Sitting atop the speeding train, Wesley checked his gun one more time. The cool night air rushed across his face, blowing his hair every which way. This job felt so much like his first: the guy in the fifth window. Only, this time, he was alone. He shook his head to clear the memory from his consciousness. He couldn't allow himself to think about that, about her. Standing, he cocked the gun. He concentrated and his heart began to race. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and suddenly, everything was slower. He heard each individual "clack" of the train against the rails. He saw the house slowly draw closer, saw the light streaming out of the bedroom window. And there he was, Thomas J. Watson, professional attorney, responsible for allowing so many scum-bag murderers to walk. Wesley always knew it was only a matter of time before his name showed up in the pattern, and he was all too eager to make the hit. Swinging the gun from his side, he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew straight for its target, in one ear and out the other, and Thomas J. Watson, professional attorney, was no more. He rode the train for another few miles, jumping over a bridge in the process, before leaping off and into the driver's seat of a waiting convertible. Jamming a knife into the ignition, he started the car. Four seconds later, he was speeding out of the parking lot and down the highway.
Wesley returned to his home. The same home that his father had owned. That house just across the street from the home he'd lived in before the Fraternity. He knew he shouldn't, because the memories clouded his judgment, but he couldn't allow himself to just forget, either. Audrey, his pet fox, was instantly at his side, begging for attention. Wesley stooped over, picking her up in his arms and scratching her behind the ear. He took her into the living room, where he filled her food and water dishes. He then made his way to the kitchen, where he pressed the light button on the fridge twice, then the cubed ice button once, the water button three times, and the crushed ice four. The floor dropped out from below him, and he descended into his basement. After the incident with the Fraternity, he'd procured all of his fellow assassin's funds, which he used to continue the true work of the Fraternity of Assassins. In this basement were literally thousands of weapons, enough to last him a lifetime, as well as a nuclear shelter, and the most important piece of all: the Loom. From it, he gleaned the names of his newest targets. He followed it to the letter, no matter how important the target. If she gave up her own life simply because a few pieces of thread said she was meant to die, then there were no boundaries, no limits. Any name, any name at all, was just that: a name. Wesley no longer cared about the life that was credited to that name, simply that that life must end. He'd ended hundreds of lives, and he felt that the world was mostly better off for it.
Wesley returned his pistol to a nearby weapons rack and doffed his black jumpsuit, tossing it in a laundry bin full of similar outfits. Putting on a pair of jeans and a buttoned shirt, he stepped through the door into the room containing the Loom. He always took ten names at a time, eliminating all of them before returning to the Loom. Thomas J. Watson was his tenth one of the last batch, so he was due to "restock" on names, as it were. Grabbing the interpretation sheets, he set to work examining the fabric. Laura Simpson, sentenced to death by Fate. Jason Saunders, sentenced to death by Fate. Michael Rodgers, sentenced to death by Fate. Lora Spencer, sentenced to death by Fate. A. J. Jameson, sentenced to death by Fate. "Oh fuck no." Wesley cursed aloud. He double checked the fabric, thinking he may have made some mistake, but received the same answer. "No, no, no! This can't be right!" It just couldn't be right. This couldn't be a target, because she was already dead: Fox, sentenced to death by Fate.