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.”