Fuck You All

Can I just go on the fucking record to say I don't like this bullshit? David needs to fuck off, and take his boytoy with him. The cafe's too fucking crowded, and apparently when they're all fucking here, the Boss has no fucking need for me.

So last weekend, when the Boss was getting disciplined AGAIN, I was exiled outside the door. Apparently he said the wrong thing to the wrong person and the higher ups got pissy. I wasn't allowed to help, instead it was the freak, the rapist, and the loser. I don't care that it was fucking 'Redlight', that doesn't mean shit to me. My place is at the Boss's side, and all this lot needs to go the fuck away and stop hurting the Boss.

The next person who tells me that I can't go after someone who hurts him is getting a knife in the ribs.

life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent

Alternatively, when Redlight tells you to do something, you bloody well do it.

Nightscream is recovering well, and David has been assisting for the past little while. Although one might expect conflicts in this sort of arrangement, there is something on all our minds that holds us back from daring to get into any sort of serious confrontation with one another. The uneasiness settles like a bloody blanket, gettting into corners you can't hope to reach.

The last Redlight tried to start the apocalypse. Why do I get the feeling that, this time, we can't stop what is already here...?


... It hardly matters. Life goes on, and orders are orders; of course, the revelation of former allies coming back from the dead and new leaders surfacing from nowhere hardly gets anyone a reprieve. With Writer being on some sort of "leave" (heaven forbid he TOLD his Squads what that meant, or told us that he was taking such a thing in general. Granted, Writer was never one to communicate reliably; though imagine my surprise when I found out about this, since I was left unawares that such a thing could be utilized even when the person ON said leave was not wrangling with near death. 


Then again, we all must keep in mind that Writer was not privy to the plan regarding the resurrection of the Devil himself. My apologies, was probably not privy; because I have in no way obtained information I wasn't supposed to have, no, of course not. That would be absolutely absurd. But let's speak in hypothetical. If I did have such information, it would most likely speak of a plan concocted by a certain classified rank that we all know as "Valtiel". It would also probably speak of a plan to result in the reclamation of a certain Storyteller, not the result that we got. The only conclusion I can make regarding this is that Storywriter was not aware of the real nature of the plot. Storywriter wasn't told about the outcome that we all saw coming. Storywriter was blindsided by his own allies. Storywriter is likely heartbroken at his lack of happy ending. Storywriter is very, very pissed off. But that's all on assumed  information. For all I know, Writer may be off on some sort of vacation, celebrating a job well done. 


But we all know that's doubtful. Call me a damned idiot, but I'm tossing worried. Just where exactly is he...?), we have Redlight giving us orders. And by "us" I mean David, Nightscream, and I, with Morningstar being a recent addition. The Cafe is full, but pleasantly so; I can handle the friendly ribbing, though how "friendly" this is, in context, is debatable.

The reason they're still present, however, is not because orders are being awaited, but rather because orders have been carried out. We are currently in possession of one of Moriarty's men; sans one tooth, which was containing a suicide pill. Cute, but I like to imagine we're better than that. The remaining four of the squad we were sent to exterminate did not last long. I suppose that when you have the right people for the job...

I, however, have been removed from the interrogation committee. And though I hardly consider it a loss, the method of my necessitous removal  is rather... concerning.

I'm choosing to note at this time that I cannot remember my second kill - as I was privileged enough to catch two of the Squad members unawares. And though I can clearly recall the first kill; a cleanly slit throat, which allows for the body armour to be ignored, the second kill is a blank in my memory.

I'm not sure who pulled me off first

thump

whether it was Nightscream or David or Morningstar

thump

but I had to be physically removed from the body

squish

I stabbed the hunter

squish

57 times.

drip

drip

drip



... A while ago, I was ordered to go to counselling. I am acquainted with the good Doctor; Photo is one of his research subjects, so one can probably understand my hesitance; and yet, regardless, I think it's in my best interests to go.

Normal people do not black out and stab someone 52 times after they score a direct hit to the heart

Normal people do not have to be hauled off the corpse, as they're unresponsive to stimulus.

I'm disgusted with myself

I'm terrified of myself

What in hell's name is happening to me...?

i am not the law

but I represent justice-

... no. No more quotes. Not today.

