I jerked myself away from the screen, chagrined but 
unsurprised. The computer screen flashed three separate error 
messages, each of which notified me of a different malady 
somewhere in the program. I tried to escape from them one at a 
time, but each--with a mouse click or carriage return--popped 
back up again. Rather than try to solve the problem with a more 
in-depth analysis of the program, I gave up. I held control + alt 
and hit the delete button.

The screen flashed, then slowly rose on the startup image. I 
closed my eyes and massaged the temples at their edges. The 
program I was trying to debug was  designed to accept data from a 
disk or a mass spectrometer, convert it into a database, then 
automatically analyze it. Of  everyone in the entire laboratory, I 
was the one with the most  time to dedicate to a computer and the 
least experience with either a mass spectrometer or a deuterium 
database: all and nil, respectively. The 
program was constructed by one of the 
world's foremost authorities on hydrogen isotopes in water, but 
he had designed it for himself. Anyone else who wanted to use 
his program had to be adept at picking his brain. By this point I 
thought that I had picked it into about a million pieces, but 
could very well have another million to go. 

I slurped some water from my Starbucks mug (everyone in the 
office thought I was a junkie, when in reality I was a choirboy), 
then lurched up from my seat to visit the loo. On my way down 
the hall I ran into my boss. I decided to 
have a word with her, even though a morbid fear of the unknown 
consequence of an impromptu meeting weighted me. "Candice..."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid the program still isn't working. I think some of the 
system driver software isn't installed properly, but I'll need to 
get in touch with Reston about it."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Uh, I've also been poking around on the 'Net for search 
engine software, and I think I've found a couple of programs 
that might work. I'll keep you posted."

"That's fine. I'd like it if you could make the program your top 
priority. We've already been working on it for a year..."

I winced, self-consciously. One of the reasons she had hired me, 
a year ago, was to get this program up and running. I was 
indirectly part of the reason we were so far behind schedule. I 
wasn't qualified to work with program "guts", so all I could do to 
debug on my end was work and work and hope that something 
went wrong. I live across the 
San Francisco Bay and (as a student) couldn't make it over all the 
time. I hadn't been pressing enough with the people who worked 
the computer system, or I could have been telecommuting. It's one 
of my faults, my hyperexaggerated sense of responsibility. That's 
part of what drives me to kill people, the benefit of the whole 
rather than my own personal safety. The catharsis of doing some 
thing so wrong and yet so right.

"...so, if we could just get it up and running, that would be 
wonderful."

"I'll get on top of it, Candice." I always say that. And I will tie 
myself up in knots trying to get it done. But I had won every fight that
I had at this job, I saw progress on some front or the other 
each day. It's part of what kept me there.

I also regarded the job as an issue of personal pride. My boss 
probably wouldn't have gotten this project underway if it hadn't 
been for me. As I saw it, I had made a difference, and I should 
keep up at it. I really did like the work. I was good at it, it was 
generally straightforward. It was time consuming, though; and I 
was the only one around with time. I could handle it. I had to 
handle it.

I walked down the corridor to the men's room, nodding  hellos 
to my co-workers. The loneliness of my job was the thing that 
saddened me the most. I sat alone in a room all day, just myself 
and the computers. One of the lab techs shared my room , but he 
was in the lab all day. I had nobody to chat with, or joke around 
with, or just ask the time of day from. In contrast, my other job 
provided me with all the kinship I needed.

I pushed open the door, and washed my hands at the sink. 
"When'll this stupid program get up and working?" I asked 
aloud. There was nobody to answer. There was only the black 
hat on my head.
--
I took my hat off my head and ran my hand through my long 
brown hair. A little rain from the night clouds would give it a 
sheen, just the thing to add the final note of coolness to my 
image. If there was one thing I knew from my job, how well you 
did depended on how _smoothly_ you operated.

I put my hat back on my head and glanced at my reflection in the 
darkened window of a pawnshop. Most of my clothing was 
black; the only things visible were my face and some of the 
splotches of my urban camouflage jacket. The speckle raindrops 
repeated my image a thousand times across the windowpane. I 
thought about myself 
as a disembodied head, a Fury, going to hunt a wrongdoer. 
"Ready?"

"Ready," she replied. My hat wasn't visible, either.

"Well, then, let's be on our way." I slipped my hat onto my 
head, adjusted my jacket's collar, donned my glasses, then 
slipped into the alleyway.

