Post by Titus Vere on Oct 3, 2009 2:34:09 GMT -6
There was no such thing as privacy in the Top. Your movements were always tracked by cameras, and there were always guards placed every so carefully along the streets, just out of sight. But if you were born into it, you didn't notice the surveillance. Just as fish didn't notice water unless they forced into air, Titus had been much the same until he began venturing into the Below and discovering places where cameras were stolen as soon as they were mounted, and districts where the police refused to go to unless they were in full riot gear.
Now he couldn't walk in public without noticing how he was watched. It was a game to try not get caught on camera, to look for blind spots and take advantage of them, to pass by guards while their backs were turned. He really wanted to try killing sometime, but he wasn't stupid and knew even the best planning wouldn't save him if something went wrong and he miscalculated the size of the blind spot, or how much of a fight a guard would put up. For now, he would have to stick to professional paid kills. The government was willing to shut down the cameras and have the guards all go on break if it was to their mutual benefit. The only place Titus could express himself was in the Below.
At this moment, he was getting a suit tailored. Titus didn't need another suit, but he had an image to keep up, and that image required him to waste time in public while he was measured. Most people got their clothes fit by machines, but when you really had money, the kind of money that you inheritance from rich, dead parents, you went to see a tailor that measured you with tape and decided on the cut and style with his eye, not a scanner. And this would be an alibi for later, if they found his kill. Time of death was a difficult thing to fudge, but Titus had his methods, and when they found the body in the Below, it was best they decided he had perished now, and not three hours earlier when Titus had been missing from all the cameras.
It was also giving him a chance to look up into the man whose career Titus had just boosted with the death of Judge Prado. Alaric Bastian was getting his own suit, though he had already been measured. The suit, mostly done, was being fitted and more measurements and adjustments were being made. And Titus was watching him carefully from the corner of his eye.
Bastian was handsome in his own way, and Titus could almost feel the charm oozing out of him. He was very professional, and Titus had no doubts he would get that Council position he desired. But just watching him, watching the way he moved, the way he held himself, Titus also knew he was as corrupt and sleazy as every other politician. His charm was too high to be natural, and it cracked in places, a little too flattering, a little too sincere. Men of real power would recognize falseness when they saw it and given a choice between Bastian and Prado, they would have taken Prado any day of the week. Without the choice, they would take Bastain and his charm over any other less inspired choice. Titus had seen the other men gearing up to run for the seat, and uninspired was a choice description.
Titus wasn't sure why Digeo wasn't running. He knew that d'Asola craved power, but so far his ex-guardian had made no move to run for the position. There was no one who would oppose d'Asola, or at least, no one who would live beyond a week. But perhaps that was part of the problem. People were very respectful to assassins, very polite, and very willing to help. But they didn't much like shaking your hand or asking about your work, especially once they were past the age of thirty. Then morality started to press down on them, and death became a taboo thing, an issue to be avoided at all costs.
Titus' 'friends', if you could even call them that, were fascinated by Titus' work. But they also hung back from him. There were the rumours that Titus heard snippets of now and again, always said when they thought Titus couldn't hear them. But he'd heard them, standing around the corner, listening to whisper like they were telling a ghost story-
he killed his own parents you know. cops found him and his face was covered in blood. i've seen the police report and they said there were bites taken out of them-
"Sir?" The tailor said, interrupting Titus' thoughts. "You're tensing up."
"Sorry." Titus made himself relax, thinking about other things. The murder this afternoon, and the way the blade had bit into the flesh. It had taken him fifteen minutes to die, and he had screamed and no one had come. Titus had put his clothes in the incinerator when he returned and stood in the shower for half an hour, letting the hot water beat down on his hair until no more blood came of his skin. It was good feeling alive. Good feeling anything at all.
The tailor sighed but said nothing more, continuing to measure Titus' inseam and mark numbers on his eInkr.
Now he couldn't walk in public without noticing how he was watched. It was a game to try not get caught on camera, to look for blind spots and take advantage of them, to pass by guards while their backs were turned. He really wanted to try killing sometime, but he wasn't stupid and knew even the best planning wouldn't save him if something went wrong and he miscalculated the size of the blind spot, or how much of a fight a guard would put up. For now, he would have to stick to professional paid kills. The government was willing to shut down the cameras and have the guards all go on break if it was to their mutual benefit. The only place Titus could express himself was in the Below.
At this moment, he was getting a suit tailored. Titus didn't need another suit, but he had an image to keep up, and that image required him to waste time in public while he was measured. Most people got their clothes fit by machines, but when you really had money, the kind of money that you inheritance from rich, dead parents, you went to see a tailor that measured you with tape and decided on the cut and style with his eye, not a scanner. And this would be an alibi for later, if they found his kill. Time of death was a difficult thing to fudge, but Titus had his methods, and when they found the body in the Below, it was best they decided he had perished now, and not three hours earlier when Titus had been missing from all the cameras.
It was also giving him a chance to look up into the man whose career Titus had just boosted with the death of Judge Prado. Alaric Bastian was getting his own suit, though he had already been measured. The suit, mostly done, was being fitted and more measurements and adjustments were being made. And Titus was watching him carefully from the corner of his eye.
Bastian was handsome in his own way, and Titus could almost feel the charm oozing out of him. He was very professional, and Titus had no doubts he would get that Council position he desired. But just watching him, watching the way he moved, the way he held himself, Titus also knew he was as corrupt and sleazy as every other politician. His charm was too high to be natural, and it cracked in places, a little too flattering, a little too sincere. Men of real power would recognize falseness when they saw it and given a choice between Bastian and Prado, they would have taken Prado any day of the week. Without the choice, they would take Bastain and his charm over any other less inspired choice. Titus had seen the other men gearing up to run for the seat, and uninspired was a choice description.
Titus wasn't sure why Digeo wasn't running. He knew that d'Asola craved power, but so far his ex-guardian had made no move to run for the position. There was no one who would oppose d'Asola, or at least, no one who would live beyond a week. But perhaps that was part of the problem. People were very respectful to assassins, very polite, and very willing to help. But they didn't much like shaking your hand or asking about your work, especially once they were past the age of thirty. Then morality started to press down on them, and death became a taboo thing, an issue to be avoided at all costs.
Titus' 'friends', if you could even call them that, were fascinated by Titus' work. But they also hung back from him. There were the rumours that Titus heard snippets of now and again, always said when they thought Titus couldn't hear them. But he'd heard them, standing around the corner, listening to whisper like they were telling a ghost story-
he killed his own parents you know. cops found him and his face was covered in blood. i've seen the police report and they said there were bites taken out of them-
"Sir?" The tailor said, interrupting Titus' thoughts. "You're tensing up."
"Sorry." Titus made himself relax, thinking about other things. The murder this afternoon, and the way the blade had bit into the flesh. It had taken him fifteen minutes to die, and he had screamed and no one had come. Titus had put his clothes in the incinerator when he returned and stood in the shower for half an hour, letting the hot water beat down on his hair until no more blood came of his skin. It was good feeling alive. Good feeling anything at all.
The tailor sighed but said nothing more, continuing to measure Titus' inseam and mark numbers on his eInkr.