Not with what has happened in my rather long absence silence. Not with all the deaths that have happened lately. Not with the recent developments that were dropped on to everyone's collective laps. Not with the Game that has been set into motion.

Some of you have chosen initial disbelief. Denial. I can hardly blame you; it's hardly a pleasant fact to acknowledge, is it? Things aren't suppose to happen this way. People are supposed to die, leave the board, have some sort of... peace? Rest? Because whatever bloody deity is out there knows that we all don't get any of those two things. Requiescant in pace. Ha, what a joke. A divine joke. This universe has already been proven to be quite the cruel master...

... So. I'm not dead. That much is obvious, although I suppose it isn't; perhaps if I had been executed, the information would have been classified, leaving you all to think that I've simply vanished into (come on, "Joseph", focus...)

Yes. So. I apologize for my rather manic disposition. Between the kidnapping and my subsequent trial (by fire), I suppose things have been rather unstable. It only got worse when I got a certain proxy dropped on my doorstep by a face that I never expected to see again. Correction, wearing a face that I never expected to see again. You don't understand until he's right there. Standing right in front of you. You can feel yourself break into a cold sweat, nausea churning your breakfast in your stomach, fingernails curling into your fucking palms in an effort to look at this monster, this THING without turning on your heel and running as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

And the smile, that smile. The grin that spreads too wide as amber pinpricks almost glow out from the shadow of a red hood, inhuman, never ever blinking. Gazing downwards as if you're insignificant cockroach, a bug, no, not even that, you're a speck of dirt, nothing, nothing, nothing compared to-

for chrissakes my fingers will not stop shaking

Nightscream will be alright. Well, for any given measure of alright... there's only so much I can do myself. I'm not a Doctor, after all, so I can only really do what I know how to do and hope that It's body knows how to heal itself. At any rate, it's not DYING anymore, which is a good thing. Don't think I could go through watching another bloody person give up on life on my stretcher...

And in the crossfire of this? Dearie me, my tossing precious reader! Who wouldn't want to hear about my little escapade? My skirt with death, as it were? Though perhaps I'm being a tad bit melodramatic. Seems that despite the horrible experiences I've had with them previously, the Highers DO have some sense left in them. And because I am the generous sort of bloke, I've managed to get the transcript of my informal trial declassified.

Because maybe you all should know what we're dealing with.


Now if you have a memory span greater than a goldfish, you'll recall this particular incident in which I was to be tried and possibly executed for a crime that I certainly was not stupid enough to commit. And while I did state that a Higher up would be coming to the Cafe, at that moment I was not privy to the fact that when they submit your summons, you bloody well go to them. So imagine my surprise when the building I was ordered to report to was a nondescript office tower. Luckily, my impending death meant that I had dressed for the occasion, which of course meant the saddest, most worn clothing I could find.

You must keep in mind that I had no pride left to speak of. No hope. I have observed, recorded, and documented too many of these "trials" to even consider the possibility of my innocence being proclaimed.

I've watched to many people be killed on the spot to expect anything that left me breathing.


And so I walked. And then I waited, no, I hesitated, hovering my hand over the ordinary doorknob, feeling the world bend and twist around me...

"███████ . Have a seat. I trust you know the reason that you're here." Maybe some of you know him, maybe you don't. The first Crafter, the first man to figure out how to bend the blank spaces that our mutual employer leaves behind, the man who's looks are a closely kept secret because of who they resemble, and the implications of that... well, I'm hardly going to run my tongue. Call him what you like. Higher up. Highest. But at that moment, he was my judge, jury, and executioner.

"Of course." Three squads confirmed dead, one missing. Nothing to shake a stick at.

"And you realize the consequences of your actions, as well as the scope of the recovery."


"... that would imply, Sir, that I've done something wrong of my own will. And though I feel incredible empathy for those who have lost their lives, I can't hold myself more than slightly responsible."

But as he looked at me with those bored grey eyes, I knew it wouldn't be that easy.

"Perhaps I should be more specific. The actions of your squad, your handler, and yourself. The unauthorized assault. The late reports, the "side-projects"... you're our best and brightest, true, and the only of our best and brightest we allow to see the spotlight."


