Sunday, 25 December 2011

free as air

Things have been quiet lately.

Aside from an office New Year's party that we're all preparing for, we've all been laying low since the last assignment. I have had a few visitors from day to day (including a particular David Banks, but that was before the hols), and aside from that, it's been rather uneventful.

I've taken to going on walks, blending in with the population. Sometimes London, sometimes New York, sometimes Brisbane, sometimes anywhere and everywhere in-between. It's... nicer where it isn't cold.

(I don't get paid a whole lot; the damage we do, the damage-control I arrange, it all comes out of my pay. And my pay has been... put into other things lately.)

And that's how I found myself walking down the frigid street, snow floating down from the cloudy, dark sky as if just to smite me and my worn coat, shabby slacks, and downright pathetic trainers, equally threadbare rucksack in tow.

... We never had a lot when I was a kid, but we had enough. Always got some candy and a book; even if it was second hand. Have you ever read a second hand book? Mystery scrawling in the margins, folded, soft pages, waterspots and sometimes ash and burnmarks. A new book may be crisp and fresh, but an old one tells a story unto itself.

I digress.

The streetposts acted like sunspots, almost blinding me whenever I walked under them, ice crackling underfoot almost like broken glass.

And who would I find but a rather... humorous fellow? Nice guy. Gave me... supplies. Coffee Beans, actually.

Incidentally, current residents of the Baker Street Cafe, this was the origin of your mysterious gag presents. Admit it, Nat, the book of relationship advice was funny. Fia, sometimes you could find some use of that chastity belt. Photo, I'm sure you can find some use of that lump of coal, and Ronin, that samurai helmet was downright impressive.

And I find myself in possession of a rather nice hat, which is nice considering my current lack of proper winter wear.

It's... we all have to look out for each other. The lot of us out here are, for the most part, just trying to survive.  We've got insane deadlines and assignments and psychotic superiors, but it's a job, and we'll all manage regardless if we all give each other a chance.

... And to all of you out there? Merry Christmas.

No harm in wishing you lot that.

Saturday, 17 December 2011

Way Too Fucking Long

Holy fucking shit this competition stuff has to go. That was a waste of a week of my fucking life, thank you. At least I killed the assholes. Not that that's a fucking surprise. That Jack fucker can't even speak English properly, much less fucking kill people effectively.
Though the asshole did manage to get me injured. I couldn't walk for almost a week and I still beat him to the fucking kill.

The fucking rewind. We got assigned a pair of runners. I'm not sure what they did to be unlucky enough to get us on their cases, but it doesn't really fucking matter, does it? The boss wants them dead, so they die. I made it out to them quickly, found them on a rooftop and chatted them up. Played nice, pretended to be a fucking runner. There's two of them, I'd have to get them cornered if I didn't want to risk one of the fuckers getting away. It was... sickening. Absolutely sickening. They were fucking lovers or some shit, all sappy and romantic with each other. Enough to make me crave the kill even if I hadn't been assigned to them.

Romance is fucking disgusting. It's stupid, worthless, bullshit that will get you fucking killed! It's not some glorious high concept, it's a deplorable method of suicide! I hate romance and love and sex, it's worthless and if I had my way I would kill Every Last One who indulges in that crap. Makes me want to tear open their ribcages and vomit into them.

I digress. I'd tracked down these runners, we were getting cozy, when Jack the motherfucking wannabe ripper tracks us down and attacks /me/ like the idiot he is. I don't think the fucker even realized who I fucking am! He's completely useless in a real fight, the problems started when the runners decided to get involved to 'help' me. Fucking morons. Jack almost got in a lucky shot on the girl, so I had to step in to defend her-and he ended up slicing my side and knocking me off the roof a couple stories down onto the fire escape.
The lucky fuck managed to make me sprain my ankle rather badly.

I couldn't really get back up to them, I was lucky Jack's incompetant. As far as I can tell they slipped onto the fire escape which had big locking gates for some reason, and rushed down to me leaving him in the dust.

I had to play nice for a fucking week, because I couldn't fucking stand up, much less fight. They played nurse and took care of me, which was FUCKING HUMILIATING AS SHIT. I took GREAT PLEASURE in killing them. Decided to use a method I'd read about once-apparently assasins in Persia used to make a series of slices along major and minor veins, with the intent of keeping them alive and in pain for as long as possible. I hamstrung the man and made him watch me do this to the girl. To her credit, she lasted four hours. The man was horrified and sobbing, so I decided to first take his balls, give him a couple minor wounds, then force him to kill himself. With very little effort from me, I set it up to look like a murder-suicide. All I had to do was clean up the minor traces of my presence, then quietly leave before they were found.

