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."

Saturday, August 25, 2012


Well, according to Lucia and company, I left Antithesis on Tuesday of this week.  That would be irrelevant, were it not for the fact that it gives me roughly four days of lost time.  I do not know where I have been, I do not know what I have done, and I do not have the slightest clue where my Target is.

I'm beginning to consider feeling empathetic towards Runners, who have to deal with this sort of thing on Father's behalf all the time.  I believe that would make my job a little difficult, however, so I will try my best to refrain from doing so.

At any rate, I've returned to Minnesota for the time being.  Chances are my Target will return to her home at some point, so I'll simply wait for her to return.  Considering what happened in Pittsburgh, I am not overeager to face her again.  'Her' here can mean either Lucia or my Target, or both.  It would seem they decided to gang up on me during my little vacation, and now I'm...out of sorts, more or less.

As before, I will be shutting down my laptop shortly after this post and limiting my exposure to it throughout the week to reduce the possibility of another incoherent, cryptic post.

Sunday, August 19, 2012


I want to apologize for my previous post.  I did not feel well at all, and still do not.  As a target once said, regarding a wine-induced hangover, "If I move, bad things will happen."  So it is with me, though I am relatively certain I am not waiting outside the door, ready to make my move and eliminate my prone...self.

Regardless, my previous post was inexcusable.  Father should, by all rights, terminate me for that show of weakness.  He would not have waited this long, however.  I was always taught to live by one rule:  if He has not killed you within the first half-hour, your mistake was not grievous enough to warrant your execution.  Or He was in a good mood.

I must say goodbye for now.  This screen is giving me a headache, and I feel another wave of...whatever the hell is happening, coming on.  My laptop will be shut down to avoid another incident.

Friday, August 17, 2012

she weeps over them just dead bodies i killed them i killed them all no rest now no sleep nevernevernevernever for the wicked too wicked Father help me HELP MEHELPMEsaveme but he can't no he won't because i'm too weak just too weakWEAKWEAKWEAK and He won't save me He only saves the strong i'm going to die here

i see them all ALL OF THEM dead eyes staring victims glaring spirits turning corpses burning ashes flying embers dying crows shrieking bodies reeking lions roaring fires scorching Children screaming NO MORE DREAMING

and the fires burning will be my judgment the fires are my salvation burn it all burn it all away take them out of my head the bodies Bodies red stains on my pages the book burn it burn it fast just stop it all thepainthepain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain

he's coming for me

i am just fueling the Knight's fire

i will be burned away like all my victims

no one will mourn me

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Checking Out

I apologize for my lack of contact for the better part of the week, but I have been preparing to end my current assignment.  Now, I'm not one of the fools who posts how he will do something; I only post how I have done something.  That is to say, I will not bore you now with the details of my plans, but I will bore you later with the details of how I assassinated a young girl who was protected by something that forced me to play with a fucking doll.

Anyways, I managed to find a cafe with Wi-Fi, and remembered to bring my laptop with me when I left 'home base' for once, so I decided now would be as good a time as any to throw up a post.  I have time to kill, after all; 37 is currently on the move towards my general location and will be in position within half an hour to an hour.  Then I can to end this and get out of Lucia's hair.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Lesson Learned

When I last posted to you, I was on my desktop in one of my various 'homes.'  'Dens' might be a more appropriate word, given their size and the tendency of some in the blogosphere to compare me to a hunter, but what you call them is irrelevant.  What is relevant is where I am now:  I am posting from my laptop from the guest room of Antithesis.

I am not impressed.

Garish green bedcovers, a wall of glass to let the damnable sunlight in during the day, and a single painting.  Not a real painting, either; some generic forestscape, with tree upon tree upon tree.  I must give the decorators some credit, though:  the desk I'm seated at is made of mahogany, as is the bed frame and the dresser I will not likely use.  Reminds me of my most frequented den.  Nice mahogany table for carving.  The hospitality leaves much to be desired.

I have spent the past two days attempting to familiarize myself with the layout of the city.  I did not fail, but rather took an alternative route to succeeding.  While I cannot tell you where I went, nor could I find a particular spot in a short amount of time, I did succeed in finding where my Target is living for the time being.

