Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"You're nothing but a klutz! An uncouth, stupid klutz!"
Ash silently wondered how someone who frequently used Japanese terms to substitute for English ones and in general deemed detailed knowledge of the English language as "unnecessary" came to know a phrase like "uncouth klutz".
Outwardly, however, he remained silent. When Miss Matsumoto was on a rant there was no stopping her. At least THAT he had learned in the past few months.
If nothing else, apparently.
"I am in rhythm with the music now", he cautiously dared to point out.
"The very least one can expect!", she thundered.
"Seriously, grab my butt and lift me up", Christina snapped at him, impatient as always.
Ash took a deep breath and tried again.
"Try" remained the operative word.
"While you lift her up she must spread her arms like… like…" Mrs. Matsumoto was getting lost in a sea of English vocabulary again "…tsubasa… wings! I want her arms spread like wings, but you're holding her so unsteadily, so shaky, she resembles people drowning!"
She was right. Ash could see it in the large mirrors of the gym where they were practicing lifts. He did look like a klutz.
What was even worse, he was making Christina look like a klutz.
And they hadn't even made it onto the ice yet.
How the hell had Andrew managed this shit? Geeky, nerdy, no-date-at-Autumn Ball Andrew?
As he exited the gym that evening, Ash wondered if that was it. If he would have to call it quits.
Without the lifts, their performance would be completely worthless.
After all the yelling, humiliation and GOD DAMN HARD work.
He kicked a garbage can on the sidewalk so hard, he left a dent in the metal.
His Dad was home again from Texas. What was he supposed to tell him when he asked him how his figure skating training was going?
… … …
In the light of the fact that Ilsa had saved his life, Sean Walding was more than willing to give them all the info they needed on the paramilitary group that was after their client. It also helped that he had witnessed firsthand how effectively the team worked together. He trusted them when they told him they'd make sure that group would never threaten him again.
His confidence wasn't betrayed.
Their original client, predictably, complained that it had taken them so long to sort out the matter.
Equally predictably when he got home he found himself in the focus of a tax investigation. Someone had given the IRS an anonymous tip.
And also generously provided them with some very concrete hints as to where he had hidden his illicit earnings.
"I only fulfilled my duty as an upright citizen", Guerrero told Ilsa, shrugging his shoulders with a look on his face that even a blind man wouldn't have let pass as innocent.
… … …
One should think "mass murderers" and "serial killers" are one and the same, but nothing could be further from the truth. Mass murderers usually harbor the dream of going down in a "blaze of glory", they either expect getting killed by the police or choose to commit suicide before apprehension.
Serial killers, on the other hand, try to outsmart the police and aim at keeping on killing as long as possible, sometimes for years – take the San Franciscan Zodiac killer for example. Despite all efforts, police never managed to find him. He's maybe still out there!
Mass murderers often act spontaneously or with very little preparation. The school shootings of Columbine present an exception from the rule here. Killing sprees mostly resemble an "explosion of personality" – years and years of perceived humiliation, bottled-up anger or simply delusion break out in one giant thunderstorm of wrath.
In contrast to that serial killers most often lead a "Jekyll & Hyde"-existence: Family fathers, friendly neighbors, caring nurses by day, they turn into ruthless murderers by night, practicing killing as a sport, to experience feelings of power, sexual arousal or control.
Revenge plays a part in both types of killers, but while mass murders usually target random victims, serial killer have a very distinct predator-prey system, based on negative experiences with ethnic groups, occupations, environments.
Timothy Heathen, the man who almost turned Solemnstone Festival into a deathtrap for hundreds, however, is hard to categorize. He shows elements of both categories, on the one hand operating very methodically and aiming to evade the police, on the other hand looking to kill as many people as possible on one occasion, no matter what color, gender or social background.
Ilsa winced as the image of Heathen appeared on the TV screen. His face was pixelated and he was on a stretcher. They must have taped this pretty much directly after the electronic infrastructure of the premises had started working again and police and rescue squads had finally gotten the situation under control.
By now Ilsa knew that Heathen would remain permanently paralyzed from the waist down. The blow with the axe handle to his neck had caused serious damage to his spine.
Guerrero lightly slapped her on the thigh. "Don't", he said and Ilsa tried to push the feeling of guilt away that had come washing over her.
He was right.
""I still can't believe we stumbled upon this by accident", Ames remarked, shaking her head at the pictures on the TV screen. "I mean, how big of a coincidence is that? Us ending up right in the middle of the largest mass murder attempt in US history?"
Apparently Heathen, a former research assistant at Texas Tech felt he didn't deserve the rather mediocre grading he received for his thesis about crowd dynamics. It seems like he was planning to demonstrate the validity of his argumentation in a literally true-to-life way.
"Life is full of coincidences", Winston sighed. He had been calmer in the past few days after their return from Texas, but not in a good way. His former anger had turned into resignation. Sadness. Hopelessness.
As pictures from the public ceremony where the mayor had awarded him the city's medal of honor for his heroic intervention under direst circumstances, he got off the sofa and walked away.
Someone else, however, was watching the ceremony very intensely.
"He saved your life with a Christmas song?", the gaunt man asked his daughter, barely twenty years old, who had foolishly decided to take part in that twitter nonsense.
"Without him I'd probably be dead right now", she whispered, still shaken from the events at Solemnstone although already several days had passed.
"Winston…" , her father said thoughtfully. "As in Michele Winston…"
His daughter looked at him, expecting him to explain his words, but he lapsed into silence.
This was a dangerous matter. Innokentij didn't take kindly to snitches.
But it wouldn't really be snitching, would it?
It would more be like paying back a debt.
To a man who had saved his daughter.
He needed to think about this.