((Repost - Please excuse lack of formatting, too difficult to go through all this amount again))

Forest Green, Epping, Essex; 2003

It was late the night a third murder that would become as crucial as notorious took place; quite, quite late. It was that permeable hour when it is not quite today, and not really yesterday. We'll call it 2AM, because we don't really know any better. We are just an unseen presence in this occurence, a floating spectre if you will.

So let us spectate this cold night. Let us descend from thew clouds, and let us veer away from the abusive lights of London, a small common in Essex is our destination. A place that should be deserted now, but this is Essex after all. We know, in our hearts, that it won't be empty, for what use would a story be without characters?

Speaking of which, let's meet them. As we descend lower and lower, our invisible eyes latch onto the target, the small patch of blackened green growing in size; growing, growing, growing. The pasture that should be empty (and it won't be fully emptied after this night for quite some time, I can tell you), is not. Beneath the statue of a distorted musician we view our cast. A man and a woman (isn't it always?); lovers - perhaps drunken lovers.

The man, yes, let's start with him; a fine specimin if ever we saw one. Must be six foot, dark hair, chiselled features, and those wandering hands of the English. His partner, the damsel distressed; average looking woman, I suppose, shoulder length blonde hair, the body of a fifteen year old (for that is how old the girl is), and a giving demeanour. Too giving.

It seems things are moving faster now, kissing and wandering hands is leading to undressing. It isn't our place to watch, we aren't perverts after all, so let us leave the lovers to their destiny.

-----

"Come on baby... The night is perfect... We've had a great time, let's finish it with a bang...."

"I don't know Charlie, your'e only fifteen, it ain't right..."

"Oh come on... I can tell you want me... It's fuckin' obvious!"

The girl, Charlie, giggled as she ran a slutty hand over the mans crotch, feeling his not unimpressive bulge. She was by no means a virgin, it was Essex, after all; but this guy was her first "older man" and she expected a lot from him.

"Are you sure?

"Of course... I've been gaggin' for you all night... We can do it however you want big-boy..."

She grinned knowingly; she'd done pretty much all of it as it was, and was very willing to experiment.

"Well... Okay. How about you get on your knees eh?"

He grinned now. It was so easy. Mind you, he thought, it was always easy in this debauched part of the world. He shuffled onto his knees behind the teenage girl, who had positioned herself readily on all fours;

"I ain't gonna be gentle, Charlie... I stopped being a kid a few years back you know..."

"I know... Just get that thing in me..."

Her breathing was heavy now, and had she have been even slightly aware of the situation, she would have regarded it odd that his was perfectly normal; his entire composure was not like a lust fuelled man, all apart from the raging hard-on.

She moaned as his hardness pushed against her still clothed rear, she felt his hands sliding up her back; then one dropping to pull her panties aside, then back up again, until both rested on her shoulders. She could smell him now, his musk, his pure manhood; and yes! There it was!

At that moment of relief, feeling her prize, something she hadn't expected happened. His hands closed around her throat; and tightened. The clasp knocked the wind out of her, and the fact the mans penis was pushed violently inside her aided her none.

She tried to scream, this was evidently a little more than "rough sex"; the realisation of something darker and more sinister becoming obvious to even her shallow mind. The world got a lot darker very quickly; these were expert murderers hands choking her. She was unconscious for almost a minute before the rest of her body gave up, and she died the evry moment his body achieved orgasm.

----

Now, we can rejoin the party. I expect what was ordained has occured, but I warn you, if you come to view again, the sight may not be pretty. In fact, I can guarentee you it will be anything but. So come, let us leave the clouds again...

The moon seems to be on our side, it shines on the place we wish to see well enough. Look... Do you see? The body? Well, what's left of it. The girl, our Charlie, is dead. Murdered by a man destined for infamy... Perhaps murdered is too light a word, butchered will serve better.

There, to her right are her clothes, neatly folded and stacked; perhaps a speck of blood dirtys them, but maybe not; it's not our place to know. We are just watchers in the dark, after all. Let us note the details, however; as gruesome as the sight is, it is worthy of viewing, at least by those as unbiased and impartial as us; the general public.

Naked, she lies, face down. Why? Perhaps a Psychologist would answer; I myself am unqualified for speculation. Three of the fingers on her left hand have been torn (You can tell they were not severed by the awful state of the remaining stumps. Her breasts are slashed with X shapes; oh, did I say she was face down? Yes, sorry, her neck has been twisted and broken (after death, police examiners will point out tommorow), and twisted round so she lies face down.

Her legs are spred-eagled open almost horizontally, and as with her breasts, X shaped slashes are apparent on her inner thighs. We shan't explore her nether region any closer, for I myself fear to investigate what horror may lie there.

That will suffice for examination now; but let me tell you this: Over the last month, two other murders with striking resemblance have been discovered; both on underage victims - one male, one female (though now two female of course), both sexually active prior to death, both mutilated, both having post mortem necks broken, and in the first case (the boy), one finger removed, and in the second, two.

We will leave now, and perhaps in time, I will lead you to the further developments of the story, but that scene is enough for this night.... So under the blind gaze of the Fiddler, we shall leave poor Charlie, and tommorow her corpse will be discovered by some unfortunate dog-walker, or schoolchild taking a morning shortcut....

