Friday, November 30, 2012


Well, it certainly took me long enough to figure out the damned password to Sulkybird's little blog.  I tell you, picking through his mind for a single little password was like looking for a needle in a stack of...well, other needles.  You know, where you just want that one particular needle, because it's your lucky needle, but there are a bunch of others that are just irrelevant?  I guess that means I've got some sort of disorder, then; pretty much par for the course in this business.

Where to begin?  How about my name; aye, that's a good idea.  BlackDove.  As you can probably guess, that's not my real name.  Or even a name anyone else knows me by.  Well, now you know me by BlackDove, but if you ever knew me before, it was as something different.  ...besides 'Knight', too, come to think of it.  Though that would certainly be a fun name to have.  Anyways, that's a story for another time; I'll keep you in suspense about that for right now.  As for why I chose 'BlackDove':  I simply wanted to contrast WhiteCrow, and BlackDove just stuck out to me.  I had a few other names in mind ('Malice' and 'MourningDove' were the top contenders), but at the end of the day, I felt mocking Sulkybird would be the best route.

All that aside, I won't be using this blog very often.  At all, actually.  This is my one and only post here.  Mostly for the purpose of saying 'hi.'


(P.S. - Don't worry about Sulkybird; he's quite alive, though I'm not sure he realizes that yet.)
(P.P.S. - I realize using a separate font color to show that I'm quite different from Birdo is unnecessary, but I couldn't help myself.  I love messing with font colors and all that good stuff.)

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


We were too late.  Didn't even know we had a fucking time limit.  Whitecrow was worried about this job, I could tell.  I should've payed more careful attention.  Now Remington got his ass ghosted, Frasier had his head fucked up, and 'crow is fucking missing.  Suicidelle and I are the only two unharmed, and we don't have a fucking clue why we were allowed to leave.  Last night that bitch 'washed her hands' of us and left me to keep an eye on Frasier all by my fucking lonesome.  Cunt.

Watching this son of a bitch would be easier if I wasn't tired as hell.  If I could fucking sleep, I wouldn't be having this problem, but every time I close my eyes I watch everything happen all over again, and it isn't fucking pretty.

We moved out on the 23rd.  That was the execution date 'crow decided on.  None of the rest of us had any real preference, though Frasier whined about having some other business to attend to at 3:00 that afternoon.  Probably had to pick his brats up from school, or something.  I was relatively pleased with the training I'd put everyone through.  Whitecrow had always been good, but he was better; same went for Remington and Suicidelle.  As for Frasier...well, he's always been more a thinker than a fighter, and a fat fucking lot of good that did him.

But we were simply unprepared.  Our plan was to use the trees behind her house as an entry and exit.  No one would see us coming in the dark, even with Whitecrow's fucking mask, which he refused to paint black for stealth's sake.  We figured we would be safe in the trees.  That's Father's territory, after all.  The Runners are the ones who get fucked in the woods at night; the Proxies are the ones who do the fucking.  Father too, of course.

We got close enough to see the back door of the house when we got hit.  In the span of ten seconds, Frasier, Whitecrow, and Remington had been thrown into trees, and Suicidelle and I were knocked flat on our asses.  Remington was the first up and the first one back on the ground.  I got to my feet just in time to get a glimpse of the bastard.

He was wearing a fucking suit, minus the coat.  Vest, slacks, tie; he was dressed like he was on his way to fucking prom, and he was handing our asses to us.  I didn't get a good look at his face right then; he'd spun to take Remington down with a hell of a kick to the face.  Remington should've been more resilient than that, but he went down like he'd just taken his own shotgun to the dick.

Anyways, Frasier started to run back towards the van, but the bastard snapped his fingers.  The noise was loud and clear for some reason, almost like it was amplified by a microphone or something.  Frasier collapsed on the spot, and hasn't been awake since.  Suicidelle rushed him with one of her knives, but he simply grabbed her by the wrist and knocked her on her ass again.

At this point, Whitecrow stood up, and I swear time just fucking stopped while they stared each other down.  This time I was able to see that the suit was wearing a mask, just like us.  It was just a smooth black surface with two round eye-holes cut into it, but it was intimidating enough.  What Whitecrow said helped me figure out what was going on, and just how far over our heads this really was.

"He's come for me."

The Knight, fucking obvious who it was by now, just nodded.  Then 'crow was gone.  Faded.  Vanished.  Like he'd never been there to begin with.  Suicidelle was already on the run, jumping over Frasier on her way back to the van.  Would've been a great idea if she'd remembered Whitecrow had the keys.  Remington picked up his little boomstick and aimed, but the Knight was faster.  Two steps and he'd crossed the distance between them, disarmed Remi, and put his palm to Remi's forehead.  I heard his mask break (made one hell of noise), and then he just fell.  I could see blood coming out of his nose from where I was, and his eyes were wide open.  He was dead.  Very dead.

