Wednesday, 28 December 2011
Saturday, 24 December 2011
the first thing i notice is that im that that that im
isn’t it weird how life just seems to buzz around you, sometimes like youre
like you’re not even
there. there, I fought it off
ohgodithurts i fixed it are you happy now? I’m not, i’m not going to
so many i see they're right there why cant
why cant anyone
its bright here
and everything hurts so much it feels like
my body is falling apart and i
sometimes i see lori, sometimes august
sometimes i hear todd and amanda and sam and
sometimes even leon but i
i cant see for more than a few seconds at a time and everything is screaming
my head hurts and He’d
already half in there
my eyes hurt and i cant see anything
how long has it been?
i can barely remember but everyones alive
so many people arent and that
thats not fair
that’s not fair at all and i can only
im only going to watch and watch and watch and watch and He’s
He’s watching me He’s right here and nobody else can see him like a vulture waiting to claim a meal and He’s watching always watching he hasn’t stopped and i just want to be left alone and it hurts the pain is like a throb and it doesnt get better it never goes away and its making me insane and i cant breath and i can’t think i can’t i cant i cant i can’t i
Sunday, 11 December 2011
And boy, I missed a lot. When I emerged from the room, it was like stepping out of a plane wreckage into unfamiliar territory, ancient vines crisscrossing haphazardly, twirling into delicate leaves which obscured the fluorescent light from above, leaving only a passage through the brambles, fading into darkness. Only just visible behind the wall of vines was a fleck of worn blue paint, rusted and hanging demurely from branches far more powerful than it; that was the old Ford we kept for emergencies, looking as if it had rusted away over centuries of wind and rain, not a couple of nights.
This place feels wrong. Not evil, just numb. It feels as if the force it exerts upon those within it is just too much for us to comprehend. I’m not terrified; which is the state I generally do find myself in, all too often. It’s as if I’m beyond terror, as if Terror itself has imploded in on itself, a supernova of fear boiling down to a tiny speck of ash that contains everything it once was…It’s just dead, heavy matter, weighing down yet weightless; crushing oblivion turned into desolate loneliness, as if our lives, everything we were, everything we are, everything we could be has been reduced into one long, piercing silence.
I faced the abyssal forest of hanging leaves in that which I once called Home, and only darkness looked back. Darkness upon darkness beyond the squirming undergrowth…The only path I could take.
Even now as I type this post, when I close my eyes, that’s all I see, all I hear, all I know. Maybe it’s all I’ve ever known. A singular path through the madness, a pitch black hole through which all that I will ever be lies. There’s no sidepaths, there’s no maze. A maze gives you choice, freedom to backtrack. Life is no labyrinth of surprises, it’s a hole to fall through, until you reach the bottom. Any sense of hope, any sense that you might be taking the one path that leads to where you want to be, is just a trick of the mind, filling in the formless walls with nightmares. But there are no nightmares hiding in the twirling passageways of life, no pleasures on the way to distract you. All there is is a corridor, and at the end of the corridor, there He is, waiting with outstretched tendrils, welcoming you. Waiting patiently for you to trot obediently to the end.
So off I trotted, one foot in front of the other, as the vines writhed and salivated, dripping dead and dying leaves from the canopy as if the sky were bleeding. And then it was, drips of metallic red washing down my face, clotting in my hair, caking my face, cleansing my clothes of all the dirt and sweat until it was just red, red, red, red…A door. I opened it. One foot, two feet, three feet four, one in front of the other as the air choked my mind of every thought. Every thought but one, one single driving force as I found myself in the House’s main antechamber which heaved and slurped like a sleeping Cerberus, black fangs protruding from the paintings which tastefully lined the curled staircase up to the second level, the staircase which wept like a baby, waterfalling swirling oil which pooled at my feet. Vibrating in its reflection of the harsh mercurial sun which burned through the windows at the front door which I had entered through, the glass turning to charcoal and crumbling leisurely to the ground. One thought in my mind that was not swallowed by the Terror as I turned to the basement door, beyond the river of metallic blackness. There were two people in this House who did not belong. And as I sit here now, basement door open, the faint light from up here barely penetrating into Doc's little domain...it's eerie quiet down there...and her latest post...I'm trying to gather up the bravery to go find them.
I still have a delivery to make.
Saturday, 10 December 2011
I guess there's no sense in dancing around the issue any longer.
The House is a mess, and not the kind I'm used to spending five or six hours at a time. This kind of mess is Spencer's job, when the walls start turning from maroon to eggshell and I can't find my bedroom and the kitchen's back on the first floor and there are these noises that have been coming from the East Wing and...
I don't want to talk about it.
Doc's locked herself in the basement, the House is overrun by plants, Spencer's got a wicked black eye and he looks like he's been dragged through hell. The worst part is probably that he won't tell me what's going on, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out.
This is bad. Bad bad bad bad bad. I don't think it's been like this since our first major blow out, and even then at least the boss' been able to pull everybody together. Now he spends so much time in the Wing and whatever he's doing, it's not helping (or I think it's not helping, because the rooms haven't stopped shifting and the staircases are uneven and we've all but lost access to the third floor) and the sickness is coming back. I'm pausing every few minutes writing this to puke up more of the black gunk and christ, did this stuff always taste this horrible? and Steele's on edge and Sam's muttering about her grandma and we're slipping, we're slipping and I don't know if we're going to...
This post's set to go up an hour from now in case we lose connection.
We need to get Alex and Dr. Rivers out of here. These are our problems to deal with and we've already gotten enough people tangled up in our business.
Please, stay away from the House and don't try and contact us. We'll come back online as soon as
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Y’know, sometimes we cling to the most stupid things.
we’re all irrational and in a state of denial, because we don’t have the time to properly grieve to deal with what’s happened.
i’m really no better in that regard
but i think I’m tired of leaving my messes to be explained for me. I can do this myself. As long as I have one last fucking breath left in me, i can do this myself.
Page theory is something you’ve all seen thrown around occasionally; Elaine did a write-up but I felt that maybe i should be
telling explaining this myself. i understand it best, after all.
Let’s get something straight first.
Page Theory isn’t mine. I wrote it, but it’s not mine.
The first time I heard anything like it was one night with Matt in the desert, looking up at the stars. It’s his. I stole it from him
but that hardly matters because he’s dead, and took the credit. None of you knew him. I figured he wouldn’t have minded, wasn’t that kind of guy. Wanted to help. Always, always wanted to help. Helped me after I ran, after I saw Him for the first time in my life and didn’t feel worship, but fear. But Matt was there.
He was fucking brilliant. You all would’ve loved him. They say personality is a learned quality but Matt somehow knew how to be kind and loving and utterly insane all at once despite the cult trying to beat it out of him. He ran at twelve, straight into the fucking desert, and survived for eight years all by himself. Him and Father.
They didn’t realize how good he was; just assigned him to be a lower echelon because they were too stupid to see how smart he was.
Matt had a stutter, and they thought he was useless because of it.
They were wrong.
