantry.



Welcome one and all, to the glorious, cuthroat world of Assassins.

Hopefully this should be a good one, let's keep this thread quiet except for the tales of death and destruction (more death, less destruction...a motto?)


[hr]

"There is only ever one truth. Things are always black or white, there's no such thing as a shade of grey. If you think that something is a shade of grey it simply means that you don't fully understand the situation. The truth is narrow and the path of the pursuit of truth is similarly narrow."

[Amorphous]

(...and it was JUST squeezed into the first 24 hours of Assassins starting. There I was worrying it was going to be a dull game...)

Tuesday, approximately 9pm, back of the Gin House. As the Race2Paris contenders drank, danced and talked, two figures slipped away from the revelry and met in the darkest corner of the room.

Orson cast a suspicious glance around at the crowd. Satisfied that no-one was watching, he turned to Countess Montagui and opened his holdal to reveal the merchandise: a long-barreled silver pistol, befitting of a lady of Countess Montagui's stature. "Let me see the money in advance," Orson demanded.

Countess Montagui nodded and looked down to seek out her purse. Orson saw his chance, quickly attached a silencer to his own gun and fired - instantly Countess Montagui slumped back against the wall, money in her silk-gloved hand.

Quickly, Orson snatched the money and mingled his way back into the crowd before leaving the Gin House altogether.

One less person will be racing to Paris this year.

[Amorphous]

Glugger frowned with physical exertion as he concentrated on the task, determined that what lay in front of him would be unrecognisable by the time he finished, beating it again and again until his fists ached. Having finished with the cake mix he sat down, taking a well-earned rest.

In the silence he glanced at the clock. 10.15pm - he'd survived the first twenty-four hours without being killed. Just another however-many to go...

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of a breaking window accompanied by demented monkey shrieks. Within seconds the enraged monkey was upon him, and within a minute there was little more damage that could be done. As Glugger lay bleeding his last thought was that somehow, in some strange way, this seemed so very, very familiar.

Outside the house, Gumball emitted a low whistle. Instantly the monkey retained its sense of decorum and returned to its master, leaping back through the first-storey window to the bushes where he lurked. Gumball surveyed the damage, then turned to walk away. With the police in this town, they'd probably think it was rabies or something.

[Amorphous]

Countess Montagui awoke slowly in the morning, drowsy from the drugs and the transfusion and goodness knows what else the doctors had done to keep her alive. Woozily she glanced around the room, thankful that in his short-sighted avarice Orson had not thought to steal her Super-Special-Awesome Hospital Treatment Entitlement Card. Four peasants had probably died just so she could have a room to herself. A nearby hospital record informed her that she had in fact died en route to the hospital and it was only after several hours of hard work that doctors had managed to revive her.

She lay back in the hospital bed and thought to herself. The Super-Special-Awesome Hospital Treatment Entitlement Card. Worth every penny. Better drugs, better surgeons, better nurses, better beds, better rooms, better after-care service...

Not, regrettably, better security.

As he slipped into the semi-darkened hospital room, Wessex couldn't believe his luck - firstly for Countess Montagui to (sort of, on average) not have died and secondly for him to have been the first one to find out about it. As he readied his gun, Countess Montagui lay on the bed and attempted to focus on the blurry shape, a look of resignation on her face. Not even the security guards carried weaponry of that sort. Bit of a shame, really.


Countess Montagui is dead. Again.

[Amorphous]

Orson awoke on Wednesday with a sense of dread, paranoia, and a tiny bit of guilt. But only a tiny bit. Had anyone seen him murder Countess Montagui last night? How could he be sure? What if the police were on their way to his door right now? Did he know anyone who would be willing to lie for him in court? How could he make himself a less likely culprit?

An answer to the last question came to him in a flash of inspiration as he recalled that there was going to be a baking sale that day for one of the local charities, the Society for the Protection of Llama Skateboarding Rights. With any luck he could volunteer for a few hours on the stalls and start building a reputation as a philanthropist, while simultaneously avoiding anyone who might be looking for him.


By noon, Orson was beginning to bore of cake-seeking llama enthusiasts. He sighed inwardly as another interested-looking person approached the table, and prepared another fake smile. "Can I interest you in a chocolate fairy cake?" he asked the stranger.

The stranger nodded vaguely, then looked up sharply. "I'm sorry, I... are you Orson?"

