A Scripta

The man who now called himself Masonry paused the DVD and zoomed in. He smiled, seeing the shape of the bruise on the man’s shoulder. That was how it was supposed to come out. Too bad most of the rest of it didn’t quite work out. Luckily, his patron didn’t notice the other imperfections and still paid him handsomely for the work. But, strangely, the patron was more interested in the process than the result, which confused Masonry.

The real Masonry could have cared less about art. He was a brute, through and through, caring more about battle and blood. When I lived in him, he thought proudly, he could have learned so much about art and beauty.

However, there were some days when he was called upon to be that Masonry. It was those days he showed some sense of enjoyment, knowing that as he killed something, be it with his mind or his bare hands, he besmirched the name of that man of stone. This way slowly, unequivocally, he broke its name apart further so that eventually the name of Masonry would be synonymous with the most vile things a human could be accused of doing.

It did help that this man called Masonry was not all human.

He was originally a Kheldian called a Peacebringer, but soon quickly tired of that descriptor. He had called himself Benakasar in the human language, because he liked the sing-song of the name. He termed himself a true artist, known for his ability to see beauty in anything, and to render in an aesthetically pleasing manner anything else, no matter how potentially crude. He was often called upon by interrogators to depict the procedures and results.

He frowned, looking at the man’s bruise, off by half a centimeter. He thought for a moment of the clone, and then of his faulty intel. The clone’s name was still Nate Greene, according to all his sources, and Duncan Idaho was a stupid nickname, not a real one. At least the girlfriend was right – but then, they expressed themselves publicly at the D, so it really was not hard to keep track of them.

The phone rang, a pleasantly jaunty tune from a human musical group called T.A.T.U. Their high-pitched voices pleased him, and he picked up the phone.

“Masonry,” he snapped.

“Mr. Masonry,” said a woman’s voice that had a gentle Indian accent, which was the only reason he hired her, “Lady Ashina would like to observe your next work.”

“Hm…I do not know a Lady Ashina. Who recommended me to her?”

He waited, his mind already connected to Himani, feeling the fear and confusion, and intensifying it. He loved the taste of it in his own mind, closed his eyes and savored it, listening to her fearful breathing over the phone.

“Well?” he demanded, and he felt the fear jump.

“I do not… I do not know…”
“Mmmhmm, I know…I sense that, and I am displeased.”

The fear surged and he was almost overwhelmed with the delight of it.

“Find out!” he snapped, and slammed shut the phone, but kept the connection through his mind. He stoked the fear, feeding her images of what he could do to her. He sat back on his chair, his mind lost in her fears, while his body ached in pleasure. For a quick, fleeting moment, he wished he had more time with the clone's girl. He could have torn her mind into a kaleidescope of terror, but it would have taken him a very, very long time.

No, this one was much easier.