[b:eff87261e8]Walthamstow, East London; 2003

Some days after the third murder as detailed [/b:eff87261e8]

An unoffensive and extremely generic Renault Megane indicates left, and consequently turns into the multi-storey car park entrance. The driver recieves the ticket from the automatic ticket machine, and proceeds through the barrier, and begins his effort to find a parking space this Saturday afternoon.

After several tours around the concrete fortress, the car eventually settles in a non-descript spot, flanked by a Range Rover and a Peugot. The car door opens, and a reasonably well dressed man steps out, shuts the door, walks away, depresses his car-button alarm, and goes about his business as the triple beep sounds behind him.

He enters the shopping complex, paying mild attention to the scurrying shoppers on their afternoons chore. He passes Burtons, JD Sports, Starbucks, Costa Coffee, another Starbucks, then arrives at his destination. He walks into the BHS, strolling past the girls eyeing the underwear section, fantasising of the day they earn their first bra, then past the boys eyeing the girls, not caring whether they wear bra's or not.

He walks to the payment desk and smiles at the cashier;

"Hi Gina, can you buzz me through? I forgot some papers last night...."

The pretty girl behind the desk smiles and does as asked;

"Of course Mr.Matthison...

He smiles at her again, and walks through the heavy door into a long hallway, doors shouldering every ten yards or so. He walks down it, not worried about the CCTV cameras watching him, following him. He does work here, after all. He reaches the end of the corridor, a door either side of him. His office is on the left, so he pushes the door open, and walks in. Instead of gathering papers as he claimed, he walks to the desk and picks up the telephone. He dials a number and waits for an answer.

"I'm in my office. Unlock the gate in two minutes."

He promptly resets the telephone in its cradle and opens a drawer.He shuffles about in it for a moment, searching for a blank piece of plastic; and finds it. He shuts the door, picks up a briefcase he had left here, walks out the door, locking it behind his time, and crosses the empty hallway to the opposite doorway.

Apparently a Janitorial closet, this room is seldom used; because in fact, it is a Janitors closet, at least in guise. The man glances at his watch, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to the beat of some unheard song, to the educated listener, it was possibly Velcro Fly by ZZ-Top; and maybe it is something else.

The second hand on his exquisitely timed watch ticks onto the 12, and the man tries the door handle - it gives way to his pressure. He steps into the closet, shutting the door behind him. There is a mechanical noise, something he has heard countless times, and the rear wall, shelves and all, swings backwards by forty five degrees. Mr.Matthison steps through the gap into what appears to be an elevator. He presses the single button on the panel, and is quickly plummeted downwards.

Not ten seconds later, the lift stops, and two mettalic doors slide open, revealing yet another generic corridor. Matthison steps out of the elevator, quite unperplexed - this is his real job after all. He ambles down the corridor, and eventually pauses outside a set of double doors. He lays his palm flat against a blank tile beside the door. A sensation of static electricity coarses over his hand, and then the doors slide silently apart. He steps through.

"Ah John, glad you could make it. There is much news...."

"Hmmmm, didn't somebody say 'No news is good news'? And it is the weekend - you know I was playing squash...."

"Yes, well sorry old man, as I said... There is much news, and it is actually quite, quite good."

"Well before you bore me to death with the technicalities, let me get a drink."

He sets his briefcase down, and walks to a refridgerator in a neighbouring room. He pulls out a drink and returns to the scientist.

"Do tell me this gem you so need to share..."

He sits down opposite the lab-coated man - Dr.Giles - and crosses his legs.

"Its the suit John... The prototype is ready..."

With stoic resolve, Matthison manages to complete the process of sipping the drink instead of spilling it all over his not-too-expensive suit.

"The prototype is ready for testing?"

"Indeed, John. We are planning the first demonstration in about twenty minutes. Thats why I wanted you here promptly..."

"Good God, I never dreamed I'd see it working in my lifetime..."

"Yep, Agent Samuels is going to perform the test. We're going to put him right in at the deep end with one of the captured subjects."

Matthison nodded. He knew exactly what that meant. Samuels, he knew, was an accomplished agent - but still relatively new to the organization. He was being used as a guinea pig; if he was any good, he would know this. This test would be his "Forlorn Hope". If he survived, he would continue his regime in Panopticon; if he survived with a thriving success, he would go on to much higher things within the organization - if he failed, he would be dead.

The subject Giles had referred to was a PCP induced Vampire. Something that had admitted to being Ventrue in Orange Room. Matthison shivered slightly as he considered that thought. He'd been with the organization for twenty five years, and had risen from Agent to Executive Administrator in that time. No mean feat. But Orange Room had earned itself noun status in his mind; indeed in the minds of every long serving member. It was one of the genius concepts of the governing commitee - the echelon one step above Matthison in the rank system.

A horrifying combination of Orwell's Room 101 and the psychological torture from that Kubrick film, "A Clockwork Orange", which was where it had earnt its name. Part of your induction into Ensignship was to have thirty hours "Orange time" (As an administrator, not a victim), and then pass a psyhological test afterwards. Seventy percent failed the fifteen hour test, and were consequently quarantined and used in the food chain as Vampire fodder.

Giles stood up opposite him, looked at his watch;

"Shall we? It will start in a few moments."

