The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The frequency-scanner jumped ahead again.

Tara, Natalie and Helen were still squatting in the same place— it was a November day, now, Tara noted, and she was glad to find herself in the situation that she found herself in. Last November, she’d been far into the process of becoming addicted to receiving Running. And the November before, she’d been starting her new internship, full of hope for the future. How far she had fallen in just two years— again, she reflected in delight that she’d done this to herself— that any past version of her in the past two years could have made changes that resulted in a different present for her.

But that hadn’t happened. And so now, in the span of two years, across three Novembers, she had gone from bright-eyed and optimistic to secretly addicted and holding it together to absolutely and completely ruined.

And all days were the same now— the three of them did heroin together.

Right now they were working on that— getting a fire going again, to prepare.

“The window at the front of the room is still there—” Xerxes noticed. “Someone’s walking past outside—”

He grabbed his camera just in case.

“Their face looks familiar—”

He snapped a picture quickly. “I got them. I’ll just take the photocard out and connect to my printer— then I can have a physical copy.”

Xerxes left the frequency-scanner running. Not much was happening, though, because Tara and the others were still trying to get their fire to burn.

“It’s printing now, Kalchek. Alright, I’ve got it.”

With the picture in hand, Xerxes walked back over to stand near the frequency-scanner.

He scrutinized the picture.

“I’ve definitely seen this person before— oh! I think I know where!”

He moved some of the things on the table beside the frequency-scanner around, but then stilled.

“Oh, Kalchek! Kalchek, I think I’ve got it!”

Xerxes wrote down the set of co-ordinates, and for the first time, turned the frequency-scanner completely off.

“Kalchek,” Trewhitt said. “I feel just the way I always do— when I’m sitting a client down at the end of a case to tell them what I’ve found out for them. I feel certain, now, that I’ve understood— that I’ve cracked it this time, and I haven’t left anything out.”

Trewhitt exhaled in relief. But he knew, just as he’d known every time that he’d had a client sitting across his desk from him, that he was going to have to walk him through what he’d understood, and prove that the information he’d collected had actually been worth getting.

“Helen is not the person the killer took a mind-capture of,” he added. “I know that must sound crazy to you, but let me just walk you through it. You’ve seen just as I have, so I’m sure you’ll agree with me. It seemed, deceptively at first, that Helen was more creative than Natalie was. But that apparent capacity for creation is illusion. She is doing something more complicated— she has greater skill than Natalie did— but she is static in just the way that Natalie is static. And Natalie’s static state proved the existence of Helen before she revealed herself— so now if Helen is in a static state, that proves the existence of a Runner who is above her.

“Someone who wanted her— wanted all of them to become addicted to drugs, someone who wanted all of them to become ruined. I was right to question Helen’s behavior— if she had truly been free, she would have stopped her own ruin, but it was like she had to allow it. Like someone had Run that into her.

“And I was half-right, when I looked at Natalie and Tara’s behavior and related it back to Helen. I said then, well, Helen must just be using them as extensions of herself so her character traits were bleeding through their behavior. Someone was doing that, but not Helen. Helen’s Runner was using her as an extension of themselves, and their character traits were bleeding through her.

“So Helen’s Runner is a person who likes to dominate their victims so totally that they bring them to absolute ruin. And every victim of this person will have the telltale give away of being trapped in a static state, because this Runner likes to Run people so thoroughly that they have to exit the race— they enjoy making their victims this abject, they enjoy destroying both their identities and their minds this fully.

“All the blame I lay on Natalie, and then transferred to Helen, it is rightly owed to this person. They are the despicable one, they are the one who so wants to dominate the minds of their victims that they destroy them. They are the one who must be stopped and brought to justice.

“But this Runner is a tricky Runner, because they didn’t approach Tara themselves, and start Running her directly. This is a Runner who likes to puppeteer. Likes to make a puppet which will control a puppet that controls another puppet, and so on, so their victims will not necessarily even know who their true Runner is. I’d guarantee, though, Helen will have come face to face with this person and been Run directly by them. But I don’t think Natalie will ever have met them, or Tara, or many of their other victims, probably.”

