-The power was cut. The train was slowing down, dimly lit. Alternating blocks of light and shadow cast a carousel's roundabout throughout the train car as the outside illumination passed by. Like an apparition, Donny seemed to appear in the middle of the car as one last wave of darkness was chased away. The train eased to a stop. The hitman's hands were deep in his pockets and he was standing as still as a corpse in his predatorial slouch. He didn't have the element of surprise anymore. He didn't have all of his weapons either. His girlfriend had taken them whilst he was passed out from the sleeping pills she'd drugged his nightly baking soda water with. Fucking indigestion. She'd wanted him to take a day off, refused to tell him where his shit was. Women. It figured that the one person he'd rather not kill had compromised his profession. He'd let her off the hook, accepting that he was going to take the day off. Yet here he was, sharing this train with someone on his hit list. He'd have to make do.-
-Donny shook his head and quickly pulled his hand out of his jacket, holding a wallet. He'd flip it open and show his false (but legit looking) FDA badge to Yancy. He'd address the bum without any trace of an accent, an air of lawful authority in his voice and demeanor.-
"Wrong. I'm agent Jamie Carson. Don't worry, I won't arrest you if you cooperate. I don't give a shit that you're clearly on drugs either, I don't have time for that. What I do give a shit about is that you seem to know about 'First-Degree', and that this train inexplicably lost power. Is he after you, son? Do you know what happened? Seen anything?"
-Donny would carefully move closer, and unless he was interrupted, would put his wallet back and on its place take out a silver flask bound in black leather. He'd continue speaking if allowed, using a much more calming and friendly tone.-
"Just take it easy now, I'm sure you're stressed. How about a drink? You like whisky son?"
"Hmph. It's fine, I'm just doing my job. How about a smoke too? You're all right now. I said I'm not interested in arresting you, I just have a few more questions."
-Donny tipped back the flask, throat bobbing, watching Yancy out of the corner of his eye. He'd wipe his mouth on his sleeve and then, tucking it away, would retrieve a pack of cigarettes instead. It'd be difficult to tell what brand he had in the dark. He'd tap two out, popping one into his own mouth before flicking the other to Yancy.-
-Donny was set to light his own cigarette, but instead he expelled the lamp oil he'd taken into his mouth from the flask, spewing flaming oil towards Yancy's face when the revelation of Donny's identity hit. Donny would immediately slip backwards with his hands in his pockets in case Yancy bolted for him or swung through the obscuring flames. He'd find that Donny had skipped a few yards back if he took more than a moment to act.-
-A sharp click. Yancy may feel an unyielding pressure snap about his left wrist at the apex of one of his initial wild swings, followed a split second later by a second ominous click. Just like that he'd feel something opposing the motion of his left arm, keeping it held across himself. Donny's left hand had flashed out of its pocket, one end of a pair of steel cord handcuffs in his grip. The ratchet and cheek plates at the other end would have cut a silver arc into Yancy's wrist and snapped shut, and in the same motion the other end was slapped onto one of the safety bars near Yancy's right, the ones that passengers are expected to use when without a seat to maintain their standing balance whilst the vehicle is in motion. Should this all occur Donny would dart backwards as far as he could, low and fast with his hands held out and fingers splayed before himself like protective wards, leaving Yancy secured in place and still on fire.-
-His hands shot down into his pockets and pistoned back out. Several clicks snicker-snackered from Donny's left hand, a black length extending out that terminated in a gleaming point. Holding a nosespray bottle in his right hand, he quickly doused the tip in cyanide. He was out of Yancy's reach, but Yancy was still in Donny's. The hitman held the spear aimed at yancy with his elbow in, knees bent and springy, and left foot leading. His cigarette glowed softly then dimmed, the smoky bulk of the hitman tensing in morbid, suit-flexing preparation to relentlessly impale his target. As he did so, with hushed urgency and the self-assuredness of a trusted professional he whispered a piece of cruel advice to Yancy in a voice as hollow as a gypsy bone.-
