Sunday, 30 September 2012

things must be done decently and in order

This is the last post that I will ever write.

The last few months of my silence have been built on the principle of Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur, but it seemed wrong to leave this memoir open ended. Cruel, even. Perhaps it is vain to assume that my story is followed by anyone who gives a damn anymore, but I figured that this was the right way to do things. We live and die, nothing more than words on a virtual page. I can't even give you all the pleasure of wet ink on paper, loops and dips making mountains and valleys that can capture the effective psyche of any given person if you look at it just so. I suppose, however, this will have to be enough.

I am just a man. A man that watched people die in the war, who was stuck as a medic, but I always have been that; just a man. In fact, and I think I have made this fact clear many times. My intellect has always been the only extraordinary thing about me, but it has always been evident that even I was vulnerable in regards to the most basic of vices. Fear. Pride. Self preservation. For all my bloody talking, my diatribes and speeches how I was better than the Runners or even the average Proxy, it all only turned out to be the deranged ramblings of a delusional man. Ha. I'd hardly be the first in that regard. But I always felt that I strived for honesty in my work, strived to push the limits as much as I could when it came to what I should and should not reveal to the masses. But that doesn't matter to me anymore. It's not about the "Game" or the "Challenge" or anything that juvenile or superfluous. I no longer care about whether I live or die. I probably haven't cared about such a thing for a long time, and this blog... only served to stay me off that realization. Homo praesumitur bonus donec probetur malus. One is innocent until proven guilty. But now, the only proof I need is contained within a glance in a mirror; sunken, dull eyes, deep bruises on high, thin cheekbones, purple flowers blooming on the pale, delicate skin of my neck, various cuts, inflicted with knives and glass and heaven knows what else. I keep my body breathing because that is all that I have, I spend my days alone, waiting in dark alleyways and dilapidated, abandoned relics that span from here to nowhere, waiting for nothing in particular.

 I see why you all run, now. There's a certain freedom to knowing that you are only staying ahead of certain death. It frees you from physical things. Vanity and neurosis become nothing in the face of the drive of survival, but the guilt always stays, ever-present and suffocating. I almost enjoy it now, as I have certainly run out of any self-pity I used to possess. I still haven't seen Him; never really have. Maybe once or twice when I was a child. There's a certain badge of honour, I suppose, that has to do with that; how I got myself into this mess by pure chance; a balance of probabilities that lined up just so and aligned to the universe in a just right sort of way. Maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps it should be a badge of shame.

I left my post after securing the safety of my team, when it became clear that the Organization had no handle on the Crimson King anymore, about the time that he began to launch his assault with the army that we all knew he had but wished he didn't. From what I've heard from the various Runners and Proxies who would seek out my talents in the medical arts, nobody, however, knew how hard he'd hit right from the beginning. I've filled a few things in on my own while on the run (really, if they didn't want anyone digging up confidential files, they shouldn't have digitized in the first place), and apparently our favourite Scarlet Knight took down the Highest and Moriarty's operation in one stroke; after all, what did the Organization have but a vicegrip of fear and false promises of normality? What did Moriarty have aside from a drug that made you stronger, faster, sharper, and more bloodthirsty, but as we later would find out and keep from all of you, would kill you in the end as you screamed bloody murder, a slave to withdrawal? And so now the mysterious beings who calculated our every move in the name of a creature than we do not understand are now either slaughtered by the very being that they manufactured, or are currently grappling with it for control. I have no fondness for the Devil, we all know that, but at this point, a bet against him is a bet that I'm not entirely sure I would win. The Second has exceeded all expectations, and that is the part of this whole mess that should unsettle everyone the most, and yet it's almost kind of ironic in hindsight; Author, the Highest that conducted my own trial after my kidnapping at the hands of Moriarty's men, is now the direct opposition to the monster that wears the face of the result of his rather marvellous pedigree. Writer mentioned something to this effect a long time ago, and according to my research, the resemblance isn't just a co-incidence. I am, however, certain of one thing; the man that myself and many of my former Proxy brothers pushed towards certain death, Spencer Fitzgerald, was not close to being aware of his lineage. Author, however, was aware of such a thing. Perhaps he took pleasure in watching the son he never loved nor cared about be forged into a powerful tool. For the few Runners that are left, and perhaps whatever Proxies are now involved in this stupid war, maybe this will show you the kind of man Author is. No, rather, the kind of crafter Author is. To use the word "man" in this context seems to be a travesty of language. Be prepared; humanity is no longer something that dwells within him. Not anymore.

