Tricks of the Trade

No leads yet as to the origin of the notebook. I have quietly spoken to a few of my regulars, asked them to start putting out new feelers for me. We'll see what comes of that in the coming days.

Today, I had a mildly annoying encounter with an informant. By mildly annoying, I mean I had to fuck him stupid to get what I wanted. By informant, I mean my connect for green, Ant. Ant barely managed to escape his Mafia ties a few years ago, and the only story I could get from him involved some very vague details about a shoot-out and a warehouse burning down. For my sake, I try not to ask him too many questions.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. But, he's convenient in that he has connections to the vanilla scene's underworld that I can't procure for myself without attracting more attention than I need. So, I bite my tongue, and essentially trade my body in exchange for sanity and protection. I never said my life was pretty.

Every aspect of my life can be explained, at least in part, by the concept of equivalent exchange: a series of exchanges, trades, and bargains with various personal devils and angels. Hell, even one of my contacts for Sanctuary goes by the alias of Angel. With her hip length steel gray hair, piercing electric blue eyes, and her perpetual 'stick up her ass' attitude, I almost do believe the woman has some angel blood. What do I know? It's not like I'm a professional warlock or any some such shit. Oh, that my life were that simple.

I have to consistently juggle questions such as, what do I have to do in order to survive? What can I do to ensure the continued existence of those I care for (and oftentimes, those I would kill, but pay me too well to think too frequently about where my shotguns rest in their varying hiding places throughout the house)? The answers are often ugly, but I have to ask them. If I didn't do this, all would fall to ruin around my ears. Dozens of people without their Sanctuary, or their information broker, or hell, even their friend. I can't let that happen. I have learned to be strong, if not for me, then for them. I bite, scratch, and claw my way through life with the help of liquid courage and happiness brought to me a la Caterpillar style: in a haze of smoke.

I couldn't live my life sober, not with the last dregs of my sanity intact. So what if it took me an entire gram of medical grade to survive the encounter with Ant. I didn't have to pay for it. I got what I needed from him, plus some. I am well-fucked and in a fair enough mood to share (some of) the details of my life.

Most in our fucked up little transient community understand the measures I take to ensure the food in their bellies, the roof over their heads, and the suspiciously well maintained gear and equipment that they bring with them into the field when they leave the confines of Sanctuary. I hear the occasional 'whore' or 'manipulative cunt' remarks, but I take them in stride as compliments. I'm used to people whispering about me and suddenly stopping when I enter a room. Like I don't know what my life looks like from the outside. Like I don't know the rumors better than they do. My followers would be better off just sitting down and gossiping with me, because I happen to know all the best rumors.. and which ones are true.

As I lay flat on my back as Ant thrust into my body, I floated on a cloud far away from my body, musing on the events of my life. I came to the realization that much work lay ahead of me, such as the contacts I needed to resume contact with.. assuming any of them are alive. (Getting back into what we jokingly refer to as the Fearverse is an all in or nothing measure in the supernatural crowd. You either reach out to as many as you can in hopes of dodging the next strike and surviving to the next day, or you keep your mouth shut and run).

Clearly, I've put down too many stakes into this land this time to run. I'm certainly not capable of shutting up once I decide to start talking again, as has been proven time and time again. Measures have to be taken to ensure my neutrality policy. Mages contacted, drug runners set up to procure what I need to handle the eccentric personalities of those I will run into, a new permanent position to establish for a cook, and the issue of grocery procurement. A thousand small errands to juggle and designate to my 'house guests.'

Busy, busy I shall be. As Loretta Young once said, 'a charming woman is a busy woman.'

My informant was kind enough to play music as we fucked, to enable my ability to continue to the end. After a certain.. incident.. that occurred while I was still active with the Bureacracy (the formal name for the corporation-esque chain of command for the Proxies), I became bitter towards the sound of music for a couple of years. Gradually, though, music slowly took over my life as a security blanket. I would feel less alone as it played, to the point where it plays through speakers or ear buds at virtually every moment of my life. David inadvertently provided me with a vital coping mechanism with his efforts. I must remind myself to thank him for that one day, or possibly TMV if his husband is missing again.