Monday, 12 December 2011

Interference From A Beast

You DARE!? You bedraggled impudent disgusting idiotic excuse for a swordsman! You DARE not only to attempt to steal my honorable kill, but to actually STRIKE ME? Not that your attack did anything at all, but it stained my body with your filthy blade! You will suffer before you die, cretin! I will make certain of it!

ARGH. In accordance with orders, I competed with "Tiger", one of those "Knights of the Morning." Led by the shallow, unimaginative replacement for a foolish ingrate, this new Morningstar hadn't even the decency to find his own name, instead looting it from a corpse.

The target was one Jackson Cagle, one whose sanity had far since snapped from the inability to accept the order the Man brings. He fled into the forest, the fool. We Knights of His are all the more strong within them. I stalked towards my target and let out a battle cry, chasing after his fleeing form. When suddenly that animal struck me from the side like a coward, knocking me aside.

For several minutes the two of us ran side by side through the underbrush of the woods. I'll admit that he is quite strong to have kept up with me despite the difficult terrain. Finally I scaled a tree and launched myself off of it, tackling Cagle to the ground. A stab to his shoulder, before that IMBECILE Tiger knocked me off of him, and sliced me in the chest with his sword.

The wound was nothing, but it caught me by surprise. I fell behind. But a true Knight of His will never falter at such paltry distractions! I forced myself to my feet and charged forward. In the end, our swords struck Cagle at the same time. A draw. I was tempted to strike that animal for his insolence, but...With that wound, he would have a headstart. There would be time for another contest later.

And there will be, you understand, you miscreant from the jungle!? Never interfere with me again, or I will show you the power of the Red Knight!

Sunday, 11 December 2011


Report begins
Target, female, Caucasian, blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes between ages of 7 and 8. Named Amelia Connors, hereafter 3149Q-A.

Began observation at 14:00 local time, observed that 3149Q would not return to Domicile until 16:30 local time, but both guardians were already present. Plan was formulated. Simple entrance through the rear door, closest to the stairs, enter 3149Q’s room, dispatch target, and then leave the premises via the window. 

Simple, effective.
Equipment was assured to be in Proper Working Order beforehand. Entered the premises at 16:35. Rear door to the domicile was not Secure. Subject’s Guardians 3149Q-B and C were lax in their measures to protect themselves.

At approximately 16:36, a small explosion to the south of the Domicile alerted 3149Q-B and C, to my presence as they moved to investigate the source. Was forced to employ less subtle methods to subdue them, a small explosive device intended to blind and stun was deployed and 3149Q-B and C dispatched.
To my misfortune, this alerted my competition. The clown arrived via the rear entrance I finished dispatching 3149Q-C with my knife. He fired some manner of sharp projectile Disguised as a novelty item at me. 3149Q-C’s body served as Adequate cover against the attack, at which point the clown had already moved towards our target. 
3149Q-A proved more resourceful than her age might initially have suggested, having escaped via the window I had intended to make my exit from. The clown followed quickly, and apprehended 3149Q as she attempted to vault a two meter tall fence unsuccessfully. I had appropriated the sharp projectile Disguised as a novelty item, which as the clown proceeded to dispatch 3149Q-A, I struck him with. Repeatedly. In the head. I confess to a certain Satisfaction in doing so. While I cannot argue his efficiency, the clown is not subtle. And the Function of a clown is Not Aligned with it's Stated Purpose. Clowns are frightening to small children.

The clown retaliated. I am glad that my equipment was in Proper Working Order, or more severe wounds would have been sustained. The reinforcement to this vest was a useful addition to its Function, though it is no longer suitable for the purpose I had in mind for it. Incendiary damage to the fabric has left it less useful. Sustained several Minor lacerations to the right forearm, as a result of the clown’s knife. Burns to the left and right forearm as the result of an incendiary device masquerading as a novelty item. Negligible water damage to minor equipment was sustained in extinguishing the resultant conflagration.
A formal note to the Disposal Squad, the clown has been thoroughly reprimanded for his less than subtle entrance. At least one domicile was in flames when I made my departure. I apologize for not disposing of 3149Q-B and C. However, I had affixed the clown to the ground by means of the aforementioned sharp projectile. Likely damage to the competition, minor puncture wound to the right foot, possible concussion as a result of blunt force applied to the head. Several lacerations, unsure of exact location or contact. Consider him dealt with.
Summary: 3149Q-A: Dispatched by competition.

Friday, 9 December 2011

"A little drop of poison"

On these last assignments we were made to compete for our marks. This was a command from our superiors, which was not my place to question.

A note: Competition does not make my usual mode of work the best route. I will adapt as needed.

