I am fairly confident these are all the night actions. I have checked both H&M and P-S three times in the past hour, but it might be one or two slipped through the cracks because they were named rather strangely, lacked the phase or were posted from the role-PM. Sorry about that, PM me if you miss yours. If it can be retroactively updated, I will, if not, bad luck.
The man with the handlebar moustache looked at the moon. It was a fine night for his kind of work: bright, moonlit. He wouldn’t require night vision goggles, which he didn’t have, anyway. He set out, sticking to the darkest places, combat knife under his jacket. The first he wanted to chase down was the acrobatic one, and he knew he had to be early before she took to the rooftops. The second… she would be a pain to find, and he would be in trouble if she found out he wanted to keep her indoors. He wasn’t sure he could succeed in that, not even at knifepoint.
~~
She threw her throwing star, and the impossible happened: the other reached out with a bare hand, plucked it out of the sky and threw it to the ground. “I’m here if you want to fight, little one,” he said, calm. She put her hands at her hips, assumed a posture that had a bravado she didn’t feel. “Just testing you, you wouldn’t have heard me coming if I really wanted you dead.”
He just looked at her, then cocked his head. She felt a blush creeping up, and he turned. “Talk to you afterwards?” she shouted at him, and he shrugged. She turned, and went in search of easier prey.
~~
She raised her glass of champagne at the two who were standing there with her. “To a successful deal, friends, to a successful deal.” They clinked glasses, and she looked at the time on her elegant silver watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I assume?” they nodded.
~~
She quickly slid the silk scarf between the others teeth with one hand, the other holding the garrotte. “On your knees, pretty boy, and better not bite down on that scarf.”
She replaced it with a ballgag, slipping the leather straps over his perfectly tousled head.
“I wonder if you like games like this, do you like it rough?” She proceeded to bind him, one handed, with hand cuffs and tie wraps, then shoved him under the bed. “Don’t worry,” she said, looking at his face, “I have no plans to kill you, as of now. The towel lady will come in and find you, in the morning.” He shivered, and he knew he would only think about those cold, unforgiving and empty blue eyes, ice over lakes and lakes of hurt, the mutual comfort he had shared with the curly blonde bent over the bonnet of her car already forgotten.
~~
She had done it once, now it was a whole lot easier. None had been the wiser, and she felt safer. "Tomorrow," she told the mirror, "I'll do this again."
~~
He followed the Mercedes around, as it crossed town at a walking pace. It was almost a mobile fortress, and no doubt the lord of the castle felt completely safe. He made the deductions, looked at the patterns, and it looked like he knew what the old man was up to.
~~
He rolled down the window and looked at the man who calmly walked down the street.
“Get in, you little bald freak. Do your praying another day, the streets are far too dangerous to wander in, looking for peace and contemplation and fucking nirwana. Hippies, we would never have overcome our enemies in my time if we all acted like you!” Neither of them noticed the little flying robot perched on the roof of the car.
~~
“hey, you!” She almost slipped out of surprise of being called, then straightened, cursing the tight miniskirt she was wearing. Her pink hair bobbed in the wind, and she turned with a mouthful of abuse, then fell silent at the woman standing half a street away, beckoning her. “Hi there, love. I thought it was about time for us to get acquainted.”
“Later,” she growled. “I’m busy now.” The others blue eyes went large. “Bad things will happen tonight, darling.”
“And they don’t frighten me!”
“Good luck then, hun. I’ll wait for you in the morning.
~~
He engaged her when her back was turned, a quick karate chop to the neck. She collapsed in a heap, her head lolling forward, exposing her neck as it fell forward, where the name Natasha was tattooed in blurry blue ink. He swung his leg out for a kick, then felt how massive pressure was applied against the shin, and how a moment later an elbow exploded against his chin. He staggered backwards, just fast enough to turn the movement into a somersault, and launched himself into the air, back at his assailant, both of his feet connecting with the mans throat, who now staggered back in turn, one hand grasping as he desperately struggled to breathe, but the other managing to draw a Desert Eagle. He withdrew, and left the other two to recover.
~~
She threw another throwing star, aiming for the man with the dark five-o-clock shadow. Once more, she was thwarted, as he whipped it out of the way with a flourish of his jacket. She leapt at him, the sickle blade racing for his throat, the chain unfolding, but he rolled under it, and as she snapped it back, winding the chain around her torso, padded with state of the art armor, he laughed. “Come try me again, ninja.”
“It’s called a kunoichi when it’s a girl, dickhead,” she snarled. He laughed once more, and she released the kusari-gama. Once more, he dodged, then yanked the chain. She tripped, and he ran. She was left with disbelief, and a bloody tooth from where she bit it.
~~
“We are here at the Silver Pavillion, on a moonlit night. It is absolutely beautiful here. In a few moments, we will tell you all about this mysterious Syndicate and its alledged dealings here in Japan. Of course, a lot is speculation but… Harry! Stop frolicking around, get up, you maniac. This isn’t live, but I wanted it in one take! Wait, who are you?”
The blade took him in the throat, half a centimetre from the spine, pulled diagonally forward, severing the artery and the windpipe. The attacker turned one hundred and eighty degrees, lowered the blade, reversed his grip, and pulled it upward, inches away from the groin, severing tendons and more vital bloodvessels. He spun once more, the blade arcing, flicking the blood of it, then walked away without a glance at the journalist, whose desperate tries to cry for mercy caused the air pumping from his lungs to mix with the blood spouting from his throat into a pink, frothing cream.
Hood’s Path is dead, he was James Riche, a European Spy.
~~
He had planned the ambush to perfection. The car would pass, he would aim for the window, take out the old man. His notebook had been full of drawings and comparisons, revealing the very best corner to take the shot from. He saw the car approach, fired, but had not counted on the bullet proof windows. The heavy bullet shattered it, but failed to do more than spray the old geezer in pieces of glass. Then, the momentum had gone.
~~
She had taken the call before the first ring had even finished, curly blond hair dancing on her shoulders, unrestricted for once. The little dirtbag on the other side wanted to meet her, told her he could be there in five minutes – as if she wouldn’t need more time to get up. He was desperate for money, to blow away on pachinko, no doubt. She told him to come back in the morning, for twice the pay. Rats came cheap, and there were plenty of them, even in a city this clean.
This post has been edited by Path-Shaper: 25 May 2010 - 10:15 PM
Reason for edit: bolding HPs death.
Only someone with this much power could make this many frittatas without breaking any eggs.
Kaschan 
Gamelon, on 25 May 2010 - 09:24 PM, said:
Help
