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[video / text;]
[Justin isn't a fan of talking out loud when typing will do, but this is video for a reason. That reason is a thin orange tabby who is curled up quite happily in Justin's lap, sound asleep and purring.
Does this cat belong to anyone? I hu--I... I mean, I found her. On my way home from work. Please message me if she's yours.
[The video feed ends, but Justin keeps talking in a rather melancholy monotone.]
This curse--many of the curses--are harmless, but no one in the City should become too... compliant. It's tempting to become accustomed to curses, to--to death. In a place where death is seldom more than a temporary and upsetting setback, we shouldn't be careless. We shouldn't assume that, if we die, we'll come back.
Not everyone comes back, not every time. Death can be permanent, even here. Some of you know that--maybe you've heard, or maybe you've been here long enough to see someone die and not return--but if you don't, keep it in mind. Be careful. Don't take unnecessary risks during curses or... or take the life that you have for granted. Even if you're dead within the City, you still have this existence; don't treat it lightly.
[There's a breath as if he's getting ready to say something else, but he evidently thinks better of it and ends the feed.]
[Filtered to Police / Unhackable]
VICTIM NAME: Mara Lesser
TIME OF DISAPPEARANCE: May 26th, evening
ESTIMATED TIME OF DEATH: May 28th, likely late evening
BODY LOCATION: Back alley behind Joe's Cup of Joe
CAUSE OF DEATH: Hypovolemia
Information garnered from the network suggests that Ken Hidaka was the last to communicate with Mara before her abduction. The body was located by Olivia Dunham on the evening of May 29th; Miss Dunham contacted the police. First responders were Dean Winchester and Justin Pendleton.
The body was found dismembered and partially wrapped [see image]. Skin was unusually dehydrated; white and yellow patches indicated first-stage congelatio (frostbite). The head was unwrapped and undamaged, aside from mild cold-induced tissue damage. Full-body tissue damage suggests that the victim was held captive in a cold environment (such as a meat locker or walk-in freezer). She was bound, as evidenced by slight bruising on the wrists. Considering the state of the body and the low degree of external decomposition, the victim likely died in this cold environment.
The lethal wound was a horizontal cut to the throat that fully severed the right common carotid artery. The cut was professional and undoubtedly made by someone with medical knowledge. Additional abrasions on the feet are consistent with damage caused by strained ropes; most likely, the unidentified subject suspended the victim upside-down before making the cut. In a cold environment, complete exsanguination would have taken considerable time. The victim likely died quickly.
After the body was bloodless and cooled, it was cut into fifteen separate pieces. Incisions were made at the shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, knees, and ankles; the head was severed and the torso was cut bilaterally. All cuts were clean and made with surgical precision. The mutilation was perfectly symmetrical. Cuts matched up on both sides to a within a millimeter.
Toxicology rules out the involvement of drugs or sedatives.
No physical evidence that might be used to identify suspects was located. The brown paper and twine used to package the body are readily available at all general stores in the City. The body itself was thoroughly clean, most likely before dismemberment.
The murderer is likely a highly educated individual, possibly in the medical profession. The care taken to erase any trace evidence indicates a degree of familiarity with criminology; the professionalism demonstrated may point to an individual who has killed before. Motivation is unclear, but bleeding the body and dismembering the remains are processes that take time. Since there was no evidence of torture, it's likely that the disposal of the body and not the murder itself was the focus of this crime.
Mara Lesser has not revived. Her remains are in custody, but will be released for interment.
[end filter]
[Private / Unhackable]
Am I a monster?
I've been asking myself this for years--with new urgency after the nightmares. The answer changes from day to day. Uncertainty about my monstrousness aside, I do know one thing.
Whoever did this is a monster, regardless of their species. Human, vampire... it doesn't matter. Anyone who would destroy someone harmless (and Mara was harmless enough) in such a meticulous and gruesome way has to be a monster. It was unprovoked, I imagine. Random. A crime of convenience. Someone out there gets a thrill out of committing perfect crimes, out of turning a body into a display. That's what it was--a display. Why else would anyone take the time to do what this person did? It had nothing to do with hiding evidence and everything to do with a perverse... artistic sensibility.
Her death hurts. Mara's. I should be immune to the affects of death after experiencing it personally and performing autopsies. I prefer the psychological aspect of forensics. I prefer processing evidence, but I can handle a body. I'm interested in bodies, to a degree. I'm interested in death. How the body dies... in trying to get a corpse to tell a story. But Mara's death has been painful. She was a friend. We shared that experience--that dinner with the Master. She was kind to me when I returned to the City without memories.
