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Fantasy No Game for Knights
- Thread starter arbus
- Start date
arbus
Member
The Bellevue lay dark and quiet in the busy streets of Boston, closed for the night and shut off for a few merciful hours from the soft, greedy hands of housewives and aspiring brides. The Green Room, its grandest, most esteemed store, was strange and empty now in these non-hours before consumerism could take up gear for another productive day of leaping towards the American Dream, this great adventure clad in green. But inside the bowels of the large compartment store, secrets crawled like vermin and the moon was only a fading crescent, its light not strong enough to reach.
Annie Lynn Marsh was a woman of many talents. With legs that rose sky-high and a full-lipped smile that turned even the most hard-boiled man's head, she could twist most anyone around her little manicured finger. But for all her appeal she was a shrewd one, too, with one too many ideas in her head, as her daddy had always liked to say. Her daddy had been a big shot in the city of Boston. He had connections, sure, but every big man had them. They were inevitable like whiskey burn. Her daddy's connections ran through City Hall like arteries. He was dead now, though, and Annie Lynn had begun to feel dreadfully confused about that whole business. She walked through the silent store with her head down because the doll-dead eyes of the mannequins gave her the creeps. Her daddy had always insisted on shipping the deluxe models from France. The shop girls were required to re-dress them every other day. They wore Dior and Chanel and Balenciaga like Annie Lynn herself, now click-clacking through the Green Room in her kitten-heel pumps.
Should have gone with the stilletos, she thought in what was not her voice at all and grimaced. I appreciate Valentino but I adore Roger Vivier's vision. That man was a genius.
Her daddy had loved Paris. He had built the Bellevue because he fell in love with Le Bon Marché during the war. It was where he ate bonbons and drank soda in his soldier's uniform. Under the fountain he kissed Annie Lynn's mother and promised to take her over the big pond once the war was over. Her daddy never broke a promise.
And what a ruckus it had been, to turn the right wheels and raise a department store like this in the middle of downtown. It was all worth it, though, because the Bellevue was golden, good both for prestige and money laundering. Now that her daddy was gone, Annie Lynn finally had a shot at taking over that branch of business too. She missed her daddy, of course, but it had become awfully boring to manage a clothing store. Your daddy has never quite seen just how capable your are, Annie Lynn. But in his final moments he knew, and it stays in the family after all, right?
In the darkness of the store, the quiet so perfect it droned in her ears like pressure, Annie Lynn raised her slim fingers to drive them over a perfect face, smearing red kiss-me lipstick every which way and not caring because her head hurt, hurt.
It's okay for it to hurt, baby doll, sometimes the best things in life are preceded by a little sting.
Annie Lynn forced herself to breathe deeply. She needed to keep her wits about her, because no matter what had happened to her daddy, now his business was hers, and she could hardly afford to loose her head right about now. She needed the books, stored away in the hidden safe in the back room, because they contained all of daddy's contacts, hidden away in code in the bland balances of a squeaky-clean business.
But first, she needed to do something about that private eye. She did not know what she had ever done to earn his spite. She had come to him for his help, but now he was onto her like a bloodhound. Like a dirty cumbersome leech, ugh. As if she had anything to do with daddy's murder! That sneaky bastard. Annie Lynn knew he had been following her, even though she had no idea how she came about that knowledge. She knew he was now here with her, too, and she knew what had to be done about it. That's right, baby doll. You grab that itsy-bitsy revolver of yours, and you put an itsy-bitsy bullet in his head, and it won't even hurt him one tiny bit. The detective was just one more obstacle Annie Lynn needed to overcome, she knew, as her hand slipped into her purse to retrieve the gun.
*
Annie Lynn Marsh was a woman of many talents. With legs that rose sky-high and a full-lipped smile that turned even the most hard-boiled man's head, she could twist most anyone around her little manicured finger. But for all her appeal she was a shrewd one, too, with one too many ideas in her head, as her daddy had always liked to say. Her daddy had been a big shot in the city of Boston. He had connections, sure, but every big man had them. They were inevitable like whiskey burn. Her daddy's connections ran through City Hall like arteries. He was dead now, though, and Annie Lynn had begun to feel dreadfully confused about that whole business. She walked through the silent store with her head down because the doll-dead eyes of the mannequins gave her the creeps. Her daddy had always insisted on shipping the deluxe models from France. The shop girls were required to re-dress them every other day. They wore Dior and Chanel and Balenciaga like Annie Lynn herself, now click-clacking through the Green Room in her kitten-heel pumps.
