Broken Ascension

The Bishop's Tale

He got down from the MTV. Mass transporter vehicle. In the old days they would call it a bus. In fact, for entirely nostalgic reasons, they made them to look like buses. They didn’t have too. MTVs were just moving boxes, driverless, pinging their way to their various destinations through sensors built into the roads. Silica sensors, cheap to produce and maintain and lay them in the roads. The MTVs weren’t expensive either, costing a fraction of an actual bus or train. But they weren’t sexy and the company that had first proposed them had almost gone under because there had been no takers. Until the Mayor had wrestled the initiative and put those out there, damn the aesthetics. It solved the transport problem, moving twenty million across the streets to all over the city. And it if deprived a cityscape of flying cars and robot driven cabriolets; practicality had won out in the end. Someone had the idea to make them look like traditional red buses and at least the aesthetics were a sight better. In any case, there wasn’t much choice was there. Once the public had given up their love for individual private automobiles, alternatives were in short supply. Bicycles had of course become the go to private vehicle, but going thirty miles out in one sometimes took too much. And with the city the size that it was now. The trains were no longer viable. Centuries of digging under had given the topsoil a decidedly questionable integrity and they could never solve the flooding problem. That had been the first major issue with the rise in water line and it had been too expensive to constantly deal with the water problems. Twenty years ago, the last of the trains had run and London’s fable underground had called it a night. Centuries of haphazard management had robbed London of one of its most famous features. A price to pay for ignoring the future for the present. And so the MTVs had come to save the day and ushered in an era of practicality.

There was one problem for him in all this though. He was some kind of secret agent by all accounts and he would never have the opportunity to be involved in a car chase. Tearing down the streets and burning rubber, doing doughnuts and wheelies and sharp turns. He’d never have that he supposed. Chases on foot aplenty; he’d done that and a bicycle chase even. But they were never as sexy as a car chase. Much of it he imagined when he was younger, when he was innocent and believe firing a gun was the most thrilling thing in the world. It wasn’t. Fired at an inanimate object, granted it was a little exciting. But to shoot a living thing, that was ugly. That was the thing they never told you in the movies. How ugly it was. He’d learned to live with the ugliness. But if he could go back in time, he would slap his young self into some sense.

He stood there at the stop, quietly musing about his youthful follies. There were a few people at the stop and they eyed him, some of them appreciatively it seemed. Was he sexy? He almost got a laugh out of that. Physically imposing somewhat, but a more characterless face you could hardly find. The kind of face you’d forget moments after seeing it. Or so he liked to think. Someone had mentioned that he was good looking enough, not enough to be a distraction but attractive enough that he wouldn’t look out of place in most places. Well, perhaps some people did find him attractive but it definitely wasn’t due to the dressing. Grey and more grey. His coat was a little loose around under the arms because it gave him flexibility of movement. Otherwise it was a good fit, not too long below the waist that it might get in the way. But there were no markings on it, just plain grey. What was a secret agent going to wear anyway? A bomber jacket with epaulettes? A long overcoat to the ankles? He thought the long overcoat might suit him somewhat, some kind of noir look to go with the brooding. But he didn’t brood. He wasn’t one for reflection. He didn’t stand or sit around looking moodily at the sky. He came in and went out and got the job done. And he wore the kind of clothes that would help him, not get in the way or get noticed.

Secret agents had great and dramatic legends in the fiction of the country but in real life they were all unsung. Probably buried in unmarked graves or left to rot in the ditches where they were shot. Their identity was unimportant, it was what they did in the shadows that mattered. One of the country’s greatest and effective agents hadn’t even been alive on his mission back in the dusty days of the Second World War. And it was to the credit of the unnamed, unnoticed agents that the Second World War was not the middle part of a trilogy. They used to have names like CI5 and MI5 and all those little monikers. Nowadays, the great country was served by the Godsmen. An organization dedicated to the stability and security of the nation. Forever in the shadows, unknown to almost all. Those investigating into the deep dark halls of government would find mention of a government funded seminary. And why would a country like England fund a Catholic organization when the Church of England itself drew no contribution? Nobody had seemingly asked the question because nobody had decided to look too deep in that direction. Perhaps it wasn’t sexy enough. And so the Godsmen had prospered, in their secret hidey little nooks and had did their job without recognition, without even at times supervision. He wondered about how an organization like that maintained its integrity but he never wondered too much. He was only a field officer, Bishop designate. The thinking was done by Cardinal designates and higher. His not to reason why but to do and die.