I have also decided to indulge myself for once.  Why not?  After all, I'm vacationing in beautiful Pittsburgh after Father has sent me on what I can only assume to be a suicide mission, given the amount of opposition I've met in 37, so I might as well have my fun.  I will take care of the Target before she leaves the city.  Then I will return home, accept Father's forgiveness, and continue on serving Him.

...and while I'm dreaming, I'd also like a shiny new knife and for the pool of people who can somehow escape my Sight to stop expanding rapidly.  If that trait becomes obsolete, I'll have a serious problem.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


I've just learned something very interesting.  Something very interesting indeed.

Time to pay a visit to a good personal friend of mine.

Saturday, July 21, 2012


You may be wondering where I've been the past two weeks.  To be perfectly honest, I wish I could tell you.  Precious time has been wasted, slipping out of my hands into oblivion.  Simply put, I seem to be suffering a mild but of amnesia.

The last thing I remember is stalking the Target in a large city.  Her parents were talking animatedly about visiting the paternal grandparents, and she was walking between them, holding tightly onto both of their hands.  I couldn't help but think at that moment how safe she must feel, surrounded by her parents, unaware that the Hunter was stalking her.

...or so I thought.  As I began to quicken my approach, she suddenly stopped, whirled around, and glared at me.  I was overcome with grief in that moment; I felt as though I'd been punched in the heart (symbollically speaking, of course), and was forced to my knees even as I began to weep openly.  At this point, I was still roughly fifty feet from her, further than I'd been in our first encounter.

Everything else had stopped.  Completely.  Birds were suspended in mid-flight.  People had stopped in mid-step.  A ball was in the process of bouncing out in front of a car, a little boy chasing it into the street.  The car coming would never see the child around the large van that was parked along the side of the road.  In the opposite direction, a kid wearing a hooded sweatshirts had been paused mid-drag on a cigarette.

In the middle of all this, the Target approached me slowly.  My body was still convulsing with sobs, so great was the grief pounding down on every fiber of my being.  She crouched down to look me in the face, her head cocked.  She, too, looked as though she were going to cry.

"This is how She feels for all those people you killed."

She shook her head.  "You're only fueling the Knight's fire."

I'll be burned away like my victims, I finished in my head; I'd heard this speech before.

But she simply patted me on the head, murmured something unintelligible, and skipped back to her parents.  As soon as she grabbed their hands, time resumed:  the birds flew on, the kid in the hoodie continued smoking, and the driver clipped the poor child as he ran out to grab his ball.

I should have called it a day, but I didn't.  I was angry.  How dare she make me weep?  So I rushed her and grabbed ahold of her arm.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours ago.  My head has been throbbing off and on, and I can't flex the fingers of my right hand without feeling pins and needles of pain all the way up my arm.

I believe I may be way over my head.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Sub-Mission Complete

Target 1 - Non-issue; parents died in car accident
Target 2 - Non-issue; family killed attempting to protect Target
Target 3 - Non-issue; family killed in housefire
Target 4 - Two parents (48 and 42) and one brother (20); eliminated
Target 5 - One parent (32); eliminated
Target 6 - Two parents (both 38) and boyfriend (16); eliminated
Target 7 - Non-issue; father killed in car accident, mother and brother dead of alcohol poisoning
Target 8 - Two parents (43 and 40) and three siblings (8, 10, and 17); eliminated
Target 9 - Non-issue; family killed attempting to protect Target
Target 10 - Non-issue; mother/brother murdered by father, father died in jail
Target 11 - One parent (40) and girlfriend (16); eliminated
Target 12 - Two parents (50 and 48), step-father (49), three siblings (16, 18, and 21), step-brother (12), and boyfriend (25); eliminated
Target 13 - Non-issue; genuinely uncaring parents
Target 14 - One parent (39); eliminated
Target 15 - Non-issue; genuinely uncaring parents
Target 16 - Two parents (both 35), two step-parents (36 and 40), one step-sister (16); eliminated
Target 17 - Two parents (47 and 38), one sibling (13); eliminated
Target 18 - One parent (42) and one sibling (15); eliminated
Target 19 - Two parents (54 and 56), two siblings (25 and 21); eliminated
Target 20 - One parent (58) and seven siblings (18, 21, 24, 28, 30, 32, and 34); eliminated
Target 21 - Non-issue; parents died in car accident, sibling taken to abusive foster home
Target 22 - Two parents (48 and 47); eliminated
Target 23 - One parent (49), one step-parent (50), one step-sibling (20); eliminated
Target 24 - Two parents (30 and 43), one sibling (5); eliminated
Target 25 - One parent (67), two siblings (25 and 26); eliminated
Target 26 - Non-issue; mother died in childbirth, father commited suicide after Target's death
Target 27 - Two parents (40 and 47); eliminated
Target 28 - Non-issue; family killed by Father (exposing incident)
Target 29 - Two parents (62 and 60), wife (25), child (2); eliminated
Target 30 - One parent (51), boyfriend (21), roommate (19); eliminated
Target 31 - Two parents (70 and 72), husband (32), two children (1 and 3); eliminated
Target 32 - Non-issue; parents died attempting to protect Target
Target 33 - One parent (34), sibling (14), boyfriend (15); eliminated
Target 34 - Two parents (46 and 49), two siblings (12 and 16); eliminated
Target 35 - One parent (53), one step-parent (50), sibling (23); eliminated
Target 36 - Two parents (57 and 51), two siblings (28 and 18), girlfriend (18); eliminated