They were wrong about me, too; thinking I was so fucking.. .a rising star, they said, it won’t leave me alone, they won’t…
it was Matt who gave me a real, proper name
it was Matt who told me to look up at the stars and think about how the universe worked
it was Matt who told me to never stop running
it was Matt who threw me into The Path, even though he claimed to not be able to use it
it was Matt who took the easy way out
… Matt told me that when he was out in the desert, it was hard to imagine anyone else existed. That he thought that maybe… the known universe was like an inbox, a framework.
In that framework, your view of it, your perception of the world, like an ever-changing snapshot of a whole universe.
Then I came into the picture, and my snapshot got layered on top of Matt’s. Our snapshots, our pages, interacted with each other freely. The rock on my page was the same as the rock on his page. But sometimes, we saw Him; I’d slowly see the stars swirl into nothing and Matt would just collapse to the ground and the black shit that ran out of his nose smelled awful and then He would be gone as quickly as he arrived. That was when our pages de-synchronized, and Matt was pretty sure that was the “Tall Bastard’s” fault.
We’d sit and talk then, because we didn’t want to talk about what we’d just seen and sleep wasn’t a possibility. Matt would talk about “cities” and “towns” and even “countries” and how all these people lived together in one place, how there must be SOME out there who knew about Father, how their pages must even be different from ours, how maybe even whole worlds were different. If our experiences with Father were shared but unique, did that mean that even the people we hunted, our targets, had pages as well?
It was a month afterwards before Matt tried to flesh out the idea of Loops. this was after we had stumbled upon a small one in the desert and tried experimenting with it. It was Matt who figured out that Loops were blank until someone filled them with something. It was Matt who tried to craft without any experience, trying to write over the empty space with something new. It was Matt who theorized that the Loops were the tiny spaces in between each page, that the miniscule areas could vary in size and flexibility to revisions and changes. It was Matt that figured out that you could tie the Loop so someone and let their own mind fill the gaps like some sort of infinite feedback reacharound.
Not bad for someone who didn’t even know how to read. They never taught him how, he said, because it wasn’t worth the time.
It was the night before everything went to hell that he told me in hushed tones about what he thought about Father, how he functioned like… a nail going through all the pages at once, how a nail isn’t supposed to be through the pages at all. How he wasn’t sure how the pages and the spaces got formed in the first place, but how maybe exposure to Father caused you to form your own page, how he thought The Path was the edges of the pages, so you could hop from layer to layer with ease. How maybe just because we were told that we were to be something from birth, that didn’t mean that we had to be that.
… i’ve tried to build on this, tried to find some answers, but Matt’s stuff is the best framework I’ve got. It explains so much; why we all can see Him at the same time in different places, how the Path shuttles us around, how some of the stranger, supernatural happenings can, well, happen, how M’s rules don’t work for everyone. A place like the House is a complete anomaly; how can there be a constant in a blank space…?
I don’t know.
I don’t know why the forest is suddenly invading or why the Loop is suddenly on the offensive. I don’t know why people that
are dead should not be here walk through the halls when I wander.
i need more time.
Fuck. I… fixing this comes first. Then Doc can cut me open and we can all celebrate with tea and crumpets.
Not much longer.
Monday, 5 December 2011
I woke to the screaming in my mind, the horror, the masked menace merely masquerading as myself, malignant, morphing, making me not as I was, not as I should be, making me just…not. I saw red, I saw black, I saw him, I saw Him, I saw me and I saw myself and I saw I saw I saw I saw…
I woke with ghosts of the past squirming through my mind. The dead, the dying, the killed, the killing, the ended, the end.
Needless to say, I did not sleep well. I half fell out of the bed, half dragged myself, feeling queasy, I needed something to put my mind right, to take the edge off the madness, to make me me me again…
After I found that something, things were at least not-me in a good way. I stowed my medicine away and grabbed a cigarette, sitting against my bedpost, eyes rolling back into my head, the lightness of my mind floating like fireflies, far away from the frosty frigidity freezing myself into a body and actions that were not my own. Fine. I am fine.
I was well and truly Looped. We are well and truly Looped. I feel terrible at the best of times when space and time take a leave, but this was different. More powerful. I’ve only felt something like this once before, and I died that day.
The House is was a space between the world, at its core, it was a Loop; albeit a tame one.
Not anymore. Something’s changed. The balance has been upset, and it’s upsetting our balance. It’s rejecting us, the House is turning into what it was, what it will be, what it is what it should not what…
My head is…not clear. I felt myself leaving…but I refuse. I will remain here, even if it means dumbing myself with anything I can get my hands on. At least then I’ll be present, for it’s not insanity that we fear, it’s sanity, it’s when the illogical becomes the logical. I, however, am currently feeling incredibly illogical.
So at least I’ve got that going for me. As long as everything remains illogical, I’ll know I’m logical, for if the illogical seems logical then I am gone, and if I am gone then I’ll be right back in that motel room, seeing the bloodstains on the ground, my blood, his blood, smelling the palpable madness in the air, hearing His laughter in my mind, His laughter like that of a child, pure, innocent, completely oblivious to the horror He has created. He His Him he He hehehehe. And hearing your laughter. Mad, moving to mild. Ha…hahaha…huh.
If I lose myself, then I will know that I have killed. Even if at the time, I had needed to. The mask glinted ruby red, and he cried tears of blood. I couldn’t speak, my hand still around the knife which rested in his chest, but he giggled, a laugh of laughs…and then it left, leaving only him and me.
It was self-defence. It had to be. Right? You almost gutted me like a pig, but I don’t hold it against you. Every day I wonder, if I hadn't, if you had won, would you be living your life as a free man? Or would you be one of His? Still now then will be forever never ever? Would you be beneath the mask? Or would you be as I am? “Fine”?
I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I had to, though, you don’t understand. You were different, he was different, you would’ve killed me, he would’ve killed me. Maybe you should’ve, then I wouldn’t need to live with the guilt. I wouldn’t need to live at all. I could be resting, blissfully unaware, and you could live for me, like you said I should. You and your big green eyes, those eyes that haven’t left my mind for the last four years, they could be living my life, they could be living for a purpose, until they couldn’t live anymore, then we could be together again, happy, away from this bitch of a life…
But we couldn’t, could we? Live for me, you said. I can see it, and it’s dark, you said. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel, it’s only blackness from the sides as your vision faded and I took off the mask so I could see your face one last time. Properly. I don’t know if you could see my face, as even without the mask you couldn’t see, as if you were peering through eyeholes in a porcelain masquerade, a harlequin, laughing and smiling until the end. Live for me, you said. And so I did, I lived. I still am. I still want to.
But streuth it’s lonely. For however long it still lasts.
Know I still think of you every fucking day. Those beautiful green eyes, behind that ghostly mask. I don’t think of you as I did that night anymore, I think of you as how you were, how we were, just two people surviving for each other.
I hope you were wrong, I hope there is a light at the end of the tunnel, with you standing there, it’s alright, come here, it’s over, come to me…
But until then, I remain in fear of the dark swarming from the edges of your vision, seeing those green summer eyes close and knowing that they weren’t going anywhere but into the ground.