A pause. I can't remember if he even blinked in the silence between us. And it dragged on. And on. And bloody ON. I was almost sure that he expected me to say something else before he continued.

"███████ , I'm not concerned about the recovery, the lost lives, the usurping of authority or the property damage. We have people for that. What I want to know is what happened while you were gone, what they know, and how they intend to use it against us."


I wasn't quick to reply. Out of spite? Shame? Frustration?

"I don't know, Sir. I'm not exactly sure... I remember being taken from the Cafe, leaving the clue behind for my squad, being tased, over and over, but the rest is... blurry. Voices...? I was... in a straightjacket most of the time, and I... Judging from the state of my arms, I was drugged. Repeatedly. With what is anyone's guess. I know for sure that the one who took me was the elusive Daniel Goldstein. And... The sniper...? Trips... a... A colonel...? From the army, I know he's from the army... there's two others, just shady voices, they knew my real name, Sir, I'm not sure how..."

My only chance and I was convinced I blew it. I could feel my eyes close tightly, feel my fingers curl into the fabric of my jeans. Just waiting for the bullet. The killing blow.

"J-just appraising me - J-jesus christ..."


But it never came.

"Mmhmm. We'll have you see the Doctor, see if he can't do anything for you. Are you positive it was Mr. Goldstein?"

"Yes. Completely so. It couldn't have been anyone else with that bloody sneer..."

"And as for the information you divulged... how much of it is... compromising, and to what degree?"


"I can't remember. I don't even recall leaking any information, Sir."

"Nothing at all?"


"No, Sir."


Something in the back of my mind said that this entire spectacle was pathetic, that I was pathetic, that I should be more forceful, that I had nothing to hide. But the terror of waiting to die overpowered whatever doubt I held, whatever sliver of superbia I once possessed. In the face of your own mortality, you'll find that you're willing to do anything in order to live one more minute

Even lie down and beg


The silence that followed was almost painful. The only thing I looked at was my own shoes, trainers muddy from rainy weather, specks of caked on dirt that I hadn't bothered to clean. Cracks in the rubber soles, pulled threads in the laces. I memorized every detail of those damn trainers because the silence must've lasted for hours. I nearly jumped a meter when he finally spoke.

"... You're aware that treason is punishable by death, correct?"

Anxiety welling in my chest. This was it.


"I'm not a traitor! I didn't do anything wrong!"


"Leaked information is leaked information. Three squads are dead as a result."


At that point, I had enough.

"We all serve a suited abomination. Squads die. For all we know, Goldstein hacked the servers like has has before. Perhaps he got the information from someone else while it was en route to the Organization. May I suggest Rhodes or Writer? They seem to preform insubordination like it's a fine art. The leak could've come from anyone. Don't be absurd."


His own eyes narrowed in what could be called mild annoyance.

"I assure you you're far from the first we've questions in regards to this situation, ███████ , now I suggest you do something about that tone of yours before I change my mind about what to do in regards to leak, and your potential role in it."


I could feel myself shrink back. God damn it all.

"... You do realize, of course, that this is all Protocol, nothing more."


Now THAT caught my bloody interest.

"... Now what, then?"


"Regardless, you're correct. There's no substantiating evidence that you're in any way involved in the information leak. We also cannot punish you for something that wasn't, in technicality, your own fault. Furthermore, you've obviously suffered physically and mentally from this experience. I cannot, with a good conscious, penalize you for your kidnapping."


Chest heaving up. Chest heaving down. I think I barely managed to suppress a nervous giggle.

"Easy, ███████ . You've been through quite an episode. I suggest you visit the good Doctor, he'll have you checked out. Perhaps he'll even be so generous as to give you some time off. And before you thank me, I'm only acting as I see fit. There's no need."


"A-and here I thought my career was over..."



"There's a reason why it's been decided by myself, Sherlock, and not your Handler. You've been a very valuable employee for a very long time. Had it been anybody else but yourself, my judgement may have been different. But you, my man, have shown nothing but promise and loyalty. I refuse to let you go so easily. 

Good employees are difficult to come by. There's little more to it than that."

"Yes Sir. And... is there any reason, Sir, that the proxy known as ███████████ bears a rather... startling resemblance...?"


"That, ███████ , is a question your Handler may be more apt at answering than I."




