Ford
MIRRORS ARE A DECEPTIVE POEM.
I can gaze at my reflection in a mirror and point out all the qualities I hate and desire to change. Mirrors have the power to not only reflect what's true, but twist reality in that slight manner that no one else will notice bar you. Only you can view the reflection from that particular angle. No one else at one time. Only you see that truth.
That phrase... smoke and mirrors. When you describe something in that regard, you're intending to make someone believe either you're doing something or something is true, when in reality, you're not or it isn't. And in a few hours, once Hudson Bray's dead, I'll be gazing at my new but temporary reflection in the mirror.
My deceiving reflection.
New contacts to match his particular hue of eye colour, hair dye, and a few outfits akin to his characteristic style. Due to West Point, the security system, I gleaned all the private and sensitive information I require to become Hudson Bray, including his porn preferences, though there's no way I'll be delving so deep into that part of Hudson Bray.
Squirting and threesomes aren't my thing.
And after hacking the webcam built into his laptop, I know there are stations in his study and bedroom that present his penmanship, allowing me to emulate it exactly, including his signature. And while I have him in my presence, teetering just before his imminent death, I'll get him to read aloud something in order to imitate his dialect. Just in case as an insurance policy if someone happens to knock at the door while I'm living as him.
Most of it is just precautionary measures, but it's better to be safe than sorry, especially in the eyes of a legacy that's Red Alert.
All my supplies are in the back of the Range Rover I'm currently situated inside after Hawk had swapped its plates. Everything. Ready for after the murder.
The onlyissue is my body's ink. In the summer, it proves a substantial challenge, givenI have to don long-sleeves to disguise the markings if ever I have to beoutside. Hawk never cares—or anyone I have a similar job off. They trust me toget the job done and they know I never fail. But now it's February and a chillhas long since crept into the air.
Living temporarily as a new identity is always thrilling for me. It's something of a tantalising game to become someone else. Hawk always saves these tasks for me if the man in question is roughly my age and stature. With my boxing, he knows there's no way I can become someone twenty years older or if I have to drop ten pounds or gain ten pounds to change my identity to suit someone else as it will mess with my physique and boxing training. Hawk has too many bets riding on my boxing fights to license me to execute something so drastic. And Renner would rightfully object.
Sometimes when there's a necessary killing to accomplish, to disrupt the timeline of events of that death, it's always beneficial to become that person. For a few days after killing someone, to permit time for the body to be appropriately disposed of, you become that person by learning their body language, their penmanship and speaking by mirroring their particular accent perfectly. To observe someone for a few days, possibly a week at most, and then suddenly infiltrating their life after killing them—it's some sort of escapism.
A few days away from the sickening sight of Genevieve and Harris—that vision of them as he entered her, her body pressed against her floor-length window after my boxing match haunts me, fogging my fantasies—and Gabriella who's beginning to feel like it's necessary to be attached to my fucking hip feels akin to a fantasy. God, she's becoming infuriatingly clingy, and she's not even ingested Bullet yet.
