this thing is not a matter of international espionage, climbing the mountains of freedom and good will unto men. you will not be asked to cross any oceans or rap on mighty doors with iron fists. this is only, in the most subtle way, defeat, because the defeat cannot exist in the open - you are working almost entirely in a world that cannot be seen.

this thing is not a matter of assasination by chance, but it is a thing of destruction, have no doubt, and to be able to co-exist, the first requirement, you must have long ago destroyed any part of your own self that would hinder that. this means, in short, any relationship based on money, power, love, intelligence, or sex. this is not, by the way, recommended, it is simply, please remember, a tutorial.

a matter of social division is helpful, social standing and social upbringing. social uprisal and social upheaval. you are a well defined speaker of the nation you represent, having spent years upon decades in a womb of print ads and buses, subway cars, sex-based television specials, holler and heartbreak. development takes place and you emerge, sometimes willing and rarely able, to take on the impossible, the strongest and certainly the most painful.

this person is not your enemy. this person is only their own enemy and it is sometimes viewed as a matter of "re-programming," though we like to call it "re-rememberence." our colleagues who attempt to approach others as possible candidates for "re-programming" will find themselves forever increasing defense budgets, forever developing new aircraft, forever dropping new bombs and beating on new doors with new kinds of fists. a person cannot be "re-programmed," a person can simply be invited to remember another time when life was something more for them.

and with that we hope that a seed can grow, replenishing a soul. high hopes, for sure, but we are being led in the correct direction by television, movies, books and the like, as well as our own imaginations, the things we imagine while standing in line, the communicae we recieve and the inflection in the voice of the target and the target's similar structures. all we can hope for is peaceful resolution, but in the case that this becomes impossible, we must prepare ourselves for war.

and so it begins: making this happen is a matter of defeating personality, a matter of changing things backwards and working up the little pieces that are invariably ignored, but clearly play their part. the painful memory, the loss of soul (be it in truth or in mind - a simple carbon test can tell you this, though it is rarely necessary and often plays no catalyst to the part of course of action), a general sense of immense self-hatred and very overdone self-love at the same time and somewhat canceling each other out, but only to the untrained eye.

the stronger the person is, the stronger the fight and the worse the fall, as we were taught through our schooling. this is a fight in which our loser will go down as their own martyr, but be aware that you will not be celebrated in your own time. soldiers are often considered overzealous, overobsessed -- it is not a stance that one associates with strength and prosperity -- the strong and the prosperous prefer to never allow themselves so close to true danger. not the stray bullet, mind you, but if you're reading this, i assume you are already acquainted with what i mean when i say, "true danger."

attack last and attack as subtley as possible. methods of doing so include disinterest, mild disgust and a cleverly not-so-disguised attempt at hiding that. small words here and there to colleagues in civilian garb about a loss of faith in the neighboring nations. attack simply by copying, maninpulating personality traits, the last reminders of a time when the target had something more than nothing to share with the world, and most importantly, the things that the target prided themselves in sharing.

these things may seem futile, but there is strong precedent defending these actions, the last one in particular, for a person largely defeated already can become quite strong, where their weaknesses often lie only in the pieces they've maintained, somewhere in mind, from long before their initial defeat -- not by you, of course, but by the world at large around them.

this is meant to be a short tutorial and the task is often much more dependent on the individual than the training -- national issues, cultural issues, pre-programming -- but if you are aware of your position in the world and it is worth it to fight for tears of salvation, or tears of the bricks of the long, long stairway leading ultimately to something that resembles salvation, then this is meant as a first step, a memoir, perhaps, and if nothing else, i wish you good luck, good life, and in the event of death, strong and full of the knowledge that you have tried salvation in a time when most men and women would have never seen the chance.
“ What the Fuck?” She burst through the doors to the lab, the heat hitting her face at a blast.
The scientists looked up from their work.
She stood there for a second, staring at him reading a secondhand magazine fished out of a trashcan. He looked at her lifelessly.
“ What. The. Fuck. Are you doing?”
“ Nothing.”
“ Nothing? Then what is that girl doing in the cell?”
“ What girl?” He feigned innocence.
“ What girl, huh? Perhaps the naked one covered in blood. Rita?”
“ She was getting in my way. I was working on a prototype.”
“ In your way? She was tied up.”
“ Rita came undone. She was bothering me.”
She stared at him accusingly. He looked weak, his black t-shirt hanging listlessly on his muscled frame, loose at the neck. She hated weakness. She would not, could not, tolerate it. She hated him for looking weak, as it only served to make her look weaker.

