Ticking Clocks

Many weeks have passed since I last turned pen to paper, but this exercise is needed again, if only to quell the turbulent thoughts in my mind. Today I lost a friend... it is funny, actually. I was trained to disregard others, to wrap my heart in iron and suffer no fools. But Horatio grew on me, despite everything. I will not lie and pretend I shall weep for his death, but likewise, I shall not mask the sadness I feel. Goodbye, my friend. I shall raise a glass in your honour. Luckily for me, and for Horatio, technology marches on. Perhaps death is not the end.
 
Eva surprised me; I hadn't thought her capable of actually uniting the filth in this city, but she has done so. This is good, of course. Their minds are weak, their grasping claws ones without strength; they shall be easy to manipulate and control. There is one though, Ambrose, who piques my attention. A fool who thinks she is bourgeoisie. Now, usually I would be content to let her live our her fantasy and think herself a noble; after all, it hardly effects me, correct? Wrong. This type of divergent attitude amongst a cable of unwilling stooges and faltering gutter lords is a cancer that must be exterminated. If Sokovism is to emerge, it needs to be treated as a stalk should be. Nurtured, cultivated, protected. Ambrose is the weed that may strangle my garden, and so careful pruning must be undertaken. Galvanisation, I say. One life for a nation of people? Hardly a fair trade, in fact, an incredible offer. One would have to be ridiculous to think otherwise.
 
Of course, this brings me around to the crux of my problems. I have let my arrogance and pride run away with me. I have tried to excel and prove my brilliance and there is no light without a little shadow... and crouched within the latter is the object of my potential misfortune. He is closing in, aware I was in dealings with Horatio and of my alias, Hawker. I shall have to find more effective ways to shroud my identity. I am lucky in that he, and the Founders, knew very little about my Sokovian leanings. With a new disguise and a better alias, I can perhaps throw him off the immediate track. However, I will have to continue building; my inventions are the only reason we have gotten this far to begin with! However, if Formel believes Hawker and my new alias are different characters, or rather he is not entirely certain they are not one and the same, then I have brought myself more time. Formel is precise. He would never attack a figure he was not entirely sure was the target.
 
The assult on the factory must be brutal and lightning fast. As such, I have created three new daughters to present to my 'partners'. One of which may even be capable of stopping Formel himself, if he happens to show himself. Sweat drips from my brow; his last message was all false amiability, a trick he is fond of. It often scares the target. I am terrified, if I admit that to myself, however unlike the others I am not panicked. Formel may believe the clock counts down towards my death but that was always his fucking problem. Narrow thinking. I intend to add another hand, one for Formel, and another for Mr. Yellow. Then we shall see who reaches twelve first.