<P>Justin could make out the distinctive array of aerials bunched on the apartment building's roof as he left the alleyway. He checked his watch. He knew they hadn't changed: By now they would be approaching the climax of their impassioned coupling. His ego would swell as she moaned, she would find a momentary resolution as his warmth spread within her. Maybe they would decide to inform him of how it went, for the twentieth time. "Love", spawning hate and contempt. A note would wing its way across the ether, drawing behind it the melody of her beautiful, silly laugh. Only this night the note would find only a battered Pocketerminal lying face down on a cluttered desk. This night, the laugh would not be heard in Justin's soul. This night, the laughter would be felt by them.
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<P>As he crossed the cracked roadway slabs into the slums, the stagnant air of the alleyway sighed a cold breeze, catching a small food wrapper sufficiently unsodden by the rainwater to be capable of flight. It sprinted out of the mouth of the alleyway before breaking into an effortless spiral of flight. Drawing along side Justin, it danced a fitful ballad of sharp turns and unpredictable dips. The roar of a ship, hidden from sight by the ramshackle buildings, seemed to harry the wrapper into consensual submission. What sun could break the threatening skies glinted across the bow of the massive craft as it roared above the skyline. The litter kissed tarmac once more. Deital fingers of noise dug existence, threatened to rend the world. Justin paused. Watched the hexagonal craft struggle upwards. Emerald tongues of flame mocked Earth, the unseen god withdrew his hands. Like a child inspired by his father, the wrapper suddenly leapt upwards, twisting and convulsing as it grasped for the heavens. Just as abruptly, life abandoned it. A short, lazy plummet to the ground.
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<P>They had chosen an apartment with window access to the clumsy mass of ladders and metal stairs that served as a fire escape. Crouched flush to the wall, Justin cautiously strained his neck to survey the room behind him. The kitchen area. Unsurprisingly empty. He withdrew the Beretta from its pocket, the dull, black silencer throwing its weight slightly. He disengaged the safety, then placed the pistol on the mesh platform. Using both hands, he forced the rotting wood of the window frame upwards slowly, to avoid alerting the couple to his intrusion. When he had created an opening of sufficient size for him to pass through, he reclaimed the handgun and cocked the hammer with his thumb. He slid quietly through the window. As his feet touched the plastic flooring, he became aware of his heart. He felt flushed, his pulse steady but strengthening. He was used to much stronger sensations; those that debilitated him whenever he read one of the couple's smug, taunting messages. He no longer noted the absence of emotional sensation.