Lancelot, a prince of crime

You awaken in the same silk laden bed that you had fallen victim to last night. For the longest moment, you laid there in complete stillness, before checking the naked flesh of your chest for the bloody bullet hole that had killed you. When you find no such thing, you breathe out the now traditionalized sigh of relief. It so seemed that once again, a distant memory had come back to haunt you in your dreams. That time when you were far less of a man and more so like the dirt beneath the boots of your predecessors. That time when you were among the insects and the parasites, scurrying around and biting at anything and everything that looked at you funny. The claws you had to sharpen and the minds you had to extinguish. So many of bodies piled atop that one moment when you thought you had died, rising high above the clouds to the top of the food chain, to now stand alongside the rest of the apex predators that once called you scum. You rise from the sleek tangle of soft bodies and erotically exposed flesh all around you to make your way to the penthouse view of the gloomy rain laden London streets below your feet, to take in the reminder that nothing down there could touch you now, for your boot was bigger, better and far more dangerous than any petty insect or parasite could even hope to survive being threaded upon.

Power. What a wonderful to wake up to. You cocked a smile as a defense platform briefly went off at ground level. You did not need to know what the commotion was about. Not if whatever it was that crossed into the kill zone was left a messy red stain on the floor. You turn to get yourself ready for a very eventful day.