The mark I was assigned was one Derek Carson (6230E-B), un poliziotto (police officer?). He had been investigating into disappearances in the area and from what I was informed, was getting too close to things and a possible liability in revealing things to his superiors. He was looking into missing-persons cases on the... I believe the phrase is "on the side"?

I contacted him from a pay phone in the general area. I claimed to be a street child who had heard from a friend who had heard from a friend that he was looking for a child thief. I told him that I had information that might help him. I might be able to show him the location of one of the abductions. Things went as planned for a bit.

I disguised myself as what I had claimed to be, marking up my face and dirtying my hair and hands and I wore ragged clothing. I removed my cosmetics and made myself the part. I can look the needed part.

We met at one of those "fast food" burger restaurants that many seem to frequent so often in this country. I got some water, but he showed me a kindness and bought me a meal. The intention was kindness, I know this.

American food is disgusting.

I ate as the role decreed, though, and spoke with him I told him I could show him the location of a possible abduction. I acted small, terrified, and worried. I told him I had seen a man at the location. It was not overly hard to fool him. He was enthusiastic and saw what he wanted to see. He offered to protect me should something happen when I took him there.

I agreed. Signore Carson and I started away from the restaurant on foot, as I had told him that the location was not far. I led him along the road and, having scouted out the area earlier, I began to lead him to an abandoned place to finish the job.

This is where things went away from my plan. Una suora appeared from a side street as I led him down, claiming that she needed assistance. The sister nearly messed up my stride before I recognized her. Signora Recluse.

She attempted to draw Signore Carson away from me. She claimed that a girl she was watching had vanished. She claimed that there had been injuries. I defamed her to him. I called her a liar. He was indecisive. I said something which was needed to make Signora Recluse drop her role. I said words against Him, knowing that it would cause the likes of Signora Recluse to falter.

I was correct. She flew at me and attacked me, making her claims completely obvious as a lie as she shouted at me. She hurt me, though I have been hurt worse. I will have bruises and abrasions, and my right arm was dislocated. I did not drop my role, despite her obvious advantage in that fact. He shot Signora Recluse, causing her to fall and release me.

I scrambled away and let myself cry for him to see. After all, a young woman is allowed to cry when she has been attacked, and that is expected. Especially from a young woman acting as fearful as I had. Signore Carson knelt to assist me and check on me. I told him we were both liars, then had a knife out and slit his throat before he knew what had happened. He barely had time to swear at me as he fell. He bled out very quickly. His was an easier death than some.

He had called in the incident of Signora Recluse attacking me before he looked to me, so it was needful to leave hastily. I made sure that Signora Recluse would be able to depart and then did so, myself. "Joseph" was kind enough to fix my shoulder for me when I returned.

Signore Carson was a kind man. He looked at things too deeply. He wanted to help those he saw as innocent individuals. Some things are better left not pried at.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

a study in scarlet

... since this report is long formatted, signed, filed, and sent off with the rest of the reports submitted, then there's no reason for me to stick to format.

I'm not sure why I'm bothering. Why I'm doing this. I think it's... a matter of respect, really. Not respect for you Runners, you psychopaths. Just a respect for... human life, maybe?

Let me tell you lot a story.

I had just been put on assignments when I was assigned to a mark, a part of a group. The mark was... unstable at best, had fought off several other unrelated proxies, and seemed to be on some kind of warpath. He... uhg, had a necklace of ears, smelled like, god, I'll never forget it, a fetid pile of corpses and sweat and blood. He terrified the ever loving shit out of me, so I approached their group with, bless me, food and water, explaining who I was, telling them to just skip town, that I'd fudge my report and that I wanted as much to do with them as they wanted to do with me.

... He had a sword. The kid couldn't had been more that sixteen and he was carrying around a sword. How had the police not caught him and he was charging at me laughing about how he'd

Some things are none of your business. 

It took me a long time to figure out how I was going to make this work. Running away that night had done something to me.

Don't act like you're all godamn innocent. It's happened to all of you as well; the first time, you're unprepared. you don't know what the hell the enemy is planning, and you're forced to run. Forced to squeeze through the darkest of crevices and over every bump and molehill

Like a rat.

And you stumble and you trip and you cry and you jibber and you maybe even pray, because at that moment you're not a Runner or a Proxy or anything else. You're just afraid.

... my mark this week was our last; the one we needed to meet quota. I had been following and tracker her for at least three weeks; only seems fitting I'd get the kill order. She was... maybe seventeen. Brown, curly hair the deepest chestnut I had ever seen, and stunning pale blue eyes. Tiny but strong and with an incredible drive for survival.

We played cat and mouse; me with nothing but a knife and my footsteps, unseen in the abandoned harbourfront she had lead me to, and her slowly abandoning her humanity, bit by bit. I watched. Watched her duck through buildings and cry and scream and curse and slowly, ever so slowly, give up. 