However. There is no reason for you to believe my words. After all, here I am, branded a traitor and a coward, hiding from my own crimes for no reason that I can articulate. I do not deny that I was the source of the information  that ruined both Sam- no, Nightscream and myself. Why did I allow myself to trust Redlight when he came to me and planted the idea that Nightscream was hiding something; something that could be taken away in an instant? I never expected to find what I did. Never expected for such a thing to be wrenched from my hands and handed along to god bloody knows who. I never would have done something like endanger the innocent and the blameless for my own gain. That, however... is all I can advocate for myself, all I can say in my own defence. My own lack of hindsight, allowing myself to be blinded by pride... and then, then ruining the very person that I once called my ally and my friend is something that even I can't forgive myself for. Perhaps in my new life as nothing more than insignificant vermin, I am looking for redemption? Forgiveness? My own self from six months ago would be disgusted at what I've become. And yet I've found a simple happiness in accepting my own imminent death. Everyone does. It is only a matter of time before you do as well.

And as for me? I suppose my story is ending. Nightscream has every right to bathe in my blood and I... refuse to keep Sam from doing so. Perhaps this is my own, last misguided notion of what friendship is. Perhaps this is all I can give. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does. There's a twisted but wonderful beauty in realizing that yourself, even as a living being, is nothing in the face of the cosmos. But there's also a twisted but wonderful beauty in being human, despite the weaknesses that come with that.

I've spent my whole life running from that fact. I think that it is time for me to face it.

After all, Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person.

Keep alive, and yours truly,


alternatively, for the uniformed,

Winston Churchill Trudeau

I'm sorry. So, so bloody sorry. For everything.

Monday, 11 June 2012

In Which I Hold A Job Interview

You might have read that last report. Something 1A said stuck out.

"We've been cured"
And she kept up with it after I started cutting, oddly enough.
Now, this piqued the boss's interest as much as it did mine. Someone has been spreading lies to these poor, naive little fucks. So I elected to do some footwork and sniff out the disseminator of this awful rumour. Pro bono publico, you understand.

Someone has to be putting these ideas in your silly little heads, and I had a good idea who. After all, the rest of that little exchange included the name of the boss's absolute favourite person. So without further ado, I'll be getting on to the point.

Presented for your approval, Case #44531 [M101]

I tracked the rumour down by means of an initially uncooperative colleague. (I'm sure his hand will be fine in a month or two and besides you only need one hand to fill out reports. Maybe it'll free up someone useful to cover for him.)
He'd run into another case of this particular delusion and once I'd broken a few of his fingers was quite precise as to where the individual had been found. I'll cut out the next three hours of bumming around and one brief interlude of violence. Suffice it to say, I finally got a decent lead.

The particular prevaricating prick that my lead produced was holed up in a dingy bar. He seemed to fancy himself a bit of a mafioso. Now, procedure dictates that in an M101 case, one not engage without sufficient backup, in case there are bastards with guns and swat gear hiding somewhere nearby.

That being said, what's the fun in waiting? So I strolled in and I was very disappointed. There were five guys. Total. The guy behind the bar had a shotgun underneath the counter, two very heavyset gentlemen with guns at the door, our... recruiter, and his bodyguard in the back of the room. So I put on an act.

My performance of "Tired and frightened runner" wasn't one for the books but none of them were the sharpest tools in the shed. Hell, there are blunt instruments sharper than some of this lot.

The recruiter, one Mr. "White" (incidentally the colour of his suit) talked a big game, about how his "organization" would be able to cure me but that he didn't have the supply on hand (for obvious reasons). To his credit, he had enough brains not to let me anywhere near him without one of the big guys behind me. So not a complete idiot.

I'm surprised that the bodyguard didn't draw on me, he looked to be the only one who really knew what he was doing. Probably one of the swat goons. It was odd.
In fact, the whole thing smelt... funny. I mean, the two heavies looked like they'd have tried to tear me apart with their bare hands before drawing their guns, and the bodyguard had this funny way of staring at things. Kind of like he was seeing something wasn't there. And not in the usual sort of way.
Whatever it was, it slowed him down enough that he didn't quite reach his gun in time. He caught a knife in the throat. The barman on the other hand seemed to know what he should be doing and managed to get both of his shots off. Thankfully it wasn't a very good shotgun. Pulls to the right quite a bit and the barman must have thought he was Rambo, firing from the hip like that. It royally fucked up his aim much to the chagrin of the goon behind me.

