(Untitled)

[vicarious_v]

After his defeat the other night at the claws of an admittedly far more inhuman beast than he had ever encountered (strange the difference between inhumanity that wears a human form and that which does not), V decides, damn it all, only having half his knives and missing his cloak just doesn't feel right

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[immmasellout]

It was hardly the first time he'd preyed on the DoOM. In fact, the small discrepencies in their inventory had begun to be noticed by people high enough to matter. They suspected internal pilfering, an act of passive sedition. Agent McCourt was assigned to curtail these acts of passive sedition, and, with the incentive of a hinted-at promotion, she took her assignment quite seriously. Above and beyond the vaults' existing security, she added a trip sensor that alerted her directly. So far, her pager had gone off every night this week, but she had made no arrests. So tonight, she was camping in. She'd settled in on a confiscated chais lounge from the Bolshevik Revolution, and waited there in the dark.

[vicarious_v]

There was a slight sound. A faint, barely audible scraping. Quiet, careful sounds.

[immmasellout]

She was on her feet in an instant, silent on soft-soled shoes. Clutching her baton in one hand and a torch in the other, McCourt slunk towards the sounds.

[vicarious_v]

The sounds were traceable to an archive of books that had been banned during the fury of the Reclamation. Texts from the United States, fictions that were considered dangerous or corruptive.

And among the books stood a cloaked figure, leafing casually through a slim volume.