Have you ever seen a lithe young girl dive through alleyways so small that she gets her skin rubbed raw from the brick on either side of her?

Have you ever seen a lady dive through a pile of garbage to get to a hole in a fence?

Have you ever seen a person hide in loads of fish guts and mud, sobbing silently?

I have.

And after a good four hours, she had been sufficiently dehumanized. I cut off from her route; it was easy to guess where she'd be heading, just a matter of making sure we intersected at the right time.

I lit up a cigarette. I had time to waste.

We met in the intersection not twenty minutes later. Managed to convince her that this... "thing" (she called me Iblis. Iblis! Can you imagine?) was stalking me as well, probably for some disgusting ritual for that rather Slender Gentleman.

Because you see, since people in desperate situations are very afraid, they are also very malleable. Open to suggestion. Trusting. I had stripped her of all logic and sense; she was just instinct now, and I've got one hell of a poker face.

So can you blame her as I held her in my embrace?

Told her that I would protect her?

That I would fix this?

How, as I kept talking, I slit her throat?

... my method is far from time-effective. It's not brutal nor efficient. It has loopholes. It requires me to stay out of visual sightpath of my marks at all times.

But it's kinder this way.

I take their humanity first so they don't have to die with it.

Because hey.

Most of us lost that a long time ago.

... big assignment is coming up. Enjoy the show, all you glorious bastards, watching us sing and dance on display!

... Her name was Shoshanna.

Thursday, 17 November 2011

(Mad Laughter)

For every Action, there is an Equal and Opposite Reaction.
-Newton's Third Law of Motion

As it follows, if the Action is Failure, the Reaction is Proportional Discipline. In this regard it should be explained that typing with three fingers on one hand and a damaged cornea is decidedly Unproductive. I am presently not in a state that could be described as Proper Working Order, pursuant to previously mentioned incidents
Likewise if the Action is a sensation of pain, the Reaction is to ignore the pain by finding it humorous, probability suggests that this is the source of the Reaction of Baker Squad, which is to direct strangle looks when I begin laughing.

The chain of Action and Reaction, can easily be followed back to some degree, to the initial Action which led to the Reaction of Failure. Which is to say, being apprehended. Thus it seems appropriate that the most Productive Reaction to this chain is to avoid being apprehended to begin with.
. . . . . . -

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

it is the unofficial force...

Which is becoming quite the official force, if you ask me.

Baker squad, this is your leader speaking. And considering that I'm ordered to update this infernal thing, I am going to function on the assumption that, if I carefully omit and edit what I say, I am allowed to make these orders public. Perhaps give you other lot a glimpse of what you're in for if you join the cause in certain districts.

Oh yes, Runners, discussing such matters makes me just as uncomfortable and cranky as it makes you, and yes, I'd much rather be testing the limits of my newfound (if not somewhat restricted) freedom, though if I am really going to be doing this (as it seems I will be), I figure it only polite to give my doomed readers a point of reference, perhaps an angle of context.

Proxy is a rather encapsulating term. While most districts and areas seem to involve very little organization, lone wolves, if you will, there are certain area where you will find yourself with a certain Tall Gentleman in your head and orders in your hand.

Squads. Squad leaders. Handlers. And then the mysterious "Higher Ups". And ranks and files and hierarchies within that progression, though I won't get too detailed with that.

So it all gets very complicated, very, very quickly, and because people like me aren't around to explain this, it's downright easy to make a wrong move.

Let me explain.

Squads have to fill their sometimes downright insane orders and fill their quotas while trying to not be murdered. Squad Leaders need to keep their Squad in line and avoid any sort of mutiny, their Handlers happy, and their i's dotted and t's crossed in their reports. And high heaven knows what Handlers do aside from handling some of the... more difficult assignments. Is it this way for everyone? No, but I'm hardly going to go around taking surveys while trying to avoid certain doom by beaurocracy.

There's something acutely depressing about that.


Within this hell-archy (see what I did there?), there's a whole smorgasbord of dealings and plans and things that I'd rather not even think about. And when you Runners finally get yourselves into situations that you see as favourable and we see as foolish? Well, you got no approach orders for no obvious reason, and you're expected to obey them.

See where I'm going with this?

Not to be confused with places that spell certain doom if you so much as go near them (such as The House or another Squad or in the same breathing space as this guy).

... and WHY am I bringing this up? Because Photo decided to go on an... unauthorized surveillance mission which ended up BURYING me in paperwork. He was disciplined, of course. Whoopdie doo. Happy now? All you folks at that rather ironically named stronghold, I personally wish you the best. Enjoy it while it lasts.

