Dropping my ass in a beat-to-shit recliner, I pick up the remote and switch the console television to ESPN. Absently listening to the recap of the weekend's scores, my thoughts drift to the duo I'd flash-banged back to their maker earlier this night. Two young recruits, both recent inductees judging their dark hair and lack of training.
My brows crash down as I lean forward, picking up the twin daggers from the scratched coffee table before me. Laying my tongue over my leather-clad thumb, I swipe it over the blades, roughly cleaning off the remaining oily black blood that's still spotting the steel. Turning my blades in my hands, the low light emanated from the television and the glow filtering in from the small kitchen glinting off the perfectly honed edges. Fuckers went down too easy, third time this week I'd run across the fresh meat of the Omega.
Fuck.
Diamond eyes narrow dangerously as a thought sits just out of my reach. Not sleeping has become more of a habit than an affliction lately. Two, maybe three hours a night. It's a bitch to get your brain to shut down when an entire fuckload of bloody and graphic visions dance through your cerebral cortex, true.
Frowning as the dots connect, counting back to the last Forelesser Murhder, Wrath, Tohrment and I'd taken out, realizing it'd been more than a few weeks since that confrontation. Surely the Omega has tapped a replacement by now, a new ForeLesser had to be running the show. No way the new recruits I'd been running into all over Caldie were popping out of fucking nowhere.
Shit.. never-fucking-ending.
Dropping my daggers back on the table, I pick up a half-filled notebook, pages ripped and curled, my scrawl covering pages upon pages in notes and diagrams. Flipping past recent entries, I find a fresh page and remove the pen clipped to the binding. Tapping it against my lips, my teeth grind tightly together as I begin to write. Jotting down every detail of what I'd seen tonight, apparent skills and training, weaknesses spotted. Digging the pilfered false identities from the ass pocket of my leathers, I include the personal info in my notes before picking up the telephone. Yanking the cord free of it's tangle, I punch in the digits for Wrath, sure as fuck knowing I won't get an answer. Not this late in the AM, anyway.
There's no way the stubborn fuck will pick up, hoping that he remembered, at the least, to switch on the answering machine I'd hooked him up
with a few months ago.
Irritated as the phone continues to ring through, I slam the phone down and curse under my breath. This shit is something we're going to need to gather the entire Brotherhood for. If what I'm seeing is right, and when the FUCK isn't it, there is big trouble on the horizon. Shit like we haven't seen in.. fuck. Forever. Too much organization, too many civilians caught in the middle worst of all, danger roiling it's black tendrils around the core of the Brotherhood. A serious as fuck conversation needs to be had. Now.
Tossing the notebook on the table next to my daggers, I stand from the chair, arching my back in a long stretch before walking into the small kitchen. Opening the freezer, I reach in and pull out a bottle of Stolichnaya. Opening the bottle, not bothering with a glass, I carry it back to the living room. Falling into the chair once more, I uncap the bottle and raise it to my lips to take a long swallow.
Intent on getting as faced as possible. Fuck. Anything that will let me get more than a few hours of sleep. From what I've gathered thus far, the entire lot of us are going to be short on z's in the not-so-distant future. Leaning back, my legs raising to drop my boots on the foot of the recliner, I take another long pull and grin as the vodka burns its way down, promising at least a modicum of escape.
#BDBB 2012
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