He thought about the scant information that he had been given. Despite the advances in analytics, the perennial problem of GIGO still existed. And for clandestine organizations which guarded their secrets with fervor, there was little data to be had. Spider network bots had made inroads into the dark web but much of it was still inaccessible. The perpetrators were always ahead of the game and when one needed to hide, one could be very persistent. Even so data linking was inherently flawed. A person with a tendency so access information or share about neo-technologism did not make that person a closet Luddite. It merely indicated an intellectual fascination or curiosity. At this to know the deep thoughts and hearts’ content required people, instinct, emotion and social connection. Nothing that machines could do. What had the Godsmen’s vaunted intelligence came up with? The garble from the network had been Scottish Terrorists Fanatics. Highland separatists perhaps? Scotland had once had their independence but had returned to the fold. Perhaps there were those who would have it again. But all this was based on machine logic. The Machine Learning processors churning through data finding correlations and links, and perhaps somewhere along the line, the words Scotland and terrorism had been conflated and this was the result it had spit out. For all the processing in the world, perhaps human intuition would have done a better job. He remembered when the organization had been bigger when there were cadres of Priests, him being one of them. Now there were almost none, save a few stuck in meaningless positions.

How apt that the Godsmen had gone the way of the org it had modeled itself on, the Catholic Church. Dwindling in influence and significance. He never understood why the originators had set up to ape the Church. As a young Priest he had discussed it with his fellows.

“Why not the Kingsmen?” Some bright intellectual had replied,

“Well our King is a limp joke. And has been so for centuries. In its prime, the Church had significant power and influence over civilization. Perhaps we intend to come to that."

It didn’t matter to him then. It didn’t matter now. He had a job and he had a mission. And as far as he knew, this particular Bishop designate had never failed. He wondered how many of them were left. Bishop designates, once the scourge of the covert world. The mission objectives had been much more complex then – infiltration, field information gathering, destabilization tactics, those were the halcyon days. Now, what remained mostly was excision. Excise the cancerous parts of society. Without prejudice. Barely more than a walking weapon. But a weapon that was still required by the country.

Enough reveries for the day. Daily quota all used up. Now for the thing to do and to do it well. That was all, poor information aside. He liked more. Other than an address and that couple of words he had nothing. But when was there ever sufficient info before a mission? He’ll have to make do as always.

He surveyed the building. Nothing extraordinary in this ordinary part of the city. Thatcher square they called it now, not two blocks from Churchill Pavilions. It was but rows of housing blocks some twenty stories high each of them, running down the streets like matchboxes. Matchboxes, what were they? He had a vague idea of them. But language held on dearly to its past and such anachronisms thrived. London had maintained much of its grandeur, the sight of St Paul’s or Tower Bridge never failed to inspire but much of what constituted Greater London, primarily the newer extensions were nothing more scenic than boxes serviced by moving boxes. There was a sparse utilitarian beauty to them, if you were such a beholder, a sign of efficient times. Aesthetics were fine, colonnades and porticos and the like to inspire. But when you had people to house and there were so many, boxes did very well thank you very much. Except they weren’t called boxes. New Block Units. NBUs, oh how they did serve the housing crisis.