I emerged into the outer ring of hell. The masses before me, I 
knew like a necromancer, were simply animated meat, each 
valued only for the weight of their bodies or their pocketbooks. I 
slouched slightly and let my hands drop to my sides; and within 
the space of  a moment I was simply an anonymous entity, 
shambling among shamblers in the street. My outer layer of 
clothing--urban camouflage jacket, torn black denim jeans over 
thermal leggings, tennis shoes with mismatched laces--was 
selected not to attract attention, yet let me stand out as a mover 
in the right circles. My weapons merely served as a warning--for 
the moment--to back off.

I gritted my teeth and hoped that I wouldn't be pegged until I got 
to my destination. My eyes could give me away, though. Only 
someone looking to die would be oblivious to their 
surroundings here; but everyone was looking to die, and those 
who weren't were killed as soon as they gave it away. My night 
vision specs (2x illumination) gave me a slight edge: their 
mirrors didn't betray my mask and disguised the functions they 
supported. I stole a few furtive glances around me. A junkie was 
being beaten to death by a street gang at three o'clock, best not to 
intervene. At eight, an ethanol truck, with a group of heavily 
armed cyborgs, was fighting its way through the crowd. 
"Gearheads!" I yelled at them. It wasn't a strong enough epithet 
to provoke them, but it would be awkward if I didn't say 
anything--after all, they WERE driving, and I had to walk. It's a 
question of honor, in the eyes of those who have none to spare.

"Tail at six," Fiona whispered. I gave my head a slight horizontal 
twitch to let her know I heard, then began finding my way over 
to the sidewalk. I picked up my pace. "She's closing. She knows 
you know."

I stepped up onto the sidewalk and turned my back to a massive 
concrete block with a sphere and two human hands on it-- 
Factory artwork. You ALWAYS have something up against your 
ass when you stop in the inner circles, or you 
quickly have something UP your ass. Fiona had been right: a 
middle aged (27?) hooker, with a long blond wig and all 
cybernetic limbs, was approaching. She was dressed in a pink 
skirt, pink fishnet stockings, pink boots, and most of a pink top. 
She had a pink tattoo of a rose on her left cheek. 
"Konbanwaaaaa, boyfriend."

"Heyo, hajimemash'te. Whatcha doing, following me like 
that?"

"Whaddaya think? I'm lookin' for some fun." She gave me the 
obligatory wink, and started toying with the top button on her 
skirt. Fiona let out a quiet sigh. Even after a year and three-
quarters, she was not jaded to this job. It was not just her 
prostitution, it was the woman's full wantonness. She was 
clearly on morphine, maybe something else. She also had 
several scars up and down her chest and face, she was anorexic, 
she looked like she hadn't slept (for real sleep) in a month.

I smirked. "I'm lookin' for something, too. Guy name of 
Palermo, you know him?"

The smile ran off her face like the evening rain. "Yeah, I know 
him." She paused. _He's probably her pimp, and she thinks that 
I want to be set up with someone half her age._ A used-up 
whore is a pathetic sight. Maybe I'd get her to the Sisters of 
Mercy if the kill was quick and clean.

"OK," I said. "TS sent me to make a deal with him. Vamanos." 
She had brightened as she realized that I didn't object to her 
personally, or at least her body, and we crossed the street to a two-
story building with 
a bar on the ground level. There were bars on the windows, but I 
noticed that the glass was broken from the inside. This was NOT 
a good sign, if that's what the clientele was like.

The hooker whispered something into the door, then gestured 
for me to come over. She backed away, and I stood on tiptoe to 
look into the peephole. What can I say, I'm short.

I was eye to hole with a single large sensor. "Whoozit?"

"I'm Roethke." It's a classical allusion.

"Who sent you?"

"Tenbon-san. He sent this." I slid a disembodied human finger 
through the hole. Someone on the other side grabbed it. A 
moment later the door swung open, and a full-conversion 
heavy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. As I entered, I smiled 
at the prostitute, still waiting faithfully at the door. Yeah, I'm a 
terrible romantic, but a little hope in this bleak world never did 
anyone harm. I felt her heart rise behind me as the door closed. I 
followed the cyborg's lead.

The bar was a glimpse straight up the devil's anus. The stage 
wasn't in focus because of the smoke and haze, but the noises 
coming from it assured me I didn't want too close a look. Fiona 
might not have been so lucky. Along the bar were things less 
human than pure fungus; not one was fully clothed, not one 
was fully conscious. Raucous laugher that ran in my ears like 
the cries of the schizophrenic filled the room. From somewhere 
to my left one of the waitresses screamed. I burned inside, 
struggling to contain my rage for my own safety.