... I was dismissed then, albeit ordered to see a Doctor for the re-emergence of my... condition. And that was that, I suppose. But something bothered me...

Are we only making these blogs as... advertisements? Intimidation factors? Why can't I remember any of my time in Moriarty's custody? What was I drugged with? How did my strategies end up in his hands in the first place. What the bloody hell happened? Why bring Redlight back now? Was Writer even aware of that tossing plan? Where is that bastard anyways? Why am I so fucking terrified of the answers to those questions?

... There are men and women behind the curtain, making us dance. With the power to bend worlds with their minds, their money, or even their influence. And most of us only have a hazy idea of who they are and what they want.

We all dance upon strings. I don't think any of us can afford to ignore that fact any longer.

And if I may offer once last piece of advice? Duck, because some sort of storm is on it's way, and you don't want to be caught in the crossfire.

Valete, and good luck. With the way things have been going lately, you're going to need it.

(White Noise)

Normalcy Achieved.
Business as Usual.

Case 3158E; Report Begins

.

Subject: male Irregular, estimated age 20-23, african descent, shaved head, estimated height 186 cm, estimated weight 45 kg, henceforth referred to as 3158E-A.
Status: Compromised, deceased.

.

Tracking proceeded apace; aided by Local Elements, subject was driven into an alley. Reaction time proved surprisingly quick, 3158E-A was more than Capable of evading those elements on the ground, but had either poor knowledge of local geography or poor Foresight. Alley could have easily been a trap: closed spaced, few exits.

Observation began, subject was unaware, believing himself momentarily safe while taking cover alongside a dumpster. Observation interrupted by a Third Party contacting 3158E-A, henceforth referred to as 3158E-B. "Joseph" assisting, communication was intercepted, transcript follows:

.

3158E-A: "-do you mean? You can help me HOW?"

3158E-B: "You're being followed, mate. Might want to do a better job of covering your tracks."

3158E-A: "Of course I'm being followed! We're all being followed, always! Who are you?"

3158E-B: "Oh that isn't important right now. What is important is the man perched on the fire escape above you. He's been taking pictures of you this whole time, you know?"

3158E-A: "What?"

[3158E-A directed attention towards my location at this point.]

3158E-B: "I'd suggest you get moving. It's not going to be very fun to stick around here in a few moments."

[3158E-A was Disposed of as a result of 3158E-B's Interference. Single shot fired, fatal. Subject was hit in left eye, caught off-guard. Arrow later retrieved.]

3158E-B: "Aww, that's too bad! You got him, Camera Man. What a wonderful little pet you make!"

[Call ended; transcript ends]

Observation: Analysis of recording confirms that Third Party does not match Goldstein, Subject: "Moriarty" (attempts to assign official case number Refused by Superior). 3158E-B remains unidentified as of current date.

.

Proceeded to collect arrow from the body and moved to dispose of it. At this point, continued Interference from 3158E-B noted. 3158E-A's phone began to receive further communication. Attempting to salvage the current situation may have proven fruitful, and the phone was retrieved. A message was awaiting.

'Ker-click <3'

At this point, Interference continued, estimate upwards of a dozen (12) heavily armed individuals, clothed in tactical equipment (estimate police/military grade, no identifying marks noted) surrounded my position.

Fortunately, at least one of them was within reach. Moved to take cover behind him, target dispatched: single lateral cut across the throat, likely one or both vessels in the throat severed.
Took cover on opposite side of the dumpster. Was pursued by three others. Proceeded to charge them, targets were knocked off balance and their bodies used as cover. One more dispatch recorded: single stab wound through the throat, likely severing enough blood vessels to be fatal. Extracted self from situation and departed area by means of Path. Returned to Cafe.

.

Summary: Case 3158E, Failure. Subject disposed of due to Outside Interference. Recovered phone, unlikely any useful information remains, examination thus far has proven Unproductive. As of current date, phone has been disassembled.

Inference: Resources beyond those of typical Irregulars. Actions suggest no formal backing, little value for human life. 

-

Report Ends

.....-

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.

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"Navigator" is meaning of Irish surname Ó Muircheartaigh. 

Better known anglicized form: Moriarty.

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Report Ends.