Within ten minutes, Hatchet could hear movement above him in the counting room and the voices of cops barking for surrender. Soon, the shrill sirens stopped howling. He could sense more people arriving to inspect the damage, probably more cops, probably some Guardians and elders. Hatchet liked to think maybe some frantic subordinate had called the one and only Brody Lassiter at this ungodly hour. Brody would’ve shown up to the disaster in his pajamas and a robe, considering all theories on the attack. Hatchet stayed completely silent, standing on his bloated bag at the bottom of the slanted square tube, listening to a pair of voices discussing the scene.
They spoke like cops, somewhat disinterested and lazy in their investigation. You don’t think he smashed the cameras for a reason? What reason? there’s nothing in here; this guy just wanted to fuck shit up, Mike. And we’re all positive there was only the one guy? Yeah, but I’m not opposed to watching the video again. It doesn’t bother you that there’s a vault in this room?
For an instant, Hatchet thought his blood had frozen into tiny deadly crystals. He closed his eyes and relaxed and completely deflated himself, only reversing his billows at the insistence of his pleura. If the hunter relied on awareness then he would have to rely on his composure. He had to stay calm.
What are you sayin? I don’t know what I’m sayin; we’ve got a really stupid kid and I mean a stupid fuckin kid. He’s on some really heavy psychoactive fuckin drugs, Mike. He breaks in here, smashin stuff, fucks up a door or two, a bunch of cameras. The cameras don’t bug me, Mike. Well, the cameras don’t really bug me either. Who wants to be recorded committing vandalism? But then he comes in here where the vault is, right? Yup. That’s not buggin us? It’s the first door inside the building, Mike, completely random. Yer probly right. We already had two elders inventory and there’s nothin missin from the vault. Yer probly right. The vault monitoring system doesn’t reflect that it’s been opened since two days ago. Yeah. And just look at this fuckin place, Mike, this is the work of a teenage drug crazed fuckin maniac; there’s spray paint and gang tags; this is not our department. I gotcha, I hear ya, so we’re cool with this? I’m cool with it. Okay then, I guess I’m cool with it. I vote that makes it we’re both cool with this. I concur, detective; let’s wrap this shit.
He imagined uniformed police dusting the bits and pieces of wreckage and the battered doors and walls, the cycling pack of elders discussing the monetary value of the crime, the Guardians debating how to proceed with Sunday’s itinerary and then, the police dematerialized. He heard several Guardians discussing the possibility of repairing the cameras in the counting room. Another person entered the conversation and told them there were replacement cameras in the building. There was a question about how fast he could repair them. Hatchet had anticipated and accepted the possibility of a repair but the danger of functional cameras in the room added considerable risk to the moiety of his design. To his relief, he soon overheard that they would forgo the fix. Lazy bastards, Hatchet joked to himself.
They spoke like cops, somewhat disinterested and lazy in their investigation. You don’t think he smashed the cameras for a reason? What reason? there’s nothing in here; this guy just wanted to fuck shit up, Mike. And we’re all positive there was only the one guy? Yeah, but I’m not opposed to watching the video again. It doesn’t bother you that there’s a vault in this room?
For an instant, Hatchet thought his blood had frozen into tiny deadly crystals. He closed his eyes and relaxed and completely deflated himself, only reversing his billows at the insistence of his pleura. If the hunter relied on awareness then he would have to rely on his composure. He had to stay calm.
What are you sayin? I don’t know what I’m sayin; we’ve got a really stupid kid and I mean a stupid fuckin kid. He’s on some really heavy psychoactive fuckin drugs, Mike. He breaks in here, smashin stuff, fucks up a door or two, a bunch of cameras. The cameras don’t bug me, Mike. Well, the cameras don’t really bug me either. Who wants to be recorded committing vandalism? But then he comes in here where the vault is, right? Yup. That’s not buggin us? It’s the first door inside the building, Mike, completely random. Yer probly right. We already had two elders inventory and there’s nothin missin from the vault. Yer probly right. The vault monitoring system doesn’t reflect that it’s been opened since two days ago. Yeah. And just look at this fuckin place, Mike, this is the work of a teenage drug crazed fuckin maniac; there’s spray paint and gang tags; this is not our department. I gotcha, I hear ya, so we’re cool with this? I’m cool with it. Okay then, I guess I’m cool with it. I vote that makes it we’re both cool with this. I concur, detective; let’s wrap this shit.
He imagined uniformed police dusting the bits and pieces of wreckage and the battered doors and walls, the cycling pack of elders discussing the monetary value of the crime, the Guardians debating how to proceed with Sunday’s itinerary and then, the police dematerialized. He heard several Guardians discussing the possibility of repairing the cameras in the counting room. Another person entered the conversation and told them there were replacement cameras in the building. There was a question about how fast he could repair them. Hatchet had anticipated and accepted the possibility of a repair but the danger of functional cameras in the room added considerable risk to the moiety of his design. To his relief, he soon overheard that they would forgo the fix. Lazy bastards, Hatchet joked to himself.
Edit 11.10.2018