Afterwards, I ate like it was my last meal. Three pieces of king cake, an entire pot of doctored macaroni and cheese, a sleeve of Ritz crackers as we waited for the water to boil, and eventually a couple of hamburgers and a coke. Enough food to feed three people and create a spike in blood sugar to cause the healthiest man an ER visit, was just enough to rescue my blood sugar from plummeting into a crash. When I got home, I proceeded to eat half a bag of chips, a fully loaded hot dog, and another three cokes.

I am not physiologically set up the same way as the average person, and take enough calories to survive to boggle the mind. It doesn't help that I've been borderline starving for the past few weeks, as Sanctuary (my hostel) has been rationing food to make it through the winter. One meal a day can get you through, but when you encounter a plethora of food, you eat like a dying person. Period.

Sanctuary's guard, Thomas, tipped his head to me as I shakingly made my way through the house to find a lighter. He inquired as to my health, and proceeded to initiate a text conversation as to my recent activities. It is his job to ensure our overall physical safety, so each encounter with outsiders draws his attention.  He knows more than most any 5 men or women do about my day to day activities; he has to. Needless to say, he was very upset to learn of the notebook's appearance.

My personal safety is directly tied to that of the others.

A middle aged man of medium build with salt and pepper hair and permanent laugh lines adorning his face, his presence doesn't immediately inspire fear to outsiders. Their mistake. That man, once upon a time, was an enforcer and meth cook for the drug cartels in four states. Broken bodies and cold cases follow that man everywhere he goes, but I don't mind. He is dedicated to my service after I saved a few of his relatives from poverty and relative ruin several times over the last decade.

His normal light mood darkened as I finally admitted to him the shadows that began to snake through the bedroom during my earlier meeting. He knew that without saying that it is nearly time for my annual meeting with the Hollow Man. (I refuse to call him by the media's name for him, it's ridiculous). This means I will be watched for the next few days, and show my consent to meet with him in the woods that border my land.

Then, I must report my actions and withstand his 'fun' little tortures at the hands of his shadows. His blank stare piercing me as he watches me inquisitively to see if, this year, I will finally break for him. I never do, and he knows this. Each year I survive and meddle in his affairs, I slowly grow more immune to his darkness, and more of his features begin to haunt the supposedly featureless plane of his face. Last year, I swear I saw his eyes sparkle as I screamed for him with blood running down my arms to drip to the ground. If ever there was a sadist, it would be him.

I have a delicate relationship with those that others have deemed 'the Fears.' They tormented my every waking moment as a teenager, but I apparently survived long enough to pass their sick tests. Some, I see as borderline friends. Others, as hated acquaintances I speak to with great reluctance and caution.

In the beginning of Sanctuary's creation, my involvement understandably worried my visitors. How can someone with ties to Them claim neutrality? After a fateful encounter with the Wooden Girl stringing me up from the ceiling, upside down by dulled piano wire, my screaming my head off as she cooed her sweet nothings in my ear, my visitors began slacking off in their condemnations. Word of mouth is a powerful thing.

We must increase security and begin the process of gearing up for war, just in case. I need to contact my lover. He will be very displeased with me if he walks into a war zone without being notified first. Mental note to self, get some anesthetic and bandages before he visits. I'll need them in the off chance he's feeling frisky.

That's it for now. One of my regulars, Xeraxios, is in the living room bitching about the quality of his haircut at the hands of our resident housekeeper (we fondly refer to her as the Bitch). I must interfere before their antagonizing reaches critical levels and doors get slammed. I do so hate replacing hinges.

Don't Trip Down The..

At most, I could be considered a neutral party with good intentions. If you live long enough in the world these days, you learn that all things are not black and white. Everyone lives in shades of gray, they just don't advertise their wrong-doings to the world. I mean, who does? You'd have to be a fool to consider blemishing your reputation out of some misguided attempt at moral honesty.

Well.. I am a fool. I will tell the world in the same breath that I've had to steal food to survive, that I do ithat I gave a homeless man my last $5 last Tuesday so HE could eat. People have to survive, and often times what we have to do to ensure that survival isn't pretty. Life, itself, isn't all love hope and rainbows, though once upon a time I did believe so.

My name, for those of you that haven't met me yet, is Dia. I run a hostel of sorts, for those that have no other safe place to go. At all times, there are at least half a dozen people camping in my home or on my land. The kind of people that are running from their personal demons, their past, or even worse the kind of demons most people can't see. I charge the ones that can afford it, and put the rest to work.