She's not coming back.
In a City where a murderer can die three times and survive to contemplate his choices, an unnecessary death like this can be permanent.
The Shakespeare cases (still unsolved, in spite of our best efforts) and this one have made me think about the afterlife. If there is one. I'm an atheist; I don't believe in an afterlife. When I was dead--wholly dead--I don't remember being anywhere. I don't remember being. But what happens after a true death? I obviously haven't ever died in the most complete sense. Am I wrong? Is there something more to our existences than these lives? Does some form of an individual's consciousness live on in another plane, or do we end with the final cessation of consciousness?
I don't believe in life beyond the City, but I can hope that there's more to existence. Not for my sake; I would, I think, welcome oblivion (but not now, not when I'm too busy, when I have too many responsibilities to put an end to myself). But for others--for Neil, Euphie, Mara, and the others who deserve to live and want to live... I hope there's something for them outside of the City.
There's so much death and so little success. The police force is hated and considered useless (no one thanks us for the smaller crimes that we successfully resolve--petty thefts and so on). We're taunted constantly. Our numbers are severely limited and there aren't enough of us to do everything that needs to be done. Dean tries, but he has too little to work with and lacks a head for leadership. It's a sad state of affairs when I'm one of the most experienced (as far as the City is concerned) members of the force. I'm not belittling myself. Abbey taught me well and I've learned a lot in the years since she left. I'm just as good at what I do as anyone else here, and that isn't comforting.
But I'm not meant to do this. The constant exposure to death, to brutality, to evil... the endless failure and public disdain... I was never meant for this. I'm no Dean Winchester. Yes, I've been fascinated by criminology and death for as long as I can remember, but I don't have the constitution to face the reality of death on a daily basis--not without being affected by it. I feel like I've aged twenty years since I first started under Abby (how old am I? twenty? twenty-one?). I feel like I'm numb.
I can't quit. It's not about redemption anymore; I've done enough and died enough to be redeemed. Now it's a matter of trying to make something right in the City--keeping good people like Angela and Neil and Todd and Euphie and Ken safe, ensuring that those who deserve to be punished are.
And I feel a need to stay on for Dean's sake. I realize that my contributions to the police force are minimal and that it would function well without me, but I don't want Dean to shoulder the full weight of the City's hatred. He's fucked up--maybe more than I am--but he took on a job that no one else wants and that he knew he wasn't qualified to do just because it needed to be done. I couldn't do that. Few could. I want to help.
Sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this. I'm better at forming interpersonal connections and allowing myself to experience and process feelings now, but none of that has been helpful as far as work is concerned. A dispassionate, distant mind can approach the work of sadistic individuals without feeling sick or incapable of trusting a world that can hold that kind of ugliness. Feeling opens the mind to pain; connections to others does the same. I don't know if I can process the body of another friend.
This is an old feeling, in some ways--this despair and helplessness. Shilo kept it at bay; Neil and Todd keep me rooted in reality and force me to leave my mind occasionally. Angela always distracts. Euphie... I'm unsure about Euphie, but when I'm around her I can worry about her and nothing else (she needs someone to worry about her). But it's still creeping in... that cold suspicion that the world is a dark place and existing is only something we need to do until we're allowed to die.
I've felt it before. When Road was here, I felt it. Before I died, I lived it. Before I lost myself to the thoughts of greater thinkers, the ugliness and cruelty and unfairness of the world drove me to look for ways to numb my feelings. Pot, absinthe, the dark and shameless world of Rimbaud's poetry. I could always count on Rimbaud to describe the filth I saw in ways I couldn't dream of expressing myself. He was a child poet--a prodigy. I thought of myself as a prodigy, too. Rimbaud was almost a friend before I met Richard.
A part of me--subconscious and from years ago, but still a part of me--tried to kill Euphie. I killed that thing with my face (I saw myself with my face blown apart). I spent hours processing the dismembered corpse of a friend. I've failed to bring anything of value to the Shakespeare murders.
And I can't quit. But I can drink, and I can stay in my room when I'm not at work. My orchids haven't recovered from the sand curse and there's always work to take home. I can be here for Euphie, if she needs me... and for Angela, but I doubt she'll admit to needing support. I can be here for Neil and Todd even if they don't need anyone outside of themselves.