Trewhitt drew in a breath. “Kalchek. This Runner is the killer.”

He waited a beat. He could imagine Kalchek reacting in shock, forwards in time, at this moment in the video. Or he could imagine Kalchek sitting across the diner-table in about fifteen minutes as he repeated this whole statement for him. It was good to have this chance to rehearse— it was good to practice leaving a beat here, in case Kalchek spluttered out his cup of coffee. Maybe Trewhitt would also tell him in aside that he should wait before taking a sip.

“The mind-capture is the key. The killer was always defending against the mind that mind-capture was taken of. The recitation of the laws of Running was a mental-shield, meant to protect against an encroaching power. But the killer was doing that in the past, so that was not the killer trying to protect against our encroach. Someone was trying to hunt our killer, and they recited the laws of Running to try and protect against the Running being inflicted on them.

“But we saw— that hunter only became more and more obsessed. And I’m sure, Kalchek. After all those incursions, all that time of building obsession, with all that history of past conquests— that hunter confronted our killer, and they were killed. The murder we saw which started all of this was the killer’s murder of the hunter. And in the moment the killer was linked with the hunter’s mind, the killer took that mind-capture of them and stored it in the recesses of their memory. We’ve been watching the lead-up to the murder we already saw— we’ve been watching it all this time. And that’s why the frequency-scanner kept jumping between the mind-capture and the killer. Not just because both were stored in the killer’s mind, which we already knew, but because each memory of the killer reciting a Law of Running was directly prompted by each incursion the hunter made into their mind. So we watched the incursion— and this was linked to the killer’s own memory of trying to fend it off— so then we kept getting pulled into the killer’s response to the incursion.

“And I think the Laws of Running are definitively true. Especially the fifth and sixth Laws, though they were the ones which confused me in my investigation the most, at the time. There is always a Runner of greater ability. The hunter objectively had greater ability than the killer. But the killer shielded against their power— and in the moment of murder, used their intelligence to outmaneuver the hunter, overcome them, and kill them. And survival for a Runner does depend on that Runner’s ability to outwit other Runners, and outmaneuver. That’s why the killer refuses to run most of their victims in person; that’s why they prefer to puppeteer. That way, no one ever actually sees them— ever actually knows they’re the one responsible. But the traces of their actions still shows their outline, as I’m laying out.

“If Tara had ever been brought to the true Runner, she would have seen the killer’s face, and we would know who they are. Just as if this person ever revealed their level of skill, they might call the attention of more powerful Runners. Their level of cunning is what has kept them alive, and free, and out of sight of the law, all at once.

“But I think our killer has made one mistake,” Xerxes went on. “They like to puppeteer, but they so enjoy the destruction of their victims that they can’t fully remain aloof. There are going to be choice times they— emerge into the public sphere, to watch what’s happening to their victims from afar. When they do so, they’ll look as deceptively nondescript as we might expect— but they’ll be there. And I’m sure, Kalchek. Absolutely sure, that I was wrong before. The killer was there that day Natalie made Tara sit in the stone-plaza— and I took pictures of every single person who was there. I think I’ve got them.”

Trewhitt took up the stack of photos he had thrown down in frustration so many times. Took up the stack of photos he had so often scorned as useless.

“I think I’ve got them, because the killer showed their face again. Walking past the house of old-apartments Tara and the others are squatting in. And I’ve got the picture of that too— so if I can show you they were there, on both days—”

He set the new picture on the table, beside the stack, and spread the stack out.

“There,” he said— matching both faces to each other. “This was one of the first pictures I took, on the day Tara was in the plaza. The killer is a young man— the picture of him walking by the house is in side-profile, but the picture of him in the plaza shows his face full on. We’ve got him.”

Trewhitt stepped over to the videocamera, centering first one picture before it, and then the other.

“You’re getting both photocards too, of course. But I’ve got the picture from the plaza digitally— let me search and see if I can find his name.”

Trewhitt opened one of his desk-drawers to draw out the laptop he only ever occasionally used.

