Saturday, June 23, 2012

People

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.

14 comments:

  1. So why couldn't you use the path? Were you grounded? :P

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    1. Kindly fuck off, child. I don't have to be assigned to you to hunt you down.

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  2. ....oddly, my comment on this is not on the fact that you had an extra dead body in your trunk-- or that I'm going to have a hard fucking time not picturing you as an unholy cross between Ezio and Sasuke Uchiha anymore.

    No, my only thought is-- I really fucking hate those old car shows and grand pries, too. Really, really fucking hate those.

    How old are you, anyway?

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    1. Old enough to know better and too young to care.

      But still older than you, I'm sure.

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    2. But of course. You've got a moustache to twirl, ugh.

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    3. To be fair, presence of facial hair does not indicate age. Moral, for example, had the makings of a goatee, and he was younger than I.

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    4. You're not doing a very good job of worming your way back on to my good side, bird boy. Every time I see his name I remember all ninety reasons I have to break your nose.

      I was implying that if your moustache is long enough to twirl, you must be at least in your twenties. Twirlable facial hair takes time to grow, yes?

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    5. I simply mentioned that was one possible course of action I could take. I never stated I would be attempting to do so.

      And for the most part, you are right. I am at least in my twenties.

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  3. I'm not someone you want as an enemy, Whitecrow.

    I'm pinning you at or around 25 to 27-- thirty six dead people into your career. Whether I'm right or not, I don't know-- I might be vastly overestimating your skill.

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    1. As I told Sean, I do not need to be assigned a Target to kill, and I do not reserve my skills for Targets alone. My body-count in Father's name is 36; I wouldn't be surprised if the number were to double, were you to add the 'practice' or 'stress' targets.

      Half of whom decided they would call me their enemy.

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  4. You call yourself a killer and you count those you have killed. And yet the thing you work for has killed so many that his kills are uncountable. If you dwell on it, I think you would understand how petty and uninteresting you are compared to him.

    Which begs the question: why do you "work" for him? Does he actually need you for anything? I suspect that he could kill us all in the time it takes for us to draw a breath, but instead he hires killers and sociopaths and builds little societies of blood. For what reason?

    I think it is to experiment. You are not a white crow: you are a lab rat.

    And someday the Slender Man will decide to end the experiment and dissect all of his little lab rats.

    I anticipate this day.

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    1. And should that day come, I will gladly allow Father to do what He would with me.

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  5. I pin you as being about 20-30 with about 60 kills to your name. I am curious about you. I may be openly against your Father but I may be joining you soon. What state are you from if not Minnesota.

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    1. You're not far off on your estimation of my age, though that's not too difficult given you guessed with a ten-year range, and above Lucia had also given an estimation.

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