30.12.18

[Anonymous]

The spasm of the bronchial muscles pulled him violently from regular slumber. Their attempt to obstruct its free passage into the alveoli was not succeeding, but the obstruction of air reaching his lungs had become enough to wake him.

His fingers aggressively clawed the sheets that were beside him, then his chest, then himself. Blued fingernails traced the contours of his neck, his jaw, his face with an intensity that had far surpassed panicked desperation by this point. He was determined not to die, those responsible were determined that he would. But even as he sought to relieve himself of the violent sensation of suffocation, to find for himself that crucial air, the confusion of the situation had already condemned him.

It is incredibly reactive with the human body, very toxic. The eyes become irritated, the skin too, even at quite low levels, and can cause permanent lung damage if it isn't fatal. What was occurring now, to him, did not involve low levels. It is heavy, and thoroughly concentrated near where it falls. The delivery had been cleverly positioned as to not compromise this once given opportunity, to sufficiently incapacitate the victim, and then kill him. The green-yellow was readily, willfully drifting, it did not cease. A bed, and his, a common sanctuary of peace and security for the many hundreds of millions, had been but consumed by this toxic hell.

He knows that he needs to give every resistance to the pain that severely hammered his head, and lift himself, else he can do nothing but inhale still more of it, suffocate and drown. His desperately mustered effort would only complicate this suffering. A panicked burst of intended, calculated movement saw too much reliance on the ability to use his legs. They had long surrendered their strength, and in the distraction of uncontrollable retching and the need to scream something from that parched mouth, he lost his only stability and arrived crashing from the bed onto the floor. But it was relentless, the substance cascading over the edge of the bed to conquer new ground in pursuit of the intended man.

Before he could give in to the exhaustion and death, the sudden splutter of expelled quantities of yellow frothy fluid from his lungs was a gift of some relief. It most cases it would be a great relief, but his struggle was complicated from the start. If he could still see, he would be able to look across the room, at his reflection, and see for himself the violent red face that was now well contorted by strain, panic, and agony, the disgusting vomit that will soon become matted in his hair and beard when he finally gives in, and his shallow and very rapid respiration. He's becoming delirious.

He is very shortly, no, he is now dead.

 

[Anonymous]

+1 Hour

She tossed the envelope across the table. What.. what is that? He mumbled, so meekly as to not distract from the fact that this man's instinct was to flinch at every measure of movement and tonal change that she decided. She, they just held a stare of indifference, almost as if they were subconsciously urging him to provoke them to any emotion. Feebly, he started to count it. Trepidation in his fingers, his hands, a quiver in his lips. Fifty, one-hundred, one-fifty.. three-hundred, three-fifty.. five-hundred, he went on almost inaudible. Yes, she said flatly. He patted the notes neatly back into the envelope, hoping that he misunderstood. He couldn't bring himself to speak, to have them clarify what this meant. He couldn't even look at them. This is for you, spoke one of the men behind her. You will need it where you are going.

He peered within the envelope again. He didn't recognize the currency for certain, other than Germanic. Elben, Bergenheim, of Eiffelland, he came to believe. But five-hundred? What does that even exchange to? Wh-ho will I see when I get there? He asked. He was trying to not be misunderstood about the money. Why would we see you there? She asked, a substance induced exaggerated expression of sheer mockery straining in its growth across her face, a true revelation to how little his value is here. The others were not two seconds behind her, hissing like fucking idiots because their drugs encouraged a great impulse to laugh, and to do so loudly, but she hadn't quite permitted that yet. For them, the greatest challenge of the night seemingly was to not now be convulsed with laughter at this pitiable fuckboy. Not yet. She smacked her palm on the table and they all erupted into cruel hysterics. Release.

He wasn't getting his money. This was now made very clear. His jaw sort of hung there in an open emotional gawp that people do when they try to not be overcome, before, and he, clenched that jaw tightly closed to contain his vulnerability as best he could. His eyes swelled with salty tears, one rolling lonely down his cheek, another dropping straight from an eye to the brown envelope. He murdered a man, he killed for them. It wasn't ideology for him, not entirely, but personal resentment and hard cold cash - one-hundred-grand. What he had done went beyond the grey regularity of urban homicide, far beyond it. He will have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, and he didn't even trust these people, but one-hundred-grand. For scum like him, he could do a lot with one-hundred-grand, that was what he thought.

He didn't have one-hundred-grand though, he had just five-hundred of whatever Germanic notes they were, and could not even be sure that that did not mean less than five-hundred of his own native currency.