He sat down at the desk, opened the laptop, and searched by the image, for any other times a face similar to what it showed had been shown.

It only took about a minute and a half.

“There! That’s the same face— there are very few pictures of him, but to keep up that deceptive illusion of normalcy, he allowed himself to have his picture taken by his employer when he was recognized for having stuck with the company for five years. And on the company announcement page, the picture was posted, and his name was listed— Ryan Hunt. That’s the killer. I guarantee you that’s the killer.”

Trewhitt printed out the picture he’d found, and took it back to the camera, and held it up, then held the picture from the stone-plaza.

“Undoubtedly the same man. And Kalchek, I am sure— he’s undoubtedly our killer, and undoubtedly the Runner who Ran Helen to Run Natalie, to Run Tara. You should consider him your prime suspect, and if you have to speak to official channels, you can call him a person of interest until you’ve solidified your evidence.”

Trewhitt exhaled. “So that’s it, Kalchek.” He threw the three photos he’d still been holding down on the table to the side of the frequency-scanner. “I solved it.”

He looked at the frequency-scanner, though.

“I’ll watch on a little more, though, in case there’s more evidence to gather. I’ll go right to 11:30, and then I’ll leave to meet you, tell you this in person and give you the videocard and the photocard. I’ll see what else happened to Tara and Natalie and Helen. And see what else our Mr. Ryan Hunt got up to. I’ll be seeing you soon, though, Kalchek. And I’m sure everything we see happen from this point on— is only going to prove that what I have solved for you is true.”

Xerxes turned back to the frequency-scanner projector. He flicked it back on, and glanced down at the coordinates he had noted down before. He dialed back to that coordinate set— but one of the dials slipped, and the projector was displaying something a little later than the point they had left.

“It can’t be more than a few days ahead of where we were, though,” Xerxes commented. “It must still be November.”

Tara was out of the house she and the others squatted in— she glanced at herself in the reflective windows of a downtown building she was walking past. Her hair was the same bleached blonde— but she’d been going a little longer between hair-dye treatments these days, so her brown roots beneath that blonde color were visible at the top of her head.

She looked at her reflection as she walked past it, though. She’d been taking longer to touch up her hair-dye— she liked the more straggled look of having the dark roots. But she’d been going in for deep-conditioning treatments, the same way Natalie and Helen did.

“Because they’re all victims of the same Runner, and have to live up to the same person’s preferences,” Xerxes threw out.

She had the money to do this because she’d taken up whoring herself. They all had. So they all tended to have a lot of cash these days, since they got it from their various johns, in exchange for allowing their bodies to be used any and every which way. So there was money for going and getting their hair deep-conditioned. There would have been money to pay rent on a place that was at least a little nicer— maybe a place with working electricity and plumbing, but the three of them had discussed it, and decided they preferred to go on squatting, so all of their cash would be available to spend however they wanted to.

There was a little money for food and for hair-treatments, but the majority of everything they made went to buying more heroin. So they always had plenty of it, and they were always able to keep themselves on a heroin-high. Tara thought of when Natalie had said she hadn’t deployed her money very well, months ago when they started squatting. None of them were deploying their money well, either. They were bringing in so much they really could have improved their situation for themselves— but instead it all constantly slipped through their hands, coming in just to go out again immediately.

Tara liked thinking about that. It made her feel her ruination more acutely. It made her feel pathetic in a way she thoroughly enjoyed.

Today, which was November 17th, if she wasn’t mistaken, Tara had made quite a lot of cash already. She’d fucked five men so far, so she was going back to the house to see the others— they tended to do everything these days, and even if the other women hadn’t had a very good day, Tara had, so they’d all be able to go out and have a good meal together. She had to meet up with them first, though— so if they were having a good day, and they were still out servicing johns in back-alleys, then Tara’s best bet would be to wait for them in their shared-apartment.

And if they’d had a very bad day, and hadn’t been able to find anyone interested, when she got home, she would find them there. So either way, going back to the house would be the most efficient way of finding them and getting food as a group.