And the rest of you? I'd suggest you stay away from there unless you want someone way stronger than you on your ass for a stupid reason.

Okay? Okay.

So the last few days have been rather eventful, and, if you have half a brain and/ or the reading comprehension skills of a six year old, you would have noticed that I mentioned something about "freedom", which, again, if your amazing detective skills are up to par, would mean that you would say something to the effect of...

"Why, "Joseph", my good man and genius in his prime! How can this be? Were you not stuck in that infernal Cafe Loop?"

And I would answer with thus; I have managed to procure myself little field trips to at least assist with assignments. And all it involved was waiting in a tiny waiting room with a certain blue cloaked psychopath trying his very hardest to ignore me.

Valiant effort. Hard to tell if he succeeded, because our Handlers called us in soon after.

I'm not going to say much about them. This is because A), I'm not sure if I'm really at the liberty to and B), there isn't that much to tell. Aside from that downright wrong gleam in their eyes, Handlers look to be pretty... normal. We all do, for that matter.

Not that any of you would realize as you're busy mowing us down and slitting our throats, but hey, can't blame a guy for trying.

"We have a mission for you. One that will require Sherlock Holmes level investigative skills, I am sure..." 

That was Valtiel; the few descriptions I've read don't really give him justice. Eyes that dance like fire even out of the light, eyes that could burn you with a glare are really all I ever get of him. The rest is like a forgotten dream; gone as soon as you wake up.

And then a thin grin from MY Handler. Writer. The man who never stops smiling.

"You surely know about the recent rise of murders in our ranks, "Joseph"~? A man with so much time on his hands MUST be well informed..."

... Of course I knew, though it's been kept quiet for the past few weeks. Proxies showing up dead on easy assignments, with way too many bullet holes to be done by a rank amateur. Nothing good, but nothing to do with the Baker Squad.

"Simply put, we want you to investigate."

"And if possible, put a stop to the violence. We have faith in you."

Amber-eyes finishes his statement and I could feel myself shaking.

"Rubbish. There's better suited, and ever since you two started your little compitition, it's been a struggle to make your ridiculous quotas at all!"

He... put his hand on my shoulder then. Fuck, it burned. Burned like a lye kiss. Burned like the fucking desert did. But at least Writer piped up.

"Please, /"Joseph"/, this is a matter of the utmost importance. Your teams are, dare I say, the best shot we've got. Nobody wants more blood spilled than is necessary."

... After Writer was done talking, Valtiel took his hand off my shoulder.

The meeting ended soon after that.

From there, I went and completed an assignment by myself. Report on that will be up later. Baker Squad, be damn careful on this next set. We're in DIRECT LINE OF FIRE with the Knight squad. They want to fill quota just as much as we do and they'll kill to do it.

Don't be stupid, don't get caught.

I'll be seeing what I can find about these murders. Whoever this guy is, he's good, I certainly don't doubt that.

and yet...

I'm pretty sure I'm better.

Au revoir.

Friday, 11 November 2011

Round One Complete

Moronically simple. But what else would you expect.

All these other idiots on here are just wasting their time with their seduction and trapping. There's only one way to kill a man and that is by ramming your sword through his chest.

The target. Terry Stevens. 24 years old, not yet a Runner, but someone who defied the Man and fortified his house. Boarded up the windows. Barricades in front of the doors. Weak stuff. Pitiful, really. I was chosen to slay him. If it were one of those stupid women they'd've tried using cowardly words and deceptions. Deception is a human concept. The Man is above it. The Man never lies, even to his enemies. So neither will I.

I slit a man's throat, stole his car, and rammed it through the target's house. He had a gun. But at the sight of me he hesitated to pull the trigger. Hesitation is a sign of weakness. He deserved every last bit of pain as my throwing knife embedded itself in his arm. He dropped the gun. I killed him with my blade.

Simple. Efficient. Honorable. Learn something, you dogs.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Fucking Gorgeous

Finally a fucking assignment worth my damn time! The other day we finally got new fucking assignments, instead of having to pick up the dregs where we could get them because the entire squad was under some kind of weird work stop thing. I don't even fucking know.
But I had a kill assignment! Finally! It's fucking wonderful.

The target? A middle aged asshole whose name I don't really give a fuck about. Lets just call him asshole. Asshole was infected at a strange age by his two teenage daughters who did the smart fucking thing and joined up when they realized they couldn't win. But asshole got suspicious, tried to stop them.
So we kill the asshole, and that's my job. I kind of figure they should've made the kids do it, but apparently that was not the decision made. Coddling the kids isn't going to make them work better, but whatever.