I miss you. And as I sit here, the forest intruding into what was once a safe haven, the madness breaching the defences and consuming us in His hate, His red and black hate, my thoughts are always with you, they always have been, they always will be.
Until I can’t think anymore.
I sometimes lose sense of my self. I don't feel as if I really have a body, as if I'm... I don't even know. I feel like I blend right into the wall. I feel like I'm screaming and people are hearing me and they're responding but they're screaming back, and I can't understand anything that's anyone's saying. There's a constant static in my ears and sometimes it sounds like words, but no word in any language I've heard.
Then everything is silent. Everything is still. Breathing becomes a disturbance to the flow of things. I walk to try and find anyone, but if my footsteps are too loud, the whole sequence starts over. By the time I someone and start to talk to them, I can handle them for about fifteen minutes until their face starts melting away and they become lifeless corpses in my hands. By the time I come back to reality, I'm fucking crying. When it's August or Sam, it's okay. But when it happens with Spencer, I just feel insignificant. His eyes are judging. I don't know if he actually is judgmental of me, but it feels like it.
More than ever I feel like giving control to Sybil, maybe even Grosvenor. But I can't. I can't hear them anymore. I can feel them, but I can't hear them. But while I'm still here, not much to do but write.
I keep hearing things in the walls. The House is speaking, shifting, groaning like a great beast that's waking up from a long nap. Dr. Rivers says he can't hear the sounds (Or, well, more like he gave me a funny look when I asked about it), but he's on such a cocktail of painkillers, I envy him for being unable to hear. But I have to stay sober. I have to take care of everyone. Amanda is feeling better. Dr. Rivers will feel better soon. Alex will feel better. August looks pale, but he'll be okay. Boss will be okay. Steele is his usual self. Todd is Todd. Sam is Sam. Everyone will be okay.
There's just this constant tingling on the back of my neck, and occasionally, I see an unearthly shadow from just around a corner and my hair stands on end. I want to scream, even right now. August tells me I'm not getting enough sleep, but my god, the things I SEE when I shut my eyes...the coyotes, the raccoons, once stuffed away neatly into their bags, carefully preserved in formaldehyde, ripping open their plastic prisons to shamble across the floor on their mutilated limbs. Dozens of rats burst from mason jars, splattering sick fluid across the walls and floor, all crawling towards me, staring right at me with those dead, whitish-blue eyes. I almost fear blinking. I fear blinking and I fear sound and I fear silence and I fear the lights in the ceiling and the shadows on the floor. I want to shut myself away deep in the basement until this all blows over, but the architecture keeps shifting, and I gaze down those dark and unfamiliar corridors and it's as if they will swallow my mind, leaving my body with its mouth gaping open, empty and unsure. All I can do is stare until I realize I have been staring, then continue on with my business.
I am still clean. No drugs. None at all, this is all just me, me, me. I don't know why this is happening. Why is this happening? I don't feel well, I'm going to get a glass of water and try to forget that the world is spinning around me and how much my head throbs.
The mice have gone silent. They never go silent, I can always hear them, but they're quiet. I wonder if they all died. What a fucking pity, I wanted to cut all their tiny hearts out and see what they had hidden in their soft little bellies.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
I woke up this morning and my floor was carpeted. Not that I’m complaining or anything, it’s freaking cold in here.
The kitchen window shifted six inches to the left yesterday. There’s two extra stairs to the second floor. And the doorway into the dining room is now juuuuuust low enough for Todd to hit his head on. (Not gonna lie, that was pretty funny.)
It’s nothing big. I’m not worried about it. Everything is fine.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Though looking at my garage, I can see the courier fleet falling into disrepair already. A rogue ivy vine has crawled in through the cracks in the walls and is propagating itself quite nicely across the southern side of the garage; I had to tear it away from the entrance to park the ute. Seriously, have you guys not paid any attention to the place in a month?
Realistically, it couldn't have grown to the size it is in that short amount of time, but time is very much relative when it comes to the House. Some sort of voodoo Loop bullshit, I suppose; makes things kind of funky. Still, come on, take care of your transport, it's the only way you guys are going to escape when things inevitably go south.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Shut up, June.
You can't fucking tell me otherwise. You're dead.
Joel is dead.
Lucas is dead.
You don't have any fucking right to tell me anything.
… So we’re still alive, because what else can we do? The couriers have three years worth of always aiding, always abetting, never fucking interfering. Because we’d watch you all, always removed. We know we can’t afford to fall when the bodies start dropping.
(I know you can’t afford for me to lose it)
You all need us.
(I know you can’t afford for me to get attached)
So we’ll keep on going.
Considering how The House is a thinly veiled eldritch horror itself, it’s a little strange for me to realize we’re kind of a last refuge for those of you who have nowhere else to go. Elaine and crew have set up shop for a little while, and I’m glad I can at least give them a safe place to lay low.
(Until the branches started moving in, when we’d all wake up in the morning and the forests that always flanked the edges of the territory we could see would move closer and closer, until they started breaking windows and trying to fix it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurts)
I’m guessing it’s because of the forest kids; even if one of them isn’t here, the Loop they were in just… really did a number on them. The Loops get into your head, draw form from your thoughts, trap you in a maze because your brain just fuels the fire. There’s no way out at that point without help.
(… I should know)
But at this point, it’s as much a part of them as they are of it. That sort of thing follows you like a bad cold. So I’m over here, up to my neck in black leaves, trying to figure out how to make The House stop screaming at me like I’m late on handing in a report. My nose is a goddamn faucet, but I’m making progress. Sort of. I’m not sure if it’ll go back to normal after they leave, but that’s something to worry about later.
(I’ll avoid what I want to for as long as I want fuck off don’t tell me what to do)
… this sums it up better than I could ever hope to. Lori was off like a fucking bullet. using her shirt as a tourniquet and carrying Elaine down to the infirmary with strength I didn’t know she had. It’s… Elaine’ll live. She’ll live because we can’t do much of anything else. I…
What else can I do?
I know a few things. I’ll catch up to that fucking snake one day, and paid someone who’s known as a good source of information a little bit of a… visit. Shame he’s on assignment. Would’ve liked to see his lease on what went on, even if we didn’t get anything of consequence from it.
(Every time he screamed I felt a little better)
… Shit. TL;DR is that I’m working my ass off at fixing The House and shit’s gone to hell but we’ll get better.
This’ll get better. It always does.
Friday, 25 November 2011
I may no longer be in favor of using medicine when it isn't absolutely necessary, but I cannot deny that sort of request. Not in this situation.
In my infirmary, I currently have Dr. Rivers, Elliott, and Alex. All of them are currently sedated or otherwise asleep, so I have a bit of time to post. I gave Elliott quite a nice scare after I finished surgery on Dr. Rivers's legs last night: I must've looked like a demented axe murderer with how tired and covered in blood I was. Without sharing too many private details, they're all going to survive. The precise state of their survival, however, remains to be seen.