Instantly Orson reached for his pocket only to realise with sinking heart that somehow he'd left his trusty weapon at home. Before he could try to run, Roscoe Schnozzle reached into his own pocket and drew a mini-pistol, shooting Orson at point-blank range.

With mission completed and rapidly loudening screams beginning to break out all around him, Roscoe Schnozzle picked up a cake and walked off. Behind him Orson slumped over the table, his wound bleeding over the cakes Glugger had worked so hard on the night before.

[Amorphous]

Pegasus cast another tired glance around Unionville, then checked his watch again and sighed. His sources had informed him that his target, 804, should be finishing a business deal at this time and preparing to leave the building. Evidently they'd been wrong.

After one last hopeful look around the area, Pegasus carefully removed all evidence of his presence behind the trees and slunk off into the darkness.

[Amorphous]

High up in the inner workings of Unionville, 804 cautiously looked out the window for what may have been the 50th time that hour. The business deal had gone well, but the knowledge that someone was waiting for him outside had soured the good news of the day. He peered out of the window again, straining his eyes to make something of the rapidly darkening scene outside. It appeared that the previously-occupied spot in the trees was now empty, but what if his eyes were failing him? Maybe his assailant had moved to another place out of sight?

An upwards glance at the clock confirmed his secondary fear; he'd have to leave now if he was going to be able to meet his contact point in Berlin, and if he failed to make it then good business was going to become very bad business indeed. Anxiously he glanced out of the window for the last time and sighed. The meeting was too important. He'd just have to risk it.


He fleed Unionville quickly, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the suitcase handle. At first he attempted to maintain a calm exterior while leaving the building but soon his walk became a quick walk, then a jog, then a run as he scanned the surroundings for the shadowy figure who'd blighted his afternoon. Within a few minutes he'd cleared the Unionville area altogether and felt an accompanying sense of relief; he'd made it. Whoever had been waiting for him must have got bored and wandered off to buy socks or something.

For a moment, he relaxed. In that moment something suddenly struck him in the back, the force and the surprise propelling him forwards to the ground. As the pain began to spread, he rolled over to stare upwards at his assailant, a shadowy figure already tucking away a recently fired gun.

804 frowned with confusion. "You..." he gasped, his breaths beginning to get shallow. "You're... you're not him..."

Wessex frowned also, and looked around suspiciously at the almost-deserted street. There was no way of telling who his target was talking about - maybe he was delirious, it was impossible to tell - but if someone else had been tracking 804 that evening then they were most likely bad news.

Motion in the corner of his eye informed Wessex that a crowd was beginning to form. It would be a good idea to get gone.

[Amorphous]

(First off, my apologies for the delay on this - this happened all the way back on Wednesday and has only just been sorted out now!)


The sun hung high in the air at noon, not that anyone saw it due to a healthy dose of cloud cover from a San Andrean winter. Inside the Maths Building Wild Bill leant against a wall and surveyed the scene cynically as he waited for a lecture to finish in the nearby theatre. A moment's idle eavesdropping confirmed, as he'd suspected, that the lecture appeared to be in some sort of code composed of 'non-converging sequences' and other related technobabble.

Eventually the lecturing professor saw fit to release his educational hostages from the room, unleashing a small stampede of ambling students out into the hallways. Wild Bill straightened up and began to pay keen attention, eventually singling out his target, Mr. Dark, from the throng. Brief consideration told him that to perform the kill here would be reckless; there were too many witnesses, too many bystanders, too many ways it could go wrong. The best thing at the moment would be to follow and pick his opportunity, not take the first presented to him.

As time passed Wild Bill noticed with mounting horror that Mr. Dark was in fact, by chance, heading for sanctuary. To wait now would be to lose his chance, possibly forever. With three long strides he reached his target and tapped him on the shoulder, his other hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"Yes?" asked Mr. Dark politely, turning around.

In one smooth motion Wild Bill unsheathed his sword and drove it into Mr. Dark's chest, the force of the strike causing the blade to break at the hilt. His goal achieved, Wild Bill quickly looked around for potential witnesses and slipped back into the crowd, concealing what remained of his weapon.

[Amorphous]

At the end of a long Saturday Raphanizein sat in the corner of a bar with a drink, musing over what was to come the following day. Sunday would be a time of reunion with family and all the associated sanctuary that provided, as well as the ordinary family arguments and sibling rivalry, but now was a time for relaxing in the company of friends, old and new.

