Monday, 5 March 2012

My dears, sometimes you have to do things yourself...

In order to get them done.

It's quite unfortunate, really~ I'm a man who prepares for your team's arbitrary decision making, Fitzgerald. To be frank, you've all quite a history of making last-minute decisions that usually end up imploding in your faces. I had figured that maybe, just maybe, your darling little housewife might decide to bring along your sham of a doctor, though the drug addict? That one surprises me. I had thought the boy was smarter than that, putting the two of them together - but I suppose if there was one thing he was good for, it was keeping you all together~ How exactly did you last as long as you did without him? It makes me wonder why it took you so long to get him to enlist!

Because you knew about him and his father all along, didn't you, Mr. Fitzgerald? Why else would you have taken the boy in~?

So I sent the squad in. Not a problem. Baker Street has a wonderful and proud history of bringing targets down, your couriers no exceptions. You're only untouchable until you leave that dear House of yours, afterall!

And they failed.

You can imagine how absolutely ecstatic I am about this turn of events. Not only do I have explaining to the Higher Ups to do, injury reports to be written, insurance to be collected, and punishments to hand out, now you've forced my hand and made me take care of what was supposed to be a simple job myself.

I wonder, sometimes, Fitzgerald, how long you knew we'd been watching you~? From the very beginning, I'm sure you knew we - I - was looking, but when did you first begin to feel our presence? How many 'freak proxy attacks' needed to happen before you started to read the writing on the wall? See the patterns emerge? You were always very sharp, I'm sure you noticed right away. But why hide it? Why keep it from them? Why dismiss it as 'all couriers are high priority,' and nothing more? Were you afraid of telling them the truth? Or did you just not want to accept it for yourself~?

Ahh, so much to say, so little time to say it!

I suppose I should make this brief. You've no doubt noticed that your beloved little pet's gone missing~ After my squad's pathetic failure I had all but given up on sending others to do the dirty work for me. Now, don't get me wrong - there were still deals to be struck, lives to be threatened, and packages to be arranged.

And while it's true I didn't have nearly enough time to play with the boy as I would have liked, (what with time constraints and the like. Only a six hour delivery, right~?) I think I did manage to have my fun. Though I admit he wasn't nearly as resilient as I had expected - though I wasn't expecting much, was I, with such a feeble frame and pretty face?

Drop by the old apartment, Fitzgerald, and see if you can reach him before the blood stops flowing.

I'll be waiting~


  1. No... Oh god.
    ...Screw you and the horse you rode in on. Got that?

    1. Finally, a comment I can agree with.
      This won't end well.

  2. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
    Writer, you fucking bastard.
    Spence, you. You call me. As soon as you can, alright?

  3. Come on, Writer, is this really the most important thing to do? Shouldn't you be focusing on getting rid of whoever it was that actually caused your squad to fail? Or maybe getting that "Joseph" guy in your squad back?
    But no, your priority, as always, is trying to get Spencer. Predictability is a weakness, you know.

    1. Now, darling, you don't send a plumber to fix a car, do you? My talents lie in areas other than reconnaissance and recovery. And simply because unfortunate circumstances arise with my team does not mean I'm allowed to simply drop everything and chase after "Joseph"; or did you already forget that my trying to get Spencer was an order from my superiors, albeit something I take great pleasure in pursuing?

      I suppose it doesn't matter much now~ Though I might be keeping this account, at least for a while. It's... cozy.


  4. Oh dear, how unfortunate. Know who will make our food?
    The crafty bastard. Now we're all going to die of starvation.