As you can see, I've been busy.  I've been on the move since my last post, and am now posting from the home computer of Evangeline Reynolds, the last 'knight' candidate to be eliminated, and Target 36's girlfriend.  With that business out of the way, I can now focus on Target 37 more completely without worrying about some 'hero' recruited by her protector.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Failure + Message

I believe I'm beginning to see why Father wants this child dead.

Today I went in for the kill.  My arm has finally completely healed, you see, 36's blasted wounds nothing but a memory, and I decided it would be the perfect time to begin tearing through assignments to show Father that despite my difficulties against 36, I was still a worthwhile pawn to play with.  So yes, Ahab, I do realize I am nothing but a toy for Father to play with for a while until He finds something better; perhaps your time would be better spent hunting a White Whale instead of attempting to taunt a Whitecrow?

She was all alone on the playground, waiting for her mother to pick her up after she'd met some of her little friends.  Mask on, knife out, I slowly approached her in full view, having already Stopped her in her tracks.  The red flags began to rise slowly in my mind as I saw she wasn't afraid, but merely staring back at me quizzically, as if trying to figure out what I thought I was doing.  I thought it hadn't occurred to her to run yet, so she hadn't realized she was paralyzed.

The moment I was within an arms reach of her, the fight went out of me.  I have no way of explaining it, but I simply didn't feel like killing her anymore.  I didn't feel like doing anything other than crouching down in front of her, for that matter.  I knew that I had to kill her.  I knew that I shouldn't have been sitting there, idly playing with one of her dolls, and yet I had an overwhelming urge to do so.  She had her own, and we sat there with the poor examples of the female figure for what felt like forever.

"You can't kill me, you know."

It was said matter-of-factly, not tauntingly.  She didn't even look up from her doll; she just kept messing with the velcro on the back of the miniature dress, trying to make it stick.  Finally, she made a little growling noise and threw it at me.  To my astonishment, I caught it and fixed it for her, pulling some stray red thread out of the hooks to free them up.  Why was this happening?  It wasn't as if she were controlling my body, but my feelings.  I felt as though I wanted to help her.  Like I wanted to play with her.

"I'm Her favorite," she continued, "and thanks to you and your daddy, she has a Knight to save me."

With that said, she saw her mom waiting for her in her van and picked up her dolls.  As far as I know, I was unseen by anyone but the little girl.  While we were playing with the dolls, a few other children had shown up to play on the equipment a few yards away from us.  I will be the first to admit that I am a very suspicious-looking person, and if I had been visible to any of the parents present, they would've undoubtedly been on me in moments.  As things were, I was left alone as my Target walked away, only pausing to turn around, look me in the eye, and say:

"And that mask looks stupid."

I still haven't the slightest clue what happened to me.  Clearly, something is protecting her, something that can directly affect the emotions and desires of others in close proximity to her (as soon as she'd stepped out of arm's reach, I was able to move again) to the point of bringing them directly under control.  Thoughts, however, cannot be altered, or at least were not in my case.  My Target spoke of a 'Her' and seemed to imply her protector was on the same level as Father; possibly another Fear.  However, I do not know of any Fears that specialize in emotion/desire control, though to be fair I only pay attention to Father.