The night wore on in a rush of chatter and as the time began to approach 11pm Raphanizein was staring down into his glass, thinking to himself that it was less full than he recalled it being recently. In fact, it was empty. As he stood up to get another he noticed someone approaching him with a drink in each hand.

"Raphanizein!" the newfound friend greeted him, vaguely indicating one of the drinks. He seemed familiar, but Raphanizein found himself struggling to match face to name - probably someone he'd met months ago, a vague acquaintance whom he should have got to know better at some point. As he reached for the indicated drink already he was thinking about which questions to casually ask as a way of remembering who this person actually was.

For his part, Wessex was simply keeping an eye on his target's motions. There - he was reaching out for the drink with his weapon-using hand and appeared slightly distracted while doing so. Without waiting for further invitation Wessex quickly unholstered his pistol and fired, hitting his target in the chest. As the drink fell to the floor Wessex was already turning to leave, downing his own drink and weaving his way back into the crowd. With any luck by the time his target's companions noticed what was wrong he would be lost behind a fog of cigar smoke, retreating fast.


(Author's Note: for the purposes of fulfilling my vaguely film-noir imagination, the world of Assassins has no smoking ban and therefore shadowy basement bars hung with cigar smoke and with jazz playing in the background are not only possible but are, in fact, fairly common.)

[Amorphous]

Wessex stretched and yawned as he made his way up the stairs of his apartment block, still drowsy from the excesses of a few days ago and struggling to return to a normal routine. As he approached the floor containing his own flat something began to nag at his senses; there an atmosphere that wasn't there before, a tense silence that was very out of place in such a close-knit community of residents. He reached down and closed his hand around his pistol, now an automatic reaction whenever anything seemed out of place. As he continued to climb the stairs, slowly and more cautiously now, he saw the cause of his concern; he'd had a visitor while he was out.

Concluding that the area was safe now, he stopped to examine the damage more closely; from the looks of things his visitor had tried to force the lock on his door and, when met with failure, had frustradely embedded a shuriken into the wood of the door by a full two inches.

Actually, no - it was there pinning up a note. Wessex's eyes narrowed as he peered at the writing, being careful not to take his own eye out while he did so. So: Pegasus had visited. Whoever he was, he clearly knew too much.

Wessex leant back and regarded the embedded shuriken again with a sinking heart. Explaining this to the landlords was going to be difficult. He was probably going to lose his deposit.

[Amorphous]

It was a calm Friday afternoon as two assassins strolled in opposite directions along Market Street, each heading to or from their work of the day. Neither was soothed by the apparent quiet, however, and each mind raced with paranoia and anxiety: that man across the road with his hand in his pocket, was he hiding a gun? Was the Big Issue seller an assassin in disguise? That person who just drove past gave them a funny look, were they planning something?

It was with heads loaded with these sorts of thoughts when the other pedestrians parted and the assassins were suddenly faced with each other and stopped. In an instant each scanned the face of the other and subconsciously registered the signs; the palour of someone not going outside except when they had to, the dark circles around the eyes from too many nights of uneasy sleep, and the eyes themselves widened from expecting danger at every turn (or, in this case, from walking in a straight line).

The person in front of them was clearly an assassin, which automatically made them a threat of some description. How large a threat, though? Was the other one thanking their lucky stars for coming face to face with a target?

In the same moment each of them reached for their weapon. Thinking he saw Jess begin to unholster her gun, Big Suze drew his weapon first while for her part Jess saw him draw his weapon, assumed he meant to attack and drew her own weapon in self-defence.

A shot rang out. For a second more each assassin stood facing each other, guns raised, before gradually Big Suze fell backwards to the ground.

Shakily Jess reholstered her weapon and then knelt by the body, searching as fast as she could for his wallet, not for monetary gain but to satisfy her curiosity. Once found it was the work of a few more moments to discover the list of names.

Quickly she scanned through it once and then, in disbelief, read it again.

She wasn't a target. Neither of them had been targetting the other.

With a renewed sense of determination she gently rearranged his body into a dignified position and crossed his arms over his chest before leaning forward and respectfully closing his eyes. For one last time she looked at him again, viewing him no longer as a rival but as a fallen comrade, before fleeing the scene to the sound of approaching sirens.

[Amorphous]

Spadge Mince adjusted his position in the uncomfortable lecture seat, trying to feign interest in the lecture while at the same time keeping an eye on his target. Forty-five minutes of this might prove to be more than he could handle, but he judged it to be worth the risk; approaching his target as he left the lecture theatre would be a clear warning sign, but following him out would hopefully make things appear much more natural. So long as he could maintain concentration during the lecture, it would all be fine.