They had met at a party. She was there to assassinate a world leader, he was a guard. She had initially loved his looks, the hard jutting cheekbones and chiseled jaw encased in chilly white skin, cold, steely gray eyes to match. He had been dressed in an all black tuxedo, with a magnum hidden underneath his snug jacket and a 5 inch dagger in his sleeve.
She remembered the way he pulled her aside behind a pillar and frisked her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment when he discovered the paper thin blade strapped to her inner thigh. And he had let her go through.
And later, when guests were fleeing in panic as the leader sat dead with a knife through his heart, he had grasped her arm above the elbow and lead her away to her car, saying only “ This way if you please.”
She had had a background check run, listening excitedly to the results. Trained to the hilt, and the name: Heir Presumptive Lord Anton Von Grimm. She ran it over in her mind, Anton Von Grimm. She imagined it with hers: Lord and Lady Von Grimm.
She felt that awkward, aching feeling in her chest, and the goose bumps that felt painful when she ran her hand over them. She wanted to rule the world with him.

It was he who found her.
He came to her father’s lab facilities, stalking her associates and minions. Her father’s guards caught him on the grounds of their estate, and beat him soundly.
The Doctor had asked her afterwards, “ My dear, why did that man ask for you?”
She had blushed softly as her father injected a serum into her vein.
She was the daughter of the infamous villain, Doctor Albert Durand, and the skillful assassin Hoshiko Kasumi Shimizu. Her father had taught her everything he knew, genetically modifying her to be the most deadly weapon in his arsenal. Her mother taught her social discipline on her monthly flights to the Academy in an undisclosed location in the hills of Japan, as well as calligraphy and advanced martial arts. She spoke 14 languages and was proficient in over 30 forms of fighting. Other children were read to sleep with nursery rhymes. Her father read her The Art of War, and his personal manifesto on the enslavement of humanity was her grade school primer.

Von Grimm never told her how much he loved her. Yet he had always cared so deeply. He had seen her at his prime-minister’s functions, always resplendent, always in red. She had watery green eyes with an obvious Asian slant that caught the light and glowed was in the heat of battle, and pale skin like cream. He had wanted to run his hands through her hair, black as India ink and so soft.
They finally spoke, when he snuck into her bedroom at night, his hands still bloody from where he had vaulted over the barbed wire. He still had scars.
They had talked for hours, lying in her bed with a torn piece of her nightgown wrapped around his hands. They lay there and she told him of her plan for world domination. It was then that he first kissed her.

It had been thirteen years, and they had been husband and wife for eight. And he still never said it. Never.
She stood in the Laboratory and looked at his dejected form, slumped over a Scientific Review. Together they had conquered the world.
But she was lonely for his words. She missed what she never had. He had never said it, and would likely never say it.
She wasn’t upset about the girl. They had been planning to murder her ages ago.
She had realized it the night before, that he had never said it. Not at the times he should have, not at their wedding, during their honeymoon conquering Russia together, not even the night she had assassinated the President of the United States. Not once could she remember it.
She began to sob, big heavy tears that blurred out her vision. She fell forward as he caught her and took her out of the lab, down the hallway.
He set her down and she immediately slumped to the ground, her body heaving with ragged sobs. She gurgled and choked, big fat tears running down her face.
He sat down next to her and buried his head into her shoulder.
" I'm so sorry," He said, not knowing what he had done.

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