What weighs heaviest on me is her mention of a 'knight' that is going to save her, apparently because of myself and Father.  Because of what I'm dealing with here, I will need to be more careful.  I cannot deal with something this without Father's direct intervention, a courtesy He has never offered.  Therefore, my only course of action is to exterminate possible 'knights' before they become a problem for me.  I do not want a difficult assignment made harder by a bodyguard.

It would make the most sense if the 'knight' were an associate or loved one of someone I've killed.  I can safely rule out the lives taken outside of my assignments, due to the inclusion of Father's name in the girl's gloating.  I am left with only one possible route.

Anyone involved with my prior 36 targets must be eliminated.

Saturday, June 23, 2012


I would like to officially put the following statement on the record:  I fucking hate people.

Today, the Target's family decided to go on a family outing to a car show.  A rather large car show, in fact.  Held at the State Fairgrounds of Minnesota (yes, I'm still stuck in this frigid hell; Father doesn't appear to trust me to travel very far yet, and has gone so far as to close the Path to me).  In other words, I was surrounded by hundreds of old, sweaty men parading around their 'rat rods' and middle-aged mothers suffering from empty nest syndrome who, no matter what they said, sounded as though they were trying to offer me a piece of fresh pie.  Or whatever the hell they cook up here.

I apologize if I seem to be more animated than usual; most of my energy is being diverted to recovery (I have 36 to thank), so I have less of a filter between my brain and my hands at the moment.  Like I give a fuck.  I expect to be fully healed within the next week or so.  By then I should have my full composure back.

At any rate, with the amount of people present, I soon lost my Target and her family.  With so many people around, my Sight was seriously messed up.  I suppose in order to give the full impression, I should explain what my 'Sight' is.

For those who are familiar with the graphic novel series Naruto and the video game series Assassin's Creed, this will be an easy explanation.  Imagine the predictive powers of the 'Sharingan/Mirror-Wheel Eye' coupled with the seeking powers of the Assassin's 'Eagle Vision.'  For those unfamiliar, I will have to try harder.

In the case of prediction, it is more a hyperattention to detail concerning the movements of my opponents or Targets added to an overactive imagination (for lack of a better term):  I can detect small muscle or position shifts and, based on even such a diminutive motion, visualize the next possible move.  With each subsequent shift or tensing of the Target's body, I can remove one or multiple possibilities.  Simple process of elimination, really.  Eventually, the next action is revealed, and I can react accordingly.

As for seeking, I have no real explanation.  It's not as simple as Eagle Vision, where everything appears in different colors.  If I had to guess, I would say it is a mental state where all my sensory input  (the scent of the Target's shampoo, the taste of perfume on the air, the sound of the footsteps of a child walking rapidly away, a gentle current of air in the wake of a person walking by, and so on) is combined to paint a map in my mind of where the Target is, accurate to roughly a meter on a bad day.  For all intensive purposes, we'll settle on hypersensitivity.  Therefore, my Sight boils down to hyperattention and hypersensitivity.

Until too many people are gathered in one place.  Then, the smells all coalesce into one nauseating stench, the air tastes like sweat, and I get a migraine from trying to listen for the small sounds in the maddening cacophony of polite housewives asking in their hint of a Norwegian accent if they can help me carry something, or hold a door.  And I can only pay attention to every little detail for so long when every other person is an eighty-year-old woman wearing a tube top because the sun is finally coming out for once.

But, I digress.  That's not a visual anyone needed.  Eventually, I had to trek across the city to find the Target's car, and waited there for three fucking hours until they showed up, got in, and drove off.  I followed in my own vehicle which, though not as fancy as those driven by the insects at the car show, gets me from point A to point B without drawing too much attention.  Even with a body in the trunk.

Just to be sure this wasn't a repeat of 36 and his apparent ability to slip past my Sight, I watched the Target another few hours until I was satisfied, all of her actions fitting my predictions and so on.  As a parting thought, as much as I hate people, I hate Minnesota more.  Everyone is too damn nice.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a body to bury.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Mask 36

Mask 36 - [Moral]

The paint has dried.  I present you with my 36th mask.  I am displeased with how it turned out.  It would seem my prowess in luring and killing and generally doing Father's Will is more than countered by my lack of artistic skill.  Of course, the plastic base I use has been cracking, and the conditions in my home are...less than ideal.  I also blame my still-recovering right arm for the warping on the left side of the mask, or the right side of this photo.  As I work with the mask facing me, I was trying to use my right hand to form hold that portion in place while putting the newspaper on, but as you can see, I failed miserably.