Sometime later Spadge Mince awoke to the sounds of people leaving the lecture hall and looked around blearily before remembering with a start where he was and checking his watch. Almost 11am - he'd slept through the vast majority of the lecture and his target was probably escaping at this very moment. As he frantically checked the exits he spotted the retreating form of his prey, Roscoe Schnozzle, and immediately gave chase through the rows of chairs and then the corridors. As he began to catch up he realised with sinking heart where Roscoe was heading: a tutorial room. Quickly Spadge Mince decided that there was not enough time to perform a Wild Bill manouevre. He would just have to get Roscoe some other time.


An hour later, Spadge Mince returned to the scene of the almost-crime with a cooler, more reasoned perspective. Charging after his prey like that this morning had been foolish, risky; after the deaths already reported in the same area the few local security forces were extra jumpy and he'd been fortunate not to be noticed. If he were to do this properly he'd have to tail Roscoe for a while, get to a place with fewer witnesses.

By the time they'd crossed the North Haugh he was beginning to get edgy, a mixture of impatience and paranoia. Was it possible that Roscoe knew he was being followed and leading Spadge Mince into a trap? He'd sent a few text messages since leaving the Maths building, was he conferring with somebody? There were fewer witnesses and no security cameras, possibly he should seize the chance. As they began to climb the hill leading to the David Russell Apartments, Spadge Mince had made up his mind; he would do it now, and damn the consequences should something adverse happen.

With a few easy strides he bounded up the rest of the hill and tapped Roscoe Schnozzle on the shoulder. "Yes?" Roscoe asked, beginning to turn around.

Without even bothering to answer, Spadge Mince took his knife and stabbed his target in the abdomen before looking both ways and psuhing Roscoe down the forested side of the hill behind New Hall. Dense tree cover meant that residents wouldn't be able to see the body and there was no reason why anyone should be walking through the area, so with any luck it would be some time before his crime was discovered. Wiping his blade clean, Spadge Mince endevoured to get himself as far from the scene as possible.

[Amorphous]

(Author's Note: I've gone a bit surreal for this one. Check the 'unofficial commentary' thread for a summary if you're still confused by the end of it.)

The air was filled with tension and dust motes as slowly people filtered into the courtroom and found their seats, both eager and anxious to hear the verdict. As the room began to fill, the judge shuffled his papers and reviewed the key facts of the case in his head; a stabbing, a curious sequence of events, and then a drawn-out court case with a corpse that walked...

Putting on his grimmest expression, he stared over his glasses at the corpse of Gumball and tried to avoid looking at the four knife wounds in the stomach. The corpse stared back and did a much better job of it, no longer having any need to blink. Hurriedly the judge looked down and pretended to be interested in something else.

The defendant's lawyer claimed that his client had survived the attack through "the sheer power of ROCK", together with some sort of index-and-pinkie fist gesture that the judge hadn't understood at the time, and that he was in fact alive therefore to bury the man would be emotionally damaging to all involved.

On the other side of the debate the prosecution were simply arguing that Gumball was dead, quite clearly dead, look at him for goodness sake, he's GREEN, he hasn't even got a pulse, and his vocabulary appeared to have been reduced to a single word.

The judge shuffled his papers again and cleared his throat. "Mr. Gumball," he addressed the defendant sternly. "Have you anything you would like to say before the verdict is delivered?"

There was a loaded pause as all eyes turned to Gumball. Press reporters sat poised, pen to paper, eager to write down every word and every nuance of what was about to follow.

Gumball, or what remained of Gumball, looked around the courtroom vaguely. "Brains?" he eventually volunteered.

"He says that following the Not-Dead verdict which he so thoroughly deserves, he fully intends to book himself into the nearest available hospital to correct his numerous health problems and severe speech impediment as inflicted on him by his attacker!" his lawyer shouted immediately. His voice wavered slightly and he had the middle-distance glazed look of a man who had no clue what the hell he was doing and was hoping no-one else had noticed.

The judge sighed inwardly and turned to the prosecution. "Have you anything you wish to add?" he asked.

The prosecuting lawyer stood up on behalf of the group he was representing, 'People Against Walking Corpses (That's Just Friggin' Weird)'. "Only that my clients, PAWC(TJFW), hope that justice is done today and that once the Dead verdict is declared we may get down to the business of finding out who actually murdered the poor man in the first place."