Despite all the people here, the House is very quiet. Last time things were like this, we were down to twenty couriers. All twelve of my infirmary beds were full of very sick and dying people, far sicker than anyone here now. I'm relieved that things aren't as dire now as they were back then.
I haven't spoken to Elaine yet, but I think I'll go track her down and make sure she's okay before I get some rest. Although I suppose I should also ask if Spencer would like some hair color, he's starting to look a bit stately for his age.
Take care, everyone.
Thursday, 24 November 2011
From the veritable wreckage of Hope, myself, Rivers and Alex (one of those forest kids), are finding ourselves in possibly the second least hospitable place; right back in the House. (Ray was with us, but he ran off gibbering about something in Pennsylvania. Comes with the territory, I suppose.)
Hello Spencer, I am positively charmed to be in thy abode once more. Words cannot describe.
It's for a good reason, though...Rivers' injuries are...somewhat dire. We were taken by surprise, one second, everything was fine, the second, his bones were jutting out of his knees, and a black tentacle had pierced his right thigh, the tissue around the wound going necrotic before our eyes, thin black veins jutting from the skin exposed beneath the hole in his suit pants, eyes rolling back and shuddering in their sockets... I haven't had the courage to look at it, just to patch him up as best as I could and drive as fast as I could to the best ...pretend doctor around. (I say this, but she's probably had more field experience than any GP out there with their quaint little degree on their wall. Love you, Lori.)
So, I'm just passing through; once Rivers is as healthy as he can be, we're back off to DC. Couldn't leave August with this lot on Thanksgiving now, could I?
Monday, 21 November 2011
She won't leave.
I tried to....
No matter what I said
Or what I threatened to do
She's going to kill herself
she's going to die.
Elaine's going to die.
Can't do anything but watch it all
November's been a quiet month for us, it seems. I'd say no news is good news but to be honest, it feels strange. Not having posted makes me feels... disconnect? Almost... distant? Anyways, it's not really time for musing.
Doc and I left Hope the other day. Seeing everybody again was... probably the greatest thing to have happened to me in a while. I loved every moment I spent there, even if cooking for everybody was a hundred times harder than I thought it'd be and I didn't spend nearly as much time with everybody as I would have liked to. I almost feel like I missed out on something - so I guess that means I'll just have to go back again sometime.
Elaine, thank you for taking care of us . Konaa, Lis, Tia, Michael, Shaun, Lucas, Richard, Elliott... christ, I can't even begin to name everybody I visited. Some people I've never met before. Some old friends. Some new ones too, by the looks of it.
Lis gave me a wonderful scarf and I have to admit, I haven't taken it off since she handed it to me on the first day we arrived. It's gold and handmade and so, so soft.
We're still probably a day or so from home. I'm just throwing this post up now to say that we're safe, we're on our way back and yes, there's still life on this blog.
Not that we haven't gone for longer stretches without activity - if not ourselves, other Stalked. I kind of wonder sometimes if people worry as much about us as I do when I go without hearing from somebody for more than a week, and then I remember that that's just how things are in our business.
Be safe, everybody. More details to come, if necessary.
Friday, 11 November 2011
If you want to request a delivery, however, it'll have to wait: I've been out of the House for a few days now, and I'm currently at a diner having a bite to eat on my way to Hope. Word has it that some very exhausted kids are going to be waiting there for medical attention, and I'm not going to turn them down. Not after they've been in that damned forest for so long, and not when Elaine requested I be there.
Good luck on the rescue mission, everyone. I should be there by the time you return.
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Sunday, 6 November 2011
The thing about loops is, I can tell when we're in them, cause I hear them. I hear a grizzly, inhuman voice, and a child's voice. I've learned to block them out.
We had been walking through that forest for fucking hours before we got a glimpse of blonde hair in the brush. Spencer said follow. Hope had taken heart, and we chased after, expecting a kid. I was expecting a face I've never laid eyes on before. We had caught up with him.
And he had words for us.
"... oh? So the Couriers finally get off their thrones in order to get involved?" A sick, fucking depraved laugh. "Took you long enough, granted, you never were the type to jump to action for others, were you, Fitzgerald~?"
Fucking Harper. The childish, juvenile, imbecilic, callow little titsucker that was one of ours. The guy who we thought we had left for dead. Sam had no idea who he was, and Spencer and I were both speechless.
His rant faded out in my mind, and I was enveloped in a stupor, because what happened in the past should have stayed in the past.
Without thinking, my hand went for my gun. As I raised it to aim, I could see in my peripheral, a face. Although, it wasn't really in my peripheral, it was as if it was actually in the corner of my eye. I moved, it moved. I pointed my gun towards it, and it became clear to me that this thing had sharp, pointed teeth. My fingers wrapped the trigger and I squeezed my entire hand.
Then I was staring into the sun. A flash of red appeared before my eyes, and it was so bright it burned. I closed my eyes, and when I opened it again, we weren't in the forest anymore. We were standing in front of it. The voices stopped. We were just back on earth.
Spencer wasn't too happy.
We can't go back. There's no saving them. They're trapped.
All because I was fucking trigger happy.
god, grant him the serenity to accept the things he cannot change,
courage to change the things he can,
and wisdom to know the difference.
Friday, 4 November 2011
And it is obviously the best idea to put the guy who turns into a homicidal maniac when exposed to loops into a loop.
First off, and most important, Grosvenor is under control now. Still, I know that doesn't make up for those things he said. And things he's done. But I do understand that he is an asset to the Couriers and is definitely worth keeping.
Second off, yes, we are already heading off to another delivery. And by we, I mean me, Sam, and Spencer. And the exciting part is that by "heading off" I mean "flying out". Which is fun.
(I've never flown.)
But it's an interesting experience. Some old couple insisted we move so they could sit by the emergency exit, and then this one guy (?) with really long hair and a kind of high voice started hitting on Sam, and me and Spence, simultaneously said "She's with me." That was enough to scare him(?) off. So Sam is now a polygamist. That's fun.
We landed and hailed a cab to this really nice hotel that Spence rented for us. Came with room and board, fancy little bathroom soaps, and a closet full of guns, knives, and other assorted weaponry. Yeah, that part was weird.
"Uh, Spencer?" I called to him in another room. "There's some... stuff in the closet."
"You expect us to go empty handed?" he walks in. He has a sort of 'duh' expression on his face.
"Oh. Guess not." I observed the guns, slightly worried about leaving my fingerprints on any of them. "So, we just go in and shoot everything?"
"We'll see how it goes. Don't be trigger happy, but don't hesitate too much either." he turns, pauses. "Oh, and don't kill any of the kids, alright?"
"Spencer, I doubt you'll have to worry about me killing anyone. I mean, me, Todd. Remember? I cried the first time we met cause I thought I might have killed someone."
Spencer considers this. "Good point. But if you see someone with a ear to ear grin, unload the thing."
I picked one of the guns up. "Which one is mine?"
"Whichever one. I don't really use guns myself." he walks away.
