what you do in this world is a matter of no consequence

But can you make the world believe what you have done? Or are you stuck cursing what the world has done to you?

I'm sure you're rather pleased to see that I made it out of my ordeal alive, and yet none too worse for the wear. Fascinating, isn't it? How one can inspire fear simply by keeping you alive? It's a method, that is certain. Is this what we're sentenced to, to live in additional fear? To have our breath hitch at every shadow? I've paid my dues, paid my price in order to not be afraid anymore.

And yet... and yet...

It's a Catch-22. Run, and you throw away your pride, what makes you a human. Kill, and you throw away your humanity anyways. That's what all this is about. It's not a matter of how much you win

but rather how much you lose.

And that's what I did. I lost. I wasn't careful, I let my pride once again overtake me, thinking that letting Thomas go out for a little while would be of no conceivable consequence. I remember the opening of the door, the sound of heavy combat boots on the wood floors, the click of a safety being flicked off, being hemmed in with no possible way out. I remember the feeling of something -electricity- coursing through my body, leaving my vision dimmed and my ears ringing.  But everything else stretches into eternity, nothing but muted faces and wide, sick grins. The feeling of a needle in my arm, almost like the embrace of a long rejected, but familiar friend. From then, there is only hum and fog. Hum and fog and fear.

I don't understand.

I don't understand what I'm so scared of. What causes the swell of anxiety in my chest whenever I try to remember? When I even consider leaving the Cafe, my knees shake in terror and it feels like my heart is going to burst out of my chest

It's pitiful. Shameful.

And now? Reports of incidents are only happening more often. The killsquads have only become more brazen, more skilled. And my research? For all the work I did, it proved... inconclusive. And now I have an official audit on my hands, examining the failure of both myself, my district, and my Handler. Which means a Higher... a Higher up will be coming to the Cafe to preform what amounts to an interrogation.

Because a tactic used by a killsquad was observed to be shockingly similar to a tactic I've developed. A tactic that I built for the use of the organization, and the organization only.

And now we now know the word that is on the tip of everyone's tongue. Traitor. As I change the dressings on my burns from being tazed over and over and the track marks on my arm. Traitor. It echoes in my mind as I try to do more research and co-ordinate defences. All these years, and now I'm facing ribbing when I go to somewhere to submit reports. Traitor. Facing punishment and execution for a crime I didn't commit.

I didn't want this.

But we all know this isn't about what I want. It wasn't about what Jefferson wanted, either. The minute I was in my right mind and I read that log, I knew. I bloody knew. What other Jefferson was there? Who else would he choose? My friend. Jefferson was my friend. And now he's nothing more than a shot deer at the side of the road. I'm angry and disgusted and god knows what else -pulling things like this while toting "morality" all the way...

Is this all we are to you...?




Things to be used?




... let's hope I survive that audit. But at this point, well, I'm convinced that the alternative may not be that bad.

Arrivederci.

Fuck Off, the Boss is Back

Yeah, that's right, we finally got him the fuck back. Should've happened ages ago if you fucking ask me. But the fucking highers wouldn't approve a proper damn rescue or something. Might've had something to do with the fact that I threatened to gut them, come to think of it...
Not that it matters. We got a tip, followed it, found one very beat up bossman. He looks like fucking hell and doesn't really want to talk about it. Not that I fucking blame him.

I do not fucking like this. It was fucking obvious as hell that that fucking Moriarty fuck wanted us to find him, probably had the tip sent in too. The things I want to do to that fuck...
They'll make what I did to Omega sound tame.

YOU FUCKING HEAR THAT MORIARTY? I WILL BRUTALIZE YOU AND TORTURE YOU FOR TWICE AS LONG AS YOU KEPT THE BOSS FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO HIM. I WILL NOT FUCKING LET THIS STAND YOU FUCKING MONSTER.




Edit: The Boss says I have to post this. We found a tape recorder with him... Photo wrote up the transcript. I made him rewrite it to not sound like a fucking robot.

*AUDIO TAPE BEGINS*

There is nothing but what sounds to be an occasional drop of water. Within a few seconds, it is made evident by the faint thrum that it is raining; it seems to be rolling down a metal roof. Points to the location being some sort of warehouse. There's what sounds to be a snort, followed by heavy but unlaboured breathing. Someone unconscious.


"Wake up." A small, fleshy tapping noise. "Wake up, Jefferson, wake up."


It is here that the man, thought to be "Jefferson", seems to be roused to awareness. There's a clatter that seems to be from something wooden; perhaps a chair that he was seated in?


