Serial
By garnetcloak
Author's Note: I in no way claim to own any of the Big-O characters. I never have, I never will. They belong to their respected and worshipped creators. Don't sue me please, I don't have too much too offer, although I'm sure my parents would be more than happy to put me into slave labor.
Chapter One
"He not busy being born is busy dying." –Bob Dylan
These orders have rung through me ears since I have existed. These thoughts have raced through my mind. These emotions have pulsated through my veins. One simple phrase: Those who remember must perish.
I stalk stealthily through the street to my destination; The Nightingale. I creep around the side of the nightclub and pull my red cape closer to me. I sashay up the stairs and open the door. I hurry silently into the nightclub. The pleasant tones of the piano's melodies and harmonies, white keys and black keys rush over me. My ears have already learned to distinguish the notes. I am in the dressing room wing. I see Ellen Weight's room at the end of the hallway. She's on the list. A voice catches my ear. There are two women having a conversation inside one of the rooms.
"Mike's proposed to Ellen tonight. They're engaged!" One woman says.
"When's the wedding? She has to invite all us girls to come; we'll be dying to see those two finally settle down. Does this mean she'll be quitting the business?" The second says.
"Yes, it wouldn't be appropriate if Mike, an owner of a big company like that, had a showgirl for a wife."
I listen to them for a moment longer. Ellen Weight's been remembering things. That's why I'm here. I walk quietly down the hallway to Ellen's Room. I open the door. She's not in here. I walk up to her vanity. I pick up a rube of blood red lipstick, the color of my cloak, and turn it up a bit. I write on the mirror in simple capital letters "CAST IN THE NAME OF GOD, YE NOT GUILTY", as I have been instructed to do by Alex Rosewater. I roll the lipstick back down and place the tube in my pocket. I hear the handle of the door turning. I jump into a closet. Ellen stumbles into the room in a drunken state. She collapses into her stool backwards. I pull my gun out of the basket. The click is heard; I step from the closet and shoot her straight in the heart. I dash out the door and hurry down the steps. A scream is heard from inside the nightingale and I hurry across the street through the rain. The lipstick and the gun are in my basket. The thoughts race through my mind, more intense than before: those who remember must perish. Those who remember must perish. One down. Four to go.
Author's End note: I promise more logic and thoughts of a killer in later chapters.
By garnetcloak
Author's Note: I in no way claim to own any of the Big-O characters. I never have, I never will. They belong to their respected and worshipped creators. Don't sue me please, I don't have too much too offer, although I'm sure my parents would be more than happy to put me into slave labor.
Chapter One
"He not busy being born is busy dying." –Bob Dylan
These orders have rung through me ears since I have existed. These thoughts have raced through my mind. These emotions have pulsated through my veins. One simple phrase: Those who remember must perish.
I stalk stealthily through the street to my destination; The Nightingale. I creep around the side of the nightclub and pull my red cape closer to me. I sashay up the stairs and open the door. I hurry silently into the nightclub. The pleasant tones of the piano's melodies and harmonies, white keys and black keys rush over me. My ears have already learned to distinguish the notes. I am in the dressing room wing. I see Ellen Weight's room at the end of the hallway. She's on the list. A voice catches my ear. There are two women having a conversation inside one of the rooms.
"Mike's proposed to Ellen tonight. They're engaged!" One woman says.
"When's the wedding? She has to invite all us girls to come; we'll be dying to see those two finally settle down. Does this mean she'll be quitting the business?" The second says.
"Yes, it wouldn't be appropriate if Mike, an owner of a big company like that, had a showgirl for a wife."
I listen to them for a moment longer. Ellen Weight's been remembering things. That's why I'm here. I walk quietly down the hallway to Ellen's Room. I open the door. She's not in here. I walk up to her vanity. I pick up a rube of blood red lipstick, the color of my cloak, and turn it up a bit. I write on the mirror in simple capital letters "CAST IN THE NAME OF GOD, YE NOT GUILTY", as I have been instructed to do by Alex Rosewater. I roll the lipstick back down and place the tube in my pocket. I hear the handle of the door turning. I jump into a closet. Ellen stumbles into the room in a drunken state. She collapses into her stool backwards. I pull my gun out of the basket. The click is heard; I step from the closet and shoot her straight in the heart. I dash out the door and hurry down the steps. A scream is heard from inside the nightingale and I hurry across the street through the rain. The lipstick and the gun are in my basket. The thoughts race through my mind, more intense than before: those who remember must perish. Those who remember must perish. One down. Four to go.
Author's End note: I promise more logic and thoughts of a killer in later chapters.