If the address was correct, 11A this was it. The only way to distinguish 11A from 1 to 11 and 12 onwards was the big bold lettering over the main entrance. Bishop kind of admired such simplicity. It made everything easier. Gone were the days when one had to traverse an entire street to look for 22B Baker. He entered 11A. Here was a security lock, but something he easily bypassed. Not much of an agent if he couldn’t even get past the front door. There was a camera pointed at the door as there was always. But it meant nothing, there were cameras everywhere and who had the time to look at the footage anyway? There were automatic routines of course, set by the Met for facial recognition of people wanted. He wasn’t one so there was no issue. They might still access the recording if they wanted to at scenes of crime and such. So he avoided staring directly at the camera, quickly walked pass it and accessed the lift. Floor 11A. Of Building 11A. There was a pattern here. Were these people he was looking for out of their febrile minds, or had the analytics been gamed? He would soon see. What was the apartment, 11A as well? No, 23. Whatever it meant. The familiar ding ding of the lift bell told him he had arrived at floor 11A. He stepped out and read the directory plaque. To the left were apartments 18 to 25. To the right, 10 to 17. Where were the first ten then? The building was square there was a left and a right, that was it. Here we go woolgathering again, must be a sign of old age. No young Priest he was, but a crusty old Bishop. He turned left and walked down the hallway. He passed apartment 18 with its stucco nondescript door and went on down the hall. The doors were about six feet apart which made them small apartments. Perhaps there were 10 of them stacked behind the lift. He came to 22 and saw that the door to 23 was opened. Providence?

Someone was standing at the door. A man of poor posture. He was looking inside, a puzzlement on his face. Had he come back to find the place rustled? Had someone else already been here? Bishop relaxed himself, tense bodies make mistakes. He stopped walking. Survey the surrounding, take stock of the situation and all the other bits of wisdom learned in his youth streamed in his head. It meant nothing though; he had too much experience to let bon mots from memories dictate what he did. The guy was still staring into the apartment lost in something. Perhaps he forgot whether he actually lived here or not. The vacant stare was indicative of someone who did Trippies. Trippies weren’t actually illegal but good luck finding a job and all that. Bishop didn’t move, startling him might mean a ‘shoot first ask questions later’ situation. He didn’t see a gun or a weapon, but prudence was paramount in staying alive. The man finally turned his head slightly to the right. Bishop’s still figure ghosted into his vision and he spun around quickly. The nervous eyes appraised him and Bishop could see in them the glint of recognition. He knows me? How is that possible?

“I know you I know you! You’re one of them. You’re one of them!”

“Who? Hey I’m nobody.” He was still relaxed; it made him look less like a threat.

“I know what you are! I know what you are! An agent of the deep! You who lies in the shadows choking the spirit of this country. But you’re too late, too late! He has ascended and nothing will stop him from gaining his great glory! Not even you, spawn of darkness!” Spittle flew from the mouth, the eyes bulging with fervor. Bishop had spent his life around fanatics, in fact he was somewhat of a fanatic himself, so there was the flavor of home cooked food for him here; familiar all too familiar. No, the guy didn’t know him. Just knew the type. The Man. The men in black, the top hats. The bogeyman for all his kind.

“I just want to talk.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but fanatics were extremely flammable and it wouldn’t go amiss to cool things down. After all, this one was convinced Bishop was the devil. Or something close to it. An agent of the deep his exact words. At least he didn’t accuse him of rising from Ryleh.

“Talk, kill, s**t, f**k, it don’t matter now. It don’t matter now.” The accent wasn’t Scots but who could tell in this day and time. Then again, he didn’t have to be Scots; he just needed to believe in the Scottish thing, whatever it was. That were fanatics for you, the converts, the outsiders, the Johnny come latelies, they were the most vehement. The target moved again, a tight spin and when he faced Bishop again there was a sub machine in his hand. Well, where did that come from? But Bishop didn’t hold for idle thoughts, he was already moving. Denied it for all he could, but this was what he lived for. The extant seconds, time moving in a hyperspatial reality, the roar of testosterone and endorphins all raging in the blood. The machine gun fire rip-roaring through the air, a white noise of bullets, inspiring faith in fire. This was not a swordfight. This was a gunfight. The beauty of the sword was in its geometry, the shape and arc of truth in the flesh. The beauty of the gun was also in its geometry of parabolas and zenith points of calculated mayhem. Enforced upon the physical dynamics of the universe by a magic of flash and bang. The bullets painted a deadly arc across the space of the hallway but the wielder of the weapon had more mania than precision; nothing came close to Bishop. He hardly had to dodge.