Bit of really bad luck for him, great for me. He'd just grabbed me in a fucking bear hug when the shotgun blast meant for me hit him. (Like I said, it pulls to the right) Dead centre, too. If he'd weighed about 200 pounds less it would have knocked him right off of his feet. As it was he made a pretty good shield from the second blast, when he fell on top of me. Managed to get his gun though, so it sort of worked out.

The second heavy just came out swinging. Didn't even bother going for his gun. I managed to push his buddy out from on top of me. Barely. I tried to get a shot off and he swung at my head. Had to slide under a table to get away from him. Gave me a second to shoot him though, thank god. Lucky break, it could have ended badly, whatever the fuck he was on the man was strong as an ox. And about twice as big. A good swing and I'd be nursing quite a few broken ribs I think. At best.

That just left the barman, now frantically trying to reload his gun crouched behind the counter, and of course our rumourmonger. I unloaded the rest of my gun into the bar. It was made of plywood. Work out what happened for yourself.

Getting down to business. Our now frantic rumourmonger is trying vainly to get the gun out from the safety holster that his goon escort was wearing. The point of a safety holster is that other people aren't supposed to be able to get the gun out of it.
We had a short discussion, and I decided to bring him in for questioning. He also had a rather nice suit, which I borrowed after I knocked him out. About this time there was a knock at the back door. I borrowed the suit in question and went to see what the fuss was.

Well worth the trouble. Two more runners. The back room was used for poker games, and apparently walk-in cases hoping to get this "cure".
"Come on in boys. Have a seat."
We chat for a bit before it becomes quickly obvious that these two don't know a thing. They'd heard the information third-hand. At best. Might as well make the most of the opportunity.

"Well, our organization is small, but there's a lot of room for enterprising individuals such as yourselves. Well, I say a lot..." People become remarkably cooperative when you point a gun at them. "We've got one opening available right now, so here's a thought." Toss one of my knives between the two of them. "Call it a practical assessment. Winner gets the spot." Very cooperative.

I think young Mr. Robinson will do just fine incidentally. A little sloppy but I personally think he's got a lot of potential. So that should help a little with the lack of people to do work around here.

Let me make one thing abundantly clear little darlings. There's not a cure for our particular brand of fucked up. You want to go drink the kool-aid? Fine. Be my guest. It means that we're going to kill you. Or you can be smart little runners and stay the hell away from the likes Mr. "White" and maybe live a little longer.

Saturday, 9 June 2012

you can see everything

You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.

I have felt, lately, that some of you are missing the whole point of this little charade in the name of friendship or magic or whatever is floating through your bloody minds. It makes no difference to me, but the point still stands; perhaps some of you are even harbouring what amounts to concern. It's kind of sickening, when you think about it, if not a little misguided. So let me make something perfectly clear for all of you, because what is evident is that you lot only observe what you want to observe.

This is not for you.

And I mean that in the plainest sense, with absolutely no animosity or spite; there's no need for that, especially in the face of this kind of incredible stupidity. Somewhere along the way, between my hilarious quips and subsequent complaints, an important fact became lost; I was, originally, commanded to create this blog and document my thoughts and actions. Since then, the order has changed, but in its most basic form, it still stands, undisturbed.

Every single dialogue we've shared, every piece of information I've presented, every single observation I've given? All part of the job. Nothing more, nothing less.

I suppose that part of the illusion is the comfort it provides. Perhaps it allows for you to think better of what you are yet to become when you see someone like me, someone who, maybe, is deep down a rather normal and likeable bloke, someone who you could see yourself being - if everything went well and truly sour. Trivialization is a fascinating phenomena; because it's something people will do right up to when they're about to die.

I've never fancied myself to be a liar. That's the messy sort of business, the business of my predecessors, and probably my successors. In our world (and yours, not matter how much you'd like to deny it), moral superiority means absolutely nothing aside from assigning you some kind of label of self-righteousness that one might like to believe helps them sleep better at night, but most probably doesn't, and yet it bothers me when it might be speculated that I am outright deceiving someone. And so we come to this; this is me, telling you,

Wake. Up.

