Cognitive Deviance

4. No Restraints

March 23, 2045 - 11: 50 PM

A rather popular and controversial topic to debate was whether the Psycho Slums occurred unintentionally or voluntarily. It had only been eighteen years since Psychwatch was founded, yet most of the country still wasn't ready to embrace them. Only a few states along the East Coast had permitted their services while the rest of the world remained offline, still wondering whether sympathy and proper mental health treatment were worth sacrificing their personal freedom of thought to the authorities.

These Psycho Slums were the closest getaways one could find from the watchful eye of the doctor-cops. Even regular cops tended to avoid those neighborhoods like the plague. They saw them as places where citizens on the verge of cracking could break down in peace, where they couldn't lay a hand on innocent people. Either they were unlucky enough to get caught by the authorities and had to deal with the legal consequences, or they had to endure the consequences of whatever choices and mistakes they made on their own. And if it ends in violence, the Psycho Slums would consume their corpse and make sure no one would ever learn of their significance.

But deep within the shadow-engulfed neighborhoods lined with dilapidated brownstones and abandoned stores, one man was fully aware of what he could do and what he was going to do. He knew that the freedom provided to him by the dreaded reputation of the Psycho Slums meant anarchy could be started by any person. Nobody, including himself, knew the full extent of the horrific fantasies plagued his thoughts. All he knew was that people were going to suffer.

The Multi Man sat alone in a chair, rinsing the blood off his dagger.

The light of the moon shone down on him through the hole in the skylight above him. Shards of glass surrounded him like an army ready to strike. His blazer dangled off his chair beside him, the sleeves speckled with red marks. His clean dagger glistened in the moonlight as the blood dripped into the water in the bucket below him. He slung his blazer back over his shoulders, making sure the bandages wrapped around his arms remained adhered to his skin.

No one, not even his own colleagues, knew what he looked like. His mask never came off nor did the bandages engulfing his arms. They won't know what was done to me, he thought to himself. Only what I will do to them.

The sound of footsteps grew louder as Dawson approached the entrance to the room. His sleeves were dowsed with red mist and in his left hand was a bloodied axe. "We got rid of the evidence," he said with exhaustion. "He never saw a thing coming."

"There's always someone who has to feel guilty at the last minute," the Multi Man groaned. "Joining me means never looking for a way out. He jumped into the pool, yet he refused to swim. So he drowned just like the other ones lacking loyalty."

"Don't you feel a little remorseful, sir? I mean, he said you were his last hope. Like you were the only person in this world who gave him a meaning."

"Well if I do, I haven't noticed."

Dawson remained quiet. He slowly approached the bucket full of water and blood and nervously dipped the axehead into it. "I hope you don't mind me asking, sir," he continued, "but why don't you ever hesitate to resort to violence?"

The only response he got was laughter. And it wasn't even from his own boss. He looked behind to see Crimson leaning against the door frame, playfully waving her machete around like a baton. Her mask was off, her crudely scribbled grin replaced with a sadistic smirk. Her red eyes glowed dimly in the moonlight and her white hair smoothed beautifully down her head like snow on a mountain. Those who knew her well knew that was the closest to peaceful she'd ever be.

"What's so funny?" Dawson asked.

"You're so adorable, Dawson," Crimson chuckled. "I know it can take a while for some newbies to get used to the lack of restraints on overkill, but how long have you been with us already?"