Umbrella Surveillance System
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Cerberus It was toward the evening on a Monday, the rain fell gently from the sky with a scarcely audible pitter-patter. The sun was attempting to break through and shine, albeit dimly as the clouds begun to disperse.

The Eiffel Tower, a typical hotspot of tourism was quiet. Due to the forecast of rain, most people decided to avoid the air; save for those crossing the grounds to get to their home or work.
Isabel With her troubles with the language, Isabel Welsh doesn't go out in public often. But she does sometimes venture to the Eiffel Tower, sometimes to see the view, but often just to be alone with her thoughts. This is one of the latter days: She's just heard of the death of a friend in Siberia, related by a fellow survivor of Raccoon City. Though Buck left, Isabel has stayed in the area.
She's currently standing on one of the Eiffel Tower's observation decks, clad in a light gray raincoat colorblocked in red. Her hood is up against the chilly drizzle as she leans on the rail, her eyes on the view. Her thoughts... well, she's trying not to think. When she does, her mind inevitably strays to Chris Redfield, and his far-away death.
Cerberus "It is a nice day." Said a man that walked up and stood behind her. His accent was thick; possibly German, but spoke English clear enough. He took his rim horned glasses off his face and wiped them of the rain with a small cloth. "What brings you to France?" He asked.
Isabel Well, /that/ was unexpected: France has a friendly reputation, but Isabel's rarely been spoken to out of nowhere like this. The fact that this man doesn't sound one bit French might explain it... but he's speaking English. And he seems to know that she's not from around these parts, either.
"The sights," she says at last, half-turning to face the interloper, though not without a glance around the observation deck. "Did they draw you, too?"
Cerberus Lifting the glasses to expose them to light, he made sure no smudges were seen. "oh, the sites; sounds. People." He smiled innocently enough as he looked to her. "What is your favorite spot?" He inquired, walking up to stand beside her.
Isabel This conversation got personal in a hurry. "Well, there's this little cafe down the street from here," Isabel replies, almost casually. It could be true: Paris is full of cafes serving virtually anything from around the world. "Perhaps I should go there. The rain's not letting up, and I've already had my shower for today."
She edges away from the man, giving him an apologetic smile, and turns for one of the stairways down from the observation deck.
Cerberus As she turned to walk away, her danger sense kicked in. The man slid the glasses back on to his face and slipped his hand into the suit jacket he wore; with drawing a nine-millimeter hand gun with a silencer. He levelled the gun and took as shot.
Isabel Isabel knows that familiar prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck. She hurriedly ducks to the side, hearing the muted coughing sound of a silenced pistol in that instant and the louder *ping* of the bullet striking part of the tower's superstructure.
Yeek! No wonder he was trying to get so close to her: He was trying to kill her without being observed! Good thing she decided to leave when she did!
In this very public place, the worst thing she can do is give him another chance to get close. But the best thing she can do is very easy. "Help! M'aidez! Assistance! He's got a gun!" she yells at the top of her voice, lunging forward and running for the stairs. She tries not to take a straight course: He'll have an easy enough shot at her as it is, with both of them being on this long, straight platform. And it's quite a long drop... something she tries not to think about as she tries to get away.
Cerberus "Scheisse." The German curses as he went after her. He stood at the landing as she headed half way down and popped off another shot. After taking the shot, he slide the gun away and went down after her.
Isabel "M'aidez! Help!" Isabel keeps shouting, running down the stairs. She's barely gotten halfway down when what feels like a white-hot needle streaks across her upper left arm. She stumbles against the rail, gasping with the pain of it, and instinctively claps her hand to the spot.
The spot is growing warm and wet, fast. Her hand comes away red-tinged... with blood.
/Her/ blood.
She swallows hard, and keeps running. And shouting. Hopefully this major tourist attraction isn't deserted, even on a day like this.
Cerberus Down the steps he went on after her. As he came to the next landing, he took a knife out and charged her. The landing was short and the next flight continued down.
Isabel He's gaining on her. Isabel, for all her attempts at fitness, just isn't an athlete, and she's small to boot. Her shorter legs just can't cover as much ground at a stride as his.
Hearing the grunt of someone doing /something/ behind her, she grabs hold of the rail of the stairs and leans back along it, desperately evading that sharp sliver of metal she can see in his hand.
Pulling herself back up to her feet again, she gives him a good kick in the rear, but again she's too small: She just doesn't have the mass to knock him away. All she can do is run.
And she has a lot of ground to cover before she's out of the plaza. He won't miss every time, with all the chances he'll have.
Cerberus As she dodged the hitman, the German could not stop. Though she tried to kick him, she need not to have; He hit the bar at full speed and flipped over the railing. With one hand on the knife, the second reached around to grab the railing and missed. His scream is heard all the way down; cut off by a sickening thwack of body meeting pavement at the end.

The man hitting pavement attracted attention. Within moments of the splat, people scrambled toward the man while others called the police.

Within a few more minutes the police arrived to take statements.
Isabel Did she kick him harder than she thought? Steadying herself on the rail, Isabel looks after the man for a moment, but she's back in motion before the scream stops, running down the stairs, her hand over her bleeding upper arm. Now that the adrenalin is starting to wear off, it's stinging and throbbing incredibly. She can't stop the blood flow. She doesn't have so much as a Band-Aid, and it'd be far too small for the bullet graze, anyway. Next time she goes out, she's definitely bringing her backpack!
Gasping and stumbling, feeling strangely light-headed, she finally makes it to the ground, barely avoiding getting trampled by the bystanders flocking to the landing site of the hit man. Everyone around seems intent on helping this man, or at least seeing him. Maybe they think he's a jumper?
If they only knew...
Turning away, she nearly runs into one of the responding police officers. She can't answer his questions, of course, not when he's asking them in French. "Parlez... Anglais..?" she manages to ask, before she mercifully passes out.
Cerberus The Police contain the scene and take Isabel to the hospital. The body is taken the morgue for autopsy. Most think he was a jumper. Later, these rumors would be proven true.

Thanks, in part to deep pockets and connections; everything the man with Rim horned glasses had was switched with pills and a suicidal letter. The knife was taken, but the gun was left. Planted witness say a woman approached him to help; he shot her and jumped.