260
« on: May 06, 2013, 09:14:34 am »
Journalism would never be his thing, he told himself. In fact- He simply detested it. The world was full of injustice and stories that were so easily linked together, yet here he was, reading about an amateuristic story about the “sudden increase in gang violence targeting the poor”. It had not taken much effort to find out that the gangs were acting to destroy a certain type of device that had spread among some of the addicts of the city. So here he sat, frustrated, disappointed “You are writers. People of the word.” He talked to the newspaper as if he was actually addressing the journalist who write it themselves, one Mr. A. Adams. “First you mess up the gangland shooting, and now can’t even manage to write down this story.” To have to witness the incompetence of this city’s news organ was not something unexpected, but it still left a bitter aftertaste. Red got to his feet, pacing up and down the room as he rewrote the story in his mind.
He barged in, with three of his ‘homies’ in tow, and unleashed a short spray of bullets into the crowd. A silence interrupted only by the groans of the wounded fell where a few moments ago had been a lively gathering. “Yo.” The men and women cringed as Red walked forwards. The sight of blood amazed him, and at the same time filled him with disgust. But a job’s a job and a gangsta got to make a living. “Which one of you motherf-” “Please don’t hurt us!” Red gave the man who interrupted him a single look, then made a gesture. Before the fella could react his skull had been cracked open with a baseball bat. “Yeah- Let that be clear! Interrup’ me and we ain’t gonna stop scoring homeruns no more until you’ll be crying for Babe Ruth to drop the bat on yo ass instead.” Someone cried, a stifled sound, escaping from a blocked throat. Red walked up and down the place, looking at every one of these misfits in turn. “Why ain’t nobody buying our crack no more, huh? Our shit ain’t good enough?” Nobody answered, and he was running out of patience. He stepped on one of the outcasts who laid curled up on the ground, applying pressure to his throat. “Yo! I asked ya all a question. Don’t yo mommas taught you it ain’t polite if ya don’t answer?” The man under his boot cried, trying to free himself. “We know what shit yo all been usin’, alright? You aint gonna be clean no more. Ya all need us.” After his little speech he gestured to his friends, who started searching the place. It took only several minutes for them to find the device, which looked almost alien in appearance. He had never seen such a thing before, but right now, he had a job to do. With everyone’s eyes on him, he took the bloodied baseball bat and set to the task of destroying the object and, when that was done, to the gruesome task of sending a message. When he finally left, he was drenched with blood.
Red nodded in agreement with himself. Yes- That was how it had gone. The goal of these machines, whatever they were, had been to reduce the dependency on drugs. The result; needless loss of life. How could one be moronic enough to move so openly, so clearly against the core driving force behind the crime in this city? A sign escaped from his lips, and he rubbed his chin absent-mindedly, as he played with a thought. ‘What.. If he was not alone?’ ‘What if he-..’
As if chased by the devil, he suddenly turned on his heels, reaching his wardrobe in a single step. For a moment he wondered how he could possibly have bridged the distance between table and clothes in a single step, then brought his mind back to the matter at hand. He had things to do, to confirm, to take care of. He had questions, and he needed answers. It was snowing outside, but that did not make it any harder for him to find the right clothing. His suit, overcoat and even shoes would protect him against the cold. Rushing to the bathroom he put in his red contact lenses – appearances impress, they always say – before making his way outside.
Johnny could not help but stare at the queen of hearts. On it was a number – a mobile phone number – and he wondered what to do with it. He had acted on a hunch when he had attended the event at the casino, and he felt a strange sense of guilt knowing that the coat which had been given to him to keep him warm was now no longer in his possession. On the other hand, Blink and he had had a talk and the description of the person who single-handedly took down two well-armed groups of mobsters fit one person almost perfectly: Jack had had someone standing watch, a true giant of a man. With all the abnormal things he had seen it would not have surprised him if that person was, in fact, the unknown vigilante. With that said, he struggled to understand the motivations behind the hit, but at least he could give Red what he had asked for. He had not doubted the man so far – Red had always been true to his word and things were looking up for him and his friends now – but Johnny did have some questions. In fact- Everything was a question. Who was Red? What drove him? And why, in whatever-God-there-might-be’s name was the world no longer what it had been before? Johnny stood up from his bench in the park. He wanted to seek some cover before the snow could get worse. He would think it over during a good, warm meal.
