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...It was fourteen years since I murdered that Venetian boy. I'll never be able to shake those memories out of my mind. I killed four in total, three young men and one woman. Never again I told myself, after that last one in the tavern.
I began to feel deeply disturbed at the time I couldn't do it anymore, I pleaded insanity and with a stunning performance I got away with it. Maybe they were just pleased I'd managed to kill at least some of them. I suppose they decided there were other uses for me. As requested I was taken out of the secret service and transfered to detective, no more violence, but analysis and information. A cerebral battle, where I could get the job done and come home at night with clean hands.
The Venetian movement fell apart, it was also too radical for its own good. Always more obsessed with its radicalism than its own purpose of freeing citizens from society. Things had been different once, I remember well when there was questions, there were alternatives to modernizing. Now there is only either total compliance or awkward compliance. We can all fuck around with the little rules, but too much of that gets you killed and the big rules are locked in iron and death meets anyone who even thinks about breaking them.
Time moves quickly. Painfully so, but I felt I'd done well for myself as a sat in my patchwork leather chair, staring through the blinds. My office was homely I could say that for it. I had a fantastic view outside, of the adjacent building's receptionists. I exchange smiles and eyebrows with them from time to time and it keeps me relatively perk. It was a warm early evenining and I was in for the late shift.
A metal punch-plate slipped through a slot in the wall. The message were orders from the top.
I began to feel deeply disturbed at the time I couldn't do it anymore, I pleaded insanity and with a stunning performance I got away with it. Maybe they were just pleased I'd managed to kill at least some of them. I suppose they decided there were other uses for me. As requested I was taken out of the secret service and transfered to detective, no more violence, but analysis and information. A cerebral battle, where I could get the job done and come home at night with clean hands.
The Venetian movement fell apart, it was also too radical for its own good. Always more obsessed with its radicalism than its own purpose of freeing citizens from society. Things had been different once, I remember well when there was questions, there were alternatives to modernizing. Now there is only either total compliance or awkward compliance. We can all fuck around with the little rules, but too much of that gets you killed and the big rules are locked in iron and death meets anyone who even thinks about breaking them.
Time moves quickly. Painfully so, but I felt I'd done well for myself as a sat in my patchwork leather chair, staring through the blinds. My office was homely I could say that for it. I had a fantastic view outside, of the adjacent building's receptionists. I exchange smiles and eyebrows with them from time to time and it keeps me relatively perk. It was a warm early evenining and I was in for the late shift.
A metal punch-plate slipped through a slot in the wall. The message were orders from the top.
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