We passed through the bar proper into a room at the back. It 
contained a rickety staircase that shivered under the weight of 
my guide. I began to mount it carefully, and Fiona broke her 
silence. "I'm still here, Odd. There's three wanted killers 
downstairs, one right by the front door, so a direct exit won't work. 
The side of the building doesn't have a fire escape, but the one 
next door does. Try to get to the roof, then jump across the 
alleyway. It's a running jump, you'll probably make it, but I'd try 
to grab your good knife before you go."

She paused. We were almost to the top. I was going deliberately 
slowly so she could finish. "That woman...she'll get killed 
because she brought you here. There's nothing we can do..."

I thought she was going to cry, so I said, "I know." I addressed 
the tough, since his patience seemed thin. I wanted him to think I 
actually cared about holding him up, and also that I wasn't just 
talking into space. I slipped past him and 
whispered to her, "Be brave, we'll talk about it later."

"If we live."

The entire passageway was painted a lilac blue. I had a bizarre 
sensation of deja vu, like I had been in a hospital ward that was 
painted this color. I dismissed it as natural paranoia, since I 
would be taking my life into my own hands momentarily. I 
glanced behind me at the tough, as if trying to decide whether to 
just barge in or not. I knocked instead. There was a gruff "Come 
in," and I pushed open the door.

The room was dark, lit only from the light of the outside world 
that filtered through the barred windows. There was a man of 
about 30 with a motley patchwork of cybernetics seated on a 
mold-eaten couch. There was a bare table by his side. He had white skin and a 
dirty complexion--clearly a night crawler [night owls are unknown in 
the Scrapyard, and those who operate only at night have a BAD 
reputation]. With him, standing, was another cyborg, perhaps a 
kin to my guide. I stepped inside and offered a formal bow. 
"Palermo."

"Yeah."

"My name is Roethke. I know you by reputation." My greeting 
was somewhat formal and a little more honorific than 
necessary, but I've known hunters who died for not erring on 
the side of caution.

"Glad to hear it. You know what to do." I nodded, and began 
unstrapping my weapons. My chainscythe and catclaws came off 
first, nice and slowly. Then I unzipped my jacket, exposing a tie-
dyed t-shirt over a black turtleneck, and emptied the pockets, 
arranging everything on the table. Armor plates, a pocket knife, 
some small change, a photo of a pin-up girl, a couple of hand 
puzzles. Then I pressed my hands up against a wall and spread 
my legs. The two cyborgs padded me down quickly though 
inefficiently--they simply removed Fiona from my head, they 
didn't think to take a look at her.

I let one of them find a small glass box in my pants pocket. "Oy, 
what's this?"

I immediately began to twitch and tremble. "That--that's my 
suh-suh-suh-stash, man. Gimmie back my stash!"

"Huh?" He looked into the box. There were a few metal 
pellets inside, suspended in oil. "Boss, you wanna take a look at 
this?"

"Naw, forget it." Palermo smiled patronizingly at me and waved 
his hand. "Give the kid his stash back."

"Thanks-thank you--thank you so very much," I giggled, and 
eagerly reached out for the box. _Let him think he's found a 
weak spot..._ "Now, let's do some business."

"I'm all ears. What do you want?"

"Tenbon-san sent me. He--he wanted to get some pretty things 
from you." I would keep up the junkie act for a few more 
minutes, then just use a mannerism occasionally to keep up 
appearances. "He told me you got--"

"Ah, whoa. Stop right there. " Palermo sat up a little straighter 
on the couch and looked at me squarely. "Why would an 
ironman like TS send a newbie shit like you over here?"

_Because the Factory tortured it out of him._ "That's a good 
question. Let me give you a good answer." I very slowly reached 
down and unzipped my fly, and extracted a severed cybernetic 
finger. I walked over to Palermo and gave it to him.

He recognized it. "Why the...what the fuck are you doing with 
TS's finger down your pants?"

I smiled. "He lost a bet. I got the deal. He said, you gotta prove 
your worth your weight in shit. I said, what do I have to do. He 
pulled a knife, I pulled off his finger. He's over at my place right 
now, and a friend of mine is keeping a real good eye on him."

I slipped Fiona onto my head, and she whispered, "OK, the two 
goons haven't even looked at each other. They're eating it up. 
Nice job."

I pushed my luck a little and moved into Palermo's personal 
space. "Now, no disrespect to Tenbon, but he ain't here now. He 
ain't here. Let's deal, you and me make a deal. I got something 
to show you." I reached down the rear of my pants and extracted 
a plastic bag full of white powder. "Cocaine. Pure, refined. You can't 
find stuff this good, this is straight off of Farm 198. I don't 
believe in mixing drugs, but if I duh-duh-duh..."