"Course you don't..." I say under my breath. I mean, of course Spencer, the leader figure, the classy one, is the one who doesn't use guns. Eh, I'm trying to get myself mad over nothing.
I don't know, but I'm strangely optimistic about this. Those are some good last words, right?
Monday, 31 October 2011
ALL OF YOU SHUT UP OR YOU CAN FOLLOW STEELE RIGHT OUT OF THE HOUSE.
Grov, you're a disgusting little piece of Todd and it's taking every fibre of my being not to march up where you are and rip you right out of him and then KILL YOU SLOWLY. You WILL control yourself, you WILL //STOP// being a pain in the ass, and you WILL leave Todd and my other couriers ALONE.
Steele, you're being a cuntnugget, plain and simple. Take your butthurt elsewhere, go get high and have sex or something. Because you know what I'm doing while you sit in a hotel room and take digs? FRANTICALLY CALLING EVERY DOCTOR I KNOW SO AMANDA CAN WALK AGAIN.
August, how DARE you go "oh guys be nice to each other!"? NO. Leon left. He has that right. But we have bigger issues right now. Even if you're taking care of Amanda, you freaking out while waiting for phone calls is NOT HELPING.
Now if you're all done freaking out and digging at each other and feeding the trolls now, we've got to focus on our TEAM MEMBER. YEAH, REMEMBER HER?
What I'd REALLY like to know is how you figured Amanda would fit into your whole "I'm leaving this house for my own safety" routine. She's sitting in her room, completely unable to walk, and all she really wants right now is some company.
And you leave her. Looking out for yourself, and yourself alone. What about Amanda? She's been there for you at every opportunity, a faithful friend for several years, and you decide to up and leave when she needs your love and support the most. You leave her in a situation that you deem dangerous, even though she's bedridden and needs to be heavily drugged just so she won't scream and cry in agony.
Fuck, I hope you're reading this so you can realize just how much of a dick you're being. Because I have, and so has she.
Sunday, 30 October 2011
I came to this House for protection, and maybe a bit of cash on the side to keep living my life.
Skull Fortresses? Armed guards? Playing some fucked up game of Counter-Strike in a castle to neutralize a proxy enclave? Getting captured, beaten, shocked…And seeing Spence, once again taking the limelight as the most dangerous thing in my life. For in all the confusion, in all of the terror…none was so horrible as Spencer Fitzgerald. The one who pays me, the one whose house I live in, the one who I really can’t say jack-all about as long as I continue to make use of his hospitality.
So I won’t.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
Alright. Summaries going up... about a week later than we had thought. That's fine. Everything's been a mess at the House with Amanda's shattered legs, (Doc still isn't sure we'll be able to fix her, causing both she and Spencer to call in every favour they can think of in order to do what we can. Losing somebody is not high on our priority list right now.) Spencer's shattered fingers and a good amount of loopiness all around. Sam's sleeping in front of the East Wing again, Sybil and Grov are acting up (thankfully more Sybil, less Grov.) and everybody's got a fair amount of injuries. Doc's really done a fantastic job of taking care of everybody, and I'm doing what I can.
We've settled, at least for now. Readjustment's mostly passed and we're all back to our mostly normal selves (though I'm still sleeping with a bucket by my bed, and the stench of tar and mustard gas probably isn't going to leave my room for weeks) and even mostly recovered. A few bumps and bruises here and there, but that's fairly par for the course in our case. But to alleviate the worries of the small number of you who care, (god knows why you do it) we're all doing okay. A little worse for wear, but we're surviving.
(And that's worth a lot right now, isn't it?)
But, the delivery. Todd and Doc have covered a bit already, but there are some gaps to fill.
Firstly, we got into the building (and yes, it was a skull fortress. Teeth set in an angry scowl and sockets that cried lava and everything. In the middle of a forest.) by method of high explosives. Probably not the brightest of ideas - but we don't exactly have a reputation for being the brightest, do we?
(It would have been a shame to waste it, anyways.)
That's when the alarms sounded. Right overhead by the sounds of it, too. It didn't take long for us to be surrounded, no way of getting out of it without either killing or straight running.
We chose the latter.
I ended up in a crawlspace somewhere a ways away from where the fight had broken out. Radioed around. Couldn't get anybody until I heard Todd shouting, then tried to get him to calm down before he got more people on him again. You know what happened from there.
I needed to find somebody else. Todd was with Amanda and Sam at that point, but the others were still missing. Something about this place (I'm guessing it was the walls that seemed to be made of solid concrete and the fact that we were in a Loop) caused our radios to cut out if we were more than roughly 50 feet away from somebody, (something Doc and I tested once we had found each other) so I stumbling upon each other was more sheer luck than anything. Steele and Spencer were both silent, but Doc was somewhere not too far away. I could hear the hiss of interference but still managed to hear her loud and clear.
She said she'd overheard a couple guards. Something along the lines of 'taking the blond to...' and then she hadn't caught the rest. We slipped into a nearby break room (and raided one of the vending machines while we were there) to hopefully get out of the line of sight when a thought hit me.
Massive, needlessly complex fortress with military-level security?
Guards in identical uniforms with helmets that shield their faces?
Unfurnished hallways with dim, flickering lights and eerie suits of armour lining each corridor?
"What do you think are the chances of this guy having a dungeon?"
Realization dawns on Doc's face. "Very... very high."
There was some exploring after that. I'll save you the details and say that we found a guard, interrogated him, took a literal skeleton key off him and made our way down the nearest set of stairs, dim florescent lights eventually turning to torchlight (real torches with real fire. I had honestly stopped being surprised at that point) and the cold of the concrete walls upstairs turned to a damn, icy chill that sucked the life out of everything around us. Moss grew from the walls and there was an unidentifiable dripping somewhere in the distance. Something scurried and I tried my hardest not to see the figure off to my right.
Made our way down to the second level of cells. As we turned the corner, voices drifted from somewhere further down. I felt Doc grab my hand, putting a finger over her mouth. Hush.
"...that should do him for awhile. We'll check on his stupid ass later."
"I can't believe he tried to bite my ear..."
"I can't remember the last time we had a British dude in here."
Doc frowns. I grin. If that wasn't Steele, I didn't know who it could be.
We approach the cell. Sure enough, Steele's bound to a chair and out cold. No response to anything. Doc tries to unlock the door and...
The next thing I see is her convulsing and falling to the floor. I manage to catch her before she hits the ground, softening the thud. She's dazed and her eyes roll for a second before she focuses on me again. It's only once I'm sure she's alright that we decide that the keys are floor-specific and that we'll need to find somebody with a key to this floor if we're going to break Steele out of there. And there was still the matter of Spencer...
It's then we hear a scream. Spencer's scream, actually. Blood-curdling and followed by too-high, too-loud laughter, to the point where I'd have been terrified if I wasn't so used to them by now. My only thoughts were 'it'd better not be his fingers' and 'oh, you have got to be kidding me.'