“You’re think you have the right! You are the watchmen but who watches the watchmen?” The fanatic with the gun screamed pausing in his callous dispensation of projectiles.

“It is he who has the right, the Divine Right!” Bishop held back up, had been about to pull the trigger but the words Divine Right struck a chord in his head and he hesitated. The target took full advantage of the pause and ran for the window, smashing his frail body against it, smashing the glass. And as he fell to his death, he could see his fiery eyes reflecting back at him in the many shards of glass. But all was well, all was well, he had risen.

Bishop saw but the glass exploding, its shards spraying outwards like a crystalline flower; for the moment, the human body obscured. It was as if his epiphany had a visual dramatic image, like a movie reeling in his head.

Divine Right.

Twenty years ago or something like that, when he was but a junior Priest. On a stakeout mission with another slightly more experienced Priest, monitoring the movements of a propaganda cell who had termed themselves ‘Luminaries of the Divine Ascension.’ It had been a low-key affair, observe and report, no action authorized. But in the interminable long hours of waiting, he had a conversation with the other Priest. Bishop had wondered about the group’s Modus Operandi, and speculated on the meaning of the Ascension.

“It may on first account seem like a religious cult but from what I know, they’re not. Not the Ascension of Christ they’re on about. Monarchists, if I’m not mistaken. Believers in Divine Right.” The older man had ventured.

“What are those believers? And monarchists? We are a Monarchy already aren’t we? Always have been eh?” Once he was a curious man. He was still curious in a way but it could always kill the cat. And he didn’t want to be the cat.

“There is a King and then there is the King. Water flows in his veins, I say. I can sympathize. We need to be strong and we need a strong leader for that. Oh but we Godsmen were glorious once. The days are bitter now. And short. And water runs in the veins.”

“Is that official talk?”

“Official? We are not robots or androids of whatever may be. We are allowed our sympathies as long we carry out our missions. Even in the old old days, real Priests had thoughts and philosophies that never quite centered with the Papacy. If we cannot process judgment, what use are we as agents. Might be nothing better than a loaded bullet or a recording device.”

There was more to that, but that was all he recalled. Divine Right. He’d never crossed paths with the Priest again, never considered he might have been purged. Not until now. And he hadn’t heard of the Luminaries either anymore. Perhaps they had evolved into this new bunch. That happened often. They started once way and ended a different beast at the end. These little groups, they were always ready to adapt. But to the present situation. Why had the guy jumped? What a mess, perhaps he had run out of ammo. More likely, he was out of his mind or perhaps it were the Trippies. Constant usage tended to interfere with proper cognitive processes. But it was one body down, and Bishop had little use for live fanatics. Still, it wasn’t over. Fanatics moved in groups, that was almost certain. That was how they continued, keeping each other’s fantasies alive, a constant support network, back feeding your own delusions back to you. Yes, fantasies and delusions. That was all what fanatics believe in. Take a grain of truth, blow it in a single dimension and construct your own myths and legends. And believe that they were actually rooted in the beginning of time. So step lively my good man and let’s look in the door to room 23. Might be a prize waiting. He turned around the door; his gun holstered still, a dangerous kind of confidence sweeping through him. The apartment was empty. Aside from the two closed doors at the end he could see most of the apartment It was small enough. There was no one, and he couldn’t for the life of him figured out what the crazed fanatic has been looking at. And then there it was, the sound of a gun being armed.

The second fanatic burst out of the next apartment with his own customized machine gun in hand. He ran for Bishop pulling up his gun as he did so. Bad move, moving in so close and not firing straight away. Bishop leaned away from the door, expecting a spray of bullets but it still didn’t come.