I can be here even if I'm unnecessary.
[COMMENTS]
Does this cat belong to anyone? I hu--I... I mean, I found her. On my way home from work. Please message me if she's yours.
[The video feed ends, but Justin keeps talking in a rather melancholy monotone.]
This curse--many of the curses--are harmless, but no one in the City should become too... compliant. It's tempting to become accustomed to curses, to--to death. In a place where death is seldom more than a temporary and upsetting setback, we shouldn't be careless. We shouldn't assume that, if we die, we'll come back.
Not everyone comes back, not every time. Death can be permanent, even here. Some of you know that--maybe you've heard, or maybe you've been here long enough to see someone die and not return--but if you don't, keep it in mind. Be careful. Don't take unnecessary risks during curses or... or take the life that you have for granted. Even if you're dead within the City, you still have this existence; don't treat it lightly.
[There's a breath as if he's getting ready to say something else, but he evidently thinks better of it and ends the feed.]
[Filtered to Police / Unhackable]
VICTIM NAME: Mara Lesser
TIME OF DISAPPEARANCE: May 26th, evening
ESTIMATED TIME OF DEATH: May 28th, likely late evening
BODY LOCATION: Back alley behind Joe's Cup of Joe
CAUSE OF DEATH: Hypovolemia
Information garnered from the network suggests that Ken Hidaka was the last to communicate with Mara before her abduction. The body was located by Olivia Dunham on the evening of May 29th; Miss Dunham contacted the police. First responders were Dean Winchester and Justin Pendleton.
The body was found dismembered and partially wrapped [see image]. Skin was unusually dehydrated; white and yellow patches indicated first-stage congelatio (frostbite). The head was unwrapped and undamaged, aside from mild cold-induced tissue damage. Full-body tissue damage suggests that the victim was held captive in a cold environment (such as a meat locker or walk-in freezer). She was bound, as evidenced by slight bruising on the wrists. Considering the state of the body and the low degree of external decomposition, the victim likely died in this cold environment.
The lethal wound was a horizontal cut to the throat that fully severed the right common carotid artery. The cut was professional and undoubtedly made by someone with medical knowledge. Additional abrasions on the feet are consistent with damage caused by strained ropes; most likely, the unidentified subject suspended the victim upside-down before making the cut. In a cold environment, complete exsanguination would have taken considerable time. The victim likely died quickly.
After the body was bloodless and cooled, it was cut into fifteen separate pieces. Incisions were made at the shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, knees, and ankles; the head was severed and the torso was cut bilaterally. All cuts were clean and made with surgical precision. The mutilation was perfectly symmetrical. Cuts matched up on both sides to a within a millimeter.
Toxicology rules out the involvement of drugs or sedatives.
No physical evidence that might be used to identify suspects was located. The brown paper and twine used to package the body are readily available at all general stores in the City. The body itself was thoroughly clean, most likely before dismemberment.
The murderer is likely a highly educated individual, possibly in the medical profession. The care taken to erase any trace evidence indicates a degree of familiarity with criminology; the professionalism demonstrated may point to an individual who has killed before. Motivation is unclear, but bleeding the body and dismembering the remains are processes that take time. Since there was no evidence of torture, it's likely that the disposal of the body and not the murder itself was the focus of this crime.
Mara Lesser has not revived. Her remains are in custody, but will be released for interment.
[end filter]
[Private / Unhackable]
Am I a monster?
I've been asking myself this for years--with new urgency after the nightmares. The answer changes from day to day. Uncertainty about my monstrousness aside, I do know one thing.
Whoever did this is a monster, regardless of their species. Human, vampire... it doesn't matter. Anyone who would destroy someone harmless (and Mara was harmless enough) in such a meticulous and gruesome way has to be a monster. It was unprovoked, I imagine. Random. A crime of convenience. Someone out there gets a thrill out of committing perfect crimes, out of turning a body into a display. That's what it was--a display. Why else would anyone take the time to do what this person did? It had nothing to do with hiding evidence and everything to do with a perverse... artistic sensibility.
Her death hurts. Mara's. I should be immune to the affects of death after experiencing it personally and performing autopsies. I prefer the psychological aspect of forensics. I prefer processing evidence, but I can handle a body. I'm interested in bodies, to a degree. I'm interested in death. How the body dies... in trying to get a corpse to tell a story. But Mara's death has been painful. She was a friend. We shared that experience--that dinner with the Master. She was kind to me when I returned to the City without memories.
