The Assassination of Norman Sterrn

Monday, December 14^th

6:35 A.M.

Subject Norman Sterrn rises. Starts coffee. Showers. Dresses.

7:00 A.M.

Subject finishes morning routine and takes coffee to go. Proceeds east along Elmore Street to subway station.

7:07 A.M.

Subject purchases two sandwiches from the stand in the subway. Waits with other commuters for the 7:15 Eastbound.

7:16 A.M.

Subject boards 7:15 Eastbound train.

7:30 A.M.

Subject departs from train at Harding Street Station.

7:34 A.M.

Subject crosses to Dumount Street and enters Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

12:02 P.M.

Subject exits Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter and heads north on Casada Street for half a block.

12:10 P.M.

Subject eats lunch in Casada Park.

12:23 P.M.

Subject heads south on Casada Street for half a block.

12:30 P.M.

Subject reenters Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

4:33 P.M

Subject exits Bohrloch Solutions Callcenter.

4:34 P.M.

Subject crosses to Harding Street and enters Subway.

4:40 P.M.

Subject joins other commuters waiting for 4:45 Westbound.

4:47 P.M.

Subject boards the 4:45 Westbound train.

5:01 P.M.

Subject departs from the 4:45 Westbound. Proceeds west along Elmore Street.

5:12 P.M.

Subject enters home.

                The chiming of his alarm pulled him from the deep, dreamless sleep. Precise, automatic, his hand came down on the clock even as he slid out of bed. 6:35 A.M. Coffee, Shower- these were not thoughts, but simply steps to initiate the day. Once the pot had been started, he returned to his room and undressed, taking care to place his clothing in the hamper. Then, towel in hand, he proceeded to the bathroom.
                He stepped into the water as soon as it came on, paying no mind to the cold. His nullified thought oversaw every process. Soap, lather, rinse. Again for good measure.  After his second rinse, he immediately shut off the water and slid open the shower door. He took care to dry mostly within the confines of the tub, throwing the towel to the floor to catch excess water as he stepped out.
                In his bedroom, he pulled his clothing from the chair and dressed quickly, glancing to the clock more from habit than concern. 6:43 A.M. He’d lost a minute. Now, he glanced to the palm of his left hand. The circular burn remained intact. He made a mental note to check in anyway; the fact that he had even begun to wonder suggested that he would need retuning.

                Because of such delays, he left his apartment two minutes behind schedule; he accelerated his typical pace in order to account for the difference. He figured a 73% chance of the train arriving late, but better to hurry in order to compensate for unforeseen variables. The foot traffic, for one, was more congested than average. He scanned ahead only to plot every step, and further quickened his pace.
                Within the subway, the crowd had swelled to the size he’d anticipated. 7:08. Well within his timeframe, but below his average. As he purchased two sandwiches from the deli counter, he began calculating ways to make up for his recent underperformance. He moved methodically through the crowd toward the platform, where he waited the last seven minutes for the Eastbound train.
                The train pulled in at 7:19, and he boarded. He’d already determined that he’d still make it to work early, with a margin of nearly three minutes. Between now and then, his gaze returned to his left palm. Had the pattern changed?
                Impossible. He looked up from his hand just as the train pulled up to his stop. Also impossible; on average, the trip took thirteen minutes. He glanced at his watch. 7:32. He filtered off the train with the rest of the traffic. The station clock also read 7:32, 33 now even as he stared at it. He glanced back toward the train as it pulled away. Just a moment ago…
                Replacing the seal had now increased in priority. Today, after work, before the sowing, he would have the procedure performed. He could not endanger his duties with such carelessness.