Tara turned onto the downtown sidestreet that was home, now. She moved along it, until she came to the ramshackle ruin that was still housing them. She went up the steps, and went into the first apartment.

The door was gaping open a little, which didn’t strike Tara as strange in any way. None of the hinges on any of the doors inside the building were in a good state, and none of the doors closed properly.

Tara stepped inside.

Natalie and Helen were lying on the floor.

“Are you both taking a nap?” Tara asked.

She crouched down, to shake Natalie awake.

When she took hold of her, she found her body was cold to the touch.

“Oh,” Tara said quietly.

She reached over to feel Helen under-hand. She was cold too.

“You both overdosed,” she sighed.

“I don’t think so, Kalchek!” Xerxes said animatedly. “Look! There’s blood pooling in each of their ear-canals— Tara’s sitting close enough, we can see! Some of it has spilled down to run down the sides of their faces. I think our killer has killed again. Three people! Three people now he’s murdered, and who knows how many others! And if he has the kind of power— to reach into someone’s mind even from a distance— if they’re autopsied, I’m sure the autopsy will show overdose— but I’ll bet he was forcefully Running them, making them take more and more— manipulating their brains with such force it made that bleeding happen. This is his work, Kalchek. He’s killed again!”

Xerxes exhaled. “And it proves I was at least right about part of it, if not all of it. Helen was not the true Runner. Someone else was— someone else caused this, was despicable, malevolent enough to want to murder— and I still say Ryan Hunt’s the most likely culprit.

“I’m so glad I solved it before, though, Kalchek. I’d be so confused right now— who the hell is the true Runner?— if I hadn’t. I say it’s Ryan Hunt, I still say it’s Ryan Hunt!”

Tara shifted back from both women.

“Well,” she said to herself. “It’s not like I need either of them anymore— even Helen.”

Thinking it didn’t make Tara feel traitorous at all. Helen had Run her enough that Tara’s mind was capable of perceiving the most degrading moments of being used as being Run. So she could just understand the Running she received as— general Running from any anonymous Runner, and get her fix that way. Or Running being done to her by Ruin itself. That would be good enough— that could replace Helen for her. She serviced her johns and felt degradingly used— and took Running that way— and she’d keep taking her heroin, and feel she was being Run that way.

She’d been ruined, but she felt that all which had happened to her had also elevated her.

She lifted one of the floorboards, and took out the heroin stash. She gathered the rest of the things she wanted to take with her and put them in a paper-supply box.

She didn’t bother feeling Helen and Natalie’s bodies down for more cash. She had plenty of her own and could get more. Really, the whole annoyance of the thing was that she was going to have to find somewhere else to squat. There were enough rundown places on sidestreets like this one— she’d find somewhere, but it was a headache.

She’d had to reckon with Helen’s death, though it hadn’t taken much. But Natalie hadn’t been anything to her. Natalie had just been nothing.

So Tara stood, the heroin stashed on her person, and the paper-supply box held against her hip.

She left the house without looking back.

She wandered for a while, getting a number of city-blocks over from where Natalie and Helen’s bodies would eventually be discovered, and found a different abandoned house to set up in. This one had some loose floorboards, too, but Tara wasn’t going to have anyone else who could guard her things during the day while she needed to be out and otherwise occupied, so she lifted as much of the floor as she needed to, and put all her belongings down there. Then she set the boards back in place. She should be able to trust everything would still be there when she came back.

For now though, she was keen to make some more money— and keen to taste some more Running. She went back out into the downtown-area to look for her next john.

She worked a corner for a while— walking along the sidewalk down the street going one way, showing off her best strut. Then she would walk down the sidewalk along the street going the other way, doing the same— whenever she had to turn, she did her best to bend a little, and put her back-side out as far as she could— then when she turned she tried to lean back to thrust her breasts out as far as she could.

When a man walked by, she always made a point of giving a very exaggerated once-over. Everyone she did this to recognized she was doing this. Some of them even blushed as they brushed past.

