Realistic or Modern 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 -

[mother of sorrows]

❍ THE BEGINNING. CHAPTER FOX CHASE.

© weldherwings.

 

[mother of sorrows]

Processing. . . .

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UNREAD MAIL: 43

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YOU GOT AN EMAIL FROM J. MARTINEZ . . . .

𝐓𝐎: j.navidson, a.dawson, a.guiraud, k.rivera, s.khan, l.bacsik, j.kang

𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓: IMPORTANT.

Please read this.

I don't have time to reply to any emails you will send to this. You have to call me. I've never seen a man die. In the last 24 hours, I have seen five. Vargas is a killer. I can't explain here and they will know I sent this email.

Jesus Christ, just fucking find me.


Steve Jobs RascalRoadkill tieflinq Colorless Spectrum Blobs AI10100

coded by kaninchen

 

[mother of sorrows]

a seal opens.

''Where's her body?''

The house is small. Small enough that Graham can hear every officer creaking around the place, even upstairs. Small and very clean; Graham takes note of that. With how the facade outside is peeling back like old skin, he through the inside was going to be lived-in decay. Instead he found old, but polished wooden floors, bleached countertops, an arranged leather sofa. The floral wallpaper is new.

No pictures.

The scene cleaners are going to be grateful to her, sherrif Graham thought with a morbid pity.

McKinney raises her head from where she's crouched, her summer-hay hair neatly packaged into a bun. She raises up from the cupboard she was rummaging through, and Graham has to swallow down a beat of irritation when she only sticks a crisp white paper under his face.

''In the bedroom.'' She says through a chew of bubblegum. ''Her name is Jennie Martinez.''

The sherrif takes the paper with a blank face, wondering if it's worth the fight to tell her to spit it out. He sticks his tongue into his cheek, reading instead.

'𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐙・𝟑𝟔 𝐂𝐔𝐁𝐀𝐍, 𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄

• Data analyist at Little Mountain Research Centre.
• No next of kin.
• Found dead at 6.43 AM by a police officer.'

A scramble of education, degrees, work experience from online archives follows, the paper neatly folded in half. The entire life of a woman, reduced to a few lines.

Graham walks past the door and slips a look through the crack.

He sees something dark and meaty, glistening on the bed, and he quickly glances away. McKinney keeps talking, drags a gloved finger along the line of a coffee table. ''Her employer got concerned when she didn't come into work the previous day. We sent Donovan over, and...''

The bedroom reeks. Graham shuts it with his shoe, the noise eaten up by the chaos of investigation.

''And there's no signs of foul play?'' The man says slowly, brow furrowed like crumpled paper.

McKinney's mouth goes flat.

For a moment, she says nothing.

''We know for sure it was a suicide?'' Graham tries again.

She shifts her shoulders back, eyes going upwards to watch the ceiling.

''Her employer confirmed she has hospitalized a few weeks earlier. Had some mental breakdown.''

They stand there. Neither Graham nor McKinney moves. Around them officers search like dogs, convinced they've already got their case written up. The distant crushing of cementing outside speaks of an ambulance pulling up, and one of them goes to fetch a bodybag.

remember: MAYBE THE TRUTH ISN'T WORTH IT.

A HINT.

© PASTA​

 

[mother of sorrows]

ladislaw bacsik.

''Ladislaw,'' the voice croaked through the hotel phone, grainy like brain sand. ''You have a bunch of emails, alright, and I can't reply to all of them.''

New York burnt around him. Not literally, though with the whisky prices, Ladislaw wouldn't mind if it did. Colors boil from every window and alley, cars screaming, rain splattering over the window pane like a bird erupting. He has no idea where he last saw Jordan and the room smelt distantly like a polite amount of mold; after a very productive night, the man has been reduced to laying on his rented bed like a skinning victim and clutching the phone with clammy hands, hairline soaked down in sweat. He's sick from travel and unwisely chosen seafood.

''What?'' He near-screams into the receiver. Notices he's being too fucking loud and lowers his voice, which isn't any actual help; his already slow dialect has fallen into a snail's crawl. ''Oh. Okay. Thank you.''

He's not even sure why he's thanking them. He throws his head back into the pillow, half-dragging the phone with him, feeling like his skull might throw up.

''Yeah. And Ashley told me to ask...'' The intern - whichever one it is this time - talks from thousands of miles away, at a different ocean coast, with hours difference. ''How the interview went?''

