She leaned against the bar at the pub and breathed heavily. The last dance had taken a good bit of her energy. A hand went to her stomach as a discomforting feeling crept over her. Like her insides where alive and squirming, bashing around the inside of her skin. With the pungent feeling roiling within her, The woman called it a night, gathering her coat and stumbling out of the place, a few acquaintances waved her goodbye. Out in the Parking lot, she felt a familiar tug, as if her existence depended on following the urge, she looked at her motorcycle and turned to the alleyway, walking forward. Her hands where in her pockets, ready to pull her gun. She heard a rustle behind her and turned quickly, a hand covering her mouth as she was forced to the wall, she had barely enough time to move her wrist and flick the blunt end of her revolver into the persons stomach, ready to fire…. Then she paused, and the hooded figure relinquished it’s hold upon her… barely. “What the FUCK do you want this time?” she said, putting her gun down as she was released completely. “The organization requires your expertise once more, Wreath.” Came the scratchy voice from beneath he hood. Wreatht he bounty hunter… Wreath the Mercenary…. She scoffed at what they used to call her. Now she was just some rich bunch of snubs Lapdog, unable to live her own life so long as they held this power over her. “An escaped experiment?,, what did they graft two heads on a collie dog and give it firebreathe or something? I’m not suited for this. Find someone else.” She said, after reading the document. Well typed with all the info she would need… except the pay. She never knew what theyw oudl pay her. Then again she counted herself lucky she was getting paid at all, seeing as her LIFE literally belonged to them. She could HEAR the man grinning beneath the cowl as he said “ Are you forgetting your predicament, Wreath?” And in an instant that sickening feeling hit her again, so hard that she gripped her stomach with one hand. She was once thin and slender. But after selling her life for the promise of continued existence, what they had done to her had given The mercenary Wreath a protruding potbelly and thicker thighs, both of which the limber woman would happily be rid of. “P-point me in the right direction.” She gritted her teeth, and kissed the document, her lip balm leaving a stain on the page…. Her trademark. In a blink of her eyes, the man was gone, and so was the feeling in her stomach, though she knew it was NEVER going to REALLY be gone.