Matthison stood up, his legs a little shaky. This was one of those days in a mans career when it all seems to come to a natural conclusion - a true achievement. He had been involved in the original planning for the suit; technicaly known as Stealth Augmented Thermal Recussitation Nano-robotic System, affectionatlly known as Saturn. In short, the suit would fit close to the skin, much the same as a wet-suit - like a second skin, in fact. Yet its features were far superior to anything even researched by other "secret" organizations world wide.

Panopticon knew this, because, after all, who watchers the watcher but yet more watchers?

Saturn was almost plugged into the living specimin donning it. It co-operated with several thousand nano-machines implemented into the subject by intricate surgery; and acted in several different ways.

Its main drive was in the defensive; it possessed immense stealth capabiliy - using the technological ideals begun, and in some respects finished, by the Americans in the eighties. Fibre optic wires laced the material, reflecting imagery of the surrounding area; effectively changing the suit into a pane of frosted glass.

This had one major advantage, and one equally large disadvantage. On all hypothetical simulations, it should be as invisible to the dead, witht heir sixth sense, as to the living - however keen of sight. There was no mystical removal of the physical - it was pure smoke and mirrors stuff. The disadvantage was, that at the prototype stage, any movement would shatter the illusion.

The next feature of the suit was the nano-machine technology included. Should a flesh wound be incurred by the pilot at any time - to the leg, arm, side of torso, and even to some parts of the neck and face; the nano-machines within the body would co-operate with the checmical fuelled tubing, and seek to temporarily heal the wound with lashings of quatrizine and , for lack of a better chemical term, gunpowder.
Any minor bone or tissue damage would equally be accomodated with the pressure manipulation capabilities and yet more high-powered painkillers.

Another major feature of Saturn was its thermal cloaking; insofar as it removed the wearer from all known forms of tracking device using body-heat as its source. Not only this, but all smell was removed other than a slight rubbery odour. Furthermore, the fluid construction of the suit made it virtually noiseless in all situations; even sprinting - the feet were cusioned by thin layers of "super-rubber" - a form of the substance designed by the scientists at the Panopticon that had immense cusion quality in an incredibly thin width.

Included alongside the quatrizine dosage was a substantial amount of anti-serotonin concoction, rendering the wearer not only energized perpetually, but without the dire side-effects of formerly used sleep deprivation drugs. Neither awareness or morale would suffer - the user would simply not need to sleep.

----

Gary Samuels pushed open the door, and stepped quietly into the test arena. He knew that his task was to eliminate any other lifeform in the surrounding area within fifteen minutes. He was absolutely unarmed; but wore the Saturn, and was consequently brimming with over-confidence. This was, in fact, the most expensive suit he would ever wear - it was also the most expensive suit anywhere in the world; totalling in at £4.5 billion over twenty years; Gary Samuels had a right to over-confidence.

He went over his brief quietly...

Eliminate any and all lifeforms in test-area within 15 minutes.

Use only weapons found on site.

Lifeforms(s) will enter 60 seconds after you.

You may use any features of [i:eff87261e8]Saturn at your disposal.[/i:eff87261e8]

He knew what the words meant. One enemy - probably a Vampire; though not too powerful, this was his first non-simulation confrontation.
He needed to do it in less than 5 minutes to be noticed.
There were no real weapons anywhere to be found.
And the enemy was already unleashed, and waiting - with more information that he himself had, knowing the organization.

This did no deter Agent Samuels, rather it spurred him on. He desired victory now. He needed it.

He padded silently along the concrete wall, from the top of which came a faint glow from the window through which the assessors would be watching. He had to find the enemy quickly. Within a minute.

"Already wasted twenty seconds.. Come on Gary...", he said to himself under his breath.

Stooping he picked up a brick, knowing his plan would be incredibly amateur, and only a fool would fall for it; and using this to his advantage. He lobbed the brick twenty yards to his left, and sprinted forwards, hoping the enemy would pause, trying to assess where the noise obviously used as a feint would have come from. From there, Gary hoped, the enemy would attempt to stalk close to where Gary had just sprinted from.

He circled around, his visor on night vision; guessing heat sensitivity would do him no good - and of course he was right. He caught a shadow moving slowly, about thirty yards to his left.

His mind shouted "One minute!", and he smiled - he had met his own personal itinerary. He stepped back against a smashed car, piled up for scenic value, and watched the creature. He flicked over to heat-vision for a moment and got the result he expected - no body temperature. A Vampire. He prayed that it was not too old - but old enough to give him a glorious victory. He felt behind him, and found purchase on a shard of metal protruding from the wreck. IT would have to do.

He crept forward, catlike, watching the Vampire move edgily to the area Gary had began in. He decided he needed to get the psychological advantage here, and convince the Vampire it was he, Gary Samuels, who was the hunter. He paused and whispered the command for stealth, instantly becoming invisible. He then whistled quietly, and watched as the Vampire spun on its heals, glaring right at Gary, but not seeing him. Gary had half expected it to charge him; it did not. Instead, somehow, it became invisible. He switched to tacit-vision, hoping to see the shades left by the creatures movements - there were none.

This was impossible - it showed the slurred movements of dust floating in the air, it showed the history of some creatures journey across the floor before him - but it did not show any humanoid movement.

