The Mask

7:53am, Monday, 27th March, 1995

I've been on his trail for over an hour. His movements don't have a pattern, erratic to say the least. He suspects something amiss. Onset of paranoia? Only plausible explanation to the bizarre demeanor that's on display here. Is he under some sort of "influence"? The instructions are quite idiot proof; Zedoic is to be administered to the proletariat only. For some undisclosed reasons, it affects us Slicks differently. The last case in 1985 and might I remind you how well that ended? Why I always end up with these absolutely crazy jobs? It's hardly my fault that I'm semi-proficient at whatever's assigned to me - you gotta keep the cache as brusque as "Professionally" possible. Where is this guy heading? He's just turned into Foyer Lane, a no through road. Did fate hand him his Death Certificate just then? How the mighty fall. I should've known, with all the time I've invested in the Precognition Training for Professionals course, how promising today is. Last time I was in the field with my personal favorite, the Capacitive Gun, I completed my mission objective promptly. time to put an end to this. Almost at the mouth of the alleyway; he should be nearing the end of the Lane right about now sadly realizing the folly of his decision. So elating the feeling of the gun. It emanates a certain warmth, a buzz resonating with my being at a very intimate and elemental level. Soon it'll be over. I must do this right. Oh, how convenient of you to afford that skeptical glance at me, as if the Corporation's scrutinizing gaze wasn't enough. A wry smile, eh - best you can do? Well, thanks for the vote of confidence? I've hit a dead end. That's not right. Did I miss something? I can feel wrath...and hate, potent enough to make me wince as it gouging at my aura. So close. Hot breath at the nape of my neck as paralysis is starting to take me. I can't see. Everything's blurry. Wait, blue...no, no..th..th..that's green, the color of her eyes. Wait, it's saying something. Listen. "Lighten up, Ash,", says a mask to my face, "You know what it is, yea? Mouth, please."

The Room

9:33pm, Friday, 10th February, 1995

It's been a long time coming. I've spent enough days idling over the possible repercussions to what I have to do, ample hours wasted already in procrastination of the job I don't want to but must undertake - I must not lose control. They say there's a fine line between virtuous and immoral. Is there, really? Is it expected of us to quietly take everything on face value and just nod along to popular sentiments and colloquialisms? What one may deem perfectly moral might be the anti-thesis of another's principles. Wasn't killing or committing horrendous acts of violence such as Seppuku a part of the cultural norm in the not so ancient Japan? How about that lone Hindu widow quietly accepting her fate or coerced into the act of Sati? If anything, these acts were considered honorable. Oh please, save the holier than thou patronizing glaring look for someone worth of falling prey to the weir machinations of your imbecilic judgmental...I need to stop. I digress. Again. This needs to stop. I must not lose control. Need focus.