Post by REDSHEILD on Dec 6, 2018 14:34:06 GMT
New York City
Magnetar appears out of thin air, materializing from a burst of microwave radiation atop one of the shorter towers of the city.
She takes in her surroundings; even hours after sunset New York shines brightly, making it easy to get her bearings. She frowns.
Three blocks off
Of all the achievements of humanity, the taming of electricity is among the greatest. Cities are lit across the spectrum; it makes them beautiful, and frustrating. The countless signals and interference patterns don’t prevent Magnetar from creating the waveform she uses to travel, but the noise makes it difficult to collapse the waveform accurately.
There is one thing she likes about cities: they are made of metal. Magnetar reaches out with her field and pulls against the structures around her. The forces involved are vast, and so is the disparity between her own inertia and the towers of concrete and steel. The reaction forces launch her into the air fast enough that she is a blur, almost invisible against the skyline.
She reaches her destination in a matter of seconds, stopping abruptly ahead of the apartment tower. Pushing and pulling against the buildings around her she hovers onto a balcony.
Unlike most of its neighbors the glass door is locked by physical and electronic means. The latter is likely tied to a security system.
Neither is of great concern; the right induction of voltage opens the electronic lock, and the latch can be moved with simple magnetism.
Scott Becker’s loft apartment is intimately familiar, and little has changed since she last entered it. For three weeks she has observed his routines; his residence is the centerpiece, and where he is most vulnerable. Ironic, given how little time he spends here.
Magnetar is careful to avoid the cameras and motion sensors, methodically moving from room to room, until she can access the central system. During the course of the observation stage she has studied the make and model Mister Becker has installed, and with her power influencing it is trivial. A few modifications on the board is all it takes, flipping memory latches inside the circuitry. She closes up the panel; the system will always report all-clear, its live feeds replaced with recordings, until its next reboot sometime tomorrow. Mister Becker will be dead by then.
With the security system under her control, she can use it to track him. As expected he is out for the evening, indulging in his thrice-weekly vices. The system is linked to his phone, his car, and his driver’s phone. According to the tracker Becker himself is at one of the higher-end nightclubs; his driver waiting outside near the car. Magnetar can imagine the driver leaning against the vehicle, passing the time with a pack of cigarettes for company.
She makes her way to the second floor, examining the bedroom. It is spacious and furnished in the modern style. At the back wall of the room are two doors; one leads to a master bathroom, the other a walk-in closet. She notices the nightstand is conspicuously empty; the picture frame of Becker with his wife missing. Predictably he has stashed it in the drawer, along with his wedding ring.
Damn
It is a bad sign. She had hoped Becker would be alone; her last attempt to end him was thwarted by an impromptu party running later than planned. A single witness would be easier to work around, at least. Normally she would opt to wait, but it had to be tonight. Becker would be leaving for Munich in the morning.
Recalling the tracker, she muses on the possible outcomes of the evening. She had planned to wait here, but perhaps it would be better to arm herself with more information. She opens the closet. Most of it is Scott’s clothing, various suits and shirts. She remembers from an overheard conversation that Mister Becker used to travel with Missis Becker, and sure enough there is a collection of the woman’s dresses and coats hanging up, expensive shoes arranged neatly on the floor beneath them.
Magnetar smiles mischievously.
Oh, what to wear…
~~~
“Your order, miss.”
The waiter places a fanciful glass bottle on the table, filled with a clear beverage. A shot glass accompanies it.
Abigail places a few bills on the table.
“Keep the change.”
The waiter nods, collects the payment, and leaves. Being generous is as easy as indulging, when it doesn’t cost you anything.
Even dressed up as she is -fur-trimmed white jacket with matching white heels that contrast neatly with the black fabric of her jumpsuit- Abigail looks much too young to be admitted to such an establishment. A fair amount of makeup, courtesy of the absent Missis Becker, combined with her height is enough to conceal her unnatural youth.
Abigail leans back in the chair and crosses her legs casually, knocking back a shot of vodka. The cool liquid’s presence activates her dormant metabolism; a heartbeat is something she prefers to go without, but it comes part and parcel with the ingestion, digestion, and absorption of food or drink.
She can see Becker at the bar, mingling with the other revelers. Given his drunken state, it would be trivial to ‘fall’ for him, let him take her to his apartment, and deliver the final blow there.
Such things are the provenance of fiction. Too many complications, too many witnesses. She prefers to act unseen, even by her target.
