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Assassin Edit

Researcher's insight into the Assassin Edit

Undated

The arrival of the Assassin marks a surprising turning point in the Louisiana Case. Before its arrival, the entity's major aspects were certainly formidable combatants, though designed for other purposes. The humanoid Assassin seemed especially sculpted to shock humans, and destroy them. 

Accounts of such a creature are similar: that of a tall humanoid figure who can seemingly melt into a swarm of insects. Whether or not this is the result of trickery, or actual physical transformation, is debatable. Though with all things relating to this case, I am inclined toward belief in the most outlandish and bizarre theorizations one day, and incredulous the next. 

Of this, I've noted a remarkable pattern in its behavior. The Assassin seemed capable of remarkable feats. Chief among them, the ability to split into several (three) manifestations of itself. These manifestations would function as a distraction, attacking hunters independently, while the true Assassin would use the opportunity to find the right moment to strike. 

Thankfully, Harold Black preserved much of what we know. His encounter with the Assassin seems to have forged him into the man we revere today. 

His account, in typical Blackian fashion, seems indirect by modern academic standards. Indeed, he does mention his failed career as a writer, and his inability to inform clearly seems to affirm this. 

However, this does give a rare insight into the abilities of the Assassin, particularly their development from a human host. You'd be forgiven for missing some of the more pragmatic information, such as that the Assassin's chest seems to harbor a vulnerable point.  

The Journal of Harold Black Edit

Undated 

Black leather bound, handwritten, 6"x 8.25" 

1/5

Light the shadow that has so dogged my steps on the brightest days. 

The words had come to me as I stumbled out of that labyrinthine prison, having for the first time become a quarry, prey to that roving swarm. My friends were dead, butchered by its blades, and my final shots had no effect, as they ricocheted off iron and stone, the swarm undisturbed, lurching toward me on a hundred thousand legs. 

I had vaulted gantries, burst through doors, leapt the corpses of my comrades, to come outside again to breath clear air. And in that moment, of unrivalled and brilliant life, the final words of my father came to me. 

Light the shadow that has so dogged my steps on the brightest days. 

Words that I had fled from. South, to Atlanta, Tallahassee, Jackson, New Orleans, and finally Baton Rouge. Yet they had caught up to me. His cursed prophecy proved self-fulfilling. In the weeks immediately after his passing, I'd awoken from their echo in a cold sweat, and been trapped in their rumination until sun up. Watching the dark corners for the specter they heralded. In the end, it proved that the unease they caused set me on a path fraught with pitfalls. A path here. 

Blinking in the sun, staggering down the steps of that prison, they came to me as a stroke of clarity. I would light the shadow that had dogged his step. I would repay my inherited debts. The Assassin, so aptly named, destroyed the man I was. A man scared of his shadow. In his place stands someone I'm unfamiliar with. Perhaps this is one purpose of this journal. 

The second is the aforementioned repayment. A great deal of blood has been shed in the writing of these pages. It will prove my life's work, and perhaps that of others too. 

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