She was wearing a skimpy dress she’d gotten in a thrift-store. She’d left more clothes stashed with the rest of her stuff under the floorboards— every so often she took them into a laundromat and got it smelling fresh again. This dress still smelled fresh— she knew it was advertising her services very well.

It was only when a man slowed that she bothered saying anything to him— even then, she would only say something vaguely flirtatious. And then she would do her best to find occasions to touch the man who’d slowed for her— trail fingers along a shoulder, down an arm, spread a hand over one side of a chest— and only if this was well-received did she go on to the crux of the matter, and actually proposition him.

A lot of men walked by her without slowing down. A few men slowed down, but didn’t do much to respond to her playful brushes and strokes. There were only three or four men who stayed invested all the way through her test-steps— and even with them, when she propositioned them, they still rebuffed her.

So now she’d asked a few men, and been rebuffed, but this was the fourth or fifth time that she’d propositioned a man now— she’d already lost count— and as she asked this man, he actually seemed interested.

She took his hand, and pulled him into one of the alleys she liked returning to. She pushed him up against the wall on the far side of the alley, and got down on her knees on the concrete. She liked the pain she felt there— it reminded her of her literal, physical position, which reminded her of her general life-position. She was so ruined that she was kneeling in discomfort on concrete. And she was so despicable now that she felt neither regret nor grief for the deaths of those two women she’d known. This was what Running had made her— completely heartless and unsympathetic, incapable of caring about other people, only caring about one thing and one thing alone— and that was getting more Running from new sources.

Even this man she was about to deal with, she wasn’t doing this for him because she cared about him as a person at all— she was only doing this for what she could get out of him— she was only doing this to use him as a conduit— as a conduit for money, partly, but that was the smaller part of what she was doing. Yes, money would flow from him to her, yes she could use him as a source of that, yes, the pleasure she made for him with her body would bring her other dividends.

But the most important part of the way she was going to use him as a conduit was his capacity to be a conduit for Running to her. If she really gave herself over to the feeling of being used by him— then that would give her Running from a new source. He could be a source of her next amount of however much money, but more importantly, he could be a source of her next experience of Running.

And how mercenary she was— to do an action she felt indifference towards, only in the hopes of getting what she longed to get in exchange. No kind of principle at all— no respect for herself either. She was willing to let herself be dragged down to any level, so long as the promise of satisfying her addiction for another moment was guaranteed.

And she could recognize it was despicable to respond as she was responding— to feel no guilt, and only feel a sense of gratification. But recognizing that did not suddenly resurrect morality within her.

She didn’t even feel guilt about the fact that there were some parts of the task ahead of her that she was simply intending to do by rote. Some parts of the task ahead of her that she simply didn’t care about and wanted over with. This man wanted her to do a good job for him, but for some parts of this, she was only going to be slapdash and hurrying, rushing to get to the point where she was free of the way she was feeling now. Free of that desperate drive that cried out in her, that desperation to receive Running. It would be better once she had left this emotional place, better once she felt freed of this, and was just floating along in the joy of that experience, in the joy of that liberation. She just had to get through this, and then she could have what she wanted. She just had to get through this, and then this man would be a source to her of everything she wanted— of her next gift of money, and more importantly, of her next gift of Running.

She smiled up at him— it was a false-smile, and she gratified in that. Just because she felt indifferent to him, and indifferent to some parts of the task ahead of her didn’t mean she had to show that and jeopardize the gain she almost had in hand. She could play the role of enjoying this well, make him think she was making her absolute best effort at this out of enthusiasm, while really only giving it half her effort.

And besides. It was fun to be devious, to be deceptive this way. To really feel indifferent inside, even indifferent bordering on bored, but then play her role so well that all which would be read in her was enthusiasm.

