[ he had given some thought to hanging back, waiting until the agent passed through the gate, before putting the gun to her head and ending the chase with a spray of thick red. but there are no guarantees, no backup; it's just the two of them, cat and mouse, and it's not over yet.
he had made sure to map out london before his arrival, traced it up and down and side to side until he was satisfied he'd covered it all to his liking. it hadn't been his home for some time—in fact he's not sure it ever was, just somewhere grey to live when he left his country and trained and killed and did whatever it took to please dear old mother—but the underground he knows very well, enough to get by without a computer. but it's trickier here, up top. without a map. being chased into alleys with little idea of how they fit into each other, like tabletop wooden maze with two little mice, trying desperately to get out.
so he runs instead, footfalls loud against the ground, eyes sharp, cataloguing everything. he might be older now, his breath might be coming faster than it did in his youth, but silva still knows how to play this game—the chase, the genuine rush of being hunted. it shapes you, this feeling. high stakes.
it's time to turn this around.
there's a backdoor (there always is, isn't there) into some anonymous building, going by the smell. cover. silva shoulders into it with a crack, rushes through—but quietly, checking corners. he can hear the sirens even through the thick walls; if he can just get to charing cross, shed the uniform, cover the hair, he'll be home free. this time. but not yet.
the dull chatter of voices is audible, but it sounds like it's a few rooms over, a mindless permeating noise. where he is it's dark, the antique hallway abandoned—some high-class pub must be a wall or two away, catering to confused or oblivious patrons, watching breaking news about the shoot-out at the hearing just a block away. not perfect, but it'll have to do. silva sets up around a dividing wall like a tightly coiled whip, firearm heavy in his hands, eyes narrowed. his forefinger rests lightly on the trigger guard as he takes aim at the entrance he'd just come through, sighting down it, watching the door creak a few inches inward at a stiff breeze.
he hadn't bothered to close it; it's an invitation. ]
no subject
he had made sure to map out london before his arrival, traced it up and down and side to side until he was satisfied he'd covered it all to his liking. it hadn't been his home for some time—in fact he's not sure it ever was, just somewhere grey to live when he left his country and trained and killed and did whatever it took to please dear old mother—but the underground he knows very well, enough to get by without a computer. but it's trickier here, up top. without a map. being chased into alleys with little idea of how they fit into each other, like tabletop wooden maze with two little mice, trying desperately to get out.
so he runs instead, footfalls loud against the ground, eyes sharp, cataloguing everything. he might be older now, his breath might be coming faster than it did in his youth, but silva still knows how to play this game—the chase, the genuine rush of being hunted. it shapes you, this feeling. high stakes.
it's time to turn this around.
there's a backdoor (there always is, isn't there) into some anonymous building, going by the smell. cover. silva shoulders into it with a crack, rushes through—but quietly, checking corners. he can hear the sirens even through the thick walls; if he can just get to charing cross, shed the uniform, cover the hair, he'll be home free. this time. but not yet.
the dull chatter of voices is audible, but it sounds like it's a few rooms over, a mindless permeating noise. where he is it's dark, the antique hallway abandoned—some high-class pub must be a wall or two away, catering to confused or oblivious patrons, watching breaking news about the shoot-out at the hearing just a block away. not perfect, but it'll have to do. silva sets up around a dividing wall like a tightly coiled whip, firearm heavy in his hands, eyes narrowed. his forefinger rests lightly on the trigger guard as he takes aim at the entrance he'd just come through, sighting down it, watching the door creak a few inches inward at a stiff breeze.
he hadn't bothered to close it; it's an invitation. ]