|From:||Alan Takayama alan_takayama@*******.com|
|Subject:||Bellevue Rain - Part Three|
|Date:||Mon, 20 Dec 1999 14:59:48 EST|
Some believe that the Ultimate Existence, or the measure of the Soul, is
Purity. This purity can take the form of ethical principles, but this is in
relation to a more personal belief rather than a religious faith. Physical
purity is a concept, and the term "My Body is my Temple" is still very much
alive in today's world of 2055. Purity of the Soul can even be physical
cleanliness, as Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard of the last century's literary work,
"Under Milkwood" by Dylan Thomas, obviously believed to. A troll who
frequantly washes his underwear can be pure in soul as a result of his
hygiene, if that is what he truly believes.
But there are others, individuals with darker minds than the religiously
hygienic troll. Individuals that would kill the Troll simply for existing.
Individuals that rate Purity of the Soul as a racial privilege.
Hubert Jamesson is one of these people, although he claims he knows nothing
He kneels on the floor, fists clenched tightly together as if praying, and
fervently insists that he is not a member of The Pure Human Rights Group, a
spin off of the Humanis Policlub. His knuckles are white where the red has
not touched them. His eyes are wild, and tears run unashamedly down his
face, where yesterday he had bragged to his corporate pals in a bar that he
hadn't shed a single tear in 26 years. The man who has introduced himself as
"Smith" should know. He had been listening, doing his homework. Jamesson
continues to drool in fear, gaping like a fish, and his expensive looking
suit trousers are further soiled as a puddle continues to expand on his
There have been other fluids spilt this day. The walls that drip red are
proof of that
"Next time," the Smith speaks, "It won't be a paint bomb."
The room is red. Red is the colour of blood. Red is the subconcious colour
"O-of course," Jamesson stammers, "P-please, just don't kill me!"
"If I wanted to kill you," Smith replies matter-of-factly, "I would have
done it already."
"Look, I'll... I'll give you anything you want, just don't - "
"Shut up," Smith snaps impatiently. Jamesson yelps at the outburst, and then
bites his tongue so hard he bleeds.
"Likewise," says Smith, calmer, "I would have taken anything I wanted if
that was what I was here for. I'm a professional, Hubert. I don't involve
myself in activities outside the contract of employment."
"Co, contract?" Jamesson whispers waveringly.
"Yes, a 'co, contract'," says the masked man in his oh-so-cultured, mocking
deep voice. "Someone in the company knows about you - let's not name names -
and is, well, pissed off, Hue." The man, who is dressed completely in black
with a balaclava hiding his features, begins to pace the paint covered room.
Before his planted paint-bomb had exploded and he had stepped out from the
bathroom in which he had been hiding, Hubert Jamesson's apartment had been a
modest but likable living space. The carpet was thick and luxurious, the
trideo set new, and the furniture attractive and matching synth-wood. The
red paint covering everything, and destroying all the pretty baubles
Jamesson lives with had been a brilliant psychological attack, and something
the masked man still congratulates himself on as a master-stroke. It was
just as well the job was turning out to be easy once inside: for a low-level
researcher in a corporation, Jamesson's apartment security had been
"This someone," Smith continues, "Doesn't approve of your connections.
You've been a bad boy, Hubert Jamesson. A very bad boy. You've fallen in
with the wrong crowd. Racist Policlubs are fun and games only until you
bring the media's attention on your company for being involved in some
scandalous affair involving anti-metahuman sentiments, bad for business
dontchaknow," he turns towards the snivelling man, and leans in slightly,
"The company realises that you are too stupid to understand the consequences
of your actions. That's why I'm here, Huey." Obviously enjoying the
situation, the man's words are deliciously drawn out and caress every
syllable. He is extremely condescending, and the manner in which he paces
the room speaks clearly of his dismissal of Hubert Jamesson as any sort of
Provoked to a blinding rage and finally finding a spine (no brain attached),
Jamesson lunges at the man. "I'll fragging kill you" are about the only
words to escape his mouth before he is pounded into the red wall by the
masked man. The corper slides, whimpering, to the ground.
Delighting in the obvious, Smith cannot help himself. "That was sort of
"What - what do you want?" Jamesson gasps, sobbing.
"This is where I'm supposed to say: 'I want your Soul', right? Well, if it's
your soul you think I want, you can keep it. I don't want that filthy thing.
It makes me gag just being this close to you."
"Please," the pathetic man pleads as he weeps. "No jokes... please...I'll
anything...just go away..."
Slightly disturbed by how easily broken the man is, Smith decides to relent.
He squats down beside the victim.
"What my employer wants is for you to cut your ties with the Policlub. It's
as simple as that. Of course, you don't have a choice."
"No, no," he fervently insists, as eager as a dog. "No, no, of course not.
hated them anyway, honest. I, I love metahumans! I dated an elf once, she
was really nice, and she wore great clothes!"
What relevance this has to the situation escapes the masked man, but by now
the whole sordid ordeal was losing even it's minimal entertainment value and
fast becoming sad and pathetic.
"All I need to know, Hubert Jamesson, is that you'll stop attending the
Policlub meetings. You'll also stop seeing any members. You'll never talk
about this again."
Drained of emotional energy and lacking even the will to cry anymore,
Jamesson nods dumbly.
"Good," says the masked man brightly before he breaks the corper's arm with
one deft and well placed kick.
"Nothing personal, Hue," says Smith, raising his voice over Jamesson's
screams. "Just something to prove the company means business. If this wasn't
about real stinkers like you humanis scum, I probably would have been easier
Smith makes it out of the complex unscathed and unmarked, but for a little
red paint on his boots. Leaving footprints as he made his getaway hadn't
been a problem: before the bomb had exploded he had applied a thin coat of
plastic to his soles, and removed them before taking his leave of Hubert
It is only until he is cloaked in the shadows of an alley blocks away that
he removes his balaclava.
Gabriel lets out an explosive sigh. Though his working persona had concealed
his inner emotions, it had been a horrible job for the young man.
"Intimidation runs are definitely not my thing," Gabe can't help saying,
grimacing as he disposes of his shoes, gloves, and mask in a dumpster
nearby. Under normal circumstances, Gabe would definitely not have taken
such a disgusting job. It was only to further distract Miss Johnson from his
involvement with Rachel that he had ever agreed to work Jamesson over, and
the added bonus of Jamesson being a Humanis supporter had helped in
accepting the job. Gabe smiles mirthlessly. It had taken some heavy effort
to remove the plastic business card from the table without his employer
realising, although her preoccupation with the Mystic Touch's cuisine had
He is well aware of the damage a Johnson could do to him, holding intimate
knowledge of the loved ones of a Runner. He had promised himself upon
entering the relationship with Rachel that he would do this properly, with
all the precautions he could possibly muster or conceive. It took a lot of
energy to be this careful, but to Gabriel's mind it was all worth it. He is
meeting Rachel again for dinner tomorrow.
But tonight he has a date with a different woman.
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