But that's enough of that.  I did reconnaissance on my Target today.  Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  No special traits came to light.  Unlike 36, I could See her at all times.  She was not seen in the company of any of the other Fears.  All in all, she seems to be an ordinary ten-year-old girl.  Perhaps a bit precocious, but otherwise ordinary.  I do not see what Father finds threatening in her.

I suppose this is what I've been degraded to while I lick my wounds.  Assassinating children barely old enough to understand their own mortality.  This must be Father's way of punishing me for underestimating 36.  If that is His Will, then I have no choice but to comply.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Target Number 37

Father visited me late yesterday evening.

I had finished putting the 36th and final coat of paint on my newest mask when He appeared before me, not appearing abruptly but slowly sliding into my awareness.  He gazed at me for but a moment, and then showed me my next Target:  a young girl.  She couldn't have been much older than ten years old.  I was confused, and understandably so.

I am mostly called on to deal with people that Father deems both unnecessary to His plan and potentially dangerous.  Target 36 I could possibly have envisioned to be dangerous, given his willpower, but a child?  There is no way someone so young could possibly be anything more than a frail, weak, delectable morsel to Father.

Sensing my doubt, He hurled me against the wall and held me there with one of His Arms.  I could hear the plaster cracking behind me.  The message was very clear:  I was not to ask questions.  He would not be disobeyed.  A child she may be, but however old, she was my new Target.  Father released me and, with a final, feral growl to ensure that I understood my place, He disappeared.

Understand that I have no qualms about my current Target.  For Father, I would set fire to an orphanage.  In my earlier days, for that matter, I did, but that is a story for another time.  For Father, I would eliminate the entire population of a retirement home for the infirm.  The age of the Target matters little to me, as does physical or mental condition.  If it is Father's Will that they be eliminated, then I do so gladly.  I am simply disappointed that after the challenge provided by 36, I have been assigned the elimination of a child.

She has no connection to any runners that I have been able to discover.  There is no one in her life with any connections to Father.  She hasn't interacted with any of the runner's blogs, or the Proxy blogs, for that matter.  There are others in her school who have, believing it to be a game.  Yet she alone has been singled out as a Target.

But, I digress.  That is enough for now.  I had initially intend to discontinue this blog after the elimination of 36, but have since decided against that course of action.  There are too many interesting people, runners and Proxies alike.  If I were to leave now, I do believe I'd become terribly bored.

I am here to stay.

Sunday, June 17, 2012


The deed is done.

The body is dismembered, the pieces burned, the ashes scattered across the countryside of several different states.  His mask has been made, the newspaper clippings all from the day he died.  White paint to cover the red tint left by the drops of his blood mixed into the papier mache paste.  Mask 35 was broken, but that isn't an issue; it would've taken its place on the wall of my trophy room, regardless, just as the thirty-four others have.

He fought and died admirably.  Engaged in hide-and-seek in my own house.  Shattered my arm with a heavy candlestick.  Nearly broke my neck with the same improvised weapon.  Stole my knife and planted it between my ribs, narrowly missing any organs.  I've spent the last few days recovering from my injuries.  My right arm is still useless.  I had to cut the body with one hand.  I thank Father for my ambidexterity.  Also for speak-to-type software.

I cannot shake a sense of utter disappointment, however.  He didn't scream.  Not once.  I slashed him, stabbed him, scalded him, and disemboweled him, but he didn't scream.  Chewed through his lip to stop himself from doing so.

No matter.  On to the next.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

3 Days

I'm still recovering from the wounds my Target inflicted on me.  As predicted, breakfast this morning was unpleasant.  Far more unpleasant for poor Moral, of course.

He's beside me at the moment, completely Bound as he was in our first meeting.  Standing with his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him, and his head bowed.  Eyes closed, of course.  He can hear and feel everything, but his vision is gone.  Of course, I could let him see, but on the off-chance he would recognize his surroundings before his termination, would be remarkably foolish.

3 days remain.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

4 Days

I underestimated my Target once again, and Lucia will be happy to hear that I paid the price.

We met at his little park, as planned, and he was unaware of my true identity and true intent.  Kniferapist, indeed.  I am not petty enough to be offended by a nickname. 

