true_writers: Hide and Seek.
Write about an intense game of Hide and Seek that takes a turn for the worse.
They always talk about the Repo-Men in a way that makes them seem more myth then legend.
He has a theory about this. The bigger the myth the more likely it is that people will disregard it. Pre-Plague had the Santa Claus-a home invasion expert who regularly entered domiciles and poisoned children with surgary treats while poisoning their souls with the idea of conformity to a warped and twisted brand of "Morality".
Because if your parents were narcotic users, how could you be expected to be "good" when being raised under their ideals?
The bigger the myth the less likely that the masses will believe that they exist. Besides, no matter what the political state, there was no one person who hadn't been touched by the Repo-Men.
Some way. Some how. It was just a matter of time, the threat of missing out was always there-and if there was one thing that a human being count be counted on ( in regards to presents or visits from your friendly neighborhood axe-murderer) was that no one wanted to miss out.
Six hours slogging through the grime of the lower side.
Once upon a time in a happier place it had been a haven for the upper jetset-but the glittering buildings that had been "Rodeo Drive" were fallen into decay and disrepair and it was commonly thought that you didn't enter such a location without the permission of a higher authority.
She'd run there almost three hours ago and he'd been waiting for the better part of the last two for her to emerge.
That was Nathan's gift. Not that he was some sort of demon or monster, not that he was a gifted surgeon, but that he was patient above all.
That was what made it frightening. He could wait-He could wait and save his excitement for the actual thrust. Dimly (In mocking tones) he would privately consider himself a hunting hound. Trained to wait for the reward at the end of the hunt, the treat or the check or the promise from his erstwhile employer to overlook Shilo or his past transgressions.
And until then he would hunt.
The most delicious game of hide and seek. Inexperience had long ago given way to skill-an impressive amount (if he had to say so himself). He'd tap the metaphorical grasslands with his stick, pad quietly into the areas with the other predators and let his scent carry over them until-
There.
The slightest flutter of movement.
At times like these, he preferred to let himself slip away and offer more to his baser impulses. Anyone could kill. Children, women, men, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives.
He just made it practiced. An art form. And part of that art form was loosing yourself in the art.
She saw (or perhaps she smelled) him coming-the grim shadow leaping out of the night. Screaming-she began to run, feet pounding the pavement and trying in vain to reach some window and some means of getting off the street and-
She was gone.
Somewhere a car honked and he stopped short breathing deep and slow to catch his breath. Gone. How?
He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and glanced out of the alleyway. There were cars passing by, people staggering about in various stages of decay that he couldn't begin to comprehend. He withdrew shortly.
Best not to let the myth become believable.
-----------
He found her again on August and Adams.
Dead.(He shouldn't have been surprised.)
An actual dead body! And one he hadn't killed. There was a spectre to that, something unclean that made him take one step back. Dogs didn't touch dead carcasses. Bathed in the glow of neon lights it looked like an art sculpture-one mad even more inhuman by the fact that she'd been murdered.
And not by legal means.
He checked her temperature, disappointed. all that work, all those hours that he'd put into the chase. It was recent too, one bullet whole clean through her temple-the police should be notified. He should call GeneCo and ask for instructions.
Instead he hefted her body with a grunt. nephroectomy wasn't something you should do in a place like this. Excision on dirty ground risked all manner of disease and infection-but once it passed out of his hands it was the GENterns problem.
He closed up his incision with a disappointed sigh. He'd put so much effort into trying to find her and-and-
You were looking forward to it weren't you?
That unhappy little voice inside his head.Fun being the stuff of nightmares isn't it?
His hands shook and he ignored the pool of congealing blood he was up to his knees in, locking up his kit and hurrying home. He was no dog to take from a dead carcass. He was just a man. This was just a jobThat he was good at.. That's it. Please, Oh Please, Oh please.
They always talk about the Repo-Men in a way that makes them seem more myth then legend.
He has a theory about this. The bigger the myth the more likely it is that people will disregard it. Pre-Plague had the Santa Claus-a home invasion expert who regularly entered domiciles and poisoned children with surgary treats while poisoning their souls with the idea of conformity to a warped and twisted brand of "Morality".
Because if your parents were narcotic users, how could you be expected to be "good" when being raised under their ideals?
The bigger the myth the less likely that the masses will believe that they exist. Besides, no matter what the political state, there was no one person who hadn't been touched by the Repo-Men.
Some way. Some how. It was just a matter of time, the threat of missing out was always there-and if there was one thing that a human being count be counted on ( in regards to presents or visits from your friendly neighborhood axe-murderer) was that no one wanted to miss out.
Six hours slogging through the grime of the lower side.
Once upon a time in a happier place it had been a haven for the upper jetset-but the glittering buildings that had been "Rodeo Drive" were fallen into decay and disrepair and it was commonly thought that you didn't enter such a location without the permission of a higher authority.
She'd run there almost three hours ago and he'd been waiting for the better part of the last two for her to emerge.
That was Nathan's gift. Not that he was some sort of demon or monster, not that he was a gifted surgeon, but that he was patient above all.
That was what made it frightening. He could wait-He could wait and save his excitement for the actual thrust. Dimly (In mocking tones) he would privately consider himself a hunting hound. Trained to wait for the reward at the end of the hunt, the treat or the check or the promise from his erstwhile employer to overlook Shilo or his past transgressions.
And until then he would hunt.
The most delicious game of hide and seek. Inexperience had long ago given way to skill-an impressive amount (if he had to say so himself). He'd tap the metaphorical grasslands with his stick, pad quietly into the areas with the other predators and let his scent carry over them until-
There.
The slightest flutter of movement.
At times like these, he preferred to let himself slip away and offer more to his baser impulses. Anyone could kill. Children, women, men, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives.
He just made it practiced. An art form. And part of that art form was loosing yourself in the art.
She saw (or perhaps she smelled) him coming-the grim shadow leaping out of the night. Screaming-she began to run, feet pounding the pavement and trying in vain to reach some window and some means of getting off the street and-
She was gone.
Somewhere a car honked and he stopped short breathing deep and slow to catch his breath. Gone. How?
He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and glanced out of the alleyway. There were cars passing by, people staggering about in various stages of decay that he couldn't begin to comprehend. He withdrew shortly.
Best not to let the myth become believable.
-----------
He found her again on August and Adams.
Dead.(He shouldn't have been surprised.)
An actual dead body! And one he hadn't killed. There was a spectre to that, something unclean that made him take one step back. Dogs didn't touch dead carcasses. Bathed in the glow of neon lights it looked like an art sculpture-one mad even more inhuman by the fact that she'd been murdered.
And not by legal means.
He checked her temperature, disappointed. all that work, all those hours that he'd put into the chase. It was recent too, one bullet whole clean through her temple-the police should be notified. He should call GeneCo and ask for instructions.
Instead he hefted her body with a grunt. nephroectomy wasn't something you should do in a place like this. Excision on dirty ground risked all manner of disease and infection-but once it passed out of his hands it was the GENterns problem.
He closed up his incision with a disappointed sigh. He'd put so much effort into trying to find her and-and-
You were looking forward to it weren't you?
That unhappy little voice inside his head.Fun being the stuff of nightmares isn't it?
His hands shook and he ignored the pool of congealing blood he was up to his knees in, locking up his kit and hurrying home. He was no dog to take from a dead carcass. He was just a man. This was just a jobThat he was good at.. That's it. Please, Oh Please, Oh please.