Naught a breath later he found himself sitting again, his mysterious friend taking up the adjacent place. Johnny looked at him and was met by a set of red, curious eyes. It became clear almost immediately that something was up, something was wrong. Whatever the case, Red seemed perfectly content with examining Johnny in silence. It took a few minutes, but eventually Johnny’s patience ran out, and he opened his mouth to speak. Just as the first vowel rolled off his tongue Johnny found himself interrupted by Red. “I see the difference now. You are wearing a new coat.” Before the homeless man could respond, his informer continued again. “The coat was yours. I am not angry that you lost it, Johnny.” Red’s face said something different than his words, however. They betrayed a certain.. Something. Was it discontent? Was it directed at Johnny? “Someone has a lot of blood on their hands – blood of people like yourself – and I want to know who.” So it was not Johnny with whom he was discontent, Johnny realized as Red handed Johnny the newspaper of today. ‘Bang; Gang violence increases’; an awkward title. Reading the article, Johnny wondered why, exactly, Red had pinpointed the responsibility for this increase in aggression to a single person. Before he could ask this question, however, the man in red started explaining, as if he had read his mind. “Someone has been distributing a device which, somehow, removes the dependency of the addicted on their drugs. While this is most certainly admirable, it provoked the gangs. The poor who were supposedly ‘helped’ took the damage.” Johnny nodded. “Alright. I’ll see whether I can find them.”
Red wanted to speak again, no doubt with other points on his agenda, but for once, Johnny was first. “I have some questions for you now.” Johnny’s remark was met with patient silence. “What are you dragging us into? Who are you, really? I mean- I played in the Game of Heart’s Desire. I lost my coat there, but what I saw.. I- I do not know. A mute in a gasmask calling themselves ‘the Stranger’, a woman named Jack, and your gangland shooter, all in one place. Not just that, but even our Chief of Police had been waiting for me there, as if he had known that I was coming. Why would the Chief of Police care about me?” Johnny’s mind ran faster and faster, and with every unit of processing time that passed more questions reared their ugly faces. “If I am correct, I got the number of the person behind the shooting, right..” He showed Red the card. “.. here.” Red took the card, examining it. He simply slipped it into his pocket and listened as Johnny continued to describe the events and his questions. When Carpenter finally finished, he nodded and spoke in what could best be described as a loud whisper, however contradictory that seems. “I will answer exactly one of your questions, Johnny. Ask carefully.”
Johnny sat there, alone, lost in thought. The city had three colors; black, white and Red. Well- He had read somewhere that black is technically not a color, but that mattered little in this equation. His informer, the man who sought to inspire him, was more than a mere man or mortal. He was an idea, a living manifestation of not just a color but everything that this color represented. Red was, in a sense, the very idea of mortality. The snow fell on Johnny’s hands. His new red gloves fit as if tailored to his hands specifically. He liked them. The blizzard had concealed Red as he left, but this weather was nothing compared to the figurative blizzard with which he hid his intentions, his knowledge, his actions. He came and went when he wanted to. Johnny’s eyes were on the newspaper again. A photograph of the Chief of Police had been circled. In red ink was written (regardless of what it was that Red was supposed to be, he was most certainly not a representative of pretty handwriting) “The Chief of Police has laid his eyes on you. In turn, you will do the same. He might prove useful or even better- He might prove to become one of your allies in whatever events which might yet unfold.” Johnny sighed. Perhaps Quinn could give him a ride on her Harley to the rust streets.
03:01, a day soon after, Jacqueline Coupe’s voicemail; Unknown number
A calm man’s voice started to speak. “Your voice sounds most elegant.” There was a short pause, as if the person on the other line was collecting their thoughts. “Your card is the Queen of Hearts; no doubt a choice motivated in theme and content. And my favorite card too, I feel obliged to admit. I notice that your handwriting possesses a grace that is naught but enviable.” There was a rustle of paper, a sound of someone pouring liquid into a glass. “I have reason to believe that you, directly or indirectly, were responsible for the events which ended in a massacre for both the Irish and the Russian mafia of this city.” A police siren sounded vaguely in the distance – an especially observant listener would have taken this for a clue that the caller was probably in an apartment on one of the main streets. “You have given me reason to believe that I am not alone, that there are other.. ..similar persons out there. I was wondering whether you were willing to meet me, alone. Where? Well, I am currently renting an apartment on Yeoman’s Street 67.” Another, longer silence. Our rendezvous, if you choose to react, will be in front of my apartment in two days, at exactly 17:01. I got two tickets for the opera. Do not consider trying to call me back.” A soft click announced the end of the call.
Null Act: Red meets with Johnny Carpenter, who provides information about the shooting which ruined the Irish/Russian deal and the details of the events at the Game of Heart’s Desire.
Null Act: Red answers one of Johnny’s questions.
Null Act: Red gifts Johnny a modest but certainly stylish set of dark red leather gloves to accommodate his ‘old new’ coat.
Null Act: Red instructs Johnny to, together with his companions, investigate the creator of the orgone regulators and by extension the person responsible for all the needless slaughter at the hands of the ‘hoodies’.
Null Act: Red tells Johnny to be wary of the Chief of Police, yet recommends him to maintain careful contact with Vimes.
Null Act: Red buys a new pre-paid phone and leaves a voicemail message on Jack’s number, inviting her to the opera. (NOTE: the address he gives her is, in fact, an address of an apartment he rents (under a fake name), but it is not the apartment where he usually stays.)
(I split up all the details even though you might say that they can be formatted as one or two 'null acts'. This is so that there is no huge wall of text to read through to find the summary of his actions.)