Ladislaw was sent here to meet a man. He was middle-aged, tan from work, with a missing pinky finger and an overgrown mustache; he sat by a profiling bed and beeping medical equipment, his dark eyes wet as he introduced his unconscious daughter. Her whole life is supported by a tangle of tubes and liquid, and the neverending flashes of lights.

''He thinks the CIA poisoned his daughter by radio waves.'' Ladislaw explains. There is a shuffling of paper on the other line, but it barely makes it past his swelling mind.

''Well, that's not right.''

There were more stories like this; Ladislaw once talked to a man who only barely survived his own decapitation, flying all the way to northern Oregon to get an interview. 'Felt like a bad headache that got worse,' the guy began thoughtfully, sitting in a plush chair and neck tied up in bandages. 'And before I knew it, my neck got split in half.' He'd shown Ladislaw pictures from the hospital, his neck a mess of flesh barely holding together. One good thing, the guy ended up marrying the surgeon who saved his life.

And when Ladislaw was still in uni, he crouched in the New Mexico desert to snap a shot of a burning barn. 'We are waiting for,' One of the little girls told him once he had stopped choking on dust, 'extraterrestials.' She had stumbled over that word proudly.

He had energy for them, at one point. Stories that got the bored part of America foaming at the mouth. These days, his editors sends them his way once per year, and it always gives him a hangover the next day.

''Uh. You'll see what I wrote.'' Ladislaw wipes his free hand on the cotton of his pants. The storm outside grows darker ominously, like a bruise spreading outwards. ''I'll get on those emails in... A second.''

He throws his head back on the pillow. He has no intentions of doing so tonight.

''Okay. Have a good night.''

The phone beeps away. He puts it back in its God given position and sleeps for dreamless hours. By the time Jordan revives him with a dark coffee in the morning, he's forgotten to charge his laptop before a six hour flight and his emails remain blissfully unread.

● ●​

This is his first mistake.

● ●​

It's an unfliching 11 P.M. Los Angeles pulses in the deceptively warm ocean air, the city laid up like a sleeping body along the shore, or a gutted abdomen weeping into the water. It reeks, it births, it exists in all its' glory outside; and Ladislaw, is quite honestly, getting fed up all over again. The bicyclists here are careless at best and vaguely murderous at worst, and even after just dropping out of the office he's been avoiding their war path. It took longer than he expected, because everything takes longer than he wants - left-over alcohol clung to his brain like dried blood and the receptionist wouldn't let him go without a chat, and then there's the newer ending horror of finding a parking place in the middle of town.

He does not read his emails. Half-way through the path to his desk he's stopped by Ashley - tall, smiling, highlights worth a couple of hundred - and asked to work over the 6 AM news.

The day dragged itself out into night regardless. Time passed.

And now he's home.

The flickering light of his apartment living room fought against the darkness; artificial light spilled into every corner in a headache yellow and Ladislaw had to press a hand to the wall to not feel stumble, blinking rapidly. Everything greets him the same. The small honey-brown couch, the coffee table held hostage by towers of books, a TV, a barely used kitchen; his home.

Ladislaw kind of wants to perish.

''Jesus Christ.'' He mumbles, dragging a hand down his face and disrupting his glasses. He's so exhausted he feels it in his bones, every thought coming to him limping and sluggish. Even the caffeine he had before only gave him energy enough to beat away typos in a script, and now he's crashing like a boulder into water. ''Fuck this shit.''

Sleep has never sounded so tempting; his suitcase is thrown into a corner with a promise to unpack tomorrow and only through the thought of being yelled at tomorrow does he grab his laptop, praying to survive another hour of work. It's not that it's too unusual for him to work late - but the flights have thoroughly killed him, and being bounced from city to city to chase stories hasn't done much for his awful mood. Ladislaw pushes out a dinner table chair with slowly draining patience, letting out a sigh through his nose.

The laptop whirrs like a creature in pain. It loads up with a ping, the screen devouring his eyes.

He clicks through an email, then the next. His mouse pokes through the titles with a resigned duty and he types up answers like a man executed. Words struggle past his worn out logic, like trying to walk through mud; meaning escapes him from more than a shallow observation. Fifteen minutes in, he's already pinching the bridge of his nose and has a migraine pacing like a wolf around the campfire.

This is when he makes his second mistake.

