She got picky about her prey right about the same time she grew a
conscience. Whenever possible, she preferred to eat the evil, free-range
evil she called them. Mara didn't exactly read minds; she received
impressions of the person's primary thoughts, and, with some digging, could
assess pretty well the person's orientation towards the concepts of good
and evil. She wasn't interested in morality, but when she found inside the
person a need to destroy, it was easier to kill that person. Agents fit the
bill; their main purpose was to destroy. Serial killers, assassins, anyone
who enjoyed devastation was a peachy pick.
There were several sure-fire ways to find the people and programs she preferred to kill, unfortunately, she was too weak to take on any but the least challenging. The battered women's shelter was a good place to start, or, she could run a search for local sex offenders. It had made her laugh when she had first seen them listed, pictures, names and addresses, in the paper. It seemed so much like a menu.
"Provincetown Women's Shelter. Here we go." Mara called the number and asked if they could help her. She made up an abusive husband, and secured a spot for the night. "This place is a wreck. I'm a wreck. Shit." Mara showered, dressed in jeans, t-shirt and Birkenstocks then called another maid service, described the filth, then pre-paid with a credit card listed under the name Bob Saunders. "Hell, I even left a big tip on the dresser." She said as she closed the door.
Mara left her car, took the bus to the shelter. A Yellow Super Bee is not a discreet vehicle. Once there, it was easy. Most women liked to hug, especially if you looked as banged up as Mara made herself look, so it was pretty easy to gather the information on potential prey. She had altered her appearance to give herself two black eyes, one nearly swollen shut, and a variety of cuts and bruises all over her body. The rotten part is that the damage wasn't just cosmetic; she felt the way she looked. It wasn't a holographic image when she changed; it was as close to real as the Matrix came.
Next morning she had a short list of men who would kill their wives if they had the chance. She'd know for sure when she touched them herself, but the impressions she had received from the women showed men who enjoyed causing pain. She could do this.
It was a non-descript house on a trash-strewn street. The woman's memories showed the man sleeping late every day, and a window in the back of the house that wouldn't lock. Mara cut the screen and slipped quietly inside the house. Once inside, she slipped a clear plastic rain poncho over her head and smoothed it over her shirt and jeans. She'd picked the worst of the abusers for the first kill. The woman had been covered with cigarette burns, razor cuts and fist sized bruises. This one was a shoo-in for evil.
Mara slipped into the bedroom. She saw the man from the woman's memory, and thought how curious that even the most evil person relaxes into an appearance of innocence when they are asleep. Mara thought about a straight razor, and the straight razor slowly and painfully appeared in her hand. She walked quietly up to the sleeping man, grabbed his head by the hair, yanked back his neck, held the straight razor to his throat, checked his memory in a split-second, and then slit his throat. He thrashed a bit, his throat pumping out blood until the heart stopped. She felt the rush of power from the kill. It felt good.
Mara leaned against the dresser, pulled her rain poncho over her head and tossed it on the bed. She stood completely still, stared at the body of the man as it lay in a pool of rapidly congealing blood. Finally, she closed his eyes and left.
"Can't be helped," she whispered to herself as she walked down the dirty street lined with broke down cars and oil stains. At the last rush of death she had seen a memory of the man's pet cat. The last thing he had thought about was who was going to feed his damn cat, "Blister. Who's going to feed Blister?"
" Shit. Why can't the evil just be evil? Fuck," Mara said.
Later that evening Mara drove down the highway towards the next town. The radio blared out Rage Against the Machine's "Calm Like a Bomb." Six kills in one day. She'd done them all the same way, in the same body. The authorities would be looking for a thirty something white male with a tattoo of a dragon on his left forearm and a scar on his right cheek. She tried to make sure the bodies she wore for her crimes were distinctive so no one would be unfairly convicted for a crime she'd committed. The highway stretched on and on, it would take forever for her to get home.
There were several sure-fire ways to find the people and programs she preferred to kill, unfortunately, she was too weak to take on any but the least challenging. The battered women's shelter was a good place to start, or, she could run a search for local sex offenders. It had made her laugh when she had first seen them listed, pictures, names and addresses, in the paper. It seemed so much like a menu.
"Provincetown Women's Shelter. Here we go." Mara called the number and asked if they could help her. She made up an abusive husband, and secured a spot for the night. "This place is a wreck. I'm a wreck. Shit." Mara showered, dressed in jeans, t-shirt and Birkenstocks then called another maid service, described the filth, then pre-paid with a credit card listed under the name Bob Saunders. "Hell, I even left a big tip on the dresser." She said as she closed the door.
Mara left her car, took the bus to the shelter. A Yellow Super Bee is not a discreet vehicle. Once there, it was easy. Most women liked to hug, especially if you looked as banged up as Mara made herself look, so it was pretty easy to gather the information on potential prey. She had altered her appearance to give herself two black eyes, one nearly swollen shut, and a variety of cuts and bruises all over her body. The rotten part is that the damage wasn't just cosmetic; she felt the way she looked. It wasn't a holographic image when she changed; it was as close to real as the Matrix came.
Next morning she had a short list of men who would kill their wives if they had the chance. She'd know for sure when she touched them herself, but the impressions she had received from the women showed men who enjoyed causing pain. She could do this.
It was a non-descript house on a trash-strewn street. The woman's memories showed the man sleeping late every day, and a window in the back of the house that wouldn't lock. Mara cut the screen and slipped quietly inside the house. Once inside, she slipped a clear plastic rain poncho over her head and smoothed it over her shirt and jeans. She'd picked the worst of the abusers for the first kill. The woman had been covered with cigarette burns, razor cuts and fist sized bruises. This one was a shoo-in for evil.
Mara slipped into the bedroom. She saw the man from the woman's memory, and thought how curious that even the most evil person relaxes into an appearance of innocence when they are asleep. Mara thought about a straight razor, and the straight razor slowly and painfully appeared in her hand. She walked quietly up to the sleeping man, grabbed his head by the hair, yanked back his neck, held the straight razor to his throat, checked his memory in a split-second, and then slit his throat. He thrashed a bit, his throat pumping out blood until the heart stopped. She felt the rush of power from the kill. It felt good.
Mara leaned against the dresser, pulled her rain poncho over her head and tossed it on the bed. She stood completely still, stared at the body of the man as it lay in a pool of rapidly congealing blood. Finally, she closed his eyes and left.
"Can't be helped," she whispered to herself as she walked down the dirty street lined with broke down cars and oil stains. At the last rush of death she had seen a memory of the man's pet cat. The last thing he had thought about was who was going to feed his damn cat, "Blister. Who's going to feed Blister?"
" Shit. Why can't the evil just be evil? Fuck," Mara said.
Later that evening Mara drove down the highway towards the next town. The radio blared out Rage Against the Machine's "Calm Like a Bomb." Six kills in one day. She'd done them all the same way, in the same body. The authorities would be looking for a thirty something white male with a tattoo of a dragon on his left forearm and a scar on his right cheek. She tried to make sure the bodies she wore for her crimes were distinctive so no one would be unfairly convicted for a crime she'd committed. The highway stretched on and on, it would take forever for her to get home.