So we find Spencer in what I think Doc later described as 'the mother of all S&M dungeons.' And she's not too far from the truth on that one. We basically find Spencer chained to a chair with his hand in a... I don't even know. It looks like a clamp with five perfect holes for fingers and there's three of them around him and one is tightening it around his hand and there are already two bodies mutilated on the floor and he's laughing and laughing and...
I don't want to talk about it.
We manage to get him out and Doc drugs the remaining three. They'll be out for a solid twelve hours, she says. More than enough to get us out of there. Spencer's mostly incoherent and his hands are in ruins. Doc's got some basic first aid on her and we manage to wrap his fingers so they don't fall apart when he tries to move them and head on our way. From there it's a little bit of a blur - Steele's broken out, we escape and meet up at the rendezvous... there's an explosion somewhere along the way that I'm guessing is what happened to Todd, Amanda and Sam...
Something black drips on Sam's shoulder. There's this sick silence that hangs in the air for a second before we hear this... this noise. I can't really describe it. Almost a... a distant thunder. A rumbling that starts somewhere off in the distance, slowly growing in volume and intensity before the air around us seems to shake.
There's a loud crack somewhere far, far above us.
We look up.
Somewhere off in the distance, a piece of white falls from the sky.
Correct, a piece of the sky falls.
The sky is falling.
The sky's falling and a massive torrent of pure black comes down after it.
We watch it for what feels like forever, and there's a tiny, utterly terrified laugh from one of us - I think it's me. It doesn't take long before the crack spreads across the entirety of the white expanse above us, black lines clawing and tearing and spreading across the sky so fast that it takes less than a second for the entire view above our head to be marred with black lines line a spider's web. It's cracked like glass. The sky is cracked like glass and not a second after this happens, more pieces begin to fall.
That's what somebody calls. Somebody grabs my hand and rips me away, and suddenly we're all moving as far and as fast as we can. The cracking echoes around us and the entire world is screaming, tearing itself apart at the seams. The trees shrivel and turn from bark and leaves to flat lines on an endless white expanse. The world is vanishing and collapsing and we're going to collapse with it if we can't find a way out of here.
The ground disappears. More and more pieces of the sky, the distant edges of the world and the ground below our feet fall away. Nothing but blackness behind them. Nothingness. Pure nothingness. A crack, the loudest and closest yet. Right above our heads. Still running.
Darkness. Everything vanishes. No light. No noise. No gravity - I'm floating. No air - I'm choking. Try to call out. Nothing.
The ground rushes towards my feet.
We're in a field, the cars not far away. Somehow, we're out. We're out and we're alive and we have no idea how, but that's not what matters, is it?
It takes us a few minutes. We just sort of... sit there. Revel in the moment. Can't really believe it at first. How could we have possibly...
Slowly, mechanically, we get to out feet. Everybody's stunned to silence. Nobody wants to talk - or is it because we can't? How do you express what you're feeling at that moment? A jumble of relief, terror, joy, fear, anger and worry overall - worry for everybody else. Are they alive? Is everybody okay? Did we all get out?
We did. Amanda posted later and I'm sorry if we worried you. I'm going to cut this off here because... well, that's really all there is to it. I've already spent too much time on the computer. Doc'll need my help with something and I should really go make sure everybody's doing alright.
It's good to be home.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Todd is the only one not seriously injured. Except for my hearing. That was shot, but then again, so was Sam's and Amanda's. It's mostly fine now.
How'd it all go down?
Ego infans intus
We'd gotten split up. I got a call on the radio, and a voice calling himself Mama Bear. [i thought that was funny]. I fucking hate codenames. But the odd thing was, not only could I hear it from the radio, I could hear it in the distance, but from no specific direction. I didn't think, I just yelled for August. August started yelling at me over the radio about how I shouldn't yell, cause after all, there were guards.
Stupid, stupid, Stupid.
It wasn't until he asked me where I was when I realized I was in the middle of a fucking life sized aquarium. Complete with little blue rocks and everything. I found my way out of there and met up with Sam. Poor kid. Already scared out of her mind, and the first person she meets up with is, well, the guy who's one third serial killer and one third not potty trained [i resent that].
We agreed to try and find a way out. And then we were ambushed by Amanda.
Nunc autem nihil sum
It's funny, cause she didn't even bother to go after Sam. No offense, Sam, but that means your instinctively harmless.
But she eventually realized It was us, and we teamed up to get out. She had the delivery, which, at the time, looked like a cake. But I knew, from debriefings, it was a bomb.
We made our way to this giant Skull Fortress. (A sight I should have been more freaked out by, but... eh.) We went inside and planted the bomb, but as we were leaving, we were interrupted by the loudest sirens in existence, and approximately eleven fuckbillion mooks.
meum in aeternum abditum
Amanda never left Sam's side, and I was on my own. We fought for as long as we could right until the explosion that left me deaf and caused the sky to start cracking. Or, maybe the bomb didn't cause it, and it was really a visual symbolic interpretation for the cracking of the collective sanity of the group known as The Couriers. Or maybe it was some messed up Loop physics which are useless to try and explain. I don't know. I was more focused on getting out of there.
We ran back. Well, it was more like a sprint. Well, it was more like... some kind of Loop physics that aren't worth explaining. All I know is that all motion halted as a giant piece of... something fell on Amanda. There was no time to think. My thought process was most likely something along the lines of "Move big thing, move Amanda." and at no point did the words "Make sure her legs aren't flipping all about, thus causing her more pain." or even "Make sure Sam isn't dying."
We made it back to the van, me carrying Amanda and Sam tagging behind. Doc was treating her almost immediately, I was trying my best to stay out of the way.
My fingers hurt. Other than that, I'm an idiot.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Sunday, 16 October 2011
And apparently, he needs a delivery. Why are we giving him one? What the fuck is wrong with us? At least we’re not delivering a horribly named death robot to him, I think that would be a bit tough to carry.
At any rate, we’re all fine (for now), and our rocket stick is somehow giving us a connection at points. I'd imagine as we get further in, it'll eventually stop working. But hey, I don’t know how the fuck technology works. I just use it.
I should get some rest; we have a long walk ahead of us. We’ll keep in contact as much as we can. In the meantime, stay safe.
Friday, 14 October 2011
Are you happy, you insane bastard? We'll do your damn delivery.
Jesus rollerblading christ, we must be out of our minds. We have to be completely and utterly insane. This is a trap. It doesn't take a genius to see that.
But if we don't take it...
Spencer hasn't gotten any better. Not that this really surprises anybody. I went into his office a little while after the 'final assignment' went up to find the boss kicking and screaming and clawing and...
I don't want to talk about it.
It's been roughly a week since Spencer came back and I don't think I've seen him leave his office once. I remember visiting him the night he got back, only to nearly end up with a vase to the face and some shattered glass around the House and in my foot. I'd go into detail, but I honestly think they're things better left unsaid. Not to mention the fact that there's a certain somebody who would take great pleasure in his pain and, in all honesty, I'm not willing to grant him that satisfaction.