Though it did not achieve what he had hoped, it was still the movement guidance vision that saved Gary Samuels life, of a sudden a black arc appeared above him, he switched back to night vision, and saw the Vampire standing atop one of the cars to his left, it had not become invisible - it had used some sort of skill to make it run faster than the winds. And now it had seen Gary as he had moved his head. It leapt at him, and Gary managed to roll aside just in time.

He jumped to his feet, lifting the metal rod up with him, making ready to plunge it forwards at chest height with all of his strength - but the Vampire was gone again; but not for long. Icy fingers closed around his throat; it had managed to flank him in less than a second. Still, drilled lessons in the armaments of the Saturn had left him with an exquisite understanfding on how exactly to turn the tide on almost any predicament.

He swung his right elbow back clumbsily, holding his breath as the Vampires dead fingers tried to tear the rubber neckguard away whilst simaltaneously choking him. The creature responded by kneeing Gary in the back, and pulling him tighter - and closer. Exactly what Agent Samuels had hoped for. As soon as he judged enough of the creature was pushed against his suit, he muttered a command with the breath held in his mouth, and the suit fizzled against his skin. The Brujah jolted backwards behind him, having experienced a high-powered electric shock - yet only enough to stun.

Even so, it was enough. Gary turned lithely, and loomed over the Vampire, which was even now regaining its awareness, he lifted his arm, and brought the metal rod down as hard as he could - aiming, and succeeding, for the heart. The rod pushed through the flesh and bone, piercing the blood-pump, and thus parylising the creature.

Knowing to kill the thing would only cost the organization another few weeks in tracking one as violent and powerful, he left it useless and beaten on the training room floor. He did not acknowledge the assessors in the cubicle above him, but simply turned and walked back to the room to remove the suit, guessing he had earnt himself enough praise and respect to keep him in employment for several decades. As he walked, he checked his mental clock "3 minutes, 24 seconds", he smiled. He would certainly have been noticed....

---

"Samuels did extremely well, wouldn't you say Matthison?"

"Yeah. Very good. I'll make sure he gets noticed... And I Want a full debrief on my desk tommorow morning.
Anyway - give me the rundown on Z-division. With the suit almost ready for production, we need the men for the job...."

"Very well... But I must still stress the adequacy our own Agents possess in using the suit both in simulation, and in real-time scenario, as Agent Samuels has just proved most efficiently..."

"I am fully aware of our own Agents abilities, Giles, but Z-division was created for one purpose, and one purpose only - to use these suits... Seeing as we're well ahead of schedule, we won't need to spend more on reclones, so I want an update on them...."

"Ok, ok... Well, as you know, only twenty have been released in England, the other eighty were set free in the US... Of those eighty, seventy eight have fulfilled our criterion, the other two have been terminated. In our own backyard however, there have been interesting developments... Fourteen have met sufficient requirements, the other six have... Well, shall we say excelled? Z-17 is especially profficient... You know the "fiddler" murders?"

Matthison nodded.

"... Well 'The Fiddler' is none other than Z-17... He is one serial murderer that will never be caught, John. And when we trigger the disorder effect, probably next month, his spree will climax - and god only knows what will happen then... I've had the luxury of viewing the Police reports, and the documents I could get from MI6; he has not left a trace of evidence, John... Do you know how impossible that is in this day of forensics? ITs simply astounding..."

Again, Matthison nodded, not sharing his colleagues impartial view of their scientific endeavour - a serial killer was not exactly a success as far as he was concerned. Still, the signs were very, very good. Z-division would be unstoppable when drilled and trained in use of the suits...

[b:0b4791da31]Kensington, West London 2003

9 days after the third murder. [/b:0b4791da31]

3:14am

A phone is ringing, it plays the melody to the bass offered by the snores of a sleeper. The small hours symphony does not last long, much to our dismay; the sleeper wakens and groggily reaches over, and lifts the phone.

"Ugh..?"

"Er, Inspector Fletcher? That you Sir?"

"Ugh.. Yeah..."

*Cough*

"Who is it?"

"Its Sergeant Davis, Sir... Theres been another murder..."

"Oh fuck.. I'll be there in twenty. Send a car Davis."

"Yes Sir."

Fletcher puts the phone down and swings his legs out of bed. A slice of moonlight seeps in betwee the cracks in the curtains, and we can just about see the mans room. It is a single bed, a desk on its right side, on which is a phone, a glass of water, an ash tray and a note pad. Opposite the bed stands a warderobe, which we will soon learn contains three suits, and five shirts. Beneath the window sit three pairs of smart, practical work shoes. There are no posters, photographs, or any decoration other than the plain yellowing wall paper.

The man cradles his head in his hands, yawning;

Jesus, he thinks, Five hours sleep... Must be a miracle.

Detective Inspector Fletcher has not been sleeping well recently. He hasnt slept well at all since that first murder a couple of months previous. He gets up and pulls a cigarette from a box previously hidden to us in a desk drawer, and lights it. As ever, his first inhale causes a venomous splutter, something that will become ever more common as the cancer inside John Fletcher continues to digest him, piece by nourishing piece.

At the crime-scene

"Fucking hell."

Those words stand alone in the early morning air for some moments.

"Do you think it could be a mistake, Sir?"