So I track down the asshole on his way to work-it's a long commute, so I just follow the fucker for a while. Sit next to him on the train. Asshole never suspects a thing. Starts flirting with me, which was a bad fucking move. Obviously.
So I lure him out at a stop midway down the line, telling him I knew a place for us to go. He was the fucking boss, so he didn't much care about being late. Agreed fucking quick. Far too damn eager, the idiot. I lure him to a quiet corner of the terminal, the offices for the night crew. No one's fucking there, it's deserted.
Asshole the dumbfuck doesn't suspect a damn thing, starts pawing at me and trying to kiss me as soon as I lock the door behind us.
But then I don't have to play nice anymore. I make nice just long enough to hamstring the motherfucker, leaving him helpless on the ground. He proceeded to beg, so I took my time about snapping his bones under my boot and roughing him up before stabbing him in his idiotic heart and watching him gurgle as he died.
Cleanup was easy-tile floors, all I needed was a mop and some bleach, then I discarded the body in one of the long abandoned tunnels. The ones with rats as big as bulldogs. They'll clean him up quick and no one will ever see or hear from him again.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

"Set fire to the third bar"

It is nice to work again. I was sent out yesterday after a young, female mark. I changed from my usual attire and dressed as one who might be her... compatriot? We met at a book store in the city in which she was staying. I gained her trust, through... various methods.

She was very pretty. Ginger hair, deep brown eyes, freckles. She had a cute little smile that she tried to hide within the collar of her hoodie. It was a blue hoodie with some sort of lacy white pattern on on shoulder.

We went to her car and talked for a while. She thought my name was Mimi, and that I was a Runner. She had a bit of a hard time with my accent, but I did not blame her. She was wary, but I tell very good stories. I have learned over the last years that stories and charm can get you far.

I stayed the night with her, in a parking garage. It was certainly not the most comfortable situation, but I have been in worse. We talked. I charmed her. I told her what I was this morning after we left the parking garage, heading out of town.

She nearly drove off of the road. She tried to stab me. I could not let her do that. I broke her wrist and took the knife from her once the car was stopped and she was trying to get away, fighting with the seat belt. I slit her throat. Her blood was warm, red and messy. It stood out against her pretty skin matting in her hair and shirt.

She bled out reasonably quickly. I took her from the car and I gave her a proper ending. Her pyre was beautiful. Her flames were the same color as her hair. Her name was Keely, designated case #4534H.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011


Case 3274Y; Report begins.
Observed: two (2) Irregulars, male and female, caucasian, ages roughly 17 and 20 respectively, from here on noted as 3274Y-A and 3274Y-B respectively. 3274Y-B appears to share a mentor-student relation with 3274Y-A, obviously her junior in experience as well as age. Observed 3274Y-A Disciplined for creating Relevant Symbol with spray paint on a wall and other actions deemed Unproductive by 3274Y-B.

Male Irregular, ruddy hair (#A52A2A) and pale skin. Height estimated 170 cm, weight estimated 59 kg. Dark hooded sweater, colour may have been red at one point now appears to be maroon, jeans, black backpack. Clothes significantly worn. Subject caries pocket knife, two inch blade. Not familiar with use.

Noted and Observed: Intermittent tremor in hands possibly stress-induced from stalking, more likely nicotine withdrawal. Nervous tics: Carries religious emblem (crucifix) and clutches during periods of stress. Nervous laughter when under stress. Habitually opens and closes knife blade, or lights cigarette lighter.

3274Y-A has no appreciable skills, minimal knowledge, and no resources of his own. Without the aid of 3274Y-B, it is highly probable that 3274Y-A would have been Collected or Disposed of much sooner.

Estimated length of stalking: Two (2) months, five (5) days.
Estimated time of survival without intervention: One (1) week, two (2) days.
Assessment: No Importance, Observations suggest minimal chance of survival if left to his own devices, no chance of survival if Disposal is ordered.
Female Irregular, brown hair (#954535), tanned skin. Height estimated 157.5 cm, weight estimated 48 kg. Worn, brown leather jacket, torn cuff on right sleeve, heaving scuffing on shoulders and back from sleeping on the ground, t-shirt, grey may have been white, jeans, black bag. Subject carries a firearm, handgun, small calibre (estimate .32 auto), concealed in left-hand pocket. Checks ammunition compulsively.

Noted and Observed: 3274Y-B scrawling intermittently in notebook. Judging by hand movements, 3274Y-B is in advanced state of Re-purposing. Nervous tics present: checking windows and doors several times, obsession with knowledge of exists, repeated checks for presence of firearm, covering head while asleep. 3274Y-B does not sleep more than an hour at a time.

3274Y-B possesses an admirable focus for keeping her firearm in Proper Working Order, Observed: proper cleaning and maintenance of firearm, suggests familiarity with its Functioning.

