Revelation 9

“You did well, if a bit unorthodox, Mr. Adams. Next time don’t hesitate.”

That was our handler’s boss, Mr. Nakamura, the man who decided I was an assassin. He was a stickler for punctuality in everything. And I think he knew I didn't do it alone.

“I’ll give you some lenience this time, since this was your first outing. If it happens again, however, we will be forced to carry out discipline.” Discipline in this case being a ceremony in which all your deepest, darkest secrets, or “sins,” were shared with the whole of the organization.

He put on his glasses and looked back to the stacks of papers on the desk before him, signaling that we were dismissed.

After a few hours of rest and relaxation, I heard a knock on the door of my quarters. “Dammit,” I whispered.

Sighing, I opened the door. It was, of course, my handler.

While I was in preliminary training in the City (which felt like months, though when we emerged it was only a few days later), I had learned to control my emotions, so I didn’t make the mistake of swearing or showing any sort of disrespect to his face.

Anyway, it was time for another mission. He gave me the file on the new target. A former Nest (a servant of the Convocation; I believe Omar discussed them in his blog, if you can find it). Identifying mark: large scar across his neck from a self-inflicted wound. Apparently the bird bastards had never returned to claim him. Rumors were that he forced them out.

But that was the problem: the possibility that one day they could return. You see, the Panopticon works toward an ever-increasing state of chaos in the world, and the Convocation and its allies are the Enemy. The most important one to deal with, anyway.

If this ex-Nest who was seemingly strong-willed enough to forcibly eject them all from his body were ever re-infested with the great bird menace, his mind could be a powerful asset. To Them.

Their side isn’t about Chaos but Order. Sounds like a dream for me, who’s been plagued for ages by that marble bitch. Complete Order? Control? That, my friends, equals safety.

That’s why I’m trying to find a way to undermine the Panopticon. Too dangerous, too immoral. I’d be falling to pieces right now after what I witnessed—after what I did—if I hadn’t learned to suppress emotion.

Even so, I wasn’t quite ready to kill—to murder again. Another one in the same day.

But I had to, lest something happened to me. If they were to severely punish me or kill me, as far as I know there would be no one else here that could sabotage their plans.

After taking a few minutes to suit up and gather everything, I met up with the handler and my partner. I never have learned his name.

We went through a Door and emerged in Washington, D.C., in the shadow of the Abe Lincoln statue. Given the extremely sensitive nature of the location, we were wearing suits that rendered us virtually invisible courtesy of (read: stolen from) STAB, the same group that kidnapped Omar’s sister (I wonder how that’s going—is she safe?). We also had rifles with silencers and specially-made ice bullets that would melt quickly due to body heat. If we aimed right, it might even look as though his wound re-opened on its own.

We awaited his arrival. The Eye had seen evidence that he was going to be part of a tour to see all the different monuments and see the interior of the White House. Perhaps he wanted to live out a normal life again, going on vacations he never had before? Who were we to take that from him?

We continued waiting for half an hour, then an hour, then two. No sign of this man. The mission had to be aborted.

Though stone-faced to everyone else, I rejoiced inside that I had not been made to kill again.