(no subject)

[jholloway.livejournal.com]

My mother wanted me to be a lawyer. I reflect on this while I climb the access ladder to the roof, the long case knocking against my shoulder as I go. In some ways, I think I would have been a good lawyer. I'm patient, which I imagine helps, and I'm observant. I put these skills to use as I crouch behind the lip of the roof and wait.

My mother wanted me to be a lawyer, but she's dead. My family are dead in general, I suppose, except for my father, who might as well be dead for all he was ever around. I don't say this as a means of gaining sympathy. It's more about context. I'm told I can be difficult to talk to. I had a very isolated childhood. And that was before they killed my mother.

They put me in a different school. They had a lot of reasons which they explained in conferences and hearings and so on, and I'm sure they were all good ones, but the outcome of it all was that I was a skinny kid with glasses who cried sometimes for no reason and didn't dress well, and they put me in a new school where I didn't know anyone. I was disciplined for fighting more times than I can remember, "fighting" being what the teachers call it when some bigger boy is beating the tar out of you.

I have a pragmatic turn of mind, is what they tell me, and so I applied myself to learning how to fight. I presented my carers with a list of dietary requirements, I took up jogging, I went to boxing and martial arts classes. I broke a boy's nose in my first week the next year, but after I came back from being suspended I was all right. Of course, now I was a kid with glasses who cried for no reason sometimes and lashed out with fits of rage, but at least I got to eat my lunch in peace.

I open the case, which contains each payload in its own separate compartment, lined with foam. They're highly sensitive to deformation, and they won't fly straight if they get bent or chipped. In a lot of ways, they're kind of a pain in the neck, but they're the only things that will do for a job like this.

You wouldn't think the military would be a good place to curb you of your violent tendencies, but you'd be surprised. A proper military runs on discipline and efficiency, two qualities I had gone my entire life never realising I desperately needed. I prospered.

I won't go into the details of the incident, because they aren't relevant. But that's how I met Mr Peach, and how he recommended me for a very special program. He said he thought I would be 'highly motivated'. When I found out what we did in this special program, I agreed with him.

There's an old joke about a sniper who's asked what he feels when he shoots someone, and he says "recoil". In a lot of ways that would be preferable. In fact, what I feel when I load the special silver rounds into the rifle and settle the cross-hairs onto a werewolf's head is a sick joy mixed with a terrible sadness. I'm perfectly aware that Jane Sidwell isn't going to magically come back to life if I slot enough of these animals. None of them are likely to be my dad, and even if they were it wouldn't make any difference.

I take care to cover my escape. It's not that I'll go to prison if I get caught, but it would put the Ministry to a lot of trouble, and that would offend my sense of propriety somehow.

Back in the flat, I put some music on. I don't even really like music, but someone, someone from the cover job maybe, gave me the CD one Christmas. Something modern. Shostakovich; I don't know.

I sterilise the scalpel before I cut myself; no sense taking unnecessary risks. I keep the marks even in length, in a neat row, one for each successfully completed operation, and I watch as the blood wells in the cut. As I lean back, I close my eyes and I imagine it running out completely, taking every last piece of the monster away.

Comments

[akonken.livejournal.com]

That was amazing.

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

I really really like this.

[frothy-bunny.livejournal.com]

Very very good

[blane-firewing.livejournal.com]

Scary Jonah is scary! :D