I saw him again today after Writer's post went up. You could hear him screaming from the glass doors that separate the East Wing from the rest of the House. When I got to his office, there was smashing. Lots of smashing. Crashing, thumping, and the office was in tatters when I eventually went in. The glass from the vase nearly six days ago had been scattered about the room, and the floor had been clawed up.
I don't want to talk about it.
Doc found me outside the office, scratched up and utterly exhausted. I'm throwing this post up quickly then going to relay the news to the rest of the team: we leave at eight o'clock. Sharp.
We'll try and keep you posted. You know how these things work.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Is something you should be very, very familiar with.
A delivery to an... old friend of ours.
Check your email, Fitzgerald. The instructions will be in the drafts.
And as for the rest of you? Miei tesori, you really disappoint me~ It's almost charming how quickly you all jump to the conclusion that, just because I decide to speak without my usual pomp and vivacity and throw in a few nonsensical jumbles of letters and numbers that I must - I simply must! - be filing an actual report for some shady, iniquitous Proxy organization working right by Father's side.
It's almost charming.
More pathetic, really~
Did you really think I would be so stupid? Actually, you seem to believe that quite readily~ I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder if it's because it makes you feel better? If detracted from the image of this strange figure -a glimpse into Spencer's past; Spencer who, may I remind you all, is nothing more than a friendly Proxy? One among my ranks? One of which I had the great honour of working with for four years?
He hasn't gone away, ladies and gentlemen~ He's just... tamed. Consider his illness a shock collar, of sorts. Spencer Fitzgerald is free to do as he pleases, but the moment he does something that upsets Father? Bzzzt! Right to the heart~
But I digress. There's plenty of time to speak ill of the man currently barricaded inside his office, curled up on the floor like a mutt who's scratched up the couch with his too-long, too-sharp claws while his owner was away.
As for my report? Mr. Fitzgerald certainly left some things out of his own write-up, (assuming, of course, you believe he's the one who wrote it~ But I suppose you'll only find out by asking him, hmm?) though perhaps I may have exaggerated slightly. Though I do swear to you, Father as my witness, that the documented events did, in fact, occur. There was a second victim during Forger's interrogation, and he certainly did a number on 3078Q-B//a-d, though their state upon Teller's arrival was... disadvantageous for all parties involved.
The rest is perhaps pure speculation. I leave you, faithful bloggers, to see through the lies both Spencer and I weave and, if you're lucky, figure out for yourselves what is truly going on in the House, because it certainly isn't good. And if it keeps up? It certainly won't last~!
Six months, Fitzgerald. That's all you'll get.
P.S. Be sure to bring your team along. This'll be a toughie~!
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
I went to talk to Boss…god, I don’t even know how many days ago now. Three? Four? When I had just awoken from my coma and was in the first stages of recovery, I said some things to him I really shouldn’t have. I’ve ruminated over them for a few weeks, and decided that I really did owe him an apology. I went to his office in the East Wing to do just that, but I was given a rather odd reward for my compassion. Boss started spouting off all sorts of things about his true nature, about what a fool he thought I was. I’ll be the first in the group to die, he says. I tried to talk him down; he said he was going out to do some “odd jobs.” Fucked if I remember details.
Did I mention that he was in his Teller state of mind at the time? Oh, I should have, because the minute I realized there was no convincing him and agreed to stand down to let him leave the office, he grabbed me from behind and injected some sort of tranquilizer into my jugular vein. I’m still not entirely sure what he gave me, but all I remember after that was being dragged into the living room before I passed out.
Next thing I knew, Steele and August were standing above me, tucking me into my own bed. I tried to mumble out what happened to me. I think they understood, but August immediately shushed me and told me it wasn’t time to wake up yet. I must have agreed with him, because I immediately fell back asleep. I’ve recovered to the point of being functional, of course, but whatever Teller injected me with did not agree with the morphine I was already on. And thus, my recovery receives yet another setback. I’m a bit upset that I’ve had to deal with the pain in my arm au naturelle since; frankly, I’m quite lucky to be alive. Teller is a clever fucker indeed, but a doctor (even a fake one) he is not; I’m not sure if he completely understood just how terrible wantonly mixing drugs could be. August has been helping me detox myself a bit, so I know for certain I’m going to live. I’ve been feeling very sluggish and groggy, but today, I woke up feeling much better. I think I’ll go out on a walk; the fresh air would do me some good.
As for the Boss, last I heard, he locked himself in his office. Like hell if I'm even going near him again soon, so he can sit in there and not give me a fucking overdose.
Stay safe, everyone.
(PS: Steele, if you’re nice to the Boss, he might give you that shiny new copy of Catch-22 he bought for you.)
Monday, 10 October 2011
068739028 was dispatched on the 7th of October, 2011 at roughly 04:20 I observed him exiting his home, carrying two handguns and an assortment of knives. (Upon watching him in combat, I can safely say 068739028 was carrying two bowie knives, one combat knife, a stiletto and a butcher's knife I imagine he had lifted from the kitchen before leaving.)
By use of the Path, 068739028 arrived at his first assignment in south-western Wisconsin at exactly 04:27. The interrogation lasted 26 minutes. The subject of interrogation was identified as 1A, though he is known more commonly as 'Forger.' Forger was employed under 110044327 and was noted to be a delinquent; disrespecting his superiors, ignoring orders, and backtalking his squad leader and his Handler. 068739028's assignment was to instil loyalty back into 3078Q-1A by any means necessary.
068739028 approached 3078Q-1A behind a bar, wherein we can only hope that 3078Q-1A was looking to gather more people to be brought under Father's influence and not satisfy his frustrated libido. Sadly, judging by the woman 3078Q-1A seemed to be so eagerly undressing we can only assume the latter. Thankfully by the time 068739028 had made himself known, the woman quickly dressed herself and made off in a hurry; the sight of Teller's many knives quickly and efficiently ruining the mood.
3078Q-1A is understandably shocked and terrified upon the sight of 068739028. While 068739028's demeanour was airy and casual as he pulled his first blade, it would quickly dissolved into a cold, emotionless blank as 068739028 cornered Forger and began to slowly remove his fingers.
The pinky on the left hand would be the first to go, 068739028 calmly explaining that he represented 110044327 and that 3078Q-1A was being targeted for his overall sub-par performance and refusal to follow orders.
He begins to shout, loudly, as 068739028 begins to cut around the bone of his finger.
068739028 quickly presses his hand into 3078Q-1A's mouth, muffling his screaming. He sneers into the the subject's ear that, if he does not stop drawing attention to themselves, he will cut out his tongue. 3078Q-1A looks at 068739028 with wide, tear-filled eyes and is silent for the time being.
068739028 goes on, nothing but pure bliss in his tone, what employment under 110044327 is like, and how 3078Q-1A was being outed for not being the favourite. This being false, of course; while 110044327 does look kindly towards some of those employed under him, he does not possess 'favourites.' 3078Q-1A was difficult to work with, denied any wrongdoings, and would not cooperate with the rest of 110044327's squad.
