conflict ; ordernumberone
It was far too easy to escape the hospital. The second Decapre opened her eyes, she operated on auto-pilot. From hospital gown to stolen clothes and her bracers, Decapre moved as fast and as far as her legs would take her, ignoring the slight pounding in her head and the aching from the entire left side of her face. Because her mask was missing, and quite possibly discarded, Decapre abandoned her usual braided hair in favor of having it hang and operate as a makeshift mask.
The second she reached a city center and identified the text, it felt as if multiple switches inside her head had been turned on. The sights and sounds assaulted each of her senses and in one moment she could smell food, and then the next moment, leather and then metal. Within a minute her mind had begun to weave out things of lesser importance until only the key factors remained: "Barnaul. Administrative Center of Altai Krai. Population six-hundred thousand, four hundred and one...Western Siberia..." she uttered as she observed the crowds of people, "...Home."
It was not nostalgia that flooded her senses, not anymore. Decapre tried to sift through her mind for anything, but nothing turned up, and, frustrated, she grit her teeth. The pounding in her head ebbed away for a moment and all she could remember was that she had been hunting something--someone--for her superiors, and that her prime directive would bring her into conflict with another group.
"No," she declared, Russian accent thick, yet monotonous, "Objective is to be completed with the utmost efficiency."
Her head had begun to pound, 'Kill all those who hinder progress...Kill...Kill them all...'
