by Diann Merit
Worse, the lanky figure doing this to him is humming, a soft little tune that Anonymous can’t
put his finger on. Something almost like a lullaby.
The third is an abstract painting, something that he can’t identify at first glance. The
image in front of it is Alphonse seated on a small wooden bench with three legs. He is
carefully cutting and shaping what appears to be paintbrushes. Normal enough until such a
moment that he reaches for more bristles, plucking the hairs straight from a head resting on
the table next to him. He glances at a figure out of the scope of vision, looking for approval
for his work, softly whistling that same tune.
“The depths of human depravity shouldn’t be able to shock me anymore,” Anonymous
whispers to himself.
He can’t take much more of this. Holding his breath and hoping that his stomach will
stop rolling, he makes his way back into the office. It is cold, almost to the point of being
unbearable. He shivers as he sorts through the drawers, looking for something, anything at
all. He finds a stack of letters hidden down inside the box with messages too cryptic to
understand, but the paint brushes underneath it are all too familiar. A small letter id
scribbled in excited words can’t be mistaken—the location of their next target, a girl from
the earlier event that he must have missed entirely. Apparently, she had something that he
was looking for. Alphonse has noted her personal address as well as a list of physical
attributes. They are going to strike again. He needs to get there before them. He should have
been tracking them the whole time, but he has not allowed himself to follow his gut. Now, an
innocent girl might pay for his mistake. He has to get there, and right now.
At least now he knows for certain that Alphonse is both brainwashed and in on the
whole process. Anonymous leaves by the same route that he entered, phoning Hayley on the
way. “I need you to find me the exact location where this painter, Malcolm Glass, is staying
but they might have booked him under the name Alphonse Glass, and I need it now. ”
4
nonymous can’t wait for the information; he doesn’t have time to sit and wait; he
needs to go directly to where he thinks the killer is staying. He is going to have to
A break into this woman's house. How he is going to explain that he will never know,
unless of course, he is too late and then he will just be rescuing the girl. He can only
hope that she isn’t already a canvas by the time he gets there. If in fact he gets there and she
is fine, just annoyed at his intrusion, then he will go straight to wherever they are staying.
Shouldn’t be too hard for Scarlet to find him the information that he needs.
He jogs up the stairs of the apartment building as quickly as his legs will allow. It is easy
to see why they chose this girl. She lives in a building with little to no security to speak of,
and he hasn’t seen nor heard another peep of life coming from the apartment. When he
arrives at her door, it’s already kicked in and half off of the hinges. Without thinking he runs
into the apartment. The air is still, the TV still playing from the living room. The sound of
running water comes from somewhere deep inside. Shower or faucet. It is too early to tell.
It appears to be empty, but he knows that isn’t possible with the door kicked in like that,
and then he hears it. A humming comes from further within the room, and coming into view,
he can see her standing at the foot of her bed. The body that lay atop it was drenched from
the shower, bleeding from a spot on her temple and the man appears to be sketching her. He
is tall and lanky with a greasy mop of dark brown hair curling unkempt on top of his head.
He has to know that they are no longer alone. He is certain of it. The man doesn’t seem to be
bothered whatsoever that he is being watched, or that he isn’t alone.
“I wouldn’t,” he whispers finally, “Lest you wake the beauty . . . and she's being such a
good sport.”
Anonymous is stunned; she clearly isn’t lying that still by choice, and with his shock
over, he moves to grab the body which twists out of the way.
“Uh huh now,” Malcolm Glass giggles, and in that moment Anonymous had never liked
another person less. Malcolm looks like the sort of weasel in dire need of his teeth being
kicked in. At first glance it looks impossible to think that he is capable of tearing a page from
a book, let alone kidnapping and murdering countless people in the name of his art.
"Get away from her," Anonymous warns.
"You can have a turn too if you want. I'm not greedy." The very implication shocks
Anonymous; he wouldn’t have looked twice at the girl.
“You don’t think she’s worthy of being turned into a work of art?”
“I think you need your brains knocked back into a semblance of sanity.” Anonymous
growls his answer as he swings his arm out to deliver the first blow. He is shocked as his fist
collides with plaster instead of skin. The bastard is fast. He had to give him that.
"Who are you anyway? I didn't think she had a boyfriend.” Glass’s tone is casual, like he
can’t imagine a more normal setting to have found themselves in. It didn’t seem at all strange
to this man that he is standing in another person's apartment, with the tenant knocked out
cold on her bed.
"I'm your end. That's all that matters," Anonymous says.
Malcom’s head tilts to the side curiously. "Why? I haven't done anything wrong." He
looks so genuinely confused at the accusation. He seems not to think that there is any way
he can be accused of anything.
