That was the only word for it. The law. The people. Opinion. Everything moved so unbearably slowly.
First came discussion, then the resolution, discourse, publicdiscourse, points, counterpoints, interviews, more goddamned discussion.
It was enough to drive a man to drink, if he could stomach the bitter swill. He gripped at the easy chair's cashmere/silk upholstery, tearing a piece loose and flinging it to the ground. It was supposed to be done before this day, long before this day. He looked up to the calendar, to the date stamped upon it.
Had it really been a year? A whole year since that fateful day in Tokyo, the day they'd torn down that despicable eyesore?
A year and his vow remained unfulfilled. He'd gathered considerable resources in that time. Schemed and plotted. And what did he have to show for it?
He rose, kicking his seat aside, tearing a crystal decanter from its place and smashing it into the cherrywood desk it laid upon moments before. He repeated the process with the ashtray, the glasses, the decorative vases and glass and metal trinkets until the room was littered with glass and debris, the desk scarred and scratched from the assault, his hands bloody from the shrapnel that had embedded itself there without his notice. Even streaming blood, with glass stinging in his hands, he was not satisfied. He'd lost a friend. He'd promised Mitchell his brother would be avenged, promised the deceased Leo the same, but most importantly he'd promised himself that San'Vun would be in his grave by this time, by this hour. That the world would have shifted in the way he wished, shifted to suit his eyes by now.
And he had accomplished nothing.
He trampled down the hall, shoving doors open and splattering them with the blood leaking from his hand. Made his way into Mitchell's room, the persistent darkness and smell of damp nauseating him even in the short time he spent there. He shook his associate awake with the streaming hand, digging the glass in further. He felt it, but paid it no mind.
"Mitchell. Get something together now. Find me @yazhun_sanvun, goddamn it, and he's in his grave. If not, I want him there now. Yesterday. Do it NOW!"
The fury in his eyes shook Mitchell from his slumber. Even now, well into the evening, he had not been able to get himself to rise. It had been months since he'd felt anything, and only recently had sorrow and pain returned. And now panic. He opened up the laptop and began furiously tapping away, chasing leads he'd long ago abandoned in despair.
"And Mitchell? Contact your friend Anakin. We're overdue for a shot of adrenaline in this vigilante issue."
"You mean @ananke? It's not that easy, Don! The guy's a ghost! Even trawling the deep web he--"
"I didn't ask whether it was easy or hard, and I don't give a shit what his name is, Herric, just get it done."
With that, he turned away, already plucking the glass from his hand irritatedly. He would have his victory. This year's rest was not a failure, it was merely a roadblock.
And when he was done, the streets would be bathed in rivers of mutant blood.