The P.C asks D.I.Fletcher without much hope - still, he is just a Constable, and Fletcher is a Detective.

"Right now Constable, I don't know what to think. I will, however, endeavour to begin said process once I have a cup of tea in my hands. Two sugars, no milk."

He looks to the P.C authoritatively, the Officer gets the jist, and begins the search for a cup of tea at this ungodly hour.

Another man soon takes the P.C's place beside the good Detective; this man is similar in appearance to Fletcher; tall, medium build, dark features, mid 40s; but this man is not a Police Officer.

"Morning Inspector... Officer Eastwood, MI6...."
The man extends a hand to Fletcher, expecting a gruff curse, and ignorance. Instead he is surprised with a firm hand-shake and a lost smile.
"I was wondering when you boys would make yourselves seen. Christ, I could do with the help."

Eastwood does not display the absolute shock he is feeling; it is a recognised fact that MI's don't get on with Police; the former despise the latters anger at having cases taken away. The Detectives warm greeting instantly leads Eastwood to like this man. Fletcher is obviously troubled, and is not too proud to go without help. Besides, Eastwood has been up to tabs on the case - in fact, he knows more than Fletcher evidence wise (having access to top-notch Government resources), but has been impressed with the few deductions the Detective has made thus far. They have been deductions based on nothing more than good, old fashioned Police instict.

"Unfortunately, restrictions wouldnt allow me to offer assistance until this point... However I have been reviewing the case from afar - and I must say I am impressed by your moves, Inspector..."

"Hah! I'm closer to perfect health than I am to finding this fucker..."

As if to emphasize the point, Fletcher coughs up a hearty chunk of phlegm.

"'scuse me... Shit, Eastwood, I haven't got a fuckin' clue about this.. We have four bodies... Up until the third, each has had a number of fingers removed likened to the order in which it has been killed... But this body..."

"Is there any chance of copy-cat killing?"

"I'd want to say yes... But if so, we have a MAJOR leak... And I trust every Officer on this team. And my trust don't come easy."

"I have to agree... I guess it was a vain devils advocate hope... Still, when will the preliminary Forensic reports get here?"

"Should arrive by fax in an hour or so.... Listen, are you taking this case or assisting, Eastwood?"

The Policemans blunt honesty would normally offend the MI, but this time, it only further endeared Fletcher.

"My orders, and my intentions, are to assist in any way possible. Were my orders to take over, I have to say Inspector, i'd tell the boss to shove it. I've had access to everything you've seen, and I haven't made half the amount of conclusions as you."

"Well, mine ain't substantiated..."

"Perhaps, but a guess is better than ignorance."

Fletcher nodded, and the two men stood in silence, regarding the body, now shielded by a white plastic bivouac, some eight foot in the air. The body was of a teenage girl, and her appearance resmbled the other murders in every way; the thing that puzzled Mr's Fletcher and Eastwood was the fact that there were six fingers missing; not four, as expected.

It meant there were either two more bodies out there, they totally misunderstood the meaning of the severances; or the murderer was trying to keep them busy by leading them astray.

Both mean had secrety decided it was this last motivation. Their reasons were the same; they must be getting close somehow - without knowing it. Though correct in their assumptions - our murderer, the man nicknamed "The Fiddler" (due to the presence of such audiance at the third murder, and the rumours concerning his M.O), who is also part of a secret societies "Z-Division" - whatever that may be; yes, our murderer has removed extra fingers for the pure fun of the hunt.

He hopes his pursuers will reach the right conclusion, and throw a feint of extra manpower in other directions, but continue with vigilance in the same direction. He hopes his hunters are accomplished, because there is no fun in runing from a lame wolf.

"I believe we have a profiling expert arriving soon?"

"Yeah, some big-shot from London is coming in. Can't see how it will help, but I guess gotta try it all...."

At that moment, the P.C from earlier arrives, brandishing a steaming cup of tea.

"Er, Inspector, I got your tea... And theres a young lady waiting to see you. Says shes the Profiler...."

"Ah.. Ok, check her ID then send her over here, Constable."

The PC nods, then walks over to the waiting Miss Hall, and subsequently leads her over to our new friends, Fletcher and Eastwood.

"Gentlemen... I'm Sarah Hall.... Psychological Profiler..."

"Mornin' Miss Hall. Can't say I expected you this early... But i'm glad your here anyways..."

Eastwood simply nods and smiled at Hall, who he has met before, numerous times.

"Thank you Detective, i'm a night person anyway... A little bit of a Heliophobe..."

She smiled a dazzling smile at Fletcher, who had no idea Helio-whatsit was, but it didn't matter, that was one hell of a smile.

"Ok, anyway. If you go ask for Sergeant Masters at the Comms Tent...." He points to a white tent thirty feet away, where a cluster of Police Officers stand, talking on phones and examining documents... "He'll give you all the information you need."

She smiles, thanks him, and goes on her way.

"She's very good at what she does, Detective. I've worked with her many times..."

"I'll take your word for it. Anyway, lets go somewhere we can sit, I want to rack your brains over this..."

The two men walk off to another Police tent, and as they do, we must leave the scene. I believe we have witnessed enough for this night, and it certainly looks as though the plot is thickening with the introduction of one particular Heliophobe.