“Die republican!” The fanatic snarled, weaving his gun and still not shooting. It almost made Bishop throw up his arms and vowed to take these terrorists to Shooting 101 class. He had been called many things in his life, but that was a new one. It almost made him chuckle; as a curse it seemed almost comical but humor wasn’t his forte. This was, and he smashed the edge of his right hand against the man’s wrist. Any other day, he would have heard a crack and a cry of pain and disarming would follow suit. Instead he winced as his hand hit metal or something of its integrity. He pulled back, rolled away, reassessing the situation. The guy smiled, almost laughing.

“Didn’t expect that did you?” One thing you could always rely on in a fanatic, the need to talk. To explain their motivations, to crow about their successes, to give their villain monologues.

“Pallatine. My bones. Super strong alloy, bone replacement therapy. They thought I could be useful when they found out I had my bones redid. Like a superhero ha. So here I am Mr. Police or Agent or what you may. About to kick your arse.” He cackled, full of bravado.

“I don’t even need this gun.” He dropped the weapon. That was it then, his game plan; there wasn’t much glory in pouring lead from a machine gun. Anybody could do it. Beating a secret agent man one to one, that was something else. Guy wanted to prove something to the republican.

“Pallatine replacement? That stuff will kill you. Its toxic, they stopped that some time back.”

“Well I’m still here. Eventually the poison may get me but I’ll survive long enough to see the glory.” His eyes took on a faraway look. Visions. They always had that.

“The glory? Of what? The rapture?” He did want to know. There were more of them out there obviously. Any information would be helpful.

“The ascension of the rightful one to his rightful place. The reestablishment of Divine Right. Don’t you know this s**t? You, secret agent man” He scoffed, swinging his enhanced arm like a bat.

“I’m low level.” The metal armed man regarded him quizzically unsure if Bishop was joking. Bishop wasn’t but it didn’t matter. He struck out again suddenly, looking to the left of his opponent as his hand went right. The pallatine enhanced fanatic followed the eye movement and was caught out when Bishop’s fist crashed into his shoulder. The resounding crack confirmed what Bishop suspected, only the arm was enhanced. The guy screamed in pain but immediately swung his arm. Bishop ducked and rolled to the side coming up even as his opponent rushed in for another blow. A low sidekick was enough to put distance between them. Bishop stilled himself, it was dangerous to get close with that hammer of an arm. But he reckoned he had more stamina and the other guy would tire quicker dragging his heavy arm like that. The arm was a weapon, true but to rely on it as this guy was doing – with no other fighting skills – it didn’t amount to much. Hell, he couldn’t even punch, simply swinging his arm like a bat. The strain on the shoulder would be tremendous. Experience told him that this guy was a one trick pony, total reliance on his enhanced arm. And that was serviceable in the extreme to someone like Bishop.

Bishop moved in again, this time pallatine man eyes followed his right hand tracking the movement. Dude I have two hands thought Bishop then brought his left elbow right on to the front deltoid. Pallatine screamed again, ignored the pain and tried to swing his arm, but he couldn’t lift it beyond his waist, the shoulder muscles too weak to support the weight. He slouched to the side his arm dragging him. Bishop wasted no time and went for the knockout. Right elbow, left elbow to the head. The guy crumpled to the floor, his arm thudding on the carpet with a satisfying sound. That was much easier than he had anticipated. He might have been able to fight once but once he got his enhancement, he’d probably let his skills waste away. Bishop pulled out a Negation collar and fitted it around the guy’s neck. The collar was banned for use by law enforcement forces because it was perceived as brutal. It delivered tiny shocks to the restrained person continuously to keep him under. But the Godsmen were not law enforcement, and when the ban had took effect, they were the beneficiaries of a whole lot of stocks. The guy on the ground started shaking in spasms. He was reacting badly to the collar but Bishop wasn’t bothered. He could end up a vegetable but what loss was there for the world. Guy was insane anyway. And dying with that arm.