Tara was glad, though, that no part of her old life remained. And glad that there was no one left she loved— as she had loved Natalie for a while and then Helen after. And no one that she loved in a way she’d never experienced— all that devotion for Helen but reciprocal and equally shared. She’d never had that— she was glad now that she didn’t have it, and that there was no one who loved her like that, either. If she’d disappeared from that person’s company to come here, and do this, how would her conscience have handled that? How would one who loved her have contended with the fact that she went away to be this devious and deceptive, that she went away to do such objectionable and immoral things? That all she earned was tainted by that immorality— that she was this unprincipled, this lacking in integrity, this cynical and opportunistic? She was glad not to have to deal with it— not to have anyone left who expected morality from her, not to have anyone left who wanted her to do more than simply chase the temporary sating of her addiction.

And there was nothing left in her to love, anyway. Everything she’d once been was gone— every part of that former version of herself she’d been, gone. She had nothing in common with that woman anymore, shared none of her personality traits; had no hobbies and no interests— everything had been scooped out of her, to simply leave her a gaping, yawning void of hunger. There was nothing lovable left inside her. She preferred it this way— this was an improvement.

She could be cynical and opportunitstic. Devious, and secretly bored, deceiving those she was using into thinking she was enthusiastic— gratifying in all the wrong things and simply taking advantage of anyone and everything she could to get what she wanted. It was a good thing she had been kicked to such a low place in life, she thought. She could only use and take advantage of those who were in range of her, and though she had the capacity to extract from others both their Running and their money, she had no real power.

She was the most powerless she’d ever been in her life, and so, she could not truly do the kind of damage that would have been possible if she’d held any kind of position of authority. Like Helen had done to her and Natalie, while she’d still had her prestigious job. Tara was nothing and had nothing— she was as much of a nothing as Natalie had been in death, except she was still alive.

She was nothing and so she had no power— so she could only take advantage of certain people, and only so many of them— because of her level of insignificance, many people had been spared her manipulation and use. She could appreciate that that was objectively a good thing— and she liked how powerless she was, enjoyed having such little control over her own life and what happened to her, liked that she was incapable of making the world respond to her presence at all. Recognizing that was just one more way of realizing she’d been Ruined. And that was always a gratifying thought.

She wouldn’t delay any longer. She shifted a little further forwards as she continued kneeling and kissed her mouth to the man’s cock. It jerked immediately in response to her, which made her feel nothing— she just wanted to get over with this part of things so she could get to her reward— everything would feel so much better after this, everything would feel so much better once she had been liberated from this sense of pining frustration— she enveloped his cock in her mouth completely, and started sucking him and bobbing on him as forcefully and dedicatedly as she could.

That started the feeling in her— that feeling that she was being Run. She held onto his body with her hands, and worked her mouth on him, worked his cock down her gullet, slurping sucking swallowing, moving her head back and forth, moving him up and down her age. She moved faster, hoping he would get the idea— she needed his most brutal use to get the full effect— but he still seemed hesitant, like he was reluctant to be too rough with her— like he thought she would stop if he was, or like he was so appreciative of what she was doing for him that he didn’t want to do anything which would be viewed as ungrateful.

She took his hands and placed them on her shoulders, holding them there, trying to pull and show he should be hunching down and gripping her, thrusting as powerfully as he could into it. She pulled her body forward and back several times, until he seemed to get the idea.

He did hunch down to grab her— his hands were holding onto her shoulders, and now he was shaking her, sending himself as far down into her as he could and— ah! Relief. She had been liberated— she had been absolved of the guilt she had never felt. If any had remained, this moment would have dispelled it. The fact that her life was ruined, the fact that she now took advantage of people, the fact that she had become nothing more than an animated embodiment of appetite— all of that was worth it. All of that was worth it and everything she’d ever done was excusable, because it had all been in exchange for this— and this was the best thing she’d ever experienced, the best feeling that she had ever had.

She didn’t need a Runner to be here, physically putting their power into her mind. She was receiving Running right now— she didn’t need a dedicated Runner to give it to her anymore— life could just give it to her. It could give it to her when she shot heroin, and it could give it to her when she slurped cock or humped on it. Life was Running her now, and that still satisfied her addiction. She felt the way she always had when Helen had run her— emptied of everything, just receiving ecstasy, just receiving an ecstasy that consumed all things and converted everything into itself. She was the sieve and the moment of feeling what she contained draining out of her was the moment she really felt things ing through, the moment she really felt she was being Run.