[b:cacc818c89]The Monday morning after Saturns testing... (The same day as the fourth body is found... ) [/b:cacc818c89]

Matthison paced the distance of the waiting room again. For such a close knit organization, this was one hell of a large waiting room; considering members were called in once in a blue moon. Matthison did not doubt the reasoning behind it was to isolate the waiting parties. He had been instructed to come before the Commitee at 2pm, it was now quarter past, and he had paced nervously ever since a quarter to. The ticking didn't help either. There was something equally suspicious about that clock, he thought.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...., then every few beats, it would slow itself - just a milli-second - but enough to disturb ones mental rhythm. There wasnt even a real consistency to it. He would listen, listen, listen, and just as he gave up on the idea as paranoid nerves, There!, it would slow itself again.

Part of him fully respected such nuances; they certainly removed any chance of mental preparation prior to such a meeting. The Commitee was myth and legend to most of The Organization, and to those who occasionally were interviewed by it, Matthison being one of those, it was more than myth. The men and women who sat on the board of governing - including the General himself - were terrifying. They were psychological genuii, they could extract any piece of information they required; the problem was, they weren't horrific shadowy people; they were normal, civil looking mere mortals; just like everybody else in The Organization. It just added to the confusion and utter weirdness of everything.

A red light flashed above one of the two doorways in the room; the other of which Matthison had entered half an hour or so previously. He stopped his pacing, drew in a deep breath, smoothed his lapels, and marched towards the door.

---

"Do sit down, John."

One of the Commitee pointed to an antique looking chair that would seat Matthison in a position where all he could do was look into the eyes of a Commitee member, wherever he looked. Sighing inside, he tugged the chair back a few inches, and sat down in it. He wanted to squirm, to crawl up; but he knew such thoughts were childish and pathetic; they were thoughts somehow induced by the other people in this room to add yet more discomfort.

"It has come to our attention that the "SATURN" exo-suit has reached testing stage... Would you care to fill us in? I know the general procedure is to have a written dossier produced - which I am sure you have no doubt set about compiling - but it was of our opinion that we should just have an... an informal chat about it."

Matthison opened his mouth, hoping his auto-pilot "management speak" would take over, but was cut short.

"Care for a cigar old boy?", a voice spoke from his right. He turned his head, ready to decline; but some instinct within him commanded otherwise... Would it be rude? Not really... But he was certain everything that had happened to him, since he had picked up his post from the doormat at 7:30am, up until this offer of a fine cigar, had been one long test.

"Yes, I will... Thank you.". he reached out and took one of the pencil thin Creme cigars from the box offered by a man as normal looking as Matthison himself.

A click to his left caused him to turn his head, a middle-aged woman was holding out a lighter flame, he gratefully used it to light his Cigar, and took a deep puff, taking care only to inhale as little as possible. These might be expensive Cigars, but Matthison was no smoker. Courtesy was one thing, habit was another.

"So anyway John, do tell us what you can...."

Matthison pulled the cigar from his mouth and rested it on an ash-tray on the table around which they all sat.

"Well, first off, the test was a complete success. The Agent involved in the test proved most efficient, and carried out orders far beyond expectations. I have offered his name to Ensign Harris - Of course the Agent - ah... Gary Samuels I believe, still has 6 months to go before he is eligible for promotion, but his Psychological Vitae is a grade 1, his loyalty has also been graded top class. He is certainly one to watch... Anyway, I digress...."

He lifts te cigar and takes another drag, relaxing slightly. He wonders why he always gets so clammy before Commitee meetings. Not once has he left feeling anything other than satisfied with his performance.

"As I said, the test was a complete success. Agent Samuels utilised both defensive and aggressive capabilities of the suit - both to optimum performance. The Vampire specimin did gain the upper hand briefly, but Agent Samuels countered well. Of course, the Vampire was one of the oldest we've ever used in a test situation; and i'm surprised it fell for some of our basic tactics. Still, it was a confident and more than adequate enemy, and Agent Samuels still proved true."

"Interesting. We shall keep an eye on this Samuels you seem to be impressed with... Now, what of 'Z-Division', or whatever the rot you call it..."

"Ah yes... 'Z-Division'. Well, Science Officer Giles informed me at the weekend that the American contingent have proved successful; of the eighty, only two have failed. However, here in England - where twenty were released of course - fourteen have been successful, and the other six have far exceeded the predictions we had hoped for.... Their feats have gone far beyond our projections for this stage, indeed even for the closing period next month."

"Would you mind explaining what, exactly, the purpose of this 'Z-Division' is again, John? Of course, we are aware that they are intended as pilots for the 'SATURN' units... But why exactly?"

"Well...", he takes another puff on the cigar, starting to enjoy the warm, fuzzy taste it induces, "Each of the Knights - thats what they will be called once fully operational - were produced as clones about twenty-five years ago. They were brought up under careful control by our Science and Technical divisions, as you're aware; with the single objective of becoming ultimate killers, whilst simaltraneously under our control.

The reason for them being outside, in the "real world", was decided by myself, and the board that was set up three years ago for the purpose of deducing what the best course of action at Optimum age would be - of course, we decided twenty-five would be the prime age for them to take on the Knight's mantle. Originally, this batch of clones were intended as the pilot scheme - the second batch will ripen in three years; and each subsequent batch would be so used in testing the 'SATURN' until the final unit was ready. As it stands, we can expect a hundred functional models within six months... So, the current batch of Knights are going to finish their 'real world' experience soon, and come in for debriefing, and 'SATURN' training.

