Nothing personal

New York City, 00:39 AM

‘The Back Door’. It’s not the most inconspicuous name for a gay bar, but at least it gets the point across. The bar’s relatively new, but it’s already become rather popular amongst the Big Apple’s confirmed bachelors. To some, the idea of a bar meant to cater for homosexuals is quite alien, repugnant even, to others. Andrew never really understood the fuss. Was it so strange for people to gather at a specific venue in order to look for mating partners and romantic ventures amongst people of similar sexual orientation? Nothing abnormal about it. Andrew didn’t give it much more thought.

He was staking out in an apartment complex across the road from ‘the Back Door’, observing the club through his binoculars. The place itself was of no interest to him. He had already figured out that he was straight. No, it was one of the bar’s patrons he was interested in. Sean Collin, also known as ‘Deluge’, a crime-fighter with the power of hydrokinesis. Exactly the type of person Andrew’s employers did not take kindly to. Andrew, or ‘Bastard’, as his colleagues had dubbed him, assembled and readied his bolt-action sniper rifle. He intended to make this a clean hit, long-distance. Nice and impersonal, just the way he liked it.

The target flirts with a young attractive male; his advances are reciprocated. They both begin to make their way to the exit. The moment Sean exited the bar would be when Bastard would strike. And there it was, that moment right before you take the shot. Your quarry comes into view, and you set up the line of fire. You zoom in on his face and feel that small pang of guilt and regret come over you. Bastard had experienced it many times. Every single hit. Just part of the job, he was told.
Bastard expected it to go as always. Sure, the target was super-powered this time, but he was still human, and all humans die when shot in the face. Law of nature.
Still, these hero-types tended to be unpredictable, just like he himself often was. In the off-chance something would go wrong this time, Bastard was sure it would be related to the target’s powers. Turns out it wasn’t.

He missed. And not just a bit; it was a terrible shot. “No.” Andrew growled to himself, disappointed in himself and his marksmanship. He had not anticipated this. Bastard immediately dropped the rifle and dashed outside of the apartment room into the corridors. Chances were that his quarry would now attempt to turn the roles around; the hunter becomes the hunted. No, he wouldn’t grant him that satisfaction. He had prepared a contingency plan. All water on the third floor had been disabled, even the sprinkler alert. Easy to do when you know some plumbing, and when the entire floor has been rented by your employers.

Bastard took of his expensive suit jacket and tie, revealing the weapons strapped to his torso. Fashion is only cumbersome in a fight. He drew his twin colt pistols, the weakest but most reliable of his weapons and then did the only thing he could do right now. Wait.

Like a moth to the flame doth the prey approach, thinking itself a predator, oblivious to the fire it has been drawn into. In the time it took Sean to reach the third floor, Bastard had strategically placed himself behind a corner from which he had a perfect view of both the stairs and elevators. When Sean finally did reach the third floor, Bastard was waiting.

Mister Collin made the fatal mistake of letting his presence known too easily; with his hurried running up the stairs and quickly searching the first two floors he might as well have sent Bastard a text message disclosing his current location.

As such, an uncomfortable ambush was all that awaited Sean when he reached his would-be killer’s location. In one swift movement Bastard went out of cover and fired a short volley of four shots, aiming for Sean’s vitals, though the speed and violence of this quick move may have decreased the overall accuracy of the shots.

Bastard would have preferred a less aggressive move, such as simply disposing of the target with one or two neatly placed gunshots, but the enemy was experienced and he could not take the risk of becoming a still target himself. With his current position he would at least be able to quickly jump around the corner again, and if needed escape through another corridor.

None of the bullets had connected satisfactorily; one had scraped the enemy, but that was all. As the Bastard made a tactical retreat his face contorted into a scowl. He had never before had to face anyone with superpowers, and now that he did he found out he was almost helpless against his foe. Pressurized water so strong that it could clock his bullets? Well, shit.

To make matters worse, he could have ended it with one clean shot. Circumvented this whole showdown and ended the hero's no doubt dramatic and intense life with an anti-climatic hole in the forehead. But he didn't; he missed. And that's what truly frustrated him. If an opponent is stronger than you, so be it. Will of the Gods. But this was his own stupid mistake come back biting him in the buttocks, and that's what was eating him up.

He soon discovered he had little time to beat himself up over his mistake mentally, when a tendril of high-pressure water shot out to his left leg and attempted to coil itself around it. The sound of the rushing water alerted the Bastard right before it would connect and made him turn his head, but that wasn't quick enough. The attack would connect. Surely the water would lose some of its crushing strength when changing its shape and twisting around his leg, but it would still likely crush some bones and damage flesh and tendons.

It was then that the Bastard acted upon a risky gambit; it was his only option, besides being dragged to what would most likely end with his own untimely death. The tendril of water connected, beginning to rend flesh and crush bone with a strength far beyond Bastard's own. He ignored it; it was inevitable, and thus of no importance. When the tendril began to retract, pulling Bastard with it, he shifted his weight and torso to turn around, and immediately proceeded to empty the clips of his pistols, sending their contents whizzing at his enemy.