Observed one (1) blackout in which subject left the company of 3274Y-A for two (2) hours and travelled to the woods and remained stationary. 3274Y-A and 3274Y-B both unaware of this event.

Estimated length of stalking: Six (6) months, one (1) week, three (3) days.
Estimated time remaining: Three (3) weeks, two (2) days, six (6) hours.
Assessment: 3274Y-B is an Individual of Importance. Interference Counter-Productive.
Relevant images included in full report, tagged with map references. No Interference deemed necessary at time of observation.
Recommendation: Separate 3274Y-A and 3274Y-B; application of Pressure to or Disposal of 3274Y-A, preparations underway for Collection of 3274Y-B.
Report Ends; Progressing to next Purpose


Monday, 7 November 2011

you know my methods

So why you chose to not apply them is beyond me. Granted, boss, you may be trying to explore the possibilities, but most people these days use e-mail.

So I was stuck sitting outside a Handler meeting today, like a naughty schoolboy awaiting punishment. Now, there's good news and bad news to this.

The good news? We have assignments, so my squad can finally leave me in (some sort of) peace.

The bad news? I was stuck staring at this psychotic bastard's mug the whole time. And he didn't even have the nerve to give me a quick hello! Honestly, some people. I'm liable to describe him at this point because I'm sure that'd get his knickers in the biggest knot you'd ever see but I hardly find the entertainment I would get from that proportional to the amount of trouble it might cause.

Of course, if some of you ask really, really nicely~

Kidding, kidding. Maybe.

Try not to rape and pillage, Baker squad. I hardly need that sort of headache; I'll be on support if you need me. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to stare at myself in the Cafe bathroom for a good, long time while I try and figure out what went wrong in my life.


The Sword Is Forged

This is where I am meant to begin my crusade. So be it.

I'm Ronin. and of all these morons and fools, I am the only true warrior in His service. It's a sign of humanity's unworthiness that those who flock to Him are these losers. No matter. He has found His true knight. My blade is sharpened and ready to paint the walls with the blood of His enemies.

This place...Cafe, whatever. I will have to do. The decor and lighting infuriates me, but I'd expect nothing more from that pathetic coward of a "leader" we have. I'd slit his throat in an instant if that Man willed it, but as He sees fit to have "Joseph" lead us, I will follow this tracker's lead...for now.

And in case any of my prey thinks I am yet another religious lunatic, think again. The Man is no god. He is greater than a God, because he is a Man, and yet that does not limit His kindness or power. The Man wishes the best for us. That these binding masks of humanity be torn away to reveal the beast within us all. I am honored to be His tool in this endeavor.

I am the Red Knight Of His.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

(Shutter Click)


If kept in Proper Working Order, a camera will continue to make that sound when the shutter moves to allow it to create a photograph. Keeping the camera in Proper Working Order is not hard.

I am the Photographer. The Photographer is me.

I am a Tracker. I find Things. People. Runners. Of course, the Difference between the viewfinder of a camera and the scope of a rifle is that one makes a much louder noise than the other when used. And both need to be properly maintained in order to continue to Function as intended.

I blend in. I am told that it is something that I do well.

Everything has a Purpose. That is why things need to be kept in Proper Working Order. If something ceases to Function as intended, it no longer serves its Purpose and needs to be Disposed of.

The human heart for instance has the Purpose of pumping blood through the body in order to sustain Life.
It takes 23 seconds for blood to complete circulation through the body and begin again. It takes less than that for a bullet to penetrate the breastbone and put a hole in the heart, whereupon the Functioning of the heart begins to defeat its Purpose.

I see things. People. Places. Many do not know their Purposes. All through one lens or another.
Perhaps I have seen you.
. . . . . -

Ugh, Fuck This

Apparently the boss fucking wants me to post on this damn thing. Hi, internet, fuck you all. If I had my way, I wouldn't be here. People who do blogs and shit on the internet need to get out of their fucking houses and do something instead of sitting around all fucking day.
It never fails to amaze me how the stupid little Runners will sit around writing blogs when their lives are fucking in danger. Morons.

Anyway. The name's Nat. My title is not important. I'm a Hunter, the only respectable thing to be, really. All these fucking pansy ass trackers and shit? Useless. Only cowards and weaklings can't make their own fucking kills.

Because, honestly, who wouldn't want to make their own kills? There is nothing in the fucking world better than chasing some asshole down, scaring the everloving shit out of them, and feeling the blade slice into their skin. The warm wetness of a mark's blood flowing in a beautiful crimson spray. It's the finest pleasure life has to offer. Watching the look in the eyes of a man who knows he's about to die... watching the light leave them and his body jerk, then go limp. Oh, it's fucking brilliant.