The judge nodded soberly. The issue of who was actually responsible had been bothering him as well. Slowly he stood and cleared his throat, preparing to address the court as a whole. "It is after many hours of deliberation and consultation with numerous medical professionals that I find Mr. Gumball no longer in possession of life. To have reanimated a corpse in this fashion is a heinous piece of villainy and I have faith that our police forces will dedicate themselves to finding all individuals involved."

A ripple of murmuring spread through the court except for at the front, where slowly Gumball toppled forward on to the desk. His lawyer sat down next to him and started tidying away his documents into his briefcase. One of his better legal battles, really.


At the very back of the court, Nathan Garret slowly raised his head to peer out at the rest of the room from under his wide-brimmed hat. So, the zombie was officially dead now and they appeared to have no clue who the culprit was. Since the police interview was likely to consist entirely of 'brains', if not total silence, he was probably safe for the short-term. He picked up his newspaper and filtered out of the room silently, setting out for his next target.

[Amorphous]

As October stepped out of his door he was immediately faced with a note on the doorstep and froze, his foot in mid-step. Suspiciously he stared down at the note, which returned his stare with blank white innocence. After some consideration he put on a pair of rubber gloves and cautiously opened the letter, keeping a wary eye open for the very first sign of poison.

October,

You may be interested to know that Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh will be attending a lecture in the Mathematics Building at noon today.

Yours,
A Friend

October's eyes narrowed in paranoia. Either today was shaping up to be a very fortunate day or someone was leading him into a trap.

A quick glance at the clock informed him that if he wanted to catch his target he'd have to hurry. Arming himself as best he could he took off towards the Maths Building, expecting danger all around.


As October approached the doors of the Maths Building, he had the sense that he'd arrived too late and hesitated. If he walked in now, and someone had laid a trap to get him here, then they'd be looking out for him while he looked for his target. The safer thing would be to lurk outside while he waited for the lecture to finish and get Arkansas Dave as he emerged from the building, while he himself would have cover amongst the crowd.

A slow hour passed by. October spent the time working on his stabbing technique.

As the mathematicians began to emerge October began to scan the crowd for faces that matched the photo provided. Irritatedly, he found himself spotting a lot of near matches but none that looked like Arkansas Dave specifically. In time the crowds subsided and once more October found himself alone on the plaza.

Obviously his anonymous tip-off had been incorrect in some way. Frustrated at a wasted lunchtime, October turned and went back into hiding.

[Amorphous]

As Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh approached his secret hideout he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd made it through another day without being assassinated. Admittedly, he'd had to avoid someone by leaving the Maths Building using an access tunnel from the basement into the sewers, but the point was that he'd survived and only smelled a little bit for all his troubles. The only thing that remained now was to take shelter, and a shower, and wait out the night before running the same gauntlet tomorrow.

As he fumbled with his keys there was a gust of wind and a suspiciously loud rustle in the nearby bushes. Instantly he stopped and checked his surroundings, straining his senses to pick up the slightest thing out of place. Minutes passed with no action. Concluding that it was a local cat and cursing himself for being so jumpy, he returned to unlocking the hatch to his hideout.

Behind him, there was an unsettling clicking noise that seem to bypass his ears entirely and speak directly to the base of his spine before running upwards to his brain. He lowered his keys slowly and continued to stare in front of him. A clicking noise like that meant that there was no point in trying to run. Before he could turn to look over his shoulder there was a gunshot, and then he saw nothing at all.

Emerging from the bushes, Jess looked down at the body cautiously. It had taken some effort, but apparently tracking him down had been worth it. The secret hideout plan had been a good one, too. It was something she'd need to look into.

(Author's Note: I am, of course, NOT implying that the real Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh smells. Creative writing, people!)

[Amorphous]

Bullet_MaGnEt tried to look inconspicuous as he walked through the alleys and back-roads of St Andrews, attempting to screw on a silencer to his pistol inside his jacket sleeve. The brief mention he'd received on the news last night as a suspect in a murder case had made him very, very nervous and he considered himself lucky that they hadn't had time to hunt down a photo of him before broadcast. Unfairly, he'd had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder but the chances were that if he got pulled in by the police they'd find some other very uncomfortable questions to ask him as well. If he was to survive, it was imperative that he throw the authorties off the scent.

Thankfully, he hadn't been the only one mentioned in the news report. Another individual by the name of Hawkeye was also wanted for questioning, in addition to some third guy named Arkansas Dave who seemed to have vanished from the face of the planet recently.

