... because that is what has caused this inscrutable mess. Children. The games of immensely powerful children, children that know nothing of morality and have not even entertained such a concept, children that hold lives in their hands in place of pieces, children that produce startlingly effective results...
Ha, is that not the most terrifying thought you've ever had in your life?
Pol Pot once employed children as security guards, not for the nation's enemies, but rather to "protect" it from its own people. He, I figure, assumed that a child is perfectly honest and would not hesitate to do as it was told. A child has no idea what pity or mercy is. Children only know what they are ordered to do.
I suppose that's why the whole Writer situation has gotten me fascinated, albeit in a morbid sense. As of nine days ago, he's been officially designated as "Absent Without Leave". Yes, one of the most notorious and hated Crafters in the Runner's pathetic and rather short history is currently off the grid. How, we're not exactly sure.
But I'm almost certain as to why.
Seven days ago, I myself posted a classified document on this blog. The simple reason for this was because I now could. Yes, I've been promoted to Handler by some sick and cruel twist of fate. It is a position that I neither had expressed any interest in, and for some reason, this catapulted me to the front of the running. And though there are positives, such as having most gag orders become optional for me to follow, not compulsory, and having free and unrestricted access to most of the Organization's database, such perks are also followed by me suddenly having to take responsibility (or, alternatively, Handle, if you're a complete bloody arsehole) for three Squads in the division, hand out assignments, and, of course, finish paperwork. And dear sweet tossing hell there is a lot of paperwork.
On top of that mess, the fact that Writer has gone on a little bit of unpaid bloody vacation means that I'm the premier Crafter in my own and surrounding divisions. So that, of course, means that I'm left constantly flitting from place to bloody place maintaining the Loops that that fucking git left behind and attempting to build my own, which is proving to be bloody well fucking IMPOSSIBLE.
Ah, yes, back on topic. It would seem that my previous assumption was absolutely correct; Writer was duped, and he was duped badly. According to the files I've gotten my grubby little fingers on, he was told he would get his glorious Teller back, and, well... we all have seen the end product of Spencer Fitzgerald. It's a shame, but for some reason, I'm having trouble summoning a great deal of pity for our favourite psychopathic stalker. That being said, we are no longer responsible for Writer's actions. There will be nobody sent to give him hugs and a hot cup of milk in the event that he loses (or has lost) his figurative mind. You all have been warned.
If you see him, run.
... so what does this mean for the Squad as a whole? Photo's getting transferred to another division, the rest of the Squad got promoted, and we're bringing in another Squad leader because I can't do the job myself anymore...
Next week, I'm going to be visiting the cult under my jurisdiction. I can't say I'm looking forward to seeing the grisly operation for myself, but all is fair in love and... the line of duty. But something about effectively manufacturing servants for the Tall Gentleman just doesn't sit well with me. Perhaps I'm over thinking the issue. Perhaps there's no place for such feelings in my position anymore.
I'll suppose it's something to discuss with [REDACTED] - my apologies, one of the three other Handlers in my district, including myself. He is the one that "provided" us with Photographer, and has also been the one in charge of my ongoing psychiatric assessment. That is something that I'll discuss later.
With the Cafe only now housing its regular residents and awaiting another, we're, of course, being left to clean up the mess that Moriarty's man made and process the information we have gotten from this ordeal. Until then, it's classified; which means that even if I WANTED to keep all you bloody gits informed, I very well couldn't until the report is cleared for public consumption, like we're worried that it will be too much for your faint little hearts.
Jesus. I can't take this.
So yes, the job is about as mind numbingly tedious as I expected it to be. Big surprise. But we're all alive, and we're in one piece; which is damn good these days, considering what's been going on.
Stay aware and alert. That goes for all of you. I can't see this getting better anytime soon.
Slán agus ádh mór oraibh. Let's hope nobody dies; the paperwork might bloody well kill me.