Everything was proceeding well enough.  Exactly forty-five minutes in, I feigned an 'episode' and dashed for the woods.  I easily outpaced him, entering the cover of the trees well ahead of him.  From there, it should've been simple enough.

As before, I couldn't See him.  He managed to wander past me, knife in hand, and straight into Father.  Father wasn't to be there in the first place.  As of yet I have no answer as to why He meddled, but it cost me dearly. 

My Target noticed me.  I had no time to erect my Filter.  On some primal level, he knew.  He finally made the connection.  He finally realized I was the one who had been chasing him, who had tried killing him on several different occasions already.  I could see in his eyes he realized just how stupid he had been.

And then he ran.

I chased him through those damned trees, on and off the trails, across the river where Father couldn't follow, until the sun was long gone.  I would estimate the time to be between 10:30 and 11:30.  I lost him just after I lost the light.  I was running blind, praying for Father's guidance to bring my to my Target.

He found me first.  I was suddenly on the ground, something sharp in my lower back.  Just as suddenly, he was off, circling me warily, daring me to get up.  He hadn't even drawn his machete.  He was mocking me.  His challenge would not go unanswered.

I rose, ignoring the pain in my side, and took my own knife out.  Eight inches to his three.  I had the advantage of range, even if he hadn't been using a backhanded grip on his little toothpick.  I feinted to his left and slashed, but he danced out of the way.  Father's primary gift to me was useless against him.  If I couldn't See him, I couldn't subdue him with the ease I was accustomed to.  The encounter was swiftly moving out of my favor.

So I used Father's other gifts:  strength and speed.  I circled him quickly, grabbed him, and hurled him into a tree.  On impact, he dropped his knife, and lay stunned at the base of the tree for a few seconds.  I lunged once more, but he recovered quickly enough to dodge again.  This time, he finally drew the big blade, his machete.  Black in color, perfectly blending into the shadows.

He ran again.

I chased after, fully intending to tackle him and end it.  He stopped dead in his tracks when I was a few inches from him and stuck his weapon straight out underneath his arm, where I couldn't see it.  The impact carried him to the ground, but also rammed the entire length of the machete through me.

Breakfast tomorrow will be unpleasant.

He rose and began his escape, but Father finally made His appearance, stepping out of the shadows with all of His arms spread behind him like wings, a testament to His glorious power.  My Target crumpled to the ground, clutching his temples.  One blink, and Father was by my side, His arm tearing the machete from my stomach and casting it off into the darkness.

I rose and claimed my prize.  Checkmate, Moral.

4 days remain until termination.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

7 Days

No post yesterday, and I apologize.  I was otherwise occupied.  Even now, so close to the end, there are still preparations to make.  I'm cutting it a little close this time.

7 days remain.

Monday, June 4, 2012

9 Days

The final steps of the plan are being put into action.

9 days remain; the countdown has started in earnest.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

10 Days

He drew my blood.

Worthless, pathetic, helpless insect that he is, my Target drew my blood.

I couldn't See him.  Father gave me no warning.

I've never been more thrilled.

10 days to go.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

11 Days

Tomorrow is a big day indeed, both for my Target and for myself.

11 days.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

14 Days

My Target seems to be smarter than he let on.  Today he was able to notice me before I had him Stopped, before I could get any closer than three yards from him.  There was an obvious metal clip on the side of his jean pocket as well, rather carelessly informing me and anyone else who was looking that he was armed.  Not that his little toothpick will do him much good, of course.

14 days remaining.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

15 Days

Today is the day:  contact.  I know exactly where to make it.

15 days remaining.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

My Target saw me.  Contact should not occur until the fifteenth day.  I am not pleased at all.

But it's no matter.  He still fails to realize what danger he's in, and it shall be his downfall.  I will get him in the end.  No amount of caution on his part will make a difference.  No interference will make a difference.  He will die.

17 days until termination.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Thursday, May 24, 2012

The stage is set.  The actors are ready.  Five more days until the grand opening.

20 days until the finale.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

My apologies, children, but there will be no story or megalomaniacal rant this evening.  I've preparations to make.

21 days.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

The last target worthy of my blade was number 17.

Name:  Scott Winters.  Age:  28.  Occupation:  None.  Came from a wealthy family, but wanted nothing to do with them.  Fancied himself a philanthropist.  His selfless and caring nature made his fall all the more satisfying. 

