Status: Updated on random occasions
The Saint of All Sinners
It's Time For Something Biblical
August, 1974
I walked calmly down the titled hallway. The fluorescent lights casted my shadow on the unpainted drywall. My light leather boots made no noise as they approached the large double doors at the end of the corridor. I placed my gloved hand on the handle but looked into the next room before applying pressure. Through the small window I saw five people, most likely men, loading boxes into a large moving truck.
I grabbed one of the 9mm semi-automatic pistols from it's place on my hip. The Wesson pistol weighted almost two pounds so I only carried two; both placed in my hip holsters. Stuck in my ankle high boots where four knives; none of which were American made, or ever used by American military personnel, except, to my knowledge, by me. Two were Corvo styled; double-edged knives with a slightly curved blade of about twelve inches which originated in Chile. The others were Kukri styled; a 16 inched knife with a highly defined curved blade from the Asian country of Nepal. Corvos were used for face to face combat while the Kukris were a stealth weapon; used to slash an enemy's throat, killing him instantly and also silently. But personally, I preferred the guns.
Due to my lack of a social life I felt the need to name my guns. The silver one on my left hip which had a thin scratch down the barrel was named Barbara or Barb for short. The black gun that was now in hand was named Leon. Leon was new; I had yet to fire it. I made sure the gun was loaded before quietly opening one of the double doors. I didn't take time to admire the large open room before aiming Leon and pulling the trigger.
Before I get to the bloody details I should start this story at the traditional spot, the beginning. I was born Gabriele Maria Richter in the city of Dresden in western Germany in the spring of 1914. A few months later, my father, Victor Richter, was drafted in the German Army at the start of World War 1. My father was killed while fighting in Africa. Heartbroken and poor, my mother, Andrea, moved us to London and later, when she got the money, to America. She died of tuberculosis when I was 17, leaving me with nothing but debt of a couple hundreds dollars, which, back then, was a lot of money.
It was around the time of my mother's death that I started to notice the changes with my body. It started off with a little shock each time my skin brushed across someone else's exposed skin. But as the months went on the energy of the shock grew to where I couldn't have any physical contact with a person without electrocuting them. I started to wear clothing that covered as much skin as possible and gloves became part of my daily attire. A rather less noticable change wasn't really a change; it was a lack of. Even through I was born sixty years ago, my body and face only looked twenty five.
It wasn't until the United States' government approached me that I knew how different I was. I agreed to work for the American government as an agent for the C.I.A. I was young and naive back them so I didn't truly understand what I was getting myself into but if I could go back and change things, I don't think I would. The sad thing is, I can't see myself doing anything different than what I do now.
I walked calmly down the titled hallway. The fluorescent lights casted my shadow on the unpainted drywall. My light leather boots made no noise as they approached the large double doors at the end of the corridor. I placed my gloved hand on the handle but looked into the next room before applying pressure. Through the small window I saw five people, most likely men, loading boxes into a large moving truck.
I grabbed one of the 9mm semi-automatic pistols from it's place on my hip. The Wesson pistol weighted almost two pounds so I only carried two; both placed in my hip holsters. Stuck in my ankle high boots where four knives; none of which were American made, or ever used by American military personnel, except, to my knowledge, by me. Two were Corvo styled; double-edged knives with a slightly curved blade of about twelve inches which originated in Chile. The others were Kukri styled; a 16 inched knife with a highly defined curved blade from the Asian country of Nepal. Corvos were used for face to face combat while the Kukris were a stealth weapon; used to slash an enemy's throat, killing him instantly and also silently. But personally, I preferred the guns.
Due to my lack of a social life I felt the need to name my guns. The silver one on my left hip which had a thin scratch down the barrel was named Barbara or Barb for short. The black gun that was now in hand was named Leon. Leon was new; I had yet to fire it. I made sure the gun was loaded before quietly opening one of the double doors. I didn't take time to admire the large open room before aiming Leon and pulling the trigger.
Before I get to the bloody details I should start this story at the traditional spot, the beginning. I was born Gabriele Maria Richter in the city of Dresden in western Germany in the spring of 1914. A few months later, my father, Victor Richter, was drafted in the German Army at the start of World War 1. My father was killed while fighting in Africa. Heartbroken and poor, my mother, Andrea, moved us to London and later, when she got the money, to America. She died of tuberculosis when I was 17, leaving me with nothing but debt of a couple hundreds dollars, which, back then, was a lot of money.
It was around the time of my mother's death that I started to notice the changes with my body. It started off with a little shock each time my skin brushed across someone else's exposed skin. But as the months went on the energy of the shock grew to where I couldn't have any physical contact with a person without electrocuting them. I started to wear clothing that covered as much skin as possible and gloves became part of my daily attire. A rather less noticable change wasn't really a change; it was a lack of. Even through I was born sixty years ago, my body and face only looked twenty five.
It wasn't until the United States' government approached me that I knew how different I was. I agreed to work for the American government as an agent for the C.I.A. I was young and naive back them so I didn't truly understand what I was getting myself into but if I could go back and change things, I don't think I would. The sad thing is, I can't see myself doing anything different than what I do now.