That's why I signed on, of course. I've been killing for a while, men and those unworthy, weak women who thought they needed them, but I have to say, having a fucking organization like this is pretty damn sweet. I get paid for my efforts, they help cover things up with the cops, and I have to say, it's fucking hilarious that when I turn in the fucking paperwork at the end of the day my boss rewards me with coffee and a muffin.

I have to say, he's not fucking bad. For a man. Men are by nature inferior, ruled by their passions and too fucking sex crazed to think straight. Useless, posturing fools, the lot of them. Their only use is for killing, and they are so very fun to kill.

Fun. Unlike blogging. I think I'm going to go kill a couple guys to make up for this miserable waste of my fucking time. Here's your post, boss, so fuck this, fuck you, and fuck anyone who's reading this.

"Heaven's on fire"

We have to write? Oh, very well.

I am called Fiametta, though most shorten it to Fia. This makes it much less "cute", but I suppose it is not my place to deny nicknames(?). I apologize in advance for any spelling and grammar issues that may crop up in my posts. English is not my first language. I am learning, though.

I will do as I am required, of course. After all, that is how things work, I believe. However much some my shout about it. I admit that I do not quite see the benefit of doing this, especially on my part, but it is not my place to protest.
Will this not hinder my usual mode of working? Ah well. I suppose I could be more direct with things.

I suppose I should say more outright. I am a Hunter, by what I have been told. I believe this to be an accurate descriptor, though I believe the term Honey Trap has also been used. It is far too easy at times to draw a mark away from those who might attempt to spring to their defense.

And I must admit, I rather like the shift in their expression when they realize the truth. I am a bit shy against saying more. Not because of propriety, but because it would make me too obvious. If not for that, I would be quite willing to tell tales.

I do not mind the Cafe. The smell of espresso makes me feel... I suppose the proper way to state it would be "at home". I do not find that to be an accurate phrase for a place of comfort, though. I am almost comfortable here, despite that. There are always interesting people here. I think that may be the best part.

I love people. They're so interesting. So many differences, yet so many similarities. The shift of weight, a gesture, the dilation of a pupil. These things draw me in. An intake of breath, a lick of the lips, the warmth of skin against skin.

It is so interesting to use that which would make me a target elsewhere to my advantage. A short skirt, a ripped blouse, knee-high boots. All weapons for me. People do not look past a pretty face, far too often. They do not realize, until their bones are breaking and their flesh is burning.

I do as I am told, and I take pleasure in it.

the curious incident of the dog in the night-time

I was really tempted to avoid making this spectacle at all.

After all, what good are we, put up on display like this? Misery begets misery, and, really, making something like this is a hopeless waste of time. Of MY time, of course; because my Boss's time is oh so much more valuable as he goes to chase his unwilling suitor's tail or go off forest spelunking.

Do you think I particularly care?

I, known as "Joseph", rank equal to Squad Leader, have started this blog under the order given to me after "Repeated failures to show adequate leadership and motivation.

To elaborate,  has not used any form of disciplinary action for the continually unacceptable behaviours of his Squad, and is decidedly unapologetic for their actions, including but not limited to stealing other squad's marks, not following direct orders, not fulfilling orders in a proper amount of time, not submitting proper reports, and coming into conflicts with other Squads in their district.

 himself has shown to be a lazy, incompetent, and decidedly apathetic Squad Leader while he seems to be squandering much of his potential. As seen in Cases 6789P, 6792P, and 6798P, █ can be incredibly capable in leading a  Squad; as his title denotes, he is a brilliant strategist.

But this does not make up for Cases 6823D-F, in which he allowed his team to set their own storehouse on fire and attracted the attention of the local authorities, 6824H in which one of his Squad members ended up in a Lesbian commune ( later balanced the mark's credit scores and helped them raise more funding. Needless to say, the mark was left alive), nor does it excuse the 6826A fiasco in which  simply returned in the middle of the mission, leaving his Squad in hostile territory, because he had "(sic) lost interest". 

 has therefore been removed from the active case roster. He is to maintain the Cafe Loop and direct his team, not leaving the Loop aside from when he is given permission from his handler. 

Additional consequences are suggested if  continues to refuse to show the skills he most obviously has."

Straight from the mouth of the Bosses themselves; it doesn't get much better than that. So not only are we now in direct competition with another group in our district, I'm also stuck in this damn Cafe in the middle of here and there.

There are better ways to spend my time.

I'm guessing that this is going to be dropped sooner than later; I know that I have no desire nor motivation to post on this thing. They'll forgive me for those incidents eventually.

And until then?

I'll attempt to write as much as possible without actually saying anything.

Seems like an adequate challenge to me.