Palermo smiled broadly. "You're shitting me."

"Nossir. Try it."

"No shit?"

"Heh. Try before you buy."

His eyes almost popped from his head. Forget getting something 
for nothing, even getting a square deal in the Scrapyard is all but 
unheard of. He glanced at the thugs, telling them--watch this 
weirdo. Then he slit open the bag with one of the catclaw's 
points, and dipped a flesh finger into the drug. I hoped he wouldn't be able to 
detect the rohypnol I'd spiked it with. Suggestion to a ravaged mind is 
powerful.

My concerns were unfounded. In a fraction of a second he 
had a generous line laid out, and he sniffed it without any effort. 
He sat bolt upright as soon as it was done; I could watch the rush 
overtaking him. "Wow..."

"Some good shit, huh?"

"Some FINE shit, yeah. Wow."

"So, got something to trade for it?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Rego, get Mister Wrecker the...uh...yeah. Give 
it to him." One of the cyborgs disappeared, and the other one 
looked longingly at the open bag of cocaine on the table. Palermo 
began to laugh. "Wow. Fuckin' shit, Rectum, I mean, yeah. Ho 
my gawd, whooo!"

"It's--it's good, huh? I kinda feel the urge comin' on myself..." 
This would be the first reference I made to my box. That way, 
later on, it wouldn't seem unusual for me to take it out. At this 
point the cyborg returned with a briefcase and set it down for me 
by my chair. "Thanks, uh..."

"Rego," whispered Fiona.

"Rego, right? We appreciate it. You're good guys."

"Yeah. Yeah. Hey, you guys, have a sniff." Palermo pushed a 
smidgen of coke in either one's direction. They eagerly bent over 
to use the drugs.

This was going far better than I had expected. While they were 
distracted I slipped my glasses on and switched to low-band x-
ray. It's flirting with brain cancer, but one, there's enough crap 
around to give it to me, and two, I'll die faster if I don't use the x-ray. 
No booby traps in the briefcase. I slipped it up onto my lap and 
flipped it open. Inside was a variety of very pretty objects--rings, 
pins, chains. I picked out a ring in particular. It was of burnished 
chromium with a large stone set in the middle. I flipped up my 
glasses and took a quick peek at the stone in what little light there 
was. "Is this a genuine garnet?"

"Huh?"

"Garnet? You know, the rock?" Leaving the briefcase 
conspicuously open--it was safe, a junkie can't abuse a stone--I 
looked at Palermo square in the eye. His pupils were seriously 
dilated, and his skin almost looked flushed. "You look seriously 
messed up. I'm thinking I need a fix."

He started to laugh, and staggered off the couch towards a side 
room. I was willing to bet anything it was a bathroom with a 
sink. I followed him, fingering my "stash". "You know, maybe 
we could work up a partnership thing, you know?"

"Ha ha! Heh hee hee, yeah. Great." He wandered in without 
turning on the light, and I could hear water starting to run. He was going to 
splash some water on his face to wake up, just a normal thing to do. On 
my head, Fiona said, "The cyborgs are going for seconds...there 
they go."

It was my cue.

I stepped into the bathroom and threw the glass case as hard as I 
could into the sink. The glass shattered, and the potassium and 
sodium pellets reacted with the water instantly, exploding. The 
oil caught fire, igniting Palermo's clothes and body hair. Before 
his drug-addled mind could react to the pain, I drove an open 
palm onto his left ear. One of his eardrums ruptured, and the 
other side of his head slammed into the wall. The plaster wasn't well 
reinforced, but it did the job--his head left a blood stain in the 
wall, and he slumped down, probably in shock.

In the next room there were grunts of surprise and alarm from 
the body guards. I switched off the night vision function of my 
glasses and said, "Fiona!" She set off a magnesium flare that 
burned bright in the room, brighter than daylight had ever 
shone inside. The guards screamed in pain and moved to cover 
their eyes; but the drugs in their veins could only make them more susceptible 
to the light. While they were distracted, I lunged for my pride and joy--my 
chainscythe.

It was almost exactly as tall as I was. The handle was formed 
from a light ceramic, while the blade was a tough heavy steel. 
The ethanol motor powered a series of diamond-edged 
corundum links--I had paid a good deal to cobble it together, but it was built to 
cut through anything. Of course, in this job, all your weapons come with a 
lifetime guarantee. I primed the motor with the touch of a button, 
throttled it, and plowed through the cyborg bodies in a second. A 
second more and I had cleaved their heads off.

"Odd!" Fiona shrieked. "There's noises coming from 
downstairs, I think someone heard you!"