I stood and stared him down, waiting for him to end me too, but he didn't.  Bastard stayed where he was, held my gaze; I clearly wasn't a threat to him, and we both knew it.  I took a step back, and he nodded.  I took another and another; he watched me retreat, and made no motion to stop me from lifting Frasier's fat ass off the ground.  Suicidelle was waiting for me at the van.  Apparently she'd never learned how to hotwire a car, so I had to do all the work to get us back to Whitecrow's little den.

All of our work was undone in less than an hour, and all by one man.  Whitecrow, wherever the fuck you are, I hope you're fucking happy for bringing this on us.  Good luck dealing with it, too.  I'm fucking done.

Chaingel out.

Sunday, October 14, 2012


I apologize once again for another lengthy delay, but this is the first time in a very long while I've attempted a mission of this scale.  I'm having trouble adjusting to the amount of coordination needed in order to keep things moving along nicely.  Luckily for me, Chaingel is quite used to this level of control.  For the past few weeks, at her 'suggestion,' we've been training.  Sparring, shooting, practicing maneuvers; we've been working on every little detail of our plan, and were we not Proxies, we would likely have killed each other by now.

I'm becoming restless, however; I need to get on the assignment proper instead of simply preparing for it.  We plan on carrying out the execution this week.  No set date as of yet, but definitely before the weekend rolls around.  We aren't the kind to procrastinate.

Thursday, September 27, 2012


I apologize for the delay; I've been coordinating a relatively large-scale operation against my Target.  Not large-scale compared to others, of course, but for one of my assignments, I have an army with me.  I need no introduction, of course, but I should at least give you brief bios of the Proxies I've called in to help, as none of them have blogs of their own.

First to respond was "Chaingel," a Proxy I've known for a very long time  and someone who served as a mentor when I was just starting out as one of Father's Children.  I took much of my methods from her, though she often drags out assignments longer than I do.  Her last target she tormented for a full eleven months before she put him out of his misery.  If I trust anyone to watch my back in an operation, I trust her.

"Frasier" was the second to respond to my call for assistance, and is perhaps the oddest man I know, even for a Proxy.  I'm not entirely sure of his motives, but he should pose no threat to me.  He's unique (as far as this circle is concerned, anyways) in that he's never killed a target with his own hands; he prefers to drive them to suicide with his mind games.  I've also heard rumors that he goes to the trouble of keeping a 'normal' life as a front when not on assignment for Father.

The one I trust the least of my little 'posse' is "Remington."  His namesake is his weapon of choice in all of his assignments:  a heavily-modified Remington 870 tactical shotgun.  His barbaric approach of 'run, gun, and cause a mess,' (his words, not mine) and utter disdain of stealth are enough cause for alarm for me.  If he has his way, 37 will see us coming a long way off, and we won't even have a chance in hell of taking her down.  He does have his uses, however, and he answered third despite being the last person I called in.  He's eager, he knows what he's doing, and he's been in this little Game as long as I have, so he must be doing something right.  I'm keeping a close eye on him.

Finally, rounding out my team, I called in "Suicidelle."  As her chosen alias suggests, she has...issues.  More specifically, she and the Grim Reaper have their differences, and appear to avoid each other religiously.  To clarify:  I have seen her walk away from certainly fatal situations with her life.  Not with all her limbs, necessarily, or other organs, but still alive.  She's either incredibly lucky, or very cursed.  Being one of Father's Children, I would place money on the latter.  Regardless, this exact trait makes her a useful asset, if I can keep her from opening her jugular in the middle of the assignment.

Together, we've pieced together a plan we believe should work, as well as several contingency plans on the off-chance we're mistaken.  I've shared all of my experience with 37 with everyone in the group, so they know what they're dealing with.  Remington is quick to brag about how quickly we'll be done with this "little bitch."  I'm not so sure.  I have a feeling we'll all be taxed to finish this without losing some esteem in Father's Eyes.

If we're lucky, a little dignity is all we'll lose.

Saturday, September 8, 2012


There comes a time for every hunter when he must call in a favor from a friend, or join up with another in order to take down the big game.  For me, it is no different.  While I am, like all Proxies, stronger, faster, and harder to kill than most humans (and Runners, for that matter), I am not Special beyond that.  Even my Sight is something other Proxies possess in some way, and is not unique to me.

There are others in my vocation that spring immediately to mind whenever the word 'Proxy' is uttered in the context of Father's Children, others who are far more powerful and famous than myself (though I did notice earlier I've received some traffic from a forum, where it was speculated based on this post that I had run into a Doll; a strange feeling to realize that either one of my subscribers is a forumite, or there are people watching this blog more carefully than I would have imagined).  I am not one of them.  I am simply a Proxy.  Not a Devil.  Not a Star.  Just a Proxy.

