A/N: Hello! Thanks for reading and reviewing! The chapter titles are from The Space In Between by How to Destroy Angels. This story will tie in with my recent stories (Terrible Lie; Yes, Anastasia; I Would For You) but this is a prequel to those, so you don't need to have ready any of them. Enjoy!

1. All the blood lying on the floor

The glove is not close-fitting enough and keeps getting caught between the plates that make up his hand. It won't slow him down when he has to get to work, but it is difficult to refrain from fidgeting. Though such an action won't blow his cover, he has been ordered to avoid notice. So he walks silently in the crowd, keeping his eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead and doesn't look at any of the people moving around him.

It's been a few hours of this and he's getting restless. But he hasn't received confirmation that it's time to finish his job, so he continues his circuitous path up and down the same few blocks; his route is long enough that casual observers will not register his continued presence. More dedicated observes are at least unlikely to give him more than a passing glance. The standard mission gear he wears is hidden by civilian attire similar to those around him and is generic enough to not to attract unwanted attention.

There is a buzz in his ear as his comm device comes to life. "Mission is a go," an unknown voice tells him.

Protocol dictates that he reply, but he does not. Speaking aloud would be unwise in his present location. He is outside of the hotel he was sent to infiltrate, and talking to someone who isn't there, even to say a single word of understanding, might be noticed. They are on guard and expecting some kind of threat to ward off before morning. He does not intend for that to be him.

Adjusting his trajectory slightly, he walks up the steps and into the hotel lobby. The door is one of those circular ones, and he pulls his hands out of his pockets to push his way through. The interior is somehow a surprise, though he has done recon here already. For some reason, he seemed to expect a fancy restaurant inside instead of a somewhat run-down lobby. The idea is irrelevant and he pushes it away as he shoves his hands back in his pockets. The faint whirring of his arm is fortunately muffled by his coat.

The concierge looks up at him, almost warily, and he wonders if something about him, about what he does, can be noticed at a glance. But then the man adopts a polite expression and he reluctantly approaches the front desk.

"I'm afraid there are no vacancies, sir."

"I have a reservation," he answers, aware that his tone is likely too clipped for the situation, especially as the concierge's politeness looks a little more forced.

"Name?"

No sir this time. "Kaplan," he responds and waits patiently while the name (whose name? Not his, certainly) is found on the list of guests.

"Here you are, sir, room 325. Take the elevator to the third floor and turn left. Ring if you need any assistance," he continues as he holds out a key.

Pulling his hands out of his pockets again, he reaches for it using his left hand. An irrational fear that the metal of the key might make a strange noise against the metal hand crosses his mind, but the glove does its job at keeping the state of his left arm unknown. "Thanks," he mutters, then turns away.

The elevator is the kind that requires him to open two gates, and lock them before pulling the lever to send him upstairs. In earlier days, someone would have been working here and taken him to the floor he desired, but that luxury is no longer affordable to the establishment. That and other reasons are why this place was chosen, though not by him. Others selected it as a safe location, and he is here because those whose orders he follows determined they merited a visit from someone like him.

Once inside his room, he sets down the pack he's been carrying all day. Checking into a hotel without one would be strange; though walking around with it was a gamble. Peeling off his coat, he considers it fortunate that no one has paid him any attention thus far. It will make the rest of his job easier. He has had a few missions where someone saw him, and his intentions, before he would have preferred, but he ended up being successful nonetheless. It just required a little more thinking on his feet.

Inside of his pack is a disassembled sniper rifle, a few handguns, two grenades, a smoke bomb, and his three favorite knives. He pulls out the first of these and puts it together, taking his time. Setting it on the bed, he arranges the rest in pockets or straps on his person, then checks the time. Not yet. After a moment of consideration, he sinks into the upholstered chair near the window and looks out silently.

"Subject is arriving, do you copy?" the comm in his ear asks a little shortly.

He smiles slightly, remembering that he hadn't answered earlier. "In position."

"Proceed as planned."

"Copy."

Surging to his feet, he checks his inventory briefly then uses his pack to cover up his rifle, still lying on the bed. He shouldn't need it, at least not for this part of the job. Silently, he moves outside and checks the corridor; nothing. The target's room is directly above his. Listening hard, he determines it's safe to proceed, and goes back into his room, and to the window. The old brick of the building proves easy to climb, though he came prepared if that was not the case. His metal fingers are particularly helpful.

There is a ledge outside each window, running along their bases. He precariously settles himself on the one just east of the target's room, thankful that the sun has long since gone down. It is also beneficial that he is in an alley, so the number of people who might see him is quite low and can be dealt with from his perch. The lights are on in the target's room and he waits patiently for them to turn off.

After a while, they do, and he moves closer to the window, using his left hand as carefully as possible to lift the glass; there isn't a screen. When it is open enough for him to fit, he pauses and listens to the interior. It is the top of the floor, and is a suite rather than a single room. No one should be in the living area where he is.

Dropping to the floor just inside, he crouches for a moment to make certain he has not been noticed. Then he moves silently to the closet five paces to his left. The darkness is absolute, but he knows what he's doing. The closet doors will squeal, but that's not a problem. He wrenches them open and slips inside, finding the safe on the floor at the back. Safe-breaking is not something in which he is particularly versed, but he doesn't need to be gentle about it. His metal arm proves its usefulness as he yanks the door open. It's not the most secure of safes, as the general state of the hotel indicated, and it only takes a couple of tries to gain access.

He can hear sounds of alarm in the other room, of people getting up and moving in his direction. Time to hurry. Pulling the documents out of the safe, he folds them in half and tucks the packet into his belt. Then he gets to his feet and twists out of the way just in time to avoid a knife attack. Not his target, he thinks as he pulls out one of his own weapons and defends himself. The other man goes down in a matter of seconds, perhaps unprepared for his response.

The target is in the living room, the whites of his eyes just barely visible in the moonlight from the window. He is unsurprised when another assailant jumps at him as soon as he's cleared the closet. This man is larger and better trained. They trade a few blows, mostly dodged, before he gets a good grip and flings the man out the window. He isn't sure that will fit in with the parameters of the assignment, but shouldn't be too far off-book.

"Please! Stop! I have money, I can pay you," the target speaks at last, blubbering.

He turns to face him, cocking his head.

"Please, I'll give you whatever you want!"

"I already have your intel," he suggests.

The man's eyes widen. "But you don't know how to use it! You need me!"

Glancing down at the folded papers, he shakes his head slowly as he looks back up. "We want to stop you, not use it," he explains, voice cracking slightly from disuse.

The man swears, but he puts an end to the conversation before it can continue. Wiping the blood carefully off of his knife, he tucks it away and does a quick survey of the suite to be sure there is minimal evidence of his presence. Other than the wreckage, of course. Then he goes to the window and is relieved to see that no one has come to investigate the man who went through it. He slips out and down the wall, returning to his own room. To leave now would be quite suspicious. So, pulling a sandwich out of his bag, he settles in for the night.