She pushed something else across the table. His moment of hope didn't even last him reaching out to pick it up. He could see clearly it was an airline ticket, as it had a nice big glossy airline logo in the corner. Economy class, and leaving in three hours. There will be no time to say goodbye to his partner, mother and father. Probably won't see them again. Probably will not survive twelve months. What the fuck have I done? He thought.

 

[Anonymous]

They didn't utter a word, pitch a single string of rhythm, nothing. There were six altogether. Exceptionally sure of themselves, their task, pulling those two huge Gothic doors closed behind themselves. They were ready, it was now, or it was never.

As though time were rolling ever more slow, they casually heeled their way across the vast vestibule toward the security screen. A brilliantly vast structure of beautiful glass held by a steel frame. It was composed of three compartments through which visitors would pass, to acquire access to the building. At this hour, during a period of the very late evening where the building was sparsely populated, the security screen gave the only semblance of life. It sent volleys of the brightest white light, in both directions, against and into the oily black sleep of everything else inside the great space of the ground floor.

On their approach, it pinged a positive, melodic automated life to greet them and issue instructions. Welcome, please stand on the white triangle to pass through the security screen. They complied, one in each compartment with a second behind. In ten seconds of complying, as expected, the illumination of the barrier hued from its angelic white to an impassable red. In each compartment a red cross suddenly denied them on each electronic terminal. The system could not identify them. It wasn't assisting this situation from the choice to adorn their faces with latex white rabbit masks, but that was the point. The system did however identify firearms. Again, expected, the point.

Three metallic clacks rang against the monotonous bell of the security system. Stop! Stop! Called the officer now perspiring rapidly in his paced return to his station from a regular pause of duty, carrying his own small firearm with a low aim as per training. An avalanche of fire was quickly and so spectacularly opened, thundering the cascading disintegration of the glass that they had so excitedly sought as to warm the cockles of their ideologically fucked hearts. The officer stumbled back in several steps, fearing his own continued existence in the realization of being so utterly powerless, but he was collected enough to swiftly activate the necessary calls to mobilize the more capable forces within the building.

The collective fire of their arms still rang in his reddening ears as he watched, petrified and shaking, one, two and three pass through, unhindered, without pause or care for him or the coming carnage. They were closely followed by four and five. Six stopped, trained his aim for the officer, and rolled a curtain after another of shells. They lacerated this man, viciously stripping him of both tissue and uniform in a hazy mist of crimson DNA, until he had been so adequately sent off.

 

[Anonymous]

One-hundred-pound, thirty-inches in height, double-coated beasts of black, white and grey gnawed, tore, and crunched through the woman's now very lifeless body. Before the rules of death could come into play, the five of them desecrated the decadence of their noble environment, exploding artery after another in a primal passion of unrelenting violence; even the most ancient of depicted Jesus was not spared the defilement of being aggressively slapped with the warm splash of metallic tasting residue of this human's misery.

Not wanting to disturb the tidy elegance of the continuously expanding pool of spoil that formed from her, not unlike a provoking graphic of the communist roll-out across Europe for the kids at school, they casually stepped over the scene and left.

The supply of electricity had been suspended for operational effectiveness for, at least, three minutes now. They guided her out, through the intensity of the sufficiently black blindness of the interior labyrinth, the explosive contest of arms pulling and echoing in every direction. Fire on fire, they were all killers here. There was so much desire, together, surely all were winners by this escalated sport.

Madame Montespan, she said without care, and full of indifference. The others gave no response. The ATPIALs of their M4s, stalking the corridors and points of access, were enough an indication on the present obsessions of those around her.

A sharp whistle stung the eerie silence, before it could be peppered once more, calling and aiding the five beasts to a thundering pursuit of their master's side. Yes, you wouldn't be correct in describing their reaction as ecstatic, the shortcomings of our evolutionary design that prevented her from a glimpse at their inner maelstrom of anger and frustration was fortunate, but she needed their return, it was a non-negotiable.

Their retreat could not be described photogenic. The lashing winter's rain tarnished some respectability. The bloody-stained coats of the boys forever elevating her status in the service. Madame Montespan? Asked a concerned aide from one of the cars. She looked down, over the red slobber and the wash of crimson that the rain puddled little and little from their drenched coats. Yes, she said, quite matter of fact.

 

[Anonymous]

Ma'am, spoke an aide.

[.. oh daughter, we have seen some trouble.. over the years.. *concerning distant background noise* .. but nothing quite like this.. *background noise becoming less distant*.. the Orangery.. it is on fire.. *background noise continues with increasing volume and intensity* .. please, dearest, find us some help.. we'd be glad to receive it..]