He had hoped this would at least make him relinquish his grip on the leg, which at this point was probably damaged heavily. He would have to bite through that pain later, if there would even be a 'later'. If the concentration to form the aquatic whip would be broken, then perhaps there was even a chance one or two of the bullets would penetrate this time. Well, that'd certainly be nice.

The Bastard's desperate gambit had worked. His shots had forced his enemy to release the aquatic vicegrip he had on his leg in order to focus on defending himself. One of the bullets went through, at least partially. Another flesh-wound it seemed. Pity.

His own leg was a little worse for wear, especially at the ankle. He would be able to ignore the pain for a while, thanks in part due to the surge of adrenaline, but in the long run it would become a serious handicap. He couldn't afford to let this fight draw on for too long. The moment he missed his mark was the moment he lost the advantage, and now the situation threatened to turn on him completely.

He dropped his custom pistols, their clips depleted and with no time to reload them. Assuming a fighting stance, one somewhat similar to the traditional hanmi stance used in Aikido, though modified for gunfights, the Bastard wasted no time in drawing his custom .500 Raging Bull revolver, wielding it in one hand; a feat his colleagues had always found incredibly impressive. Right now, it wasn't so much to impress as it was to make a difference between life and death.

Andrew had found that in a gunfight, his posture and movement were essential to achieving victory. As long as he could remain mobile from his stance, minimized the amount of body that could be hit and was able to observe and analyze his opponents' movements, he could make miracles happen. Dodging punches, stabs, baseball bats, even bullets; Bastard had done it all in the past.
He could only hope today would be no exception.

He was however, not fighting gangster thugs or wannabe hitmen. And he certainly wasn't fighting a still target. His opponent, in the short moment it took Bastard to regain his composure and ready himself, had prepared himself as well. The Bastard wasn't exactly ready, but it came as close as was allowed when fighting a foe of such high caliber.

In an instant, Sean Collin formed the shield of water he used to protect himself from Bastard's bullets into a volley of highly pressurized water bullets. Amidst Bastard's racing mind, full of cognitive processes all aimed towards moving the body to evade the bullets, even going so far as to predict their trajectories and possible points of impact, one stray sliver of unfocused thought emerged. It wasn't really so much as an entire process of thought as it was a mental remark, one that if it were vocal would have been uttered under his breath. 'Not fair'

Of course it wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. What was fair about waking up in the middle of the sea, naked in both body and mind? What was fair about killing weaker men for money in order to live an easier life? Was it fair to have no memories, no knowledge of life? Was it fair to be stronger and more skilled than other men without even having worked for it a day in life? Was it fair that people died every day, suffered every day, and that they would do so for the rest of their short and relatively meaningless lives?
If there was one lesson that Andrew had learnt in life, however short his may have been (he did not know his age, perhaps he had had a life before this) was that Life Is Not Fair

And if he weren't so terribly occupied with the aquatic bullets heading towards him at high speed, this was probably what he would have been reminded of. The thought vanished, leaving him with only his current predicament and a vague conception of what he would do to remedy it.

The bullets flew at the Bastard, their trajectory straight and forward. It was a peculiar philosophy to embrace the idea that bullets, and other such lethal projectiles, did not mean to kill. If they had a will at all, it would be only to move forward. They were only an expression of the force of will of the man firing them, but did not carry his intent. With no message to bear and no ambitions, all they can do is blindly propel themselves forward in existence, until eventually their path ends, and they may finally rest. A peculiar philosophy indeed, but it was Andrew's, and his alone. He had formed it himself, deriving perhaps from some sources, but it was mostly an original thought. And that, to Andrew, meant everything.

Andrew's racing thoughts fell silent. This was the moment. One bullet was ahead of the rest; in a hurry. With only minimal footwork, Andrew removed himself from its path, and the bullet raced past him without paying him any heed. Then came a small group of them, each with a speed closely matching the others'. Together they raced to their doom. Theirs, but not his. Continuing his fluid movement from before, Andrew gave the bullets all the opportunity he could for them to stay together, and for him to stay out of their way. But alas, one was parted from its friends when it dug into Andrew's left shoulder, and the others flew by, the sound of their movements through space eerily reminiscent to a comrade's farewell in Andrew's ears. At the end of it, Andrew was still alive.

But fuck did bullets hurt. As the bullet impacted upon his shoulder, the Bastard let out a growl of pain. The time for Zen just ended. It was time to get pissed.
Bastard made a step backward, and then, with his Raging Bull still trained at the enemy, he expressed his will at Wally's foot, twice, before jumping through a door, entering an empty apartment. Despite the Raging bull being a far stronger weapon than his previous side-arms, chances were that the bullets would meet a tranquil end in a watery shield, but that wasn't the point. A distraction is a distraction is a distraction, and bullets are just bullets. Not that complicated, right?

The door gave way to the body bursting through it, splintering apart as if a bull had just rammed into it full-strength. From the sound of it, a sound that didn't resemble blood splattering all over the walls and flesh and bone scattering all directions, Bastard had missed. Again.