{VV[-]}

                If there’s one thing Icarus had realized, it was that the perfect timing of others made for perfection in his own operations. He stepped away from the wall as the man passed, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. The most amiable of gestures. His new friend did not resist, following his lead into the alleyway without so much as a word of protest.
                “What are you?” his captive asked. By now, anyone passing on the street would be unconcerned with their conversation. Perfect, indeed.
                “What are you talking about?” Icarus asked him. Overhead, he felt an odd sort of trembling. A glance revealed the air had become distorted; something was fighting it for space.
                “I know you can see it,” he continued, not even turning to face Icarus, nor flinching as the knife came to rest on his throat. “And if you can see it, that means you know what I am.”
                “Yeah,” Icarus muttered. “I guess we can’t really do this with any more subtlety, can we?” He shrugged. “I’ll make it painless though.”
                “You’ll try.”  The captive fell rather suddenly to the right, even as the distortion shot toward the alley floor.
                Icarus hurled himself away; where he’d stood moments before, a crater. The air began to distort again, splotches here and there that listed dangerously in his direction. Icarus reached with clear deliberation into his coat. “You don’t want to do this.”
                Before either could act further, a quintet of needles suddenly appeared in the captive’s right shoulder. The distortions vanished.
                Slowly, with his good arm, he reached across his chest to feel the needles buried in it. “Impossible,” he mumbled.
                “ ’fraid not,” Icarus replied, turning his back. Behind him came a short grunt and the gushing sound of blood. He took a slow breath and turned back to find two men hoisting the Blue’s corpse up between them. “Did we have to do him right here in the alley?” he asked.
                “We?” the larger of the two asked. “What did you do?”
                “Well, I did the surveillance. And I’m the one who got him back here.”
                “And he almost got the drop on you,” the smaller of the two replied, pushing his glasses further up on his pointed nose. “You’re slipping, Icarus.”
                Icarus looked away, out toward the alley, where people continued about their business with no idea of the harm they’d been spared. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
                “Take this seriously,” the smaller man continued. “have you forgotten our mission?”
                “You think he gives a shit about the mission?” the larger man asked. “He’s just spoiled street trash, living it up now that he’s got daddy looking out for him.”
                “Is that what you think?” Icarus’ brows rose as he mused over his adversary’s words.
                “You heard me, rat. You’re only with us because Draven wills it. We’ll see how the council feels when your doddering old man is but a memory.”
                “Enough,” the smaller man interjected. “We’re still on a job. Let’s get rid of this filth and return to headquarters.”
                Icarus glanced between the two of them; with a small smile, he shook off the challenge. “I’ll bring the car around.”

The Beckoning

The smell of recently laid sorrow hung over the city, a cloud, a rain, a gloominess that stifled life. Even as the darkness of the evening fell away before the dawn, the chill of tragic air persisted, carrying on the Blues’ age old war, a crusade for realization. However, they had their own wars to fight. Their battles could hardly be fought by shuffling down dreary and shadowed streets in cowardice- no, that wouldn’t solve anything. And so, as the warm, incandescent sun rose over a world soaked so thoroughly in despair, they rose as well, ascending to the highest places within the city.

They gathered in small groups, positioning themselves in twos and threes upon high rises and rooftops. Facing the dawn, they found no need to hide their faces. Only on the most sacred of days did they don hoods for their objective, and only then in order to throw themselves away. Only by stifling themselves could they let The Drive stand for itself, unhindered by the mere vessels that carried it forward. Today was no such day, so instead they donned only the red sashes- a potent, though reserved, reminder of their mission.

As devoted as he was, he preferred the sash to the entire raiment. This came not from a lack of reverence- if anything, the opposite. He could embrace the Drive with everything he was, and share the actualization of pure will fused with mankind. This morning, His mid-length hair tumbled almost as freely as the sash, though the latter burned far brighter; a crimson that caught the sun beautifully, a ruby river leading dawn to the city. Such could not be done justice by cloaks and cowls, nor could their task in service to the world. No, the power, the motivation to strive- humanity’s gift, humanity’s responsibility- this could not be tucked away by such simple means.
            “The sash goes around your waist,” one of the others informed him.

“If you’re serious about something, you don’t wear it on your waist,” he retorted. His sash followed the wind’s bidding, and having been wound about his neck and shoulders, fell just short of flying away. “You hold it up high where everyone can see it.”
            “You look ridiculous.”
            “You want to make something of it?” Silence; Only the wind and the nearly muted sounds of street life far below them. “I didn’t think so.”