He does not read the title of the next email. He only clicks on it, instinctual.

His mouse becomes a circle. It turns, turns.

Drags out like the stretch of entrails.

And when the email loads, he reads it.

At first, he thinks he's sleep deprived enough to be making mistakes; but by the time he reads it thrice, he has wakened enough to sit back into his chair and stare.

This has to be a joke.

He gets those, sometimes. Spam mail that's wiggled through the filters. He leans back onto the table, too tired to be incredulous. Shock slips past him and he shakes his head, re-reading it. Vargas - the name sits in his stomach like old oil and he snorts, mouse going to the delete button. What bullshit. Where the hell do these people find him? Annoyance clenches around his chest in an iron grip, squeezing.

And then he glances at the receivers.

Ladislaw pauses. Frowns.

He releases the mouse, putting his face closer to the burning screen.

Names he recognises. Names he has heard before, even if thirdhand.

The annoyance turns into alarm. Something wiggling. Like the siren on a clear day, ringing inside the hidden parts of his brain. He is not shocked, but he knows enough to be concerned when he sees blood in the water.

He looks for his phone. Wrestles it out of his jacket pocket and flicks it open with a too-steady hand, typing in the number on the screen. He presses it to his ear, half cursing himself out for being so ridiculous to actually call. He waits, waits.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He clicks off. Calls again.

Waits.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His eyes flicker to the email addresses again. He closes the phone and puts it on the side, opening another tab.

Two names he immediately recognises; they sit on his shoulder like a heavy weight and he feels almost sick with them. He searches for the addresses in half-belief that he is wrong - but the engine spits out hits, news, confirmation.

Johnny Navidson. Killian Rivera.

''Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.'' Ladislaw mumbles, leaning back slowly.

Him and Killian don't work in the same company anymore. There is no reason for their names to be attached to the same email, unless it's them messing around. And wherever Killain is involved, there is something wrong. Almost daily chats have been reduced to weekly and then to monthly - even if they are still good friends, there is enough raw wounds around whatever Killian is doing that it makes Ladislaw see a bear trap in this whole email. And Navidson...

He's still in jail. Or maybe not - Ladislaw's hands twitch together, neurons churning.

Navidson is more a memory than a name. He remembers him much younger, unlikeable. A wake up call for the weight of what can happen if you don't keep your toes in line. Last Ladislaw searched for news regarding him, he had some court date or other; but like everything else, it faded into distant discomfort.

Why the fuck would anyone be writing these two?

Ladislaw bit the inside of his cheek. His heart-rate picked up, the anxiety of before returning like rocks tied around his ankles.

The rest...

Salma Khan. The name is vaguely familiar, though he doesn't know where to place it; another search brings up dead bodies and young women smiling from missing posters. Crime scene photos from police files. Blood, dark and sticky, spilt over low-quality photographs and yellow tape. He doesn't know her, not personally - but she must know the others. Ladislaw stares at the articles like something vile, like an animal that's dragged itself below his porch to die.

Alice Guiraud. Has Ashley mentioned that name before? It settles unpleasantly on him, like stepping into a room and forgetting what you went into it for. He finds a mismatch of words, blogs, rumors, but a quick scan tells him nothing concrete. Different publications. There is no real publisher or organisation behind that name and Ladislaw's face darkens, even more anxious than before.

Janna Kang. That name is...

A wedding photographer.

Ladislaw actually takes a double take at that.

He probably got the wrong address. Or maybe there's two people with that name - because all he gets is photos of receptions and bridal white. He bites through the searches one by one, but at the end he is so baffled he gives up. Whoever that is, he's not sure their real information is online.

On a.dawnson, he finds...

Nothing.

A concerning nothing.

No actual name to that address. No website. No articles. No contact information.

Nothing.

Ladislaw looks through all the addresses again. The email.

The sender.

He glances at his phone. It sits there, soundless, quiet.

He should delete this crap. Whatever it is, he's sure he doesn't want to have anything to do with it; it's probably another prank, or some bullshit to get a reaction out of some journalists. And even so, there is this warning bell - even through the greater knowledge that he should keep his nose where it belongs, a curiosity that chokes the disbelief out of him. Resigned, he opens up a tab again, searching for the address that sent the email. There is little result, but what tiny amount that pops up brings up another name.

Jennie Martinez.

And an article.

'𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄.'

coded by kaninchen