Now, the important question was, was there a third? Instinct told him yes. Those two had been pretty on the loose side, there should be a third who would be in charge. More stable, hence more of an opponent. He hoped. The day’s events were boring him. A good chase might liven things up. And yet, there was a crick in his bones, a pull on his muscles. He wouldn’t know how long he could keep this up. All this kapow action stuff. How old was he. With all the medical tech available, age was just a number but yet he felt tired, and drained. In the bones, they used to say. But he had still enough to take this bastard down. But really, how old was he anyway? He surveyed the area again. Studied the doors, any one which might burst open to reveal the third man. But all was still. He walked back into the long hallway pass the lift advancing on numbers 11 to 17. Past number 17, there was a turn off. Was there where 1 to 10 was hiding? Bishop mused. Was this guy hiding somewhere nearby? He looked for signs and found them. The fibers on the carpet disturbed slightly and the faint dust prints. To the regular person, nothing to see but to those trained in track craft, plenty. He went ahead past number 17 and was about to turn when he heard the unmistakable burr of a Starkar gun being charged; he leaned backwards even as the projectile flew at him, crackling with faint electricity. The hairs on his arms rose as the bullet flew past and hit the wall with a loud hiss. Even as he started moving upright his hand had found his gun, pulling it up and firing down the corner. There was a thump as the third man hit the ground. Bishop finished standing upright and twisted in that direction, both hands on his gun. Never take chances, there was always body armor.

And he was proven correct, a second bullet whistled at him and this time he had no choice but to crumple to the floor. He fired twice from he ground. Body armor or not, legs often went unprotected. The man with the electric gun cried out and stumbled to the floor, but he got back up quickly. Bishop fired again, going for a headshot. And missed. Somehow the man had snapped his head backwards in time. Fast reactions, almost as fast as mine. This is getting better by the day. The man was standing with his feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent. Both hands on the Starkar. Poised, coiled, ready to pounce. Someone with training, someone with experience. Nothing like the two other fools foaming at the mouths. He was bleeding from one leg. One of Bishop’s shots had taken. But the extent of damage, Bishop couldn’t tell. An entry or a graze? It might be just a graze as the guy didn’t seem to be feeling any pain. A trained fanatic – that was dangerous. And if it was a mercenary even more so. Emotions dampened your senses. That’s why highly strung fanatics were easy work. But when they bought the best,…..Bishop rolled in time as a bullet tore up the carpet right where he had been. He snapped up to a standing position, guns ready. Smoke? The entire hallway was filled with smoke, purplish and thick. Some obstruction device. Well equipped as well. Smoke device and a Starkar. Starkars were electric guns, using a massive charge to propel bullets faster than a normal gun did. They were rather popular as few types of body armor could withstand a Starkar fired bullet. Bishop crouched low as he couldn’t see much in the smoke. Anyone with less training would be smarting from the smoke but it bothered Bishop little. He’d been in more than one smoke or gas cloud in his life. He reckoned the other guy couldn’t see much either. This type of smoke was meant for aiding escapes. He didn’t think the guy was looking to escape. Merely used what he had to try for an advantage. Bishop had one clear advantage though even if the other guy may not have realized it. The other guy was holding a Starkar. Well, the Starkars were powerful but nothing was perfect. In clear air there would be no difference. In murky conditions, he could see the glow of the gun. He aimed at it, shot – the gun flew away but there was no cry or curse. He fired immediately, where the person should have been standing but hit nothing. Cool cat that.

“Guardsmen, I see you garda.” Irish? Were the Welsh not far behind? Irish, so a mercenary then.

“When the Bishop meets the Knight, which piece gets taken off the chessboard? Which one the key to triumph?” He almost didn’t see the knife, distracted by the mention of Bishop. The knife slashed his hand and he dropped his gun. It went up quickly to stab him in the face. Barely, such speed that was. He caught the knife hand at the wrist with his own right hand. The other hand came up like a bar against the mercenary’s throat pushing him back.

“You and I are the same, our faces etched in amber, forged by Vulcan’s fire. Never the art of thought for us, never the beauty of reflecting but only death. The death.” A lunatic mercenary, the danger was off the charts.