Because if we ever cross paths while I'm on shift, I'm not showing you one ounce of bloody mercy.

Maybe this, all of this, is what some of you need to stay sane. To survive. Maybe you have nothing else left. And that?

That's a damn shame.


Report: Case 4705F - On 062951413's performance in the face of mild adversity

In keeping with the longtime and honourable tradition of useless and rather concerning paper trails, below I, 753381046, also known as "Sherlock", also known as "Joseph", have documented my mutual hunt of two (2) targets, as this mission acted as a diagnostic assessment for the new Squad Leader of the Baker Squad.

Formal request for previous district record and file was granted approximately [REDACTED] days ago.

062951413, also known as "Orion", also known as "Lister", requested the transfer of Division himself, leaving a seemingly comfortable job in one of the least active areas in the region. Though I cannot fathom what would cause him to do such a thing, 062951413 seems to follow orders well and without question, and preformed well in the situation. His only fault is that he has an obvious flare for the dramatic, which I cannot overlook with a clear conscience; if it gets in the way of results, I can assure you that he will be severely reprimanded, which will be put onto his record as a formal complaint, and I will scale punishment accordingly.

062951413 was officially dispatched at 23:00, unaware of my presence. I observed him exiting his place of residence, carrying various sharp objects (though I can safely say that he prefers a long razor in combat situations, [REDACTED] to incapacitate. It's high-risk but also high-return method, and will most likely prove useful against the killsquads. Of course, there's always the possibility of horrible, horrible failure, and if that is the case then 062951413 will most likely end up a smear on grimy concrete, a thought that, though morbidly entertaining, is also sobering).

4705F: 1A  - B

(I would like to note that the case title is inaccurate; though I originally tried to classify it as 4705F [M101], I was rebuked and told that [M101] was an official designation only to be used in cases confirmed to have Moriarty involvement, not in cases where involvement is suspected but can not be proved. Because the culminative amount of cases with confirmed Moriarty involvement can be counted on one hand, I have not only requested that the criteria of the [M101] designation be changed, but also have formally requested for the absolute numbskull that made the previous designation requirements to be dragged into the street and shot.)

Ah, 4705F 1A and B! We've had our collective on those two for a while now, the main reason being because they were not yet dead via evisceration or another method that our suited friend seems to enjoy so much. When 062951413 was ordered to eliminate them by any means necessary, I took it upon myself to accompany him. After all, who would leave such a delicate operation in the hands of the district amateur? I must note, however, that it is not that I didn't trust 062951413 to do the job, but rather took it upon myself to report on his actions, as per the orders handed down to me from the top; I know that my observational reports are quite highly regarded in terms of accuracy, and I can say with certainty that this document should be fully inducted into official records.


4705F 1A and B, female and male, seemingly related. 1A was known to be wily, evading passive capture and interrogation attempts, and was approximated to have been on the run for about four months. 1B, however, had only been accompanying 1A for about two weeks.

Fact: both subjects were seemingly unnoticed by the Tall Gentleman during the length of our observation, and Fact: they were in contact with some kind of outside... interference.

It is suspected that agents of Moriarty paid 1B a bit of a visit. What they did, however, is currently unknown.

They were apprehended by 062951413 with myself assisting after a few hours of direct surveillance. It may be noted at this time that while his skill demonstrated was rather impressive, 062951413 seemed to want to spill blood more than he wanted to finish the job, as ordered. His "interrogation", however, proved fruitful. 1A, while her skin was slowly being peeled off her body, screamed something about being "cured".

Cured. Rather troubling, wouldn't you say so, Sir(s) and Madame(s)...?

Formal request for official inquiry has been filed.

I disposed of 1B myself after an incident that involved a fair bit of... disrespect. It may be noted that 062951413 is free to comment on the incident if he so wishes, but I did not abuse my privileges as Handler. It may also be noted that removing teeth while the target is still alive, while messy, is also shockingly practical once said target is set on fire. I was informed the body was downright impossible to identify by the cleaning crews.

Formal request to have the technique taught to trainees in the future has been filed.