I have no doubt Redlight could crush this little girl beneath his heel.  I have no doubt MorningStar, or whatever he's calling himself now, could do the same, as he seems to have an aversion to dying that I cannot help but admire.  I, however, have been thoroughly trounced again and again by her.  Therefore, my course of action is clear:  I need to call in a favor, either from an old friend or Father Himself.

As I have no friends, it would seem I'll be running to Father once again.  I had hoped I was beyond this sort of weakness.  I was certain I was stronger.  But no matter.  I will have to accept my weakness, weather Father's scorn, and try to climb back up onto my pedestal after I've put this whole ordeal behind me.

Friday, August 31, 2012

Apologies II

As you may have guessed, that last post was the result of a lapse in 'security' on my end; I forgot to shut down my laptop, and...well, you can easily fill in the details, I'm sure.

On a more important note, my Target seems to have finally arrived from her grandparent's home, and is settling back into her house with her parents as I type.  I can feel her brushing against my mind.  She knows I'm here, and knows that I know it (I apologize if that was a confusing sentence).  She also knows how much damage she did in Pittsburgh.  I can't help but feel that she's smirking through the child, reaching out to poke at me so faintly to mock my weakness.

Now, I must address one particular issue.  It was pointed out before in a comment that I could simply use a gun to complete the assignment, and I responded that her 'area of effect' was spreading.  I'm currently standing down the block from her house, which is a corner building, and as stated above, can feel her from time to time, brushing against me.  I would require a rifle, and I do not own one.  Nor do I know how to fire one accurately.  Guns have never been my forte, though I have used them on occasion.  Always in close-quarters, however.

I have much planning to do.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012


Bodies.  Not sleeping.  Dead.  So very, very dead.  All arranged in perfect little rows.  Starting with the first, ending with the most recent.  Victims.  Hidden under shrouds.  Masks on their chests.  A display of my handiwork.

Two stand out.  White shrouds, not black.  First and last in line.  1 and 36.  1's mask is gone.  Burned in a fire.  Early job.  Nearly botched.  Nearly deadly.  Nearly.  36's mask is on my face.  Light.  Papery.  But there.  Always there.

Father isn't there.  Can't See Him.  Can't feel Him.  Solitude.  Isolation.  Loneliness.  I can't stand it.  I want to cut something.  I don't have my knife.  I can't move.

37 is there.  Walking the rows.  Head down.  Hands clasped at her chest.  Eyes closed.  Looks like she's praying.  Starts at 1, ends at 36.  Stops.  Looks up.  Opens her eyes.  Stares at me.  Cuts into me with her eyes.  Dissects me.  Just a child.  I'm pitiful.  Weak.

"You kill for something that sees you as little more than an insect."

She doesn't understand.  Never will.  Never.  She's the insect.

"When he is finished with you, you will die, too."

I know this.  I do not care.  Father's Will is my Will.  If I must die, so be it.  Life is just another disease.  Another terminal illness.  Father is the cure.

"You'll have nothing to show for your life but the red on your hands."

I relish the blood, child.  No, not a child.  Changing.  Shifting.  Becoming...something else.  Larger.  Darker.  Snarling.

"Not a fucking soul would miss you the way people miss Moral!"

Back in Antithesis.  World falling away.  Just me and that...thing.  Glorified hallucination.  But powerful.  Stronger than I.  Far stronger.

"Are we hypocritical, or are you just that vile?"

Shifting again.  In my home.  36 beneath me.  Reliving the kill.  Drawing my knife across his chest.  Bare.  Reeking of blood and sweat.  Redfaced.  Thrust in quick.  Doesn't scream.  Stab him again.  Doesn't scream.  Again.  Again.  Again.  AgainagainagainWHY WON'T YOU SCREAMagainagainagainagainagain...  No screaming.  Just smiles.  Bloody grin.  Final gasp.

"What a pitiful little bitch..."

Vision fades to red.  Stabbing.  Slashing.  Hacking.  Drop the knife.  Tearing with bare hands.  Organs come out.  Hair.  Skin beneath my nails.  He's already dead.  Don't care.  Keep tearing.

Finally stop to catch breath.  Body beneath me unrecognizeable.  Still talking.


Back with the bodies.  All of them repeating the same thing.  Over and over.  Pitiful.  Pitiful.  They stand.  Cast away their shrouds.  Circle around me.  Chanting.  Pitiful.  Can't wake up.  Need to wake up.  Can't take it.  Need to escape.  Why can't I wake up?  WHY CAN'T I WAKE UP?  WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY

"Memorias defunctorum, child, for they will certainly remember you."