He became aware of Father while studying abroad in Germany in early August of 2001.  By the time Father deemed him dangerous enough for termination, it was late November of 2008.  He had been on the run for seven years, dropping off the grid in late 2004; no cell phone, no credit card purchases, no contact whatsoever with his family.  Tracking him was difficult, and while Father could have found him and shown me the Path, I much preferred to do the job myself.  Father had more important things to do.

17 never kept a blog, so I couldn't hunt him via the internet.  As stated above, he had no cell phone or credit cards to track.  I suspect he paid for things by doing odd jobs; he was a resourceful and well-rounded young man.  But in the end, he wasn't resourceful enough.

I found him by a stroke of luck, nothing more.  We both found ourselves in a small-town bakery in a remote rural village.  I exchanged a few brief words with him; without my mask on, I looked like just another traveler, but he was still wary of me.  There was something about me that was setting off the red flags in his head, but I could tell he couldn't figure it out.  After only a few minutes in my company, he beat a hasty retreat, forgetting a bag of donuts on the table.  I now had an excuse to follow him.

When I caught up to him, he was already buckled into his car and about to start the engine.  Poor fool had trapped himself without knowing it.  All it took was one touch, disguised as a knock on his door, to drain the battery.  Father's Blessings come with their perks; wreaking havoc on electronics is just one, and a minor one at that.  The moment he opened his door to take the bag, it was over.

The Path carried us all the way Home.  From there it should've been easy.  Four others had died the way he would, though as I found out, he was more tenacious than I expected.  I had taken him for a coward, albeit a resourceful one.  Nothing I had seen of him so far, from his underwhelming physique to his almost timid movements, betrayed any experience as a fighter.  And yet he fought.

My knife was knocked from my hand immediately, followed by a deceptively strong kick that broke the nose of my mask.  I had fifteen other masks, but each one was, and still is, of great personal value to me.  So I fought back.  I drove my shoulder into his chest and put him through the wall, forgetting my strength for a moment.  I was worried that I had finished the job prematurely, but he dove back through the hole and tackled me to the ground, sitting on my chest and throwing punch after punch into my face.

I felt nothing.  Father had shown me true pain.  I waited for him to tire before pushing up against him, throwing him to the floor.  I pulled my backup weapon, a very small but still deadly knife, off of the clip around my ankle and plunged it into his neck.  He bled out while I prepared for the next stage of my Process.

I do not expect the same challenge from my current Target, who will be number 36, but it will be just as satisfying to bring down someone who fancies himself such a White Knight.

22 days.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

It would seem I was all worked up over nothing.  I apologize for the pointless post yesterday.  My Target remains as timid and cowardly as ever.  His 'bolstered courage' faded quickly.

24 days now.  I am eager to claim him for Father.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

This will not do.  My Target seems to have undergone a change, albeit a minor one.  This changes my approach.  I cannot simply lie in wait for the proper time, as I'd planned.  Now I must be much more active, more aggressive.

My Target must be kept a coward.  Weak, timid, afraid.  This bolstered courage is unacceptable.

25 days now.  He will not be allowed to escape his fate.

Friday, May 18, 2012

My second kill was, to be frank, a sloppy mess of a job.  I was all force, as I had been with my First; I lacked finesse.  Father made it clear after my second kill that He would not clean every site.  I was his child, but I was less 'Edgar' than 'Edmund.'  A bastard son.  One He would be ashamed of, were He able to feel emotions of that ilk.  The vast majority of us are like that to Him, or at least, that is my understanding of how He works.

I apologize for veering slightly off-topic.

My second kill was another neophyte to our world.  Unlike myself or my First, however, he had Father's interest from his youth, but had been left alone, allowed to mature so Father could see what kind of man he would become.  Unfortunately, he was a disappointment.  All the promise he'd shown at a young age, his inquisitiveness, his natural gift for sensing Father, was gone.  He was as blind and content as the rest of the livestock, blissfully ignorant to His presence.  So I was sent to 'remind' him.

He lasted a month before Father instructed me to move in for the kill.  The poor child was losing his grip on reality.  Or perhaps he was finally gaining it back?  Regardless, I put my brand-new blade to work on him, and soon found myself in a mess:  the parents showed up at the scene.  His father was a large man, and relatively easy for me; he thought he could crush me with his bare hands, grind my skull to dust beneath his heel.  He was a pathetic, overweight, sorry excuse for a man.  I was armed, he was not.