"You have murdered countless people . . . you don't think that counts as doing something
wrong?"
"I absolutely have not!"
Which of those two points he is refuting is anybody's guess.
"You broke into this girl's house, hit her over the head and I can't assume you meant to
just leave here."
"I'm transforming her."
Anonymous crinkles his nose. "Transforming her?"
"Into something more than she could otherwise have been. I'm giving her a purpose. I'm
making her important.
Truly there is no higher honor. Like a butterfly, I am giving her wings! Butterflies cannot
become such until they are ripped from their cocoon. That’s what I mean to do here. You will
see. "
He is clearly insane.
"You think she wants to be tortured? Mutilated?"
"She would if she knew how beautiful I will make her!" He lifts his sketchbook to show
Anonymous, as if somehow that will convince him that he is telling the truth, that somehow
what he is saying is right. He turns the paper toward Anonymous so that he can see better. It
is her, the girl on the bed. His plan for her apparently didn’t include keeping all her organs
inside her body.
For a moment Anonymous is too stunned to look away. Malcolm takes that for interest
and shuffles closer. "She's pregnant!" He is beaming with glee. "See?" He pulls the towel from
her body to show a slight swelling at the lower half of her stomach, just a slight bump. "She
will be all the sweeter for it. See the next page. Go on, go on!"
"You’re fucking sick!"
"Oh, you don't mean that," Malcolm looks as if Anonymous has just stolen his candy bar.
<
br /> “Please don’t mean that.”
Anonymous couldn’t stomach it any longer. This time as he strikes, instead of aiming for
skin, he chooses to go for that damned art pad in his hand, and snatching it free seems to
have a much stronger response, one that he wanted far more. His lip curls in satisfaction as
the body on the bed starts to come to and Malcom wails in despair.
“No! Don’t make an enemy now!”
Pulling the page from the book, Anonymous rips the paper in half. The noise that
Malcolm makes is inhuman. He staggers as if Anonymous has somehow physically injured
him.
"You murderer!" The thin body rushes at him, nearly frothing at the mouth.
"You're one to talk."
"You blind fool!"
Anonymous doesn’t waste his opportunity, swinging the moment that the sicko is
within arm’s reach. There is no doubt in his mind that he is the murderer. One of the easiest
cases that he has had so far. He is certain that if he looked further into that sketchpad, he
would find the blueprints for the last few murders.
Bitter, he swings again, landing twice on chest and jaw, intending to end this here and
now. Only the sucker didn’t seem at all fazed. He shouldn't have been surprised, given that
he is clearly a sadist. Sick bastard probably got off on it. Just as he is about to hit the bastard
again, the girl on the bed lets loose a blood curdling shriek. No doubt surprised to see two
men fighting in her bedroom while she is barely draped in a towel. Anonymous takes his eyes
from Glass for one moment, just one single moment and the bastard slinks away.
The girl on the bed is scrambling to pull that towel back over herself and gingerly
probing the wound on her forehead.
"It’s alright now. He's gone but we need to get you out of here."
"Please don’t hurt me."
"What? I'm not going to—" Why is that always the first thing that the people he saves
say? He had just saved her; couldn't she see that? He hates having to explain things like that.
So he lies.
"Listen, I am Detective Roth. I received an anonymous tip that you were in danger. You
might have seen the string of disappearances on the news lately? That is the man that we
believe is the culprit. He hadn’t even needed to flash a badge at her; she was so willing to
accept him at his word. It must have been the no-nonsense look that lived on his face.
"Get dressed. We need to get you somewhere safer." Not that his hotel was somewhere
safer really. Picking up the sketch book, he tucks it under his arm as evidence before she can
see. It is as damning as they are going to get. There is no way Scarlet wouldn't order him to
kill this man now .
5
ara, the girl he just rescued, listens a hell of a lot better than Alyssa ever could.
Anonymous told her to stay in the hotel room and she did. He told her to contact a
T relative that she could be safe with and to say nothing yet, and she did. He figured
that by the time she realized that he isn't actually anywhere near affiliated with the
police force, he would be very far lone gone. It isn't the best plan, but it is good enough for
now. It is easy enough to see why she has been chosen. Her very presence seems to reflect
that of a lamb. The perpetually frightened look, the way that she keeps cradling her slightly
rounded stomach in her arms, the large doe eyes . . .
The phone rings.
Anonymous motions that he is going to have to take the call outside.
"Anonymous?"
"Bailey?" Her voice sounds strange. Well, stranger than usual. All of her normal,
sardonic bite is gone. He is so accustomed to her being there to make light of whatever life-
threatening position he has found himself in that he hasn’t realized it is possible to miss her.