Andrew realized that he had overestimated himself. With his hydrokinesis, the opponent was clearly at an advantage. Sean was able to deflect attacks at long range, and attack at both short and long range. Of course, the Bastard could have tried to engage in close combat; from the look of him, the target did not seem to have the same level of martial prowess as Andrew. He had looked shocked when shot at and was unable to dodge; instead his powers seemed to react on their own, perhaps at subconscious level.

In hindsight, yes, Bastard might have been able to take down this opponent. It would have cost him some effort, and perhaps some nasty wounds, but if he had found a way to close the gap between them and engaged the opponent at close range, victory could have been achieved.
But that was before he had sustained these injuries. The wound in his shoulder was not lethal, but would become a handicap in battle. His leg too, was injured, and though it was only a light injury, it too would prove to be detrimental to his performance in battle.

With this in mind, Andrew concluded that the chance of completing his mission had become too slim for him to continue. Despite his best efforts not to let it happen, the hunter had become the hunted, and that was no position Andrew desired to be in.

The Bastard darted through the apartment until he reached the large window at the end of the room and took a quick look outside. Three stories down, an alleyway. Anyone other than himself would at least use the outside ladders to climb down, but Bastard would be able to survive the jump. His body was tougher than that of most.

He heard his enemy approach, and formulated a plan within an instant. Not a very complicated one at that, but it was simple enough to work without a hitch.

Standing at the window, the Bastard turned around to face his foe, and raised his arms. The gun in his right was pointed to the ceiling, but the elbow pointed at the door, where his adversary would soon appear. Unlike the usual 'I give up' position, this would alow the Bastard to shoot at his opponent with one quick movement whilst appearing to have given up completely.
As Sean entered the room, he let his left arm slump down. It hurt his shoulder-wound too much to keep it in the air.

"Stop. I give up. I concede defeat." The Bastard said, his voice remaining steady despite the position he was in.

"Who sent me?" Bastard raised an eyebrow. "If I knew that, then I wouldn't be standing here talking to you. Even if I survived after telling you, those who issued the hit would have my head in that case."
He shook his head. He was surprised the 'hero' hadn't made this deduction yet. It was simple; if the assassin doesn't know the client, then even if he fails and survives, the client would have no reason to silence the assassin. Safety on both fronts. Safe business is good business, that's what his peers had taught him.

"No. I don't know who wants you dead, and frankly, I don't really want to know. I was hired through middlemen, and have not yet received payment. The client is sure to be disappointed, but he is kept safe from the sword of vengeance, and I am kept safe from him in return." The Bastard chuckled. "Which brings us back to here." He weakly motioned to the ground in front of him with his left arm, then took a small step forward, as if to assert his confidence, and his understanding of the situation.

"What will you do?" The Bastard asked stoically, not betraying even an ounce of trepidation, or any trace of emotion in general. He was drawing out the conversation, even though he could escape at any moment. Maybe he was searching for an opening in Collin's defenses, or even a way to talk himself out of the situation. Could have been both those reasons as well, but there was more to it.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about this man, this 'Sean Collin' figure, seemed strangely familiar. Most would dismiss this notion as an irrelevant feeling, not based on any logical deductions.
But when one has lived as short a life and known as few people as Andrew, the Bastard, then such a notion of familiarity is highly irregular, and surely worth investigating.

It was likely he wouldn't find anything, that the feeling was only that; a feeling. But it wouldn't hurt to try find out, Andrew thought. And who knows, any information on this character might come in handy in the future. When, for instance, giving this job another try. Wouldn't that be nice?

"The police will be coming soon. I suggest you make up your mind. What will you do?" He repeated, gripping the grip of his gun a little tighter.

A mixture of surprise and amusement came over the Bastard upon hearing what Sean had to say. He was being awful merciful to him, it seemed. One of the things the Bastard had learned in his short time in this business was that such mercy is rare, especially when authentic. Its source however, was still alien to him. Why his adversary would choose to extend this mercy was beyond him. It seemed unlikely to be a ruse; 'heroes' rarely resorted to such cheap tricks and overt displays of superiority, toying with their enemies.

The threat of being part of a government-backed Hero-team seemed to serve the purpose of scaring him off; telling him off for being a bad boy, and daddy state would punish him. This 'Sentinels' group was well-funded then. It would indeed be troublesome to have a group with such resources on his back. He was lucky then, that Sean did not know his identity. No one did, really. Not even he did, though that was on a whole different level altogether.

"Well, that's awful nice of you. You're a real stand-up guy then. I accept. I won't be coming after you or your government-sanctioned pals anytime soon. I don't think my agency'll be very pleased though. I might even have to go looking for some new career options soon." The Bastard said, his voice as laconic as it was before.

Sirens blared off in the not so distant distance. The men in blue were coming. New York's finest, come to see what the fuss was all about. This was Andrew's cue for making an exit.

"See you around." The Bastard smashed the window behind him with his gun, then proceeded to jump out of it like a trained acrobat, finding a soft landing in the dumpster.

If Sean continued to watch him, he would see Andrew making his escape into the sewers through a sewer grate. He was limping a bit, and his left arm slumped against his body. His body had been hurt, but unlike most assassins, his pride was still intact. After all, he didn't really have any pride to speak of in the first place.