Jefferson(?): "Hnnnnn?"


The firm, deep voice which responds is heavy and slightly cold. There sounds to be a certain amount of disdain in the tone.


????: "Ah, you're awake! Good! Do you know who I am?"


There's another shuffle; this "Jefferson" doesn't seem to try to escape, just shifts to make himself more comfortable.


Jefferson: *sighing* "Yes. Yes, I do. They've taken to calling you "Moriarty", right?"



????: "I prefer 'Daniel Goldstein', if you will. There's a certain hostility that comes with that silly little title, don't you? Let's talk on even terms, shall we? You'll be Jefferson, and not that other silly thing they call you, and I'll be Daniel."


Jefferson: "Fair enough. Believe me, I appreciate your civility. Hard to find these days, eh?"


*chuckles, which then turns into a slight cough. A splatter follows soon after*

[Judging from his voice, "Jefferson" seems to be in his early forties.]


"Moriarty": "Yes, quite. Especially in these troubling times."


There's a sound like wood scuffing on cement, some sort of creak, and then silence save for the continuing thrum of rain.


Jefferson: *seemingly unperturbed, voice rough and hoarse* "So. With the pleasantries out of the way, how about we get down to what exactly you want from an old dog like me?"


"Moriarty": "Nothing but your cooperation and loyalty, Jefferson. You have before you the chance to turn away from the service of a monster and commit yourself to a greater, higher purpose. I can offer you protection and a life to reclaim what you have lost..."


At this point, "Jefferson" seems to stop and think. There's approximately a minute and twenty seconds of silence, aside from the occasional drip.


Jefferson: "... do you know what my duty is right now, Daniel? What I was before all this?"


"Moriarty": "I do."

[Further information: Jefferson, rank of Handler, formal title of Mentor, had been a high school guidance councilor previous to his service. The Organization first recruited his daughter, 15, who was terminated after incident 471B. He enlisted in the service voluntarily, in order to secure the safety of his charges. While on active duty, Jefferson was tasked with recruit education and psychotherapy. How “Moriarty” would be privy to this information is unknown.]

Jefferson: "... Then you know my restraints and parameters."


"Moriarty": "I do."


Goldstein is matter-of-fact and practical, business-like verging on coldness.


Jefferson: *voice raising to anger* "Then how could you possibly ask me that? How could you ask me to save my own ass when I have people out there to protect?!? Not just from my past life, but all those kids that are alone and afraid; nobody else is going to do my job!"


"Moriarty": "Because you have a choice here, Jefferson. Your service to that monster was not your only option, it was simply the only one which you perceived at the time of your indoctrination. I can see a great deal more choices before you, especially now. I am offering you one."


A slight period of silence.


"Moriarty": "The choice is yours, Jefferson, do not mistake it."


Jefferson: *seems to have moved from anger to broken pleas* "How about those kids? Who's giving them a choice?"


"Moriarty": "...Don't you see that by aiding that monster you only pave the way for It's taking more children? Killing more children?! What you do is a prolonging of atrocity! Your service to that thing is only bringing harm to more others than the ones you've helped."


Jefferson: *audible pause, with a choked back sob. He seems to try to compose himself.* "I know. God, I know. But I can't, let me burn in hell, but I know those kids by name, by face. I can't just betray them like this. Forgive me..."


"Moriarty": *strained, seemingly concerned.* "You have a choice here Jefferson! I can offer protection to you and those children!"


Jefferson: "... No. Not as much as you think you can. Thank you, Daniel, I get what you're trying to do, but they all live this way. Everyone aside from me, anyways..."


"Moriarty": "No. You greatly underestimate me, my dear Jefferson. I'm disappointed in you. Even presented with an opposing choice, you serve a monster. It's said that the most hope can be found in darkness... but clearly that is not the case. You refuse to see the light even in your situation of darkness."


"Moriarty": *sighs* "I had thought you were more than your kind. I was wrong."


Jefferson: "I always told my daughter that life tended to be disappointment after disappointment if you tried to do everything right. Nobody's perfect."


"Moriarty": "We're not aiming for perfect. We're aiming for correction. So you decline my offer, then?"


Jefferson: *absolutely no hesitation, with complete finality* "I'm afraid I'll have to refuse, Daniel, though it is much appreciated."


There's a pause. The thrum of rain is the only sound now. Nearly ten seconds of uncomfortable silence pass before there is another sound like wood scuffing on cement, and then the sound of echoing footsteps.


"Moriarty": "Then you are a mistake, and you, and all others like you, are to be corrected."