For so long--as long as he can remember really--she has been the only constant in his life.
The one being that he never has to question. Once upon a time.
"Status update; you are cleared for lethal force. Scarlet has verified your claims that he
is a real threat and he needs to be stopped at all costs."
"No shit!" he whispers, pulling the door closed so that Tara doesn't hear "and the
civilian?"
"Do as you like with her. We can purchase her a bus pass, if needed. Don't want to blow
your cover." Bailey sounds almost tired on the other end. He wants to ask Bailey what is
wrong, but with her comments about his visions, he is no longer certain that he can trust her.
Their conversations have been far too tense lately.
They work for the same people. Anonymous has been fed the same scripts so many
times that he has blindly accepted them as truths. Scarlet is there to help. Scarlet is there to
help those who cannot or will not help themselves, even if they do not know that they need
help. Scarlet is helping to build a better humanity.
"We have tracked his location via satellite and are sending you his last known location
now."
The phone buzzes against his face in confirmation.
"Great!"
"Do you still want to continue our little deal, Anonymous?" Bailey’s voice is careful. He
assumes that she means learning more about his past. She hadn't even honored their deal on
the last mission. It was the only time that he had ever asked anything of Bailey. He had never
asked questions; he had never needed more mission detail than Scarlet had given him, but
before his last case, the one where he had met Alyssa, he had asked about his past. He hadn’t
known why then; there wasn’t a particular trigger that he could have blamed. He didn’t know
why he needed to know so badly, or why right then. But he had. Bailey had promised on behalf
of Scarlet that she would give him more information about his past, that she would tell him
something, anything at all . . . and then she hadn’t.
"No," Anonymous says.
"No?" She sounds surprised, and at that moment he knows that he is being tested. "It
no longer bothers you Anonymous?"
"No.” He pauses, quickly weighing the options inside his head. “This down time these
last couple months have given me time to reflect, to center myself. I know who I am. I am
Anonymous."
The line is silent for a long, tense moment. Anonymous can hear his own heartbeat
pounding inside his ears.
"Very good. Scarlet will be so happy to hear this."
He doesn't know if she bought it or not.
"To your task then, Anonymous. Report back when it is done."
"Will do." Anonymous closes the phone and lets it rest against his forehead, taking one
last small moment to gather himself before pocketing it.
If the sketch book and the art gallery are any indications, there is absolutely no telling
what he is about to walk in on.
6
here is only one thing left to do. He has to go to the flat where they are staying.
Normally, Brandt doesn’t like going right off the bat where he knows he is going to
T be outnumbered. But, these two deranged killers need to be eliminated.
This is going to be one of those cases the police never would have found the
connections for. They never would have put the pieces together. Now, Anonymous is going
to do it all for them. Scarlet will phone in a tip for them later, and the killers will be logged
off as happy little ac
cidents with all of the evidence so neatly wrapped it might have been a
gift on their doorstep.
They aren’t the ones out here actually risking their necks. He can’t even begin to imagine
how long this would have taken them. It matters to him none at all that they don’t have half
the resources at their disposal that Scarlet does. At this moment, their stupidity annoys him.
From the moment that he enters the flat, Anonymous feels somebody is watching him.
It is more than a general unease of not being alone. It feels like eyes are on him. Like a person
hovers slightly out of his peripheral vision. At first glance, this is just another high-end loft.
At least from the entrance. All sharp angles and metal. Very modern design for such a modern
couple of people, he supposes. It looks nearly exactly how he would imagine some well-to-
do painter is going to live. No doubt he has a large studio tucked away next to the torture
chambers. How many cities has he been though? His tour dates are extensive. He has been
all over the country. It is such a blatantly obvious thing! It is insane that nobody has noticed
it.
Anonymous travels into the loft slowly, checking around every corner, but they have to
have been waiting for him. They have to know that he is coming. If he hadn’t come to them,
then he is certain that deranged bastard would have come looking for him. He has torn up
his drawing after all. He checks each room as he passes and pulls the door shut. There is
nothing until he gets to what must be the heart of the flat. Then he can hear a soft tune coming
from a record player further inside.
Crossing the entryway he finds the floors are already covered with a clear tarp. It would
be the perfect setup for his revenge if it weren’t so fucking slippery. Anonymous doesn’t even
want to think about what sort of fluids he is walking through. His boots are making disgusting
screeching sounds as he moves into the other room. It is such a sudden change that for a long
moment, he doesn’t realize that he is inside another vision.
Loud music of no discernable genre is blaring loudly enough to at least have concealed
