W

As I sit in this abandoned elevator shaft, sneaking a moment to myself, I find myself struck with a sudden, nagging worry. Yet, my fear isn't due to the hyenas on the third floor or the mafia waiting up in the penthouse. Rather, my thoughts are on this very blog. More specifically: what is the point?

I don't mean this in an existential sense, though I am well aware that we'll all be dead and forgotten in a century. My worry is this: what am I accomplishing through this journal of mine?

At first it felt like a way to seek justice for Q's death. To pretend that my cause was as noble as that would be a lie, however. Truthfully, I was angry and upset and had a bit of a writerly temper tantrum. Yet, as one often does when emotions are at play, I did not think of what consequences my actions could bring.

And now, I have begun to see the effects of my words worm their way into the world. W, one who I once considered an ally, contacted me recently.

I was left a note: "-. --- / --- -. . / - .-. ..- ... - ... / . .- -.-. .... / --- - .... . .-. / .- -. -.. / . ...- . .-. -.-- --- -. . / .. ... / .- -. --. .-. -.-- / -.-. --- -- . / -... .- -.-. -.- / ... --- / .. / -.-. .- -. / .--. ..- -. -.-. .... / -.-- --- ..- / .. -. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --. --- -.. -.. .- -- -. / ..-. .- -.-. ."

I won't trouble you with the translation, but essentially, my stories about J and K have found listening ears. And those ears were connected to brains which are wired to all sorts of fun limbs capable of fear and betrayal and violence. In short, I have injected distrust into the Organization.

I did not mean for this to happen.

Did I?

When Q wrote "Betrayal" in her own blood, or when her murderer wrote "Betrayal" in her blood, or when a mysterious third party decided that a splash of tomato sauce spelling out "Betrayal" would really liven up the room, or when whatever really happened happened, it changed everything.

I had always known that the Organization was failing. I knew of stories like J's and K's (and many, many more), but kept them silent in order to preserve what little good we were doing. Yet, I feared that the scales had tipped, that tables had turned, the dogs had barked, and we'd begun to do more harm than good.

No, that's simply another excuse. I will not falsely justify my actions, no matter how tempting the possibility.

This blog was not just for righting some wrongs, or for some righteous justice. It was my anger and grief and despair channeled into pure destruction. And now, as I begin to see what my words have wrought, I must ask something that I so rarely consider in my line of work: what is the right thing to do?

Is it better, W, for us to know the truth or for our trust to be misplaced?

Seriously, this question is not rhetorical. Tell me, for I haven't the faintest idea.

Lies or distrust? Truth or betrayal? Ignorance or fear?

The scales are balanced almost evenly and the choice is an impossible one.

W, please, let us meet, and perhaps I can explain myself. I'll be at the hotel where we had our first gunfight. Bring a ladder and try to avoid the third floor.

If you do not receive this message within the next 24 hours, disregard it, for the hyenas will have already eaten me.

- A.M. Ham