[ WP ] You are a god that hunts other gods

It was Christmas Eve, and I was spending the night in my newly renovated cell browsing porn. 
 
 At least I don ’ t have to use my imagination anymore. Apparently, for my good behavior, I was granted ‘ special privileges. ’ 
 
 Privileges like restricted internet access, slightly more leg room, clothes in a color other than orange and a toilet that doesn ’ t clog. 
 
 Tugging at the explosive brace wrapped snugly around my wrist, I stare at the thousands of provocative images, scrolling down the site. Besides the agents, almost everyone on site has flown home to their dysfunctional families, meaning I ’ m left alone, alone and bored. At least I don ’ t have to go see that pretentious shrink again. Hell, even the guards that usually talk shit about me outside my cell have left, replaced by fancy robotic turrets. 
 
 Why didn ’ t *I* go home, you ask? 
 
 Well…I can ’ t. 
 
 Also, my parents don ’ t really talk to me anymore. 
 
 They're buried six feet underground. 
 
 What ’ s left of them, anyway. The conversation is usually one-sided. 
 
 I'm not a big fan of the holidays. I stumble out of my chair and let out an exaggerated sigh. 
 
 The door hisses open. 
 
 Standing in a pressed blouse and skirt, I ’ m greeted with the cold stare of my handler. Her name is Jess, though that name is probably a fake. I don ’ t know much about her, besides a few notable things: 
 
 - She refuses to write in pencil. 
 
 - Despises any mention of the mole on her neck. 
 - Is ambidextrous. 
 - Had two divorces. 
 - Bisexual. Probably. Just a feeling. 
 - Wakes up with a stick up her ass. Again, just a feeling. 
 
 Most of all, she hates my guts. 
 
 “ Have you come to give me my Christmas present? I ’ ve been such a good boy. ” I say dryly. 
 
 Jess simply hands me a folder. “ The board has requested a termination order. ” 
 
 I snort. “ On me? Well, you aren ’ t doing a good job so far. ” I tap the explosive wristband. 
 
 She rolls her eyes. “ Read it. ” 
 
 “ All right, mom. ” I tear open the folder, and see a file with a photo of a blonde woman with black tattoos all up and down her neck. There ’ s a few clinical details concerning her weight, age, height, abilities, her sole daughter, blah, blah, blah, but I gloss over them. “ Mmm. Spooky. I ’ ve seen her before. Stared at her for about six seconds during the transport. Talked to her once. Seemed nice. ” 
 
 “ She is a Tier Two, priority target. Eliminate her. Anything you need, you write it down so I can relay it to acquisitions. ” 
 
 “ But it ’ s Christmas Eve- “ 
 
 “ Do it. ” commands Jess in a stern fashion, as expected. 
 
 “ What ’ s in it for me? ” 
 
 “ We will review your status. Give you more…freedom around the site. ” 
 
 “ Will you let me out? ” 
 
 “ You know that can ’ t happen. ” 
 
 “ Huh. Here ’ s hoping for a Christmas miracle. Hmm. I thought you ’ d be home. With the fam. ” I say, jotting down some things on some copy paper. 
 
 “ Just get on with it. ” 
 
 “ Can I ask why I ’ m doing this? ” 
 
 “ She ’ s…beyond our limits of control. ” 
 
 “ Is she strong? ” 
 
 “ Very. High level telepathy and telekinetic ability, and is capable of severe cognitive disruption and molecular degradation- “ 
 
 “ Jess, you ’ re just ejaculating words hoping they will impregnate my brain. Let ’ s skip the jargon, huh? ” 
 
 She ’ s visibly annoyed. “ She can bend reality, and we can ’ t keep her in line anymore. Happy? ” 
 
 “ Like a teen during prom sex. ” 
 
 “ It ’ s settled then. ” 
 
 “ … ” 
 
 “ …what? ” 
 
 I hand her a piece of paper. “ I need all of this from acquisitions. Gracias. ” 
 
 Jess looks at the piece of paper carefully. “ You ’ re not getting an RPG. Or claymores. Or a custom made caped costume. ” 
 
 “ You ’ re no fun. ” 
 
 “ Come with me. ” she orders. 
 
 Shame. 
 
 I worked on that sketch for hours. 
 
 No one appreciates art around here. 
 
 … 
 
 Jess and a bunch of faceless armed guards escort me to a rather large cell resembling the interior of a warehouse. In the middle of the cell is a small two story house with yellow siding and a white picket fence. There ’ s even a small yard encircling the home, even though this cell is thousands of miles underground, so that fact that there ’ s grass puzzles me. 
 
 A two headed pitbull runs up to me and licks my hand. Strange, ain ’ t it? This place is like a circus. A fucked up circus that doesn ’ t allow refunds or concessions. 
 
 Jess checks her watch. “ You have a limited window of opportunity. Once she realizes what you can do- “ 
 
 “ I know, I know, she ’ ll adapt and all that shit. ” I quickly reply, stuffing the gun into my coat pocket. 
 