Regaridng what the reasoning for putting them outside... Well, basically, we - the board - decided upon certain criterion that would inform us as to whether the Knights were actually as blood-thirsty and powerful as we hoped. I'll give you the US conclusion, because that shows the results we had originally hoped for..."

He opens a folder that he had brought in with him, and passes out several A4 booklets to the Commitee, all of which read and digest the facts and figures within.

"As you can see, of the seventy eight that survived - the two that died, for the record, were killed in violent circumstances of their own creation - over half joined various portions of the Armed Forces, hoping to be stationed out in Iraq, of course, whilst technically conscripted in the US Army now, we won't have any problem in making them dissapear from the paperwork. About thirty got themselves in gang-crimes, a fair few of which rose to considerable criminal rank in very short times, earning the respect of the violent with incredible efficiency our Watchers report."

He paused for breath as the people around him regarded him with inquisitive, but not unfriendly, eyes.

[i]"Now, concerning those in the UK... Fourteen pretty much followed in their American cousins footsteps; but six of the twenty, as I have said, seem to have excelled.... Whether it's co-incidence or not, those six were Z-15 through to Z-20.... Giles is looking into a possible difference in Genetic structure, and the Technicians are re-reading the psychological data in search of some anonymaly... Anyway, these six seem to have excelled... I'm sure you're aware of the "Fiddler" murderer at the present, well the actual murderer is Z-17; his weekly reports completely agree with information the Police and MI6 have gathered. He is leaving enough evidence for the investigators to pursue him, and yet not enough for him to ever be caught. We are aware of Vampiric interference beginning, at present we don't know where to locate the interlopers, but they will be wormed out soon enough. To be honest, i'm not sure a Vampire would want to go up against Z-17 at present. His bloodlust is exsquisite; aside from the "Fiddler" murders, he claims at least fifty six other kills in the UK and in France since January... All of which we have been able to sufficiently evaluate. We had projected a kill ratio of 1 per five days; this was worked out by the Technicians - and so far all the American, and fourteen of our the English based have met this requirement exactly - Z-15 through 20 have each killed approximately once every other day... What we have in our grasp, members of the commitee, are pure killing machines...."

Around him, the Commitee members nodded and murmured their approval.

"Once the 'Disorder Effect' occurs, in about a weeks time now, I believe, all ninety-eight remaining Knights will return to the fold, each will then undergo intensive chemical and mental preparation, effectively giving them a dependance on anger and rage, whilst simaltaneously having complete loyalty to The Organization - almost a love for it - they will then be trained with the 'SATURN's, and then, and only then, we will have a small army more than able of complete and utter genocide...."

Matthison had lowered the timbre in his voice at the end, hoping to leave his closing sentence on a note of potential magnificance; and it just about worked. The Commitee looked suitably impressed.

"Well i'll be blown. It looks like the ever-competent John Matthison has gone and brought the whole project forwards by fifty years. Whats say a round of applause eh chaps?"

Matthison was somewhat stunned as a man looking well over seventy stood up after finishing his praise, and began clapping; around him, the remaining members of the Commitee stood up and joined him. Matthison stood up and held his hands out, as though in surrender.

"Please, please... I was just doing my job...", he spoke, quite unbelieving of what was happening. Eventually they ceased their applause.

"The point is John, old boy, you've succeded where several others have failed before. You're quite our hero... Anyway, enough of the frivolties, you've done your job, and we're bloody happy about it too. So, get back to it now, and give us a full report on everything you just told us - lets say in a weeks time...."

Matthison smiled, it was one of the better rewards, he had learnt, when the superiors extend a report so significantly.

"Well John, thanks for coming, i'm sure we'llbe seeing you soon enough."

Matthison half expected to be offered a botthle of Champagne on his way out, such was his jubilance. He left the room, walked through the insanity inducing waiting room, and headed for his office. No Champagne, but boy oh boy, was he gonna have a drink on this one.

----

"It has to be said the chap has done well..."

"Quite, quite... But do you think he is being over zealous in his projections?"

"No, I shouldn't think so. He seems quite the pragmatist if you ask me..."

"Yes, but this 'Z-Division', do you seriously believe it will be sufficient to fit the requirement of the Knights? It was always my understanding that the Knights would be somewhat Honour-bound rogues, not mindless killing machines...."

"Don't be ridiculous. The point of a 'Knight' is to be able to kill without thought that which we instruct it to kill. Honour is not necessary if obedience is present..."

"I suppose so... Still, it seems as though we are veering away from the old ways..."

"Of course we are you bloody fool! We've all been in this Commitee since it began... Hellfire! Half of us have known each other since last century! The old ways have been and gone... We have to forget them... To combat a modern for, one must use modern devices - that should be our motto now, not some antiquated pledge of chivalric nonsense...."

This argument will continue long into the following day, where the seven Commitee members will do nothing but debate the subject. They are a very pure form of democracy; at least amongst themselves, eventually a decision on the aims of The Organization will be reached, and stuck to quite rigidly.

