Participants:
| Scene Title | Hero |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Not quite getting the press she anticipated, Samantha does a little soul searching |
| Date | March 6, 2009 |
Sam's Lousy Apartment
It's been days since her kill. Don't think she hasn't been looking. Newpapers piled up on her kitchen table and not one mention of the pimp kill.
I'm a hero. I should be getting a damned medal from the mayor.
Of course that won't happen. What she does is without recognition, like an unknown artist who paints a beautiful painting but leaves it unsigned. People come to admire his work, but have no clue who it might be who painted such a beautiful painting.
Yet, not one mention of the dead pimp. No one cares. No one gives a damn that I'm out here fighting for our country.
How many would it take before some poor fourth tier reporter gets handed the story? How much time would be put into it? Surely not as much time as she put in stalking and learning about her prey. Following him, watching him abuse women. She has mastered her craft and no one gives a damn. She's out there fighting for them. The ones who want these freaks gone.
She picks up the pile of papers and walks over and dumps them in the trash. Yet something catches her eye. She pulls the top paper out and unfolds it.
What I need is someone a little more public. I need someone who'll be missed when their gone. Someone who will take me seriously.
It will take some time to set up. She's certain the one day she'll get caught, but she's only getting started now. She's already starting to feel edgy. That high that she got each time she remembered the feel of the trigger as she squeezed it and watched him fall to the ground, that memory is not as strong as it used to be. It's almost like she needs another fix. She tosses the paper onto the table as a face stares up at her in black and white.
Hell yeah. Someone will notice this. When I pull this off, finally someone will look up from the dreary dull lives and say, "Hey. someone's actually doing something about these freaks."
She walks over and opens he fridge and pulls out a soda, popping the top. She takes a long drink and then moves to sit back down at the table. She taps the familiar face that was delivered right to her door. Her cell phone rings. She picks it up and flips it open. "I'll be right there." She closes it and picks up the paper and bags it with the rest. Leave no trace behind. She'll have to hit the library later for some research. She grabs her keys and her jacket, opening the door and stepping from her apartment, closing the door behind her.
I'll be a damned hero.
 March 6th: Dislocated |
 March 6th: Interview or Interrogation? |