 I hear noises inside. The noise of a television. Wonder what a reality warper watches in her free time. Probably not reality shows. 
 
 I knock on the door. 
 
 I pick up the shuffling of feet. They sound….little. 
 
 The door opens, revealing a nine year old girl wearing overalls. 
 
 Huh. 
 
 Should ’ ve read the clinical details about the target being the spawn of another bender. Huh. 
 
 I look back at Jess, but all of the suits and brutes have vanished. 
 
 “ …Hello. ” is all I say. 
 
 “ Who are you? ” 
 
 “ I ’ m…a friend…of your *mom. * ” My head starts to get dizzy, but I endure. I take a look at my watch. Thirty seconds is all I need. 
 
 “ Mom! There ’ s a mister at the door! ” 
 
 Sure enough, her mother appears, dressed in an apron with the words: “ World ’ s Best Mama ” stitched into the chocolate stained cloth. 
 
 
 Her actual mother died of a heroin overdose. That ’ s one of the few things I caught from the report. 
 
 “ Why, hello! How can I help you? ” asks the mother happily. 
 
 “ I ’ d just like to…talk to your daughter about something. It won ’ t take long. ” 
 
 Her mother kneels down to the girl ’ s level. “ Claire, this man wants to talk to you. ” 
 Claire. Her name is Claire. 
 
 “ Okay. ” She runs off towards the living room, which is typical of a suburban home. I smell cookies. 
 
 Chocolate chip. 
 
 Mmmm. The cafeteria here doesn ’ t serve those. I wish they did. Some dessert would be nice to finish off the pine cones with lawnmower sauce plate they cook up. 
 
 “ Are you baking cookies? ” I ask. 
 
 “ Why, I sure am! Would you like some? I made a batch, fresh out the oven! ” 
 
 In my earpiece, Jess growls into my ear. “ Stop fooling around. Get it done. ” 
 
 Jesus, that woman needs to get laid. “ Just one cookie is all I need. ” I respond to both the mother and Jess. 
 
 “ Just give me a few minutes for them to cool, all right? ” 
 
 “ Sure. ” I walk over to the living room, and take a seat on a recliner across from Claire. On the shelves are literally hundreds of dolls and books. She ’ s watching a Sesame Street episode. 
 
 “ Claire, how old are you? ” I ask. 
 
 Her eyes remain glued to the screen. “ Nine and a half. ” 
 
 “ Nine and a half. You must be very smart. ” 
 
 “ Uh-huh. ” A glass of milk suddenly materializes on the coffee table, which Claire takes. 
 
 Well. 
 
 That ’ s new. 
 
 Ten seconds on the clock. 
 
 “ Claire... do you remember what happened last Tuesday? With those men? ” 
 
 “ Uh-huh. ” 
 
 “ Do you know what you did to them? Where they are? ” 
 
 She looks at me. “ They ’ re in fairy land! ” 
 
 “ Fairy land? Can…you get them out? ” 
 
 “ No! They ’ re meanies! ” 
 
 “ Meanies? They were trying to help you. ” 
 
 “ I **hate** them. ” She folds her arms and pouts. 
 
 I nod my head, then steal a glance over to the mother. “ How ’ s it going over there? ” 
 
 “ Oh, they turned out quite fabulous! Here, try one! ” 
 
 She arrives with a tray full of steaming hot cookies. They taste incredible. “ These are amazing. ” I compliment. 
 
 “ Secret family recipe! ” 
 
 “ It ’ s nutmeg, ain ’ t it? ” 
 
 “ Close, but no *cigar! * Claire, sweetie, would you like one? ” 
 
 She grabs two from the tray and greedily devours them. For a split second, the television glitches. Claire waves her hands at the table, trying to conjure up something. It fails. 
 
 Then the walls start to crack. Skin flakes begin to fall off of Claire ’ s mother. Even the chair I ’ m sitting in starts to squirm beneath me. It starts to grow hair. 
 
 That's the first sign. *Instability. * 
 
 “ Claire…you ’ re going to be with your parents in a little bit, all right? ” I whisper. 
 
 She stares blankly at the television screen. 
 
 My watch beeps. 
 
 I catch a look of panic in her eyes. 
 
 As it's the holidays, I give her a present in the form of a well-placed flashbang grenade, disorienting her. She screams like a banshee. 
 
 I take two shots. 
 
 One to wound. 
 
 And one to finish. 
 
 The casings tinkle onto the floor. 
 
 I go deaf. Should've worn some protection. Should've done a lot of things. 
 
 I promptly leave as the house implodes into nothingness behind me, until all that remains is the limp body of Claire. A red polka dot surrounds her body, slowly increasing in diameter across the cold marble tiles. Strike teams erupt from the entrances, dragging the body onto a stretcher in preparation for incineration. I slide the gun on the floor, get on my knees, and put my hands behind my head, waiting for someone to cuff me. 
 
 `` Thanks for the cookies.'' I mutter. `` They were wonderful.'' 
 
 Jess gives me a nod of approval. 
 
 Like I said... 
 
... I never really liked the holidays. 
 
 … 

