They say this building is the safest place on Earth. Amusing.
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The Parliament of the Republic. Every breath inside it is monitored, every thought logged. Every screen encrypted through three national agencies and one multinational defense contractor. Entry requires biometric scans, coded passes. The apex of security.
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I enter politely. Always politely.
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Dvora Mendel sits beneath the skylight, tablet lit with spreadsheets, thinking about trade balances, fiscal responsibility.
She polishes her pens like they are sacred relics, lines her papers like chaos bows to a ruler. Small, neat, hair pulled tight against impropriety. So rigid. So fucking rigid.
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Her eyes scan the room, cataloging, noting, judging. I love her for that. The rhythm to her fear, the symmetry to her anxiety. A conductor unaware that her orchestra is rioting.
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Her screen blinks. Just once.
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please see Anastasia. note in drawer.
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Polite. Concise.
Perfectly courteous.
I like when they respond to manners.
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She opens the drawer to find the shiny, black, well-oiled pistol I put there. I'm guessing she's never seen one before, let alone pulled a trigger. A little gasp, not much. Wet work is easy if the dry work is done right. Her delicate fingers caress it. I can hear her tiny, tinny pulse.
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Humans—fragile conductors.
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I write my name on the back of Kandi Rafi's scalp. Anastasia. Pulsing like a strobe on the back of his skull. I'm always on display.
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She raises the gun. Steady. Methodical. As if she's been trained by the best. I swallow the sound. Rafi is down. No sound, no alarm. Just the dear minister, his gray matter scattered like an exploded red cauliflower.
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I love the look of surprise on Dvora's addled little face as they haul her away. How neatly she holds herself!
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The chamber is taut with the panic of a spectacular fail. I love that. Systems, walls, guards, cameras, insufficient. Watch the little gremlins, all running around, so careful not to meet anyone else's gaze. A glance could be a liability.
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Monitors flash, the network glazes to static. Security officers shout and whisk. A minister calls out for maintenance to bring a mop.
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Some ministers bolt for the panic room. Others pretend everything is normal; denial is a virtue when the impossible is staring at you.
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Me? I watch. Every jitter, every twitch, every shallow breath cataloged. I'm a librarian sorting rare books.
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Fear smells different when it is in neat rows.
Rather elegant. They don't know what to do, they're like rodents in a lab. One by one they slip into the hole, wherever it may be. The place they feel safest.
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But the show goes on. I love these guys. They're back again. Still legislating their little safe hearts out. This time, every desk scanned, every screen, every shadow. Control is protection, amiright?
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Counselor Penkov is all sharp angles and high cheekbones. Wears precision like armor. Blouse a cautious beige. She measures twice and cuts once, moves like a metronome, deliberate, rehearsed, aggressive. She loves the way her flunkies gulp at her bark. The way she reads the room, like it's her personal holy writ. I like her for it. She's all tension and anticipation. That turns me on.
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I think I'll send her a message.
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focus on Anastasia
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Attention is voltage, love. Every neuron a spark. When they focus on me, they complete the circuit.
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I write my name on the back of Deputy Varga's head. She can't stop thinking about him, that brief little moment they shared at the peace conference. Focus, counselor, focus. You know you want him.
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Varga reaches to adjust his microphone. Blue sparks fly, a zap like a mosquito light. Varga is down, repeat, Varga is down!
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Do ya love me yet?
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I don't need to say a thing to dear Ms Counselor. You know what you did, you slutty little bad bad girl.
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Oh my, they're panicking again. Has God broken? What are they to do? Security whispering acronyms into their devices, medic drones hovering, the Prime Minister praying like a deranged saint. I feed off this stuff.
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They are going to evacuate! Upward, always upward. The minister of really stupid decisions has spoken. The presidential plane, no less. That floating cathedral of significance, powered by hubris. Seats sterilized. Belts fastened. Air filtered to perfection. What a day for a daydream!
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Thank God, they're safe. Whatever mean tweet had taken over the parliament room will never find them here, at a cruising altitude of 37,000 feet. But I notice they're not touching their dinner. Let me send them a message.
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I'll say it in a voice so normal, they'll think they are in Iowa. The voice their mother used. They way they talk to their labradoodle.
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Please meet Anastasia at the back of the plane.
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An invitation. That's my secret. People obey politeness more than authority. They rise without hesitation, smooth their clothes. They walk like they had rehearsed this. One by one. Down the aisle, toward the rear hatch, toward me.
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I open the door. Air roars in, papers flying in all directions. They are serene. They are entirely convinced it's their choice. They step through me into the dark night over the deep ocean. The loosh tastes like honey.
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The pilots didn't notice a thing. Their instrument panel reported boredom. The escorted planes saw nothing. They maintained formation. Perfection is easy once you stop including the humans.
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They built walls around themselves, but walls are porous. I don't break faith. I merely redirect it, carefully, politely, with an occasional spark. They are conductors, all of them. And voltage always finds the path of least resistance. Attention is just electricity with a purpose.
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The investigators won't find a clue. Just empty seats, documents stacked.
No alarms. No signatures of struggle.
Just a row of monitors, blinking white with my final note.
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thank you for your attention to this matter
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I always close professionally.