In conclusion, the investigation and subsequent elimination of 4705F 1A and B proved not only fruitful by way of information gathering, but also as a test of 062951413's abilities. I can say with a clear conscience that he will not disappoint, and has a bright future in regards to the Organization as a whole.

Expecting back the results of my filing within the month,



Tuesday, 5 June 2012

In Which I Blather About the State of Affairs

So, for those of you who think perhaps we're being bone idle, let me take a minute from the fucking paperwork to inform you otherwise. (I swear we didn't have this much paperwork in my division)

We (in this case we being the boss and myself) have been stuck with the problem that the squad is now operating well below where it ought to right now.

Normally, we'd find some replacements but apparently I'm the only one mad enough to come out here voluntarily. (Correction, the only competent person mad enough to come out here voluntarily.)

And that part about voluntarily is important because between the shake ups some of you might be aware of and other people not returning our calls, we can't get anyone out here. I mean literally we can't get any transfers. (Looks like Morningstar had the last orders to go through. The bastard)

So either we start a recruiting drive (like that'll fucking work), or we're going to have to go and have a few talks with some people (and the clean up will not be fun).

How's that for hospitality?

Saturday, 26 May 2012

In Which We Go To Meet The Boss

I don't know what it is about these people and their suits. The handlers that is. You see enough of them and you get the impression it's a kind of fucking uniform. Real corporate.

Anyways, here comes the new boss, same as the old boss

I've visited the Cafe loop before, the new year's thing was nice up until people forgot that they were supposed to be having a good time. They've all got a different sort of... flavour to them. Loops, I mean.

The Boss, Joseph, Sherlock, whatever you want to call him, is sitting at a table in the back waist deep in paperwork, scowling. Off to a fantastic start. Straighten the tie up. Cough, good plan.

We manage to make what passes for polite conversation for all of a minute before getting this gem

"I'm not your boss. Ever seen the Tall Gentleman for yourself, Lister? That's your boss. And that's the funniest joke of all."

Now, I've seen old Tall, Gaunt and Faceless. He likes the woods well enough, doesn't he? You don't really forget seeing him, but I've seen him often enough.

"You're the man with the papers. You're the one that gives the orders. Way I see it that makes you the boss, boss."

"I've read your file. Quite the up and coming Agent it seems. But you... requested to be transferred here, to my understanding."

"Some sort of problem boss?

"Simply wondering about your motivations, Lister." He gives this sort of grin. It's not friendly. "Everyone knows that each division is at odds with the others. We all almost seem to practice a silly sort of elitism. So you'll have to forgive my confusion - but why would such an asset choose to head a squad like this...?"

It's true. I asked for the transfer here. It was too quiet in that little corner that I was stuck in, and that's all you'll hear from me on that subject.

"You want the honest answer or the shit one boss?"
Whatever you might hear, some of us who don't deal in this blog garbage do actually keep our ears to the ground. Surprising, I know.
"You decide. But I assume you've been told enough about me to know which choice is the right one, and which choice is going to make working under me quite possibly the worst experience of your entire life thus far."He's read my file, I've been... is briefed the right word? I think so, in any case, briefed regarding Sherlock.
"Well, when you put it like that I don't rightly believe that there's what you might call a 'right' answer."

I take a seat at this point, and start drinking, dry throat is unpleasant as I'm sure you know. "I mean, if I give you the shit answer odds are you being you would know right? And the honest answer doesn't quite seem like your thing. So, if you don't mind boss I think I'd rather keep my mouth shut." A little more drinking. "If it's all the same to you."

"..." He stands up, walks past me "Don't let the rest of the squad intimidate you. I think you'll fit in here just fine."

"Well, the creepy fellow's been transfered, as I understand it, and the angry one's a turncoat. So I don't think I should have any problems with the rest."

"Ronin doesn't like anybody." That, at least, gets a bit of a laugh. Which is good, last handler I had was a humourless, religious son of a bitch. "But he usually does as he's told. Just keep your wits about you. That being said..." And he some how manages to pull a houdini with my hip flask. Right out of my damn hand. Haven't seen that trick before.

"You've been promoted. Act like it. If any of them die, I'll be making sure you get the harshest hearing possible." He gets real quiet. Very serious. "Understood...?"

"Clear as mud boss." I get up and get ready to leave. "Only, could I have the water back?"