Jefferson: *contentedly sighing, almost inaudiable in his confession* "... Thank you. Oh god, thank you...."


There's a sharp bang, presumed to be the sound of a gunshot. In the next ten seconds, the only thing audible on the log are footsteps, growing quieter and quieter until there is a metallic creak, and then a slam, as of a door opening and shutting. The silence continues for four minutes and twenty two seconds to the sound of the humming rain.

*AUDIO TAPE ENDS*

(Crickets Chirping)

Previous posts indicate that other members of Baker Squad consider previous mission a Failure. Failure would likely involve a cessation of functioning. We are all, however, still alive. In this regard, perception of "Failure" is not entirely correct.

Fiametta and Nat are both currently out of action for various reasons, chief of which seems to be incoherent rage. I do not speak italian, but believe "Affanculo" is a slur or epithet of some sort, judging by the tone and continual scowling Fiametta has been exhibiting.

I digress. Now is neither the time nor the place for tangents. Report needs to be written.

Report Begins

Subject: "Joseph"

Title: Sherlock

Current Status: Missing In Action

.

Subject last in company of Janitor. According to Janitor, subject was present within the Cafe Loop when he departed. Suggests either any extraction of "Joseph" was of his own volition (unlikely, given evidence to the contrary, but possible), an opportunistic move on the part of an antagonistic party or a carefully planned operation by the aforementioned party. Other possibilities present themselves, but become to complex or outlandish to entertain.

In either of the more likely cases, the presence or absence of Janitor would have been irrelevant. Possible that absence from the Cafe Loop is responsible for Janitor's continued well-being in this matter.

.

Analysis of the situation: Extraction took place without struggle or violence. No windows  broken, no evidence of gunfire, no blood. Initially, evidence suggests that Subject willingly removed himself from the Cafe without informing superiors or the rest of Baker Squad. Uncharacteristic of Subject.

.

Results of further investigation:

Stained coffee mug and papers discovered on counter. Subject exhibits compulsive need to possess a tidy workspace. Has never permitted sections of the Cafe Loop to go untidy for any significant length of time.

Evidence of spilled coffee below countertop on shelf. Initially dismissed as coincidental, but coffee mug was upright. No sign of spilled coffee elsewhere, no dripping. Conclusion: Coffee placed there deliberately.

 .

Examination of Coffee Stain: 

Crude writing, likely made in haste: NOVIOOTOR. Nonsense word. Subject would not have left nonsense message. Further examination suggests some letters blurred together or otherwise rendered indistinct. Disadvantage of chosen medium. Removing excess of Os grants N_VI__T_R. Many bus rides completing crossword puzzles. Attempts to fill blanks lead to the conclusion word is most likely "NAVIGATOR". Method of leaving message suggests Subject left under some form of coercion, with undue haste.

.

"Navigator" is meaning of Irish surname Ó Muircheartaigh. 

Better known anglicized form: Moriarty.

-

Report Ends.

"Blow"

This certainly could have gone better.

Things were going reasonably, though honestly, I am uncertain as to why I, of all people, was sent on an ambush. It was hardly my "element", as it were. Impersonal and tasteless. But as to the events that happened, as I stated, things could have gone better.

We were flanking the van, with Photo stationed to snipe any who fled with his crossbow. Unfortunately we were not the only ones present. There was a child. Quiet at first. Hallowed, likely. Got there first and set things off. Started wailing like a gutted cat, only less likely to stop.

I am adverse to gutting cats.

Obviously, things went horribly, horribly wrong at that point. They were alerted to our presence, and someone was playing snipes in the distance. Not Photo. A rifle. Either way, the males slipped away, and Nat made her way into the van to go after the third.

She was reduced to a yammering, giggling, limp wreck by some sort of drugging by the woman inside. I went to help her. Ronin was going after the child, and harmed him a reasonable bit, getting himself wounded as well in the process.

We were interfered with and ambushed, ourselves. Not by the group of the one "Joseph" calls Moriarty. I have little doubt of that. By another group. Disgusting.

Ronin, the stubborn ass, was still trying to go after the other young one while half-gutted. And then one of them had a gun to Ronin's head, though Photo grazed him with an arrow and distracted him from that.

And out came the Doctor-woman, bolting for the hills after drugging a member of the other "team" as well. The other two of the courier-types followed her, with their package in hand. The priority at that point, with the marks having all but escaped, was to get everyone out, with one drugged and lost in a daze, one bleeding out, and only myself and Photo still standing, with the rifle-one still in the distance.

We failed. We are all alive, but we have failed.