It was close to midnight and an old black truck crept up to the entrance of a dimly lit alley. With all of its wear and tear plus numerous “repairs” and modifications it was obviously past its it prime and had seen better days. The average person could get the impression that it originated from some American manufacturer and probably originated in the 1980s.
The driver cut the headlights and turned the key, killing the engine. She cautiously stepped out and quickly surveyed the walk ahead of her. The eyes scanning the shadows betrayed nothing but the look of someone who has seen more hard times than the truck and knew how to survive. Her leather coat and boots looked as weathered as her transportation. Everything she owned and wore served a purpose. If she didn’t need it, she didn’t have it. In her line of work it’s better this way.
For ten years her life has been a nomadic existence, hunting the things that haunt shadows, minds, and souls. Lately she has gone by Guinevere, or Gwen. Not that her current name matters too much. She’s gone by many other aliases before and will go through many more before death takes her. At least she hoped that will be the case. And she was mostly certain that this night was not her last because she wasn’t on a hunt. Tonight she had a meeting. It should not be dangerous but one never knew if such things could turn sideways without warning.
Slowly she stalked toward the door at the end of the alley with muscles tensed enough to react to anything that may jump out at her. Her hand rested on the hilt of the sword on her hip. It was her constant companion. The old, grayish brown coat flapped in a gust of wind that zipped through the alley. The only light was the pale yellowish, sometimes flickering glow of a light high up on one of the walls. She’d rather there be no light at all but it could not be helped. There wasn’t time.
Halfway to the door, it started to rain. Her younger self may have audibly complained, but experience impressed upon her the discipline to keep her thoughts to herself when on the clock. Internally was a different story.
“Of course it’s raining. Because why not? He wouldn’t have it any other way.” she thought.
The “he” was her handler, Gideon. She could just hear that uppity British sounding accent criticizing the performance of her last mission.
“Why did he ever choose to sound British?” she wondered for the millionth time.
Twenty more feet and she would be safe inside.
Safe from the weather at least. None of these meetings could be defined as ever being safe considering the type of being she was about to speak with. Their kind were notoriously unpredictable, at least by human understanding. They could easily kill you without warning if they even suspected you changed sides.
Ten more feet.
She began to tense even more. It wouldn’t be the first time a bad surprise from the other side was waiting for her.
Five feet.
She slowed her pace even more.
“Here we go again.” she thought to herself.
Slowly she reached for the edge of the door. The handle was missing but it sat partially open. Her careful pull opened the way into near blackness. The hinges of the door thankfully didn't make a sound. Safe inside, she took two steps forward and paused to acclimate her senses to the environment. But only for a moment. Dim light worked its way in from dirty and broken windows all around the darkened warehouse. Nothing else to see but shadow. The air smelled stale. Five minutes. That was how long she would wait, silent and still in the dark before leaving.
Four and a half minutes passed before she sensed movement in the dark. Somewhere to her left, something moved. She could almost see the subtle difference in the shades of dark cloths and dark shadow in her peripheral vision. She could almost hear the light steps, trying to not make a sound. Whether or not it was Gideon, it was close and moving behind her. Slowly, her hand pulled the sword out of its scabbard by millimeters. Just enough to make its release faster but not enough to give away her presence to anyone else that might be hiding. If it went bad, she needed any element of surprise she could hope for. The dust on the ground gave away just enough sound to the turn of a foot.
“Now or never.” she thought.
She reminded herself to squint when the blade tasted freedom. With a blink of the eye move the sword flashed free as she spun to face what had moved in behind her. The sword was not of human origin. It drank in every speck of light in the room and intensified the photons as bright as lightning. The blinding radiance of the weapon forced that shadows to retreat, revealing the dust and rust covered environment. Her swing brought the blade where she thought the neck may be. Even if her aim was off, the blow would be fatal. But the razor edge stopped its motion a hair’s width from the targets skin. Her strike would have removed the head if the sword had not refused to cut down one of those for whom it was made. The mystical weapon, not meant to be wielded by a mortal, would burn Gwen's hands if she were not wearing gloves. Its blinding glow dimmed, giving just enough light for this face to face.
“You’re late.” said Gideon, flatly.
They’d known each other for many years and she hoped one day she could elicit a smile from him.
“Traffic.” she replied with a sly grin.
Even a basic acknowledgment of some familiarity between them would have been nice. She’d even settle for the most subtle of eye rolls or any kind of clue to an emotion other than the typical look of putting up with her as an asset on this plane of existence. But the stern face of her handler was ever unbreakable. Gwen didn’t know why she ever bothered trying with a humorless angel.
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