That was the second time she played the voicemail recording. Listening to it, she found, aided her judgement. She hoped there was still time.

Her left hand, the required print of her palm and fingertips, held firmly, unwavering on the screen of her personal smart device. It was quite like a tablet, but a little different, a niche product.

Her initial accessing of this particular security application, and subsequent aligned physical contact by her left hand, had initiated a fifteen-second sequence. Fifteen-seconds was presently accepted, widely accepted, to provide enough time to factor in a change in scenario, but not too long as to render the security precaution useless.

Five-seconds, an electric current has been delivered, disrupting voluntary control of muscles, causing intentional neuromuscular incapacitation. Hopefully, but she did not disengage, as to allow a review of the vitals that her personal device would allow remote monitoring of. It mattered not, for that was not her intention here, and her left hand remained for the security protocol.

Ten-seconds, a high-pitched beep has performed the role of an alarm. It warns the recipients of the continued commitment to the security protocol; they have five-seconds. The voicemail recording was accessed again, reinforcing her sense of duty in objection to the moral questions this action would undoubtedly provoke. Her hand stayed.

Fourteen-seconds, and then the fifteenth. Two-hundred-twenty-one devices detonated, a number of them out of sync - the system and technology wasn't perfect, after all, but remained thoroughly sufficient. Inside, she strained with an agony that she may be too late, as agents are yet to arrive at the Orangery.

She did not move from her silent composure. One way, or another, a calamity had befallen her and her family, and it still made very little sense. Ma'am, spoke her aide again, so very insisting, while accessing sensitive information for her consideration. They were alone, in this vast space. It was clinical white, and carried a sheen that challenged the reflective elegance of the floor-to-ceiling glass. Her eyes absorbed the information somewhat absently. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then relaxed in the intensity of her anger. She calmly tidied her sharp blonde hair behind her ears, and returned hands to her front, the fingers interlocking into a unity before her blue militaristic dress of her icon. To be staunch now, was to restore something she felt lost in this evening's events :- power.

Ma'am, the situation demands.. the aide begun before dropping off into silence upon the entrance of another, not entirely clothed, at all, a courier of regular refreshment. Her eyes surveyed him, and his hers. Caution, you should be in lock-down, ma'am, started the aide again. The stranger, for she never cared to be truly acquainted with them, approached from across the great white space, though seemingly with new found hesitation.

There wasn't any indication, for she moved with calculated purpose, entirely graceful, dignified. This room, you need to understand, is an entire floor of a known skyscraper, the space is quite something. It possessed minimal furniture, but a gleaming white table of some substantial proportions. Her left hand, placed seemingly innocently upon the tabletop to the left of her work space, disclosing a concealed compartment by the required activation of her unique prints. It contained a secure space where she stored a personal firearm, the stranger wouldn't be able to see that, and she wasn't certain that her aide could either. An almighty crash of destroyed glass and impacting metal seized the weakened, startled attention of the aide, for the stranger disowned his wares in deliberate attempt to swiftly overcome the woman. She was still quite some distance away, and remained utterly unmoved to the tension now dramatically escalating.

The stranger was not well informed, and his decisions counted on his athletic prowess overcoming the dimensions of the floor, and the woman possessing little of valuable resistance. The aide would later detail how it all it happened in the blink of an eye. Calmly she pulled that trigger, delivering a shot of lead violently into his naked chest, throwing him off the determined course, and into a stagger, then collapse. Himself now hidden behind the horizon of the large table. He withered in agony, desperate fingers dabbing away at his wound, only to find himself more covered in the warm spill, and proving to himself that he did not succeed and that death was a guaranteed.

The thin black stilettos struck the hard floor with every step. His bloodied hands, arms slid about in hopeful torment, clinging on to the humanity of this office. He pleaded, and his cries for mercy were weak as he was guilty. Like a lame animal his misery would not be unkindly prolonged. But her actions were not born out of some twisted kindness. He was a terrorist, and a particularly stupid one at that.

As she raised the gun one last time for this man, she could not help some feeling of defiance, as though, with this action, she was carrying the retribution of millions. Nobody would ever know what truly happened on the very, very early hours of 30.12.18. It would be inconceivable, the damage. And as the second, and third, shots penetrated his whimpering face, extinguishing the very last of the strange idiot, she would learn very shortly after that the Orangery was limited to merely an economic loss. As merely as tens of millions can be.