Everyone is capable of labor: be it emotional, helping out their neighbors when they're afraid and feeling alone; be it mental, teaching those around them how to survive out in the cold when every twig breaking sounds like the next attack; or physical, fixing the things that mysteriously break in the middle of the night, cooking what food we can muster up so no one goes to bed hungry, or building new features onto the land so that more may visit without having to camp in a tent to survive.

I don't want to give the wrong impression, none of us are what you'd call rich, not even me. I lose more money helping the survivors than they could possibly be of benefit to me, but I can't bring myself to turn them away. 

The sneakthieves, the swindlers, and the suspiciously well off are just as welcome in my home as the beggars. Their scams and plans keep us afloat in the times no one else can pitch in.

Most don't stay for more than a few days. Some don't even speak beyond a text message alerting me to their arrival and a text message alerting me to their departures. Others come for a few hours, to take stock of their personal inventory and catch a few zzz's in the warmth before they start 'traveling' again.

I don't mind. I've become the equivalent of a very fucked up den mother, and their presence helps keep the nightmares at bay. There are occasions where the supplemental income of my visitors helped keep the roof over all our heads, when my 'side jobs' aren't enough to pay the bills.

Don't get me twisted. I enforce an incredibly strict code of conduct for anyone that steps foot on my land. All previous grudges, battles, beefs, animosities, or claimed 'sides' to the supernatural battle are suspended once they become one of my 'flock.' Petty squabbles are sent over the property lines: I don't frankly care who does what outside of my tiny jurisdiction. 

More serious offenses, however..

Those are met with hostility and violence. I make no secret of who I've been or what I am capable of. Minor offenses are harshly reprimanded and result in steep fines or food procural. 

Heavier offenses, such as theft, dishonesty, or deliberate withholding of information that could save a life, those are met with a crowbar to the knee, a la Joker style. The worst offenses, such as violence towards another visitor or the baiting of traps to lead towards the incarceration or death of my visitors.. 

Well, I'll be honest. There are more than a few unmarked graves on my land, filled with the bodies of those whose heads I've blown off with a 12gauge shotgun. I feel no remorse for their deaths. They knew the price of disobeying the tenets of my home.

Why am I explaining all this to you? Well, dear reader, I was once much more involved in the supernatural community than I am now. I've changed names and property titles more than most have changed jobs. It's necessary to keep ahead of those that have decided they want my head on a pike.

I've successfully been able to stay three steps ahead of the game for approximately five years.. until today. 

Today, I found an object lying on my bedspread after I got home from work that I haven't seen in six years: the Gatherer notebook I kept while I was still employed by the 'darker side.'

Gatherers, for those that don't know, are basically sleeper agents that gather information on the 'light side' by pretending to be survivors, that feed said information to Procurerers or Berserkers. Depending on how valuable or dangerous to their cause you are, this information can lead to your kidnapping or violent death.

Yes, yes, I used to be one of these people. I'm not proud of it, but I don't feel guilty either. The skills I gleaned during my time of employ have saved more lives than I can ever count. My 'kill count' is lower than my 'save count.' Thus, the scales are tilted favorably towards me.

Before I formally 'ran,' I had a meeting with a very cranky individual known as the Messenger (or as I liked to call him to annoy him, Messi). He was a techy Gatherer, with a permanent chip on his shoulder and bags under his eyes. I won't go into what happened to him yet, that's a story for another day, but suffice to say I had my reasons. At the end of my meeting, I bequeathed to him my most prized and dangerous object:

You guessed it. The very same notebook, innocently lying on my bed, as if it never left my hands. Inside this notebook is a copious amount of information, including: my real name, privileged information on both Runners and Proxies (the official names for those on each side of the war), and my true kill count. This notebook was meant to be released to the community at large upon the event of my death, past the time I would care about the consequences of my actions. I wanted to be remembered, selfishly, despite my many crimes.

The notebook was supposed to be kept in monitored storage, locked away from prying eyes for many years to come. I'm not sure how the notebook fell out of Messi's hands, but you can be rest assured heads are going to roll.

Because this time, I'm not running. I'm not a Runner anymore. I'm a Survivor, with a truckload of stories to tell you guys.

But for now? Whoever left this, warning received. It's time to watch my back and start profiling people again. If I had a guess, The Great Game is about to come sprawling onto my doorstep.

I'll be ready this time.