And she was being Run. Life had made her this— Life kept making her into more of this— and she felt so small and infinitesimal in the face of it— she was empty and her mind was glowing with the feeling of being held.

She was empty and her entire body was glowing with the feeling of holding nothing inside. She had no identity and no thought— she had just been completely cleared out— everything that had once been inscribed on her slate had been completely cleared away, and that emptiness pulsed inside her. She liked being a nothing. She liked that her mind contained nothing.

It was such an intense experience to be Run this way— and the man was acting as conduit as she’d hoped he would. He slammed into her punishingly, and that was only Running— he was the one Life had given to her for today, the one that Life intended to Run her through. And the pleasure in her body was not from what he was doing— that was unimportant to her. It was for what he was transmitting to her without knowing it— that Running, that Running she had done everything for and would do still more for— the Running was in her body and in her mind and it made her glow her emptiness, but that Running was also in her erogenous places, and it made her throb her emptiness.

She was not experiencing pleasure, she was not having orgasm— she was just having a release of Running. The Running filled the sieve and then had to drain out, and when it did, that release happened. She was being Run physically, being Run mentally, being Run sexually— the Running held her entire being, and it would only last for as long as this conduit-connection was open. And then as ever she would find that it had left her nothing to tide her over— so she would have to seek her next source of it, would do anything to seek her next source of it, would use anyone and everyone however and whenever she could— and then eventually she would end up back here, taking Running through a different source. But she had inspired the man, had motivated him, and though she’d only been giving half-effort inside, the man saw enthusiasm on her, and what she was doing was proving to be enough. He started jerking, and then she was tasting his cum, doing her best to swallow it all down so none of it would spill on her dress.

When he’d put out the last pulse of it, she leaned back on her heels, and held out her hand.

The man took out his wallet, and fished a generous amount of cash out of it. He placed it into her palm, thanked her, put himself away and left the alley.

Tara considered her luck. She found these men, and used them, and they paid her for taking her addictive-fix. It was like shooting up and having someone come along to throw money at her as she did it. No other addict had this kind of luck— got paid for indulging their habit, got paid as they indulged their habit.

This filled her heart with ionate joy once more. She got paid when she took her addictive-fixes— and no other addict did— so she should be in a better life-position than other addicts at her level of obsession. She got paid for indulging, and got paid a lot. She should have had a safe place to live to show for it— with the kind of money that was coming into her, she should even have had a luxurious place to show for it.

And she didn’t. Because she took gratification in the fact that her addiction kept her so lowdown and small. She took gratification in the fact that her addiction just spidered out and stole every part of her life for itself. Reflecting on this was just one more way to be Run— there were so many ways to be Run. She was doing as badly as some other addicts, maybe worse than most, even though she had the means to improve her situation as others might not have. And this was the situation for her— because this was the situation she had been Run into occupying.

She went back to her corner, and then had to her services for about thirty minutes before she found another man who was willing to use her. She was greedy for more money, but above all she was greedy for more Running, so she took him back to an alley, and let this man fuck her in the ass.

He rammed and rammed into her there— her mind was cleared out, and she glowed with the emptiness again. She was being Run. It was perfect.

This man paid her triple what the last guy had paid, when he was done, and she felt thoroughly Run by the time he was putting the money in her hand after.

He left first, and she counted her money for a moment before stashing it away and leaving the alley as well.

Tara walked down a different street next— this street had plenty of glass-windowed storefronts. She paused in one to look at herself. She would advance to her next corner soon, and work that one— but for now, she stopped to arrange her appearance as she looked into her reflection. Her hair had gone a little askew— she arranged it back into place.

Then she took a moment to appreciate her ensemble— her dress still didn’t look too disheveled. Generally she made sure men finished inside her body somewhere, since she usually had to make one outfit last her the day, and always wanted to look appealing for her next customer. So no one had made a mess on what she was wearing— it was still fresh, and still d her as well as ever.