"Fiona, trust me." I chuckled. I grabbed the bag of cocaine and 
dashed through the door. Sure enough, there were shouts from 
downstairs. I sliced through the top steps and the railing, and the 
staircase collapsed. As an added bonus I dropped the bag of coke 
down to where my pursuers could easily find it. "Tragically, they're only 
human. They'll 
take the dope."

"OddSoul, you're sick."

"I can repent later, but I can only repent while I'm alive." For at 
least the fifth time that evening I squelched my self-hatred. I 
quickly pulled a garbage bag out of my jacket and dumped the 
contents of the suitcase into it. "Is there an attic?"

"Yeah. But you'll have to climb to it. It's by the window." I 
looked beside the rightmost window and saw an open hole into 
the ceiling. There was a good chance there was a way up onto the 
roof; if not, I would have to make my own. "Hustle, Odd Soul."

"I will." I grabbed a catclaw off the table and ran to the bathroom. 
Palermo was there, lying on the floor, his entire front 
smoldering. I let myself feel a moment of pity for him, then I 
sliced off his head. I seized his hair and returned, throwing the 
three heads into the garbage bag. "Fiona, what's that noise 
outside?"

"I don't want to know, Odd."

"Then let's get moving, shall we." I kicked the couch under the 
hole in the ceiling and climbed up onto the arm. It was far from 
steady, but the ceiling was now only just out of reach. I tossed 
the bag and the catclaws up into the hole, then slipped the blade 
of the chainscythe onto the edge. I put my hand on the throttle 
and my foot on the base--miraculously, it held. Thus propped, I 
boosted myself into the hole and pulled the chainscythe up 
behind me. As a final effort to ward off pursuit I dropped a 
second flare down onto the couch. It caught fire instantly.
--
A percentage of my bounty, usually less than 2 %, went 
to an old woman I knew who ran an odds and ends store. You 
could buy all kinds of things there--cast iron objets-d'art, stone 
obelisks, old books, anything that I--in my eccentric frame of 
mind--called "antiquarian". But my 2% went to one commodity 
only, and that was candles, yarn dipped into tallow that had a 
special meaning to me.

I came home from my shopping expedition the afternoon that 
followed my kill. I set Fiona, the silent witness to my pain, upon 
the hat hook (in the shape of a human finger) opposite my door. 
Then I brought out my purchases and entered my sanctuary.

THIS SITE CONSECRATED IN THE NAME OF A HIGHER 
FORCE OR FORCES THAN MYSELF IN THE SIXTH MONTH 
OF MY NINETEENTH YEAR--THE ODD SOUL

Below these words was a small alter, nothing more than an end 
table with a mass of melted wax on top of it. I set the four 
candles--each one to mark a life I had withered with my touch--
on top of the wax, and lit each one. The flames flickered, and the 
words written above the alter were bathed in 
the smoke from the candles. I lay upon the floor and 
stared at the ceiling. I cried, and tried to work the guilt out of me. 
I was still alive, and had the luxury of telling myself that the 
four lives I had ended I didn't HAVE to end. I ended them of my 
own choice, of my own free will. Perhaps, if I were a man of 
more strength, more vision, or simply more idealism, I could 
have stood. I could have rallied people, or institutions, or _someone_, to 
change the terrible ways of the world around me. I could have stood for what I 
believed in, and not 
have had to wallow in hypocrisy merely because of convention and 
my perceived need to survive. Faith, if nothing else, told me 
that it did not have to be this way. The four candles burned.
--
I stood outside the New Kansas, drinking in the night air. It 
wasn't terribly healthy, but it was familiar. It was something 
different from the other smells around me. My chainscythe was on 
a strap across my back. My jacket pocket had a little money to pay 
for my drinks at the bar. Still, I didn't quite feel ready to enter yet.

"The Factory doesn't care about stolen property," Fiona 
muttered. "They didn't accept the jewelry because to them it 
isn't worth anything. It's impractical to use such a small amount of metal. 
What are you going to do with it all?"

I sighed. "Most of it I'll give away. Sisters of Mercy, the Green 
Fund, the Library, there's plenty of charity. They need money. A 
little I'll sell, and use to do favors for my friends. They help keep 
me sane. I think I'll keep one piece for myself."

"As a memento?"

"Yeah. For when I get too cocky." I had made some kind of peace 
with myself, with Fiona's help. She means a lot to me. She is at 
once my morality and my whimsey, and she is so much more in 
my eyes. She is the only one who helps me find my way. "C'mon, 
sounds like someone's in there already."

We descended the steps to the bar.