068739028 now begins to cut off a second finger, (the middle) speaking about how 3078Q-1A had, foolishly, not achieved a sense of purpose yet and how Jean Paul Sartre, an existentialist, would be ashamed.
It is at this point 3078Q-1A begins to cry.
3078Q-1A is asked to repeat what has just been spoken. He only sobs. 068739028 retaliates by severing 3078Q-1A's right ear.
3078Q-1A is incoherent through his tears.
The final finger 068739028 removes is the index finger on 3078Q-1A's right hand. This process is considerably slower than the other two, and takes between five and seven minutes. 3078Q-1A has grown silent, and only whimpers softly.
068739028 places a manila envelope beside 3078Q-1A at 04:53.
As he turns to leave, he spots 3078Q-1A's woman of fancy hiding behind a nearby dumpster, phone in hand. Calling the authorities no doubt, and judging by the sirens in the distance he does not have much time. 068739028 takes the most logical course of action. He pulls the phone from the woman's hand, crushes it beneath his feet, and quickly and easily slits her throat. The woman gurgles and the blood soaks her blouse before she collapses.
Upon further investigation, the woman is a 35-year-old real estate agent by the name Martha Banks. Divorced. One child, age 6, under custody of the father. All in all a rather worthless excuse of a human being. Will be mourned by co-workers and nobody else. Impact on society: practically null.
3078Q-1B//a, b, c, d
068739028 finds 3078Q-1B//a, b, c, and d in a forested area just outside of Baltimore. He arrived to find 1B//a, b, c and d at 12:31, and offered them what 068739028 considered a fair trade: the information he had been ordered to find, and the chance for them to end their lives by their own hands.
1B//a retaliates by lunging at 068739028. 068739028 draws the butcher's blade and, before 1B//a can even realize what's happen, his arm is lopped clean off. Retaliates by drawing gun. Loses his hand as a result.
1B//b moves slightly, perhaps to catch to 1B//a. 068739028 plunges his stiletto into her kidney. The blade is not removed until death.
1B//c flies into a rage at the death of his companions, and lunges for 068739028. Instantly shot in the head. 068739028's glasses are now splattered in blood.
Below him, 1B//b is whimpering slightly. With a low chuckle, he places his foot on the hilt of the blade and applies pressure. 1B//b squirms, crying out and attempts to crawl away. 1B//a groans a short distance away, catching 068739028's attention.
068739028 is laughing at this point, asking again for the information he requires. Is spit at by 1B//a. As punishment, 068739028 begins to saw through 1B//a's right leg with one of his two combat knives, above the thigh. 1B//a screams, only pulling more laughter from 068739028. By the time the leg is successfully removed, 1B//a has lost consciousness.
1B//b is curled in the fetal position a distance away. 68739028 proceeds to kick in the chest, damaging lung and diaphragm. From this point on, she wheezes and rattles whenever she breaths. Spine is also damaged; it is unclear whether she can move or not.
1B//a regains conciousness and starts to taunt 068739028. The focus is 068739028's being a tool for "whatever Boss you have." Remaining forearm is removed. 068739028 again asks for the information, and is told to "go to hell." 1B//a begins to laugh maniacally, continuing to taunt 068739028 even as he removes the remainder of his arm.
It's at this point 1B//b is broken. She begins to sob and gives 068739028 the information he needs before begging to be left alone. Through this, 1B//a's laughter seems to annoy 068739028, and after the information has been given to 068739028, he causes severe head trauma. 068739028 does not stop stomping until 1B//a has quieted down, taking short, shallow breaths.
068739028 removes their teeth, soaks both 1B//a and 1B//b in gasoline, and sets the bodies ablaze.
1B//d has long since run away. It does not take long for 068739028 to trap 1B//d, though 1B//d nearly manages to stab 068739028 in the process.
068739028 does not take kindly to this.
068739028 returns 1B//d as 'damaged goods.'
1C was found hunting his mark. 068739028 had received orders to kill 3078Q-1C instantly, as he had been judged a liability and unnecessary; weak. He was killed quickly and efficiently through strikes to the Solar Plexus, brain stem, and Xiphoid process.
Curiously enough, 068739028 stayed and watched 1C gurgle until he died. 068739028 is grinning at this point, but seems to take the time to calm 1C's mark before returning her to her place of residence.
Overall, 068739028's performance was nothing short of what we had come to expect of him: pure perfection. He handled his assignments quickly and efficiently, and while he was perhaps a little more sadistic than strictly necessary, 068739028 exceeded our standards and excelled in both reconnaissance and combat.
I will continue to push for 068739028's re-employment, as well as suggest further investigation into 068739028's current residence and his so-called business. Emphasis should be put on the supposed 'couriers' - Runners under 068739028's employment. It would be wise to hire more Trackers onto the investigation team and watch the movements of these men and women, as more information is needed before we are to make any sort of move.
As requested, I will monitor 068739028 and my own team. Assignments will be handled with the utmost efficiency and any drop in quality or speed shall be dealt with harshly. We pride ourselves on our reputation as a reliable team, and 068739028's re-employment will not bring this reputation into question.
Further reports to come,
Friday, 7 October 2011
You know, I kinda like this Teller guy. At least he’s honest. If blunt. That said, everyone is perfectly aware that this is entirely worrying; I mean, who would’ve guessed that Spence wasn’t entirely in control of his own actions? Certainly not your charming correspondent, who, doing his civic duty, decided to schedule a post-game interview with the mysterious man of the minute.
He was unavailable for comment. Indeed, when I went searching for him, he was nowhere to be seen, and all was quiet on the Eastern front…Our Glorious Leader has once again disappeared without warning, after a lovely little message from his bonny lass.
And I found Lori lying, practically comatose on a lounge in the living room. Now, to be fair, what with all her ‘morphine milkshakes’ she does so boast about, this isn’t really a rare position to find her in, but the troubling thing was the method of delivery; a small drop of blood was leaking from her neck, and a syringe was lying on the ground next to her; she looked as if she were vampirized by one half of Count Dracula. And there next to her was, of course, August, trying in vain to get her somewhere more comfortable. I gave the kid a hand (only one, naturally) and got her tucked into her own bed safe and sound, and found out something rather troubling; Spencer had given his bonny lass a phone call.
"He called Elaine, he’s going to see Writer.”
The days of me spouting angry words of rebellion and revenge are over; now, I’m on damage control. We need Spence around, but I think it’s obvious for everyone that he’s walking a razor’s edge. Elly, if the lovely Spence comes to see you, I’m sure you’re entirely sure he’s not so lovely anymore. Nor is he much Spencer, either. I trust you are capable enough to realise that the time for defending his actions is coming to a close…Now’s the time to defend yourself. Hell, this goes for all of you. Consider this a news bulletin.
Spencer Fitzgerald is not a healthy man. Spencer Fitzgerald is not in control of his own actions. Spencer Fitzgerald is wanted and dangerous.
If you see him? Do not attempt to make conversation. Do not make direct eye contact. Do not feed him after midnight.