He stops for a second, and brings the flask up like it's just been dipped in raw sewage. So I take it off him and put it back where it belongs. Useful thing, a good hip flask, and I'm kind of fond of this one. It's like a good knife. You take care of it you've got nothing to worry about.


"I'm expecting your completed transfer paperwork on my desk early tomorrow morning. Otherwise?" He didn't like mentioning the next part. "Make yourself at... home."

I think this will do just fine.

(Door Closing)

Dear me Sherlock, what on earth have you been doing to poor "Photographer"? Torture, I'm sure you of all people couldn't possibly condone that sort of thing. Regardless, he's an absolute shambles. This will take ages to fix. 
I've taken the liberty to post his farewell. It seems only fair. 

Preparations complete for transfer, awaiting finalization of orders.
It has been Pleasant working with Baker Squad.
Believe I will miss ... this.

Fiametta, I have taken Hamish with me, I hope that you do not mind. Perhaps if you let "Joseph" look he might find you another cat.

"Joseph", believe you will exceed Expectations. I am still indebted to you regarding the sniper. Took the liberty of fixing the blog for you. Hope you don't object.

Janitor, has been an honour working with you.

Ronin, try not to perform more Inadvisable Actions.

. . . . . -

Saturday, 19 May 2012

you are the one fixed point in a changing age

But there's an east wind coming all the same; such a wind as never blew on our battlefield yet. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's His own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared...

... What a crock of shit.

I'm having trouble renewing what amounts to "blind faith" these days. Though I've never been one for abandoning my own paradigms and throwing caution to the wind in the name of belief, it's certainly proving difficult to summon anything more than a sliver of hope. Sunshine? Is that supposed to be a bloody joke? This conflict is getting darker than it's ever been, and yet the Tall Gentleman stands, forever unchanging....

And what a forecast of doom and gloom we've had lately! If anyone wears a hat of grey in this moralistic spat, I'm sure they've been finding recent developments rather entertaining. They're also a giant prat, if anyone's asking, but that's besides the point. Analysis of information is slow and on-going, because it seems that we have about five false feeds for every legitimate one (and yet the Organization refuses to acknowledge that there's even a chance of an infiltrator within our midsts! Truly, every single day they find new ways to astound and surprise their ever so loyal employees.); because of that, it is up to whomever has a speck of free time to bite the figurative, but possibly soon to be literal, bullet and sort out what is true and what isn't. As talented as some of us are, humanity has its limitations, though I'm sure some of you out there have doubts to how much humanity we of the Tall Gentleman possess.

Humanity is certainly a topic, however, that I'd rather not bring up at the moment. My trip to examine the workings of a Cult town were, at best, disturbing. If anything, they're efficient, but you'll have to excuse my disgust for a system that is effectively Battle Royal de-fictionalized, with additions of A Clockwork Orange and perhaps a little sliver of Dr. Joseph Mengel.

Yes, it is that bad. Not that I didn't have warning; granted, "Maybrick", (alternatively Tom O'Harra, one of the only other Handlers in the Hyperion District; that being the one I belong to, of course) did offer some words of advice before I set off.

"You're not going to like what you see, Sherlock." Was the first thing I heard upon going into head office to pick up my orders; a bustling place, looking completely like a normal, busy office space. Granted, I wasn't exactly privy to the fact that the female voice I was currently hearing belonged to Ms. O'Harra herself, nor was I made aware that Ms. O'Harra was, in fact, a Miss. I felt myself whirl around, instantly on guard, hand hovering on my combat knife beneath my coat. Facing me was a tall woman in a perfectly tailored suit set, hair pulled into a truly impeccable bun, not one strand out of place.

"Oh? And why is that...?" I must admit I raised an eyebrow as I zeroed in on a stack of paperwork tucked under her arm - and the signature that was on it. The issue of her identity now reasonably solved, I was able to finally focus on her response.

"You're not exactly known for your lack of emotional response in situations like these." She sighed, not even looking at me as she set down the stack on one desk, not even pausing before she picked up another. "I know every little dirty secret about you, after all. Well..." She stopped, holding up an overstuffed file. "I know whatever is in this thing, anyways."