She's not coming back.
In a City where a murderer can die three times and survive to contemplate his choices, an unnecessary death like this can be permanent.
The Shakespeare cases (still unsolved, in spite of our best efforts) and this one have made me think about the afterlife. If there is one. I'm an atheist; I don't believe in an afterlife. When I was dead--wholly dead--I don't remember being anywhere. I don't remember being. But what happens after a true death? I obviously haven't ever died in the most complete sense. Am I wrong? Is there something more to our existences than these lives? Does some form of an individual's consciousness live on in another plane, or do we end with the final cessation of consciousness?
I don't believe in life beyond the City, but I can hope that there's more to existence. Not for my sake; I would, I think, welcome oblivion (but not now, not when I'm too busy, when I have too many responsibilities to put an end to myself). But for others--for Neil, Euphie, Mara, and the others who deserve to live and want to live... I hope there's something for them outside of the City.
There's so much death and so little success. The police force is hated and considered useless (no one thanks us for the smaller crimes that we successfully resolve--petty thefts and so on). We're taunted constantly. Our numbers are severely limited and there aren't enough of us to do everything that needs to be done. Dean tries, but he has too little to work with and lacks a head for leadership. It's a sad state of affairs when I'm one of the most experienced (as far as the City is concerned) members of the force. I'm not belittling myself. Abbey taught me well and I've learned a lot in the years since she left. I'm just as good at what I do as anyone else here, and that isn't comforting.
But I'm not meant to do this. The constant exposure to death, to brutality, to evil... the endless failure and public disdain... I was never meant for this. I'm no Dean Winchester. Yes, I've been fascinated by criminology and death for as long as I can remember, but I don't have the constitution to face the reality of death on a daily basis--not without being affected by it. I feel like I've aged twenty years since I first started under Abby (how old am I? twenty? twenty-one?). I feel like I'm numb.
I can't quit. It's not about redemption anymore; I've done enough and died enough to be redeemed. Now it's a matter of trying to make something right in the City--keeping good people like Angela and Neil and Todd and Euphie and Ken safe, ensuring that those who deserve to be punished are.
And I feel a need to stay on for Dean's sake. I realize that my contributions to the police force are minimal and that it would function well without me, but I don't want Dean to shoulder the full weight of the City's hatred. He's fucked up--maybe more than I am--but he took on a job that no one else wants and that he knew he wasn't qualified to do just because it needed to be done. I couldn't do that. Few could. I want to help.
Sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this. I'm better at forming interpersonal connections and allowing myself to experience and process feelings now, but none of that has been helpful as far as work is concerned. A dispassionate, distant mind can approach the work of sadistic individuals without feeling sick or incapable of trusting a world that can hold that kind of ugliness. Feeling opens the mind to pain; connections to others does the same. I don't know if I can process the body of another friend.
This is an old feeling, in some ways--this despair and helplessness. Shilo kept it at bay; Neil and Todd keep me rooted in reality and force me to leave my mind occasionally. Angela always distracts. Euphie... I'm unsure about Euphie, but when I'm around her I can worry about her and nothing else (she needs someone to worry about her). But it's still creeping in... that cold suspicion that the world is a dark place and existing is only something we need to do until we're allowed to die.
I've felt it before. When Road was here, I felt it. Before I died, I lived it. Before I lost myself to the thoughts of greater thinkers, the ugliness and cruelty and unfairness of the world drove me to look for ways to numb my feelings. Pot, absinthe, the dark and shameless world of Rimbaud's poetry. I could always count on Rimbaud to describe the filth I saw in ways I couldn't dream of expressing myself. He was a child poet--a prodigy. I thought of myself as a prodigy, too. Rimbaud was almost a friend before I met Richard.
A part of me--subconscious and from years ago, but still a part of me--tried to kill Euphie. I killed that thing with my face (I saw myself with my face blown apart). I spent hours processing the dismembered corpse of a friend. I've failed to bring anything of value to the Shakespeare murders.
And I can't quit. But I can drink, and I can stay in my room when I'm not at work. My orchids haven't recovered from the sand curse and there's always work to take home. I can be here for Euphie, if she needs me... and for Angela, but I doubt she'll admit to needing support. I can be here for Neil and Todd even if they don't need anyone outside of themselves.
I can be here even if I'm unnecessary.
[COMMENTS]