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Continued from last week, as well...

She was a spy. She wasn't a terribly good spy, but there you had it.
Not the sort of spy you might imagine when someone first tells you their occupation is being a spy, unless the first thing you imagined upon being told someone was in the business of spying was someone who skulked around warehouses all day, looking for clues as to the next and newest developments in cereal technology.
She wasn't a good spy because someone had apparently spotted her, and was now out to end her spying days with bullets and violence (a combination that ended a good many spy's careers rather effectively, if unsatisfactorily for the spy in question). And it was her opinion that she wasn't a very good spy, not a judgement possibly rife with prejudice and predispositions of a somewhat objective narrator, who assumes no responsibility for any offence taken at her being referred to as an inferior spy.
Which is why she now found herself briefly looking down at the reasonably nice (if meek) guy she'd been forced to shove off the pier to avoid himself being gunned down like some sort of piñata at a party (she knew it was an imperfect analogy, as most parties she attended they tended to hit the piñata with sticks, rather than shoot at it, but it was the first thing that leapt to her mind and it had nice alliterative qualities) by the man shooting at her at the far end of the pier, mostly hidden in the murky mist rolling in off the water.
For a split second after looking down in the water at the now soggy figure of the man with whom she'd sat in a restaurant she assumed what she imagined looked like a stance like you'd see in a John Woo film, only to unassume it quickly after seeing a few more flashes of light from the gun of the man at the far end of the pier and hearing the shots a second later (getting both confirmation that he just fired more shots and that light does travel faster than sound, though she doubted Aristotle would have been up for having someone shoot at him, just to prove a point).
Now, it is a little known fact that spies, especially those concentrating in the cereal range of affairs and other food-based espionage, carry throwing stars, but made of rubber, so that they only stunned, and never killed, their intended (or otherwise) target. And it was a half dozen of those that she now unleashed on the assailant at the other, murky, end of the pier.
And suddenly the pier was a maelstorm of colliding rubber and lead, a haze of spattering throwing stars, melting bullets, and suddenly (also), the crumpled figure of the mysterious shooter at the other end of the pier, slowly (not suddenly) being engulfed by the mist, returning when it gathered that it was safe enough to do so.

Part of her job, too, was to convolute the truth, one of the added extra bonuses of being the kind of spy she was, and by no means a part of the generic spy job description.
And it was not a pier she threw him off and they did not have drinks that evening and you are not reading this.

disclaimer:
If the world happens to end at any point this week, thanks, it was fun. If it doesn't (as with every week if it doesn't), we'll see you again next week.