His mother, however, was clearly the brains of the family.  I had to chase her through the house and play a tedious game of hide-and-seek before finally putting her down in the bathroom, where she'd been trying to make her escape through a window. 

I found myself with three bodies, two rooms bathed in red, and the police on their way after the mother had dialed 911 while I was busy with her husband.  I wasn't afraid; I could feel Father's presence in the room where I had left the son and his father.  He would soon come for the mother as well.  Under His protection, I waltzed out of the house and strolled down the street, giving no indication I heard the sirens or saw the squad cars racing past.

Later, much later, I learned to control myself better.  Victims three through seven were crude jobs, though cleaner than the second.  It wasn't until number twelve that I finally developed a comfortable modus operandi.

26 days, and you will receive your special exclusive peek into that MO.  Until then, sleep tight, and pray you're not my Target.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

The Target remains unaware, though I grow closer by the day.  He fancies himself a lion, mane and all, a fierce defender of the people he 'loves.'  If that is the case, then I am the hunter.  His hide will make a beautiful rug for my sitting room.

27 days.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I had always been her best friend- funny how I can't even remember her name at this point.  We were very close, and always tried to get together for a movie night at least once a week, perhaps more if we felt it was necessary.  The first dozen entries of Marble Hornets marked our final get-together.  Within a week, we were both seeing things:  a tall, spidery man watching us from across the street; slender tendrils snaking across the doorway out of the corner of our eyes; movement  from the shadows just beyond the limits of our perception.

He came to me first.  Gazing upon Him in all His glory for the first time, I began to remember.  Bits and pieces of my childhood flooded back to me.  A tall man watching me while I went down the slide.  One of His arms knocking my ball back to me from the cover of the trees behind my old house.  The screams of my nieghbor's daughter as He took her into His fold.

You see, Father knew I had exactly the quality he was looking for in a Pawn.  I had felt it, too, over the years, but always pushed it away, uncomfortable with the thoughts and what my urges might make others think of me, especially my first.  The instant He touched me, however, I felt all that uncertainty and discomfort fall away.  I had an epiphany:  this was who I was.  Why should I be ashamed of myself, hide my glorious true self in the guise of some average, ordinary man?  No, I had a purpose, a reason for existing, and He would help me discover it.  With Father by my side, all my worries were gone, my irrational fears about the perceptions of others banished in an instant.

Then He gave me my mask and my first assignment.  Even now, years after the fact, I will admit that I hesitated.  Why would He make me kill my friend?  Surely she would follow me into His many arms?  Surely she would become His disciple with me?  But He knew what was best, and who was I to argue with a being eons older and far more powerful than myself?

So I took my assignment.  She woke as I entered her room and drew back in fear.  She knew exactly what the mask meant.  She knew who I represented.  She knew what I was here for.  She knew she was going to die.  But she wasn't going to come quietly.  From underneath her pillow, she drew her weapon:  a pitiful little folding knife no bigger than my thumb.  I met her challenge with the cleaver I had taken from her kitchen.

Looking back, I realize she was much like my current Target:  though she painted herself as a White Knight, ready to meet any challenge in the name of what is 'Good' and 'Righteous,' she was pathetic.  Weak.  All talk, no action.

At some point in the struggle, my mask fell off, and the fight went right out of her.  She was too shocked, too stricken with horror, to be much of a challenge.  Fifty blows ended her and began my life as one of His children.  I felt no remorse.  Her luggage was hidden under her bed:  she meant to leave without me.  She was a coward.  He appeared soon after I had finished to cleanse the place with His purifying Flames.

Only one article was saved:  an unfinished painting she had started for me, depicting a crow in flight.  The bird was unpainted, save for the red that had splattered the canvas.  From this, I took my new name, and began my new life.  Though there have been many bodies since, she will always remain special for being my first.  My current Target may or may not be the challenge I desire, but one thing is certain:  he will not be the last.

29 days.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Ages without a worthwhile target.  Countless drops of water, barely disturbing the surface as they slid down the edge of my blade into the pool.  But now, finally, Father may have given me a target who will cause a ripple.  My blade may finally quench her thirst with worthwhile blood.  I may yet again feel 'alive.'  I may yet again feel pride in my title:  'Proxy.'

30 days.  Try to stop me.