“Aye, we shall dance to the tune of mother Death. Our service to a false Pope sins to redeem.” An ex Godsmen? That made some sort of sense. Once again, Bishop had been distracted by the man’s words. The lunatic grabbed Bishop’s right arm with his free hand. And now they were locked. His strength was equal, Bishop couldn’t make headway. His feet slid against the carpet trying to find grip.

“Yes my piece of the play. Are you the Bishop or the Knight? Would you dance the diagonal or leapfrog the pawns? Do you even f*****g play chess?” Spittle flew from his mouth, his snarling face almost ludicrous in its intensity. And he was using all his strength which was considerable. Bishop could barely keep him at bay.

“Time to die, time to die and Vulcan be appeased.” He pushed hard, and Bishop almost fell back. Not time to die, but time to break the stalemate. Bishop‘s right leg went limp and he fell backwards. As he did so he moved his right hand to join his left, both hands gripping the knife hand. And then he twisted his body in a corkscrew motion. His opponent lost his balance and fell forward. Bishop twisted his knife hand harder and slammed him to the floor trying to dislodge the knife. In a startling move, the mercenary flipped the knife to his free hand and slashed upwards. Bishop fell back. He has been cut. Not deep but there was blood. This guy was good; Bishop touched his chest where the knife had cut. He looked at his bloody fingers.

“Cool move, sending me to the floor like that.” The man said almost admiringly.

“Cool move with the knife.” The guy smiled, a cold satisfied smile. A smile of one who felt that he had the upper hand. Then came the attack again, fast, swirling movements as he stabbed and slashed. Bishop needed all of his reflexes to avoid the blade. He pulled back, gasping for breath. If the wound were deep he wouldn’t last like this.

“I see the surprise in your face.” He danced on his toes, swinging the knife, a hard grin on his face.

“Haven’t met someone to match your skills for a long time? Always had easy picking like my fellows just now?”

“If you say so.”

“Finally met your winter soldier eh?”

“I don’t even know what that means” This man was number 11 for crazy.

“This soldier is going to put you on ice. Freeze up, freeze up. The North does dirty work” He lunged again, Bishop sidestepped that easily enough but that wasn’t it. Knife guy spun and hit out with a sidekick. Bishop caught it in the chest and went back against the wall. He barely had time to recover, just enough to grab the knife hand as it once again came for the face. Gods, must be jealous of the looks. This time he had to use both hands to push backwards. Strong, perhaps stronger. He was right, haven’t met anyone in a long time this capable, but equal? The free hand punched him in the temple and Bishop almost lost consciousness but held on. He moved his body sideways and pulled the knife forward. The tip hit the wall. It didn’t go in but the reverb went back against the knife arm and the crazed mercenary pulled back a little. Bishop swung up his right arm like a bar and smashed it right below the elbow. There was a crack and the knife finally dropped. The mercenary moved back, the smile still on his face. Bishop wasted no time. He went low and sent a shoulder into the midriff. It was enough to send crazy smiling guy backwards to the opposite wall. Bishop tried to rise immediately but found he couldn’t, he dropped to his knee. The blood had gone out of his head. He gasped for breath, droplets of his blood marking the carpet. There were sounds of sirens. Police. The body flying out the window must have alerted them. How long had it been since? It felt so long ago. I thought time passed faster when you’re having fun. I’m not having fun. Bishop mused.

“Well looks like there are new companions to our game. Much more flavor to it eh. How we are dancing I’m not sure I want an audience.” The man laughed; he was the one having fun.

“No. No more dancing, no audience. Game over.” Bishop told him with a smirk.

“What?” His face turned in surprise but even so he was moving forward to attack. Bishop calmly raised his hands and shot the guy in the middle of the temple. His weakness had one consolation; on his knee gasping for breath he had found his gun. Just in time, the police were coming. Well then, best to avoid them. He had ID, which would get him through, but all the same it would be an annoyance. He went for the closest fire exit. Let Scotland Yard pick up the pieces. Scotland Yard; yes them and their northern friends.