07-03-2014, 10:53 AM
Sure. He passed men in pinstripe suits smoking cigars. They carried briefcases or swiped data back and forth from portable holoscreens. But Dane was their better. He smiled a smug dismissal when such men glanced at him.
He spent the next few days wandering the government district. He strolled along the sidewalks, wandered parks, and even tried his own cigar, but the acrid scent to the streets and smog-addled horizon were swaths of filth against a dingy canvas.
Every day he showered he scrubbed his skin raw. Sweat pooled between his toes in his shoes. His hair was painted to his scalp. The sticky, dirty feeling would never fully leave, even when he climbed into the cool comfort of crisp sheets at night.
He hated Polanco almost as much as he liked it. The grit that rubbed his skin raw between the toes were wrapped in expensive loafers, much as the filth of the city was covered by a thin veil of luxury. Dane could see through the curtain, though, having known both sides of the world. He lived the life of a gentleman yet was trapped in the mind of a monster. While men leered at curvaceous, flowering women, Dane thought of stabbing them to death and running his hand beneath their skirt. When BMW's were permitted behind the looming fences of the U.S. embassy, Dane thought only of tripping the engines with explosives and burning the valets alive in their steel cages.
He was seated across from the U.S. embassy one morning, flipping through a book he took from the lobby of Las Suites. It was about ornithology: the study of birds. He'd taken to identifying the species singing their song in the branches above his bench. On his right was a sketchpad filled with elegant graphite sketches of some such creatures. Some were winged for flight; others perched on a branch; others pecking the ground for worms; while yet some were seated on little twiggy nests.
An unrelieved breeze ruffled the collar of his partly unbuttoned polo. With it was carried gossip of the recent cartel's warring from two nearby benchmates seated with their coffees and exchanging news of the day. Dane's translator app was tucked away in a pocket, but by now enough people had spoken the word for murder that Dane recognized it by now.
He sneered at himself and began a new sketch on a fresh piece of the paper that he would rip from one corner and tuck in the bench when he left it behind.
One of the secrets to Mockingbird's exclusivity was his ability to rig explosions by countdown. It gave him a safe perimeter by which to separate himself from the event, debris and association. He always watched in fascination as fire licked the bottom of the sky, but not so close as to actually endanger himself. Fortunately, if he continued to lean upon the power that swirled within, he could hear the screams of the trapped from a block away.
The U.S. embassy was Mockingbird's target this morning. Behind those black spires of a fence the ugly, outdated manila architecture of the building went up in smoke. BMW's were flipped high in the air. Guards with rifles rushed. Curvaceous women and dignified men fled for their lives. While Mockingbird strolled casually away, truly enjoying himself for the first time since the night he lost his virginity.
When he returned to Las Suites, the clerks were unperturbed by his arrival, glued to the screens projected around them.
He joined them, standing behind and watching with the others, although they did not acknowledge his presence. Investigators had found his calling card, it seemed. When the image of his hand-sketched Mockingbird filled the screen, the corner's of Dane's lips quirked into a thrill he constantly chased. Mexico City knew he was here.
He left the clerks with only one of them having finally noticed his presence: a young woman with full lips and smokey eyes... and long, luxurious black hair. Dane smiled back as the elevator doors cut him off.
He spent the next few days wandering the government district. He strolled along the sidewalks, wandered parks, and even tried his own cigar, but the acrid scent to the streets and smog-addled horizon were swaths of filth against a dingy canvas.
Every day he showered he scrubbed his skin raw. Sweat pooled between his toes in his shoes. His hair was painted to his scalp. The sticky, dirty feeling would never fully leave, even when he climbed into the cool comfort of crisp sheets at night.
He hated Polanco almost as much as he liked it. The grit that rubbed his skin raw between the toes were wrapped in expensive loafers, much as the filth of the city was covered by a thin veil of luxury. Dane could see through the curtain, though, having known both sides of the world. He lived the life of a gentleman yet was trapped in the mind of a monster. While men leered at curvaceous, flowering women, Dane thought of stabbing them to death and running his hand beneath their skirt. When BMW's were permitted behind the looming fences of the U.S. embassy, Dane thought only of tripping the engines with explosives and burning the valets alive in their steel cages.
He was seated across from the U.S. embassy one morning, flipping through a book he took from the lobby of Las Suites. It was about ornithology: the study of birds. He'd taken to identifying the species singing their song in the branches above his bench. On his right was a sketchpad filled with elegant graphite sketches of some such creatures. Some were winged for flight; others perched on a branch; others pecking the ground for worms; while yet some were seated on little twiggy nests.
An unrelieved breeze ruffled the collar of his partly unbuttoned polo. With it was carried gossip of the recent cartel's warring from two nearby benchmates seated with their coffees and exchanging news of the day. Dane's translator app was tucked away in a pocket, but by now enough people had spoken the word for murder that Dane recognized it by now.
He sneered at himself and began a new sketch on a fresh piece of the paper that he would rip from one corner and tuck in the bench when he left it behind.
One of the secrets to Mockingbird's exclusivity was his ability to rig explosions by countdown. It gave him a safe perimeter by which to separate himself from the event, debris and association. He always watched in fascination as fire licked the bottom of the sky, but not so close as to actually endanger himself. Fortunately, if he continued to lean upon the power that swirled within, he could hear the screams of the trapped from a block away.
The U.S. embassy was Mockingbird's target this morning. Behind those black spires of a fence the ugly, outdated manila architecture of the building went up in smoke. BMW's were flipped high in the air. Guards with rifles rushed. Curvaceous women and dignified men fled for their lives. While Mockingbird strolled casually away, truly enjoying himself for the first time since the night he lost his virginity.
When he returned to Las Suites, the clerks were unperturbed by his arrival, glued to the screens projected around them.
He joined them, standing behind and watching with the others, although they did not acknowledge his presence. Investigators had found his calling card, it seemed. When the image of his hand-sketched Mockingbird filled the screen, the corner's of Dane's lips quirked into a thrill he constantly chased. Mexico City knew he was here.
He left the clerks with only one of them having finally noticed his presence: a young woman with full lips and smokey eyes... and long, luxurious black hair. Dane smiled back as the elevator doors cut him off.