As he approached the house he heard motion and dropped to the ground, crawling forward. It seemed he'd been lucky again, Hawkeye was returning home. If the contents of the shopping bags were anything to go by he clearly wasn't the only one watching the news last night: they contained all the signs of someone planning to shut themselves in and lay low for as long as possible.

They also contained all the weight. As Hawkeye set the bags down against once more to redistribute some of the tins of food Bullet_MaGnEt took out his pistol and fired, twice in the head for good measure. After checking that no-one appeared to have noticed he crept forward and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, a vague and hastily-written note babbling about revenge and mentioning the name of the murder victim from the news report. With any luck, the police would dismiss it as a vigilante killing and stop looking for anyone else.

He weighed the note down on top of the body with a small rock, briefly regretting his lack of foresight in not bringing a dagger, and then set about covering his tracks as best he could. From now on it was very important to leave no traces.

[Amorphous]

October slyly picked up the nondescript brown envelope from the drop-off point and made sure to maintain his speed as he walked away, avoding drawing attention to himself. Finding a secluded spot, he ripped open the envelope to find out who his newest target was; as he read the name and looked at the accompanying photo, the only thing on his face to betray his emotions was a brief frown. Oh well. If that was the way it had to be...


By Thursday evening October was resolute in his task and had armed himself appropriately. As he walked into Venue 2 he noticed that his target had already arrived and felt slightly disappointed, partly out of a deep-down hope that possibly he could avoid the whole thing and partly out of a more practical sense of where it was/wasn't good idea to shoot somebody. Venue 2 was too crowded and security forces were too nearby, not to mention those strange rumours he'd been hearing about the powers of rock music.

Putting on a cheerful demeanor, he sat down with his friend Nathan Garret and some other associates at one of the tables and set about getting some drinks in.


As the night wore on the others at the table began to tire of the festivities and announced their intention to head home. October hurriedly finished his drink as he watched his target get up and head out after them, crossing the threshold of Venue 2 into the deserted corridor, before running after the group himself.

As he readied his weapon, October tried to brush aside a pang of guilt. Friendship was one thing, but he had his orders.

Raising his gun, he aimed at the back of Nathan Garret's head and fired.

[Amorphous]

Following the regrettable demise of Nathan Garret, a police search of his house has uncovered the following addition to his Will:

Should I die at the hands of another or in otherwise suspicious or unexplained circumstances, it is my will that my vast arsenal of weapons be donated to the St Andrews Hit Squad to aid their efforts at cleaning up this corrupt little town.

Kthx.

The Hit Squad Armoury has been extended. Significantly.

[Amorphous]

Wednesday morning.

Ragu practiced his corporate smile in the mirrored lift as he ascended the Jack Cole Industries Skyscraper. Security was tight, so getting in with his weapon had been tough - he'd resorted to breaking it down into all its tiny component parts and smuggling them in by a variety of pockets, briefcases and hollowed-out shoe cavities. Reassembling them in the bathroom away from the unblinking eyes of CCTV cameras had also been an experience, but somehow he'd made it. He'd even planned his escape route, the old 'rubbish chute' classic.

You'd think buildings like this would have sorted that one out by now.

The lift doors opened with a soft 'ping' noise, leaving Ragu face-to-face with a sea of work cubicles and hit by a wall of office sounds - ringing telephones, photocopiers buzzing, the rattle of many fingers typing and occasional joyous shout of someone beating their own time on Minesweeper. No-one was entirely sure what people in the Jack Cole Industrial Skyscraper actually did, just that it involved computers. Lot of them. Ragu had heard the term 'l33t h@x0rz' bandied around but paid it no real mind.

The only thing that remained now was to find his target, a moment's work thanks to a well-placed and unusually helpful floor map. As Ragu approached, his hand tightened around the gun in his pocket. "Acidburn?" he asked, still walking towards his target.

Acidburn spun around on his computer chair to find himself looking at the end of a gun.

"It ends here," Ragu announced, pulling the trigger.

There was the barely-detectable yet highly unpleasant sound of something in the innards of the gun jamming. As Ragu's face began to contort into an expression of horror, Acidburn was already seizing his chance - snatching a gun taped to the underside of his desk he turned and fired twice.

All office hum stopped. Cautiously, people stuck their heads over cubicle walls to look around in confusion.

Acidburn considered the body on the floor, then looked around him and sighed. He'd been getting bored of this job anyway.