I have to admit, I didn't actually expect her to abuse her position, if you could consider such a thing abuse. Everyone in the district knows that Tom - my apologies, "Maybrick" - is almost the unofficial office junkie out of all of us. Certainly, it would be impossible for the other Handlers to function without her, as her assistance is what keeps the district organized, up, and running; but the thought of her using her power to get the scoop on the rest of us didn't even cross my mind. In hindsight, this was incredibly stupid of me, and Ms. O'Harra must have recognized my shocked expression. Her short tut was enough to snap me out of my contemplative daze; she took to straightening my loose tie, signalling to another office-attire clad proxy (or at least I assumed them to be proxies; after further study, I have concluded that may not have been the case) to go get something, a short wait later, revealed to be coffee.

"That being said, you've got an annual due in fifteen days, three reports due in seven, and two sets of transfer paperwork that need to be in as soon as possible. That's on top of your progress reports on the Moriarty issue and the write up on your current mission." Her expression softened as I reacted to the reminder with wide eyes and tense shoulders.

"... Hey, relax, alright...? [REDACTED] and I will help you through this. I should call you Bambi, for heaven's sake..." My breath hitched, and she turned her head; I caught crow's feet on the edge of her eyes. "It'll be fine, Holmes. Trust me."

And with that, she tightened my tie with expert efficiency, and the moment was gone. I muttered a "Thank you" and "I'm sorry, It'll get done soon" under my breath, and walked out without another word.


I think the overwhelming normalcy of the Cult was what surprised me the most. Because I've seen what, or more accurately who was a result of such a system, I, perhaps, expected some sort of, I don't know, a coliseum of sorts? Perhaps a picturesque village, complete with total silence and patches of rust upon the ground that, yes, may be blood? No, the place I was lead to certainly looked... ordinary. Instead of horrible visions of horror and suffering, I was instead treated to what seemed to be a well built and rather nondescript compound. Trees flanking all sides of the camp aside from the road outwards, it almost seemed like a resort, or vacation spot. Somewhere you'd take your elderly parents and kids.

But the air of this place... it's hard to describe as anything other than completely wrong. Like it's too thick to be in your lungs, like it's crawling down your throat, invading you, drowning you; and the light seems oversaturated and unnatural, casting over everything, as if it was a stifling blanket that made every single surface look painted, surreal.

That was simply my initial impression. What followed was somewhat unnerving; though it certainly was fascinating in a morbid sense. I was shown around the compound by Deus, the current leader of Cult Operations. "I, of course, only hold any sort of sway if you so allow it, Sir." He offered as we walked, but I informed him that I wanted little to nothing to do with this place. He gave a robotic nod, then proceeded to enthusiastically describe each and every torture that they put their trainees through in each area.

I saw the "Nurturing compound"; rows upon rows of blank faced, swollen bellied mothers, seemingly unaware that they were effectively cattle.

I saw the trainees themselves; either scrawny, almost feral in nature, or unnaturally calm and expressionless.

I saw the execution grounds, the nooses on trees for those deemed not good enough to be of service, the bloodied axe and chopping block for those who broke the rules, the single concrete wall marked by bullet holes, for those who could not be controlled or killed by simpler means.

All while Deus chattered in my ear, telling me of the great "Servants of God" they've produced, how much pride they have in their work, and how effective their methods are.

I met Harpole, who watched over the trainees most, a young man with a bright smile and dead eyes.

I met Sycora, who would regularly send trainees to their deaths, her full lips constantly drawn into a thin line.

I met Fairfax, who cared for the cattle and catered to their every need - which never went beyond food and water.

I met Costanzo, who existed solely to break the trainees who rebelled; a man with so many scars on his arms that the raised white skin almost made up their entirety.

It's truly difficult to understand the scope of this operation until you see it. They need none of my help or guidance. The system is self sustained. They live, breathe, and produce; thinking nothing of consequence or morality. And the proxies sent to us from such a place will fight until they die, or will be able to weave worlds out of nothing. It's truly amazing, in my opinion.

It will be allowed to operate as usual. I will do nothing to stop it. The Organization, after all, needs soldiers, and who better to die in a war than those who grew up wanting nothing more than to die...?

... and after I left

I turned

and puked.

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Fuck You, I'm Out

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, 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.

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.

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


whether it was Nightscream or David or Morningstar


but I had to be physically removed from the body


I stabbed the hunter


57 times.




... 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 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.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

(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

Thursday, 22 March 2012

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.


Monday, 19 March 2012

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.


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.


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.


Sunday, 4 March 2012

(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.