[b:184904e609]Millwall, South London, 2003

10 Days after the fourth body was discovered [/b:184904e609]

"Are you absolutely certain the DNA matches?"

"One hundred percent, Inspector. I am of no doubt that the sample I tested came from the same source as the semen extracted from all victims so far..."

"Christ.... Well, thanks Dave. I'll catch up with you next week."

"Ok Inspector, see you."

D.I.Fletcher hangs up the telephone and turns to re-examine the astounding scene. It is not, technically, a crime scene; though after an anonymous tip-off was offered in a 999 call, Fletcher had no choice to investigate further.

The whole case was as mystifying as what lay before him now; four definite murders, all almost certainly carried out by the same man, and from each scene, the only worthwhile evidence was DNA, and whilst it was good for corroborating intra-case facts, it was pretty useless in establishing who the miscreant was - what could he do? DNA test the whole of London?

Beside him, the phone rings, and it startles the Policeman; for a moment he had been lost in thought.

"Fletcher speaking...."

"Inspector? It's PC Mills. Ive found that reference you were after..."

"Go ahead, Mills."

"Its from a book called 'The Odyssey', by Homer, one of the Ancient Greeks...."

"Thats the one set after the Trojan war, right?"

"Thats right Sir...."

"Ok, Mills, was there any more to that passage?"

"Yeah, what you have there is only the first sentence in Odysseus' closing account of Circe... The whole statement reads..."

Fletcher hears Mill's clear his throat almost dramatically. His copper's instinct tells him Mills had probably been a good actor in his youth.

"Ok...

'We made our way to our ship and the beach with heavy hearts and many tears...'

Thats the bit you have there, and it goes on;

'Meanwhile Circe had gone ahead and tethered a ram and a black ewe by the ship. Seh had slipped past us with ease; when a god wishes to remain unseen, what eye can observe his coming or going?'

Thats it..."

"Hmmmm, ok Mills, can you run checks on 'Circe', the relevance of the sheep, and while your at it, geta copy of the book and put it on my desk."

"Sure thing, Sir."

Fletcher hangs up the phone once more, musing over what it could mean. First things first, though; aside from the semantics, what does it say about our friend?. the Policeman thinks.
He is well read, and wants us to know it... He hasn't quoted the Bible, that would just be cliche... He also has delusions of grandeur by the looks...

He coughs, and laughs quietly to himself.

"Shit, why am I doing that bitches work for her?"

He instantly regrets thinking this last sentence out loud; though he doesnt recall actually mouthing the words - still, he was heard, by none other than the bitch herself.

"I didn't realise I had made such a negative impression on you, Inspector? Still, as our relationship must remain professional, I see no reason to keep such feelings from one another. You think me a bitch, and perhaps that is fair. I think you a tiresome, old fashioned chauvenist. Now we are more revealed, I believe you have some new evidence to share with me."

Fletcher sighed, it was just his luck to put his foot in it at this point; he had no idea how she had found out his feelings concerning her initial diagnosis of the murderer; he had been impressed, but rather sure she was going down a number of blind alleys. What was needed was insight into where the bad guy would strike next, not as to whether his parents neglected him.

"Yeah, you can see it for yourself..."

He points to the wall, upon which the phrase 'We made our way to our ship and the beach with heavy hearts and many tears...' is written in blood - the "Fiddler's" blood.

"This is quite interesting... From 'The Odyssey', I believe... Tell me, Inspector, what information have you gleamed from this?"

"Well, we now know our murderer is right hand dominant - or at least ambi-dextorous. He appears to be average height. Obviously well read."

"Yes, yes; but what about your personal deductions, Inspector?"

She smiled at him, and despite his dislike for the woman, he felt honour-bound to reveal his own beliefs.

"Well, I can't say much for his sanity - thats your job - But, this guy knows what hes doing. He quoted a specialist text; not the Bible, he knows doing that would be just like every other serial killer... He wants us to follow him; he's leading us to something, something he hasnt done, but something he will do, and he knows we want to stop him. It's all a game for him, he is accepting of the fact we might stop him, but he doesn't think it'll come to that. In my opinion, this guy is absolutely mental."

She nods at him, scribbling down notes as he speaks. Regardless of her feelings for the Policemans antiquated sentiments, she respects his deductive mind. Not enough for her to like him, but he earns her respect, at least he earns the respect she will offer to a mere mortal.

"I have someone working on the reference, though I doubt it will offer much more."

"I have to agree, Inspector. I think it was, as you said, a demonstration of his intellect."

However, Miss Sarah Hall had her suspicions. Circe was 'The Dread Goddess', a lone power living alone, who would lure Sailors, seduce them, drug them, then transform them into animals. More importantly, Circe was the daughter of Helios, the Greek sun god. At present this was just co-incidence, but her Primogen had put her on this case for a reason, and Sarah was beginning to see why. This might just be another murderer, but maybe not.

"Either way, it seems as though the murderer envisions himself as rather powerful; and leading us, as you say. I will have my evaluation on your desk the day after tommorow. For now, I believe I have enough. Good night, Inspector."

He nods, not speaking. She seems to follow his own train of thought; still, he isn't sure. Is there more to this? He cant tell. Besides, its late, almost morning in fact. If he wants to be of any use tommorow, he dec