Mr X.

[[Influenced whilst listening to The Killing Moon, it’s a nice song. =). Download it and have a listen, people =\\. And I was writing Amanda as a vile creature, I only just managed to force myself to make her vaguely humane. As always, thanks for the reviews, they really are appreciated, keep ‘em comin’, ladies and gents. And remember, never trust your video rental store clerk.]]

Mr X gazed at the middle-aged woman before him, the epiphany of disinterest ing ing over his features, lids drooping slightly from boredom as he sighed dully and nodded slowly. She would tire herself out complaining eventually. The stupid cap upon his head was aggravating; the little badge with his name emblazoned across it even more so. Carlos Magnus Louis Sanguine was his birth name. This firm, however, thought his name was Alexander Wyatt. The name of a past victim. Though of course, all this was not written on the tacky plastic wallet covered nametag. Merely ‘My name is Alex, how may I help you?’. Mr X despised his job. The video rental store had been the only place desperate enough though to accept a jittery, aggressive teenager with no qualifications, though, it seemed.

‘Go see the Manager. There’s nothing I can do, I’m afraid.’ Mr X’s tone was dull, monotone. He’d said this a thousand times, and he’d been stood in this position more times than possible, it felt.

‘I will.’ The woman spoke with an oddly defiant tone, despite the fact she was doing what he told her. He sighed and accepted the money from the small boy with the mousy hair for a bag of popcorn. The boy wandered out the door without his change, and Mr X was forced to jog after him. The embarrassed fluster of the child charmed him, and he offered a kindly grin in return. It didn’t reach his eyes, but the boy wandered away nonetheless.

‘Lunch break Alex,’ His boss’ voice rung out harsh, grating, aggravating. Mr X felt an odd twitch in his jaw, but he nodded slightly.

‘A bit early isn’t it, Sir?’ They very much operated on authoritarianism here, Mr X found.

‘Yeah. I figured you could clear off now. I want you back by 12:30, though.’ Mr X’s frown grew.

‘That’s only half an hour. You’re cutting my lunch break in half.’

‘That’s right Alex, I am. And if you don’t go eat your lunch right now I’ll be cutting your pay in half too.’ Mr X felt his features warping oddly, tensening, tightening. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side, his teeth seemed to grit on their own accord. He felt slighted.

‘I think you can shove your fucking clock up your ass and I’ll come back when I feel like it,’ The words left his lips, a stream of disobedience and insanity it seemed. The boss merely laughed heartily, however.

‘Fantastic, Alex. Don’t come back at all. I’ve been looking for an excuse like this all along, you half pint freak. You’re fucking fired.’ Mr X’s fist seemed to gain a mind of it’s own as it dove towards the jaw of his loud mouthed superior, and in moments it seemed, he was straddling the man’s chest, raining blows of vicious severity into the face of the other. The sick sound of bone cracking and the splatter of blood seemed to fill the air, until Mr X scrambled off, stumbling backwards. Blood coated his fingers, and he smiled mildly in bemusement. He pulled the cap from his head, and flung it upon the body of his unconcious manager. Someone was calling the police.

Mr X frowned deeply. The last thing he needed was attention from the law, and this was a moment where he’d wished he’d thought a little more deeply. Then, he allowed a guttural laugh to wrought free from his throat in amusement. They’d never catch him, after all. They hadn’t thus far, it was impossible. He allowed his eyes to rove about the shocked crowd casually. The mousy haired boy was looking at him strangely. Mr X gazed back a moment. An older man gripped his son’s arm and dragged him away. Mr X shrugged narrow shoulders and hooking a bloodied thumb in the pocket of his jeans, turning on his heel and leaving the crowd behind. As he turned the corner he hooked fingers beneath the skin at each corner of his face and pulled, the tan covering which hid his usual features falling away as he then lifted a hand and raked fingers through the false brown average-joe hair on his head, and pulled it away. He dumped both in the trash can at his side and smiled, any worries faded. They would not find him.

Old identity discarded, along with false identification, he made his bac back to his apartment. As always, the crowds did not notice the blood on his jacket, his shirt, his trousers or his hands.