He shut his eyes, as did the other Reds scattered over the rooftops. Their trappings defined them, pinpoints of blood and life over a dull and somber city. Amidst the murky fog of the Blues’ misery, he concentrated. The vibrations within his tomes resonated with his physical body, bolstering the flames within his own heart. All over the city, droplets of blood burned into fire, and the air stirred once more, but no longer from natural wind alone. Now, the air nearly hummed with the all but intangible nature of their efforts. The Reds bled their energy down the walls of the buildings, their infernos pouring out of their hearts to extinguish despair. With each pulse of their beings, wave upon wave of embers tumbled down upon the cracked and broken streets, into the subdued souls of the populace, reigniting their wills. The unsuspecting passerby, their spirits warmed by the secret gift of the Reds, continued upon their journeys, a little more strength burning in their steps, a little more determination gleaming in their eyes.

Transformation

                The chamber was dark, even darker than his usual den; here flames did not alight the savagely inscribed walls, nor did it illuminate the fierce mural of the ceiling that bore down upon his place. No, here he had forbidden the torchlight- or so he told himself. Perhaps the darkness stemmed from the chamber’s position- buried within the earth beneath the whole of his power. Above him, the temple thrived on the presence of fire, each charge dancing most fervently about the circling wall. Higher still, the candle that begat such sprites. It represented a power of its own, lent itself perhaps to the most fundamental of his manifestations.
                The candle ran over with its own wax, a substance that waned the moment he thought of it, a warning he heeded quite well. If he turned his thoughts from it, the flame upon that fated wick would burn with no notice, only to demand its offering when he returned to its power. His power. It would ignite everything in his den should he let it, from the stone to the furs to the string-webbed beads to the glass misty mirrors which had grown along the walls. Mirrors he had dreamed of, mirrors he could not see through.
                Lately the dreams had grown worse. The mirrors had grown angry. No longer were they content to hover, half veiled in darkness on the outskirts of his vision. Were they enraged that he could not make out their reflections? Or perhaps that he dared try and understand them, dare to look at them at all? It didn’t make sense. No, if anything they were furious with his inaction, his complacency. He made a fist, and the glass shuddered in response. The mists stirred, but he could make nothing out. It didn’t matter- something to say as much for himself as well as the power that eluded him.
                A march down the halls revealed everything else as it should be. He took the hall of restless stones, a journey beset by the cavernous walls and their perfectly angled etches- precision surprising for chambers such as his. They carved out the stories of the golem, whose indomitable stone form held at bay the enemies of the people. The stone’s very spirit enamored the people, and with the golem’s strength in their hearts they took up weapons and held their kingdom from those who would destroy it.
                Stone gave way to wood, to mud… here the influence of the lower chamber leaked into his den. The water dripped from between the garbled roots and dampened dirt, falling to the canopy above- branches so dense, the burning sky could barely be seen. Written in the leaves and the trunks were the stories of the Jaguar, a being so swift as to elude adversaries with no effort, only to strike and strike true at the moment of choosing. Written in the beast’s hide were every prayer, every message, every word of the people, transferred for miles upon miles of untamed terrain, linking together those who would be otherwise lost.
                And, much like the Jaguar, whose power allowed reach to the abandoned, here within his place lie the means to do so- string upon strand, passionately woven cords that spilled together with an intricate, yet savage perfection. The nexuses of beads and bone and feather intertwined with one another, forming a nest of sorts. Far below the fletching, rain poured from the clouds and came to greet him. The steam brought by the downpour owed but a part of its heat to the candlelit sky that pervaded. The other part, perhaps more significant, paid homage to the phoenix, whose burning plumage restored the souls of the lost. Flying overhead, it inspired them more quickly than even the jaguar, the warmth, the fervor so unshakable.
                The candle loved each of these, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the wax would melt near endless to express this devotion, hardening the golem’s hide, lightening the Jaguar’s steps, warming and widening the phoenix’s wings. But what of the power buried? Not the mirrors that hid between the walls, but the dampness in the forest, the rain in the open sky, the mud on the mountain? And so he found himself before that altar, bathed in the coolness of the cavern, the darkness of the pool. When he thought, the water stirred- not quite a boil, for no heat existed; but it moved nonetheless, of itself, and in rivers throughout his halls.
                Yes, the pool loved each of these as well, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the waters would flow to express this devotion. But to what effect?