I got my new fucking orders today, straight from the upper ups. I'm to be removed from Baker Squad and placed with... some other random fuckhole, it hardly matters, does it?
I told them all when I signed up for this bullshit, the only reason I was ever here was because of the Boss. He's the one that recruited me, after all. I tried to knife him in an alley, and he laughed and told me he could use someone like me on his squad. Told me about the tall fucker, asked me to come work for him. That night was the first and only time I ever saw the thing, and so I went along.
One of three men I've ever respected. One's dead, one's been taken from me now, and the third... well, he probably doesn't like me very much anymore. Funny. I almost had a life here. Guess that can't be allowed to fucking happen.
For the record, the Boss doesn't know that I'm doing this. At least not until I put this post up. He's got enough shit on his plate, I'm not gonna stick him with my bullshit too.
Boss, do yourself a favor and... I dunno, go find yourself someone to kill. It's theraputic, and you could use something to calm the fuck down. I wish I'd been a better part of your team. Maybe then I could've stayed.
As it stands, as soon as this post goes up, I'm a defector, bitches. Making my own way in the world again.
Fuck you all.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
a child has done this horrid thing
... 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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Thursday, 26 April 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
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...?
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...?
Sunday, 15 April 2012
i am not the law
but I represent justice-
... no. No more quotes. Not today.
Not with what has happened in my rather longabsence 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.
"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.
... no. No more quotes. Not today.
Not with what has happened in my rather long
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.
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
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.
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
(White Noise)
Normalcy Achieved.
Business as Usual.
Case 3158E; Report Begins
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.
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
.....-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)