All she need do is wait, and everything will fall into place.
Magnetar appears out of thin air, materializing from a burst of microwave radiation atop one of the shorter towers of the city.
She takes in her surroundings; even hours after sunset New York shines brightly, making it easy to get her bearings. She frowns.
Three blocks off
Of all the achievements of humanity, the taming of electricity is among the greatest. Cities are lit across the spectrum; it makes them beautiful, and frustrating. The countless signals and interference patterns don’t prevent Magnetar from creating the waveform she uses to travel, but the noise makes it difficult to collapse the waveform accurately.
There is one thing she likes about cities: they are made of metal. Magnetar reaches out with her field and pulls against the structures around her. The forces involved are vast, and so is the disparity between her own inertia and the towers of concrete and steel. The reaction forces launch her into the air fast enough that she is a blur, almost invisible against the skyline.
She reaches her destination in a matter of seconds, stopping abruptly ahead of the apartment tower. Pushing and pulling against the buildings around her she hovers onto a balcony.
Unlike most of its neighbors the glass door is locked by physical and electronic means. The latter is likely tied to a security system.
Neither is of great concern; the right induction of voltage opens the electronic lock, and the latch can be moved with simple magnetism.
Scott Becker’s loft apartment is intimately familiar, and little has changed since she last entered it. For three weeks she has observed his routines; his residence is the centerpiece, and where he is most vulnerable. Ironic, given how little time he spends here.
Magnetar is careful to avoid the cameras and motion sensors, methodically moving from room to room, until she can access the central system. During the course of the observation stage she has studied the make and model Mister Becker has installed, and with her power influencing it is trivial. A few modifications on the board is all it takes, flipping memory latches inside the circuitry. She closes up the panel; the system will always report all-clear, its live feeds replaced with recordings, until its next reboot sometime tomorrow. Mister Becker will be dead by then.
With the security system under her control, she can use it to track him. As expected he is out for the evening, indulging in his thrice-weekly vices. The system is linked to his phone, his car, and his driver’s phone. According to the tracker Becker himself is at one of the higher-end nightclubs; his driver waiting outside near the car. Magnetar can imagine the driver leaning against the vehicle, passing the time with a pack of cigarettes for company.
She makes her way to the second floor, examining the bedroom. It is spacious and furnished in the modern style. At the back wall of the room are two doors; one leads to a master bathroom, the other a walk-in closet. She notices the nightstand is conspicuously empty; the picture frame of Becker with his wife missing. Predictably he has stashed it in the drawer, along with his wedding ring.
Damn
It is a bad sign. She had hoped Becker would be alone; her last attempt to end him was thwarted by an impromptu party running later than planned. A single witness would be easier to work around, at least. Normally she would opt to wait, but it had to be tonight. Becker would be leaving for Munich in the morning.
Recalling the tracker, she muses on the possible outcomes of the evening. She had planned to wait here, but perhaps it would be better to arm herself with more information. She opens the closet. Most of it is Scott’s clothing, various suits and shirts. She remembers from an overheard conversation that Mister Becker used to travel with Missis Becker, and sure enough there is a collection of the woman’s dresses and coats hanging up, expensive shoes arranged neatly on the floor beneath them.
Magnetar smiles mischievously.
Oh, what to wear…
~~~
“Your order, miss.”
The waiter places a fanciful glass bottle on the table, filled with a clear beverage. A shot glass accompanies it.
Abigail places a few bills on the table.
“Keep the change.”
The waiter nods, collects the payment, and leaves. Being generous is as easy as indulging, when it doesn’t cost you anything.
Even dressed up as she is -fur-trimmed white jacket with matching white heels that contrast neatly with the black fabric of her jumpsuit- Abigail looks much too young to be admitted to such an establishment. A fair amount of makeup, courtesy of the absent Missis Becker, combined with her height is enough to conceal her unnatural youth.
Abigail leans back in the chair and crosses her legs casually, knocking back a shot of vodka. The cool liquid’s presence activates her dormant metabolism; a heartbeat is something she prefers to go without, but it comes part and parcel with the ingestion, digestion, and absorption of food or drink.
She can see Becker at the bar, mingling with the other revelers. Given his drunken state, it would be trivial to ‘fall’ for him, let him take her to his apartment, and deliver the final blow there.
Such things are the provenance of fiction. Too many complications, too many witnesses. She prefers to act unseen, even by her target.
All she need do is wait, and everything will fall into place.