She took a moment to appreciate her hair, though. Now that she had arranged it back into place again, it looked good— that deep-conditioned bleached blonde, and those dark, dark roots showing at her head’s beginning.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned from her reflection to seek her next corner.

The frequency-scanner had lapsed back into static.

Xerxes considered it for a moment.

“In all of the moments we watched, Tara never spent much time thinking about what year it was. But this third November that she’s in— that must be this November— just a few days ago. I didn’t understand it was this November. I didn’t realize.”

Xerxes exhaled. “Tara’s the whole reason I even caught onto this killer’s trail. I ran out to get some coffee, just as a break since I was between cases and planning to look through old files, and then on the way back, she stopped me and tried to proposition me. And she said something that confused me— something that seemed suspicious. When I talked with her for a minute she said she used to work at a law-firm until ‘someone’ decided it would be better if her life were ruined. I thought that sounded like— a Runner without any kind of conscience. So I called you and came back here and started trying to solve this. I had no idea I’d stumbled across the path of a guy who’d already killed three people. But I stumbled onto him— and we know who he is.

“That was just what Tara looked like when I saw her, though. With the dark roots and the bleached hair and that deep-conditioned look. That’s why it struck me so much when I saw her on the subway the first time. Her hair hadn’t been deep-conditioned then— it didn’t look like it did when I saw her.

“I didn’t know exactly how things were going to end up for Tara— I never imagined that she was going to end up squatting in abandoned buildings doing heroin and whoring herself on the street in order to cover the cost of her hair-treatments, addiction, and food. But I knew she’d leave the law-firm eventually— the particulars of everything else have really been a surprise to me.”

The scanner whirred.

“It’s going back to the killer’s mind-capture,” Xerxes observed, as he read the dials.

The hunter was desperate. They longed for their prey so much— they had waited and waited, they had made their incursions, they had seen their prey respond to them, they had only become increasingly obsessed. They couldn’t wait any longer.

Now they had located their prey in person— they weren’t going to wait— they threw themselves in that direction, pinning their prey to the ground, sending their Running into their prey’s mind.

But what was happening? Something in their prey was ri— as if awakening for the first time— forcing their power back into the hunter’s own head, and then sending some of their own power into it— their mental-shields were falling.

“Oh! Oh, Kalchek! The hunter’s defenses are down, we can see through their eyes— that’s the killer’s face looking down on them as they stand above! That’s Ryan Hunt! I was right! I was right about everything, I really did solve it! Ryan Hunt is the killer! We’ve got footage of his face as he commits murder! We’ve got the definitive evidence, I’m so glad I kept watching! There’s no way he can escape the consequences of his actions, now! Kalchek, we’ve got him!”

Not for the first time, Xerxes regretted being alone. He was sure if Kalchek had been there, he would have given him a friendly one-armed hug to celebrate.

The frequency-scanner whirred; the killer was standing above the hunter. And now that they weren’t fending off incursions of the hunter’s Running, their mind was less disciplined— they could see through Ryan’s eyes, too.

The person he was killing was a woman. She lay there, twitching in orgasm, as her life faded.

“We’ve seen this moment before, but it was much more obscured— we’re finally, actually getting useful information from the killer’s mind this time.”

Ryan looked down at the woman who had just attacked him. The woman he was killing. The woman who’d been slipping Running into his mind over and over.

He sent his power back into her mind. He wanted to take a mind-capture of her before her mind was gone. A dead mind could not be looked into— its memories died with it.

As he was looking into her mind, taking the capture, a moment ed his notice. The woman— Allie was her name— was standing in front of a mirror, brushing her brown hair—

Then the mind-capture was complete, and Allie was dead.

Ryan rushed off.

The scanner jumped from that distant moment in the past to a more recent one.

Things were a bit more obscured in Ryan’s head, now, but his thoughts were revealing.

That was quite a meal. Helen made for a good first course— Natalie made for a good second course— and Tara made for a good third course. What a dessert she was! Sweet and fudgy and cherried.

“Yes,” Xerxes sighed in satisfaction. “You’ve seen it along with me. Ryan Hunt is definitely the one behind all of this.”