Should have gone with the stilletos, she thought in what was not her voice at all and grimaced. I appreciate Valentino but I adore Roger Vivier's vision. That man was a genius.
Her daddy had loved Paris. He had built the Bellevue because he fell in love with Le Bon Marché during the war. It was where he ate bonbons and drank soda in his soldier's uniform. Under the fountain he kissed Annie Lynn's mother and promised to take her over the big pond once the war was over. Her daddy never broke a promise.
And what a ruckus it had been, to turn the right wheels and raise a department store like this in the middle of downtown. It was all worth it, though, because the Bellevue was golden, good both for prestige and money laundering. Now that her daddy was gone, Annie Lynn finally had a shot at taking over that branch of business too. She missed her daddy, of course, but it had become awfully boring to manage a clothing store. Your daddy has never quite seen just how capable your are, Annie Lynn. But in his final moments he knew, and it stays in the family after all, right?
In the darkness of the store, the quiet so perfect it droned in her ears like pressure, Annie Lynn raised her slim fingers to drive them over a perfect face, smearing red kiss-me lipstick every which way and not caring because her head hurt, hurt.
It's okay for it to hurt, baby doll, sometimes the best things in life are preceded by a little sting.
Annie Lynn forced herself to breathe deeply. She needed to keep her wits about her, because no matter what had happened to her daddy, now his business was hers, and she could hardly afford to loose her head right about now. She needed the books, stored away in the hidden safe in the back room, because they contained all of daddy's contacts, hidden away in code in the bland balances of a squeaky-clean business.
But first, she needed to do something about that private eye. She did not know what she had ever done to earn his spite. She had come to him for his help, but now he was onto her like a bloodhound. Like a dirty cumbersome leech, ugh. As if she had anything to do with daddy's murder! That sneaky bastard. Annie Lynn knew he had been following her, even though she had no idea how she came about that knowledge. She knew he was now here with her, too, and she knew what had to be done about it. That's right, baby doll. You grab that itsy-bitsy revolver of yours, and you put an itsy-bitsy bullet in his head, and it won't even hurt him one tiny bit. The detective was just one more obstacle Annie Lynn needed to overcome, she knew, as her hand slipped into her purse to retrieve the gun.
sspky
ooof my bones
When Benjamin Hobbes had been in Okinawa, he’d taken a 4mm to his shin, about three inches below the knee, and a bayonet to the gut. The injuries, and the infection that followed, resulted in an eight-month say at a hospital in Honolulu. It took him the better part of two years to learn to walk without a limp.
Thankfully, he’d kept the leg. Unfortunately, the old wound had a nasty habit of acting up at the worst possible moment.
As it happened, Ben Hobbes was presently experiencing a sharp pain that radiated from his mid-thigh, right down to the tips of his toes. It was an ugly sort of pain that materialized like broken glass in his mind's eye.
It was also the sort of pain he was used to, and in the name of professionalism, he choked it down like a swell of particularly bad medicine. The pain helped him focus, but it also sent him into a terrible, humourless mood that wouldn’t likely bode well for anyone unfortunate enough to cross him.
And someone, unfortunately, had crossed him.
The Marsh broad was the sort of gorgeous that Hobbes had long-trained himself to be interested in. She turned heads, so she turned his head. Had the opportunity arose, he’d have likely done the sort of thing expected of a virile, red-blooded American man in his early 40s.
Well, that was until he figured out she’d offed her old man.
If everything went well, he’d convince the stupid girl to turn herself in. A confession, coupled with the evidence he intended to gather from her safe, would be more than enough to see the spoiled dame safely behind bars.
And if nothing went well? He supposed that was another of those proverbial bridges he’d have to cross when he got to it.
Places like the Bellevue always rang eerie in the bleak after hours. Ben had never been one for crowds, not since the Pacific, so he hadn’t made a habit of visiting the place often when it was open. Still, the investigation had brought him by a few times, and while the display mannequins had felt awkward in the daylight, here in the abysmal hours of the night, they took on an ugliness Ben thought was almost otherworldly.
Something frail and thin moved in the shadows, and Ben Hobbes stiffened. His 9mm was a comfortable weight in his right hand, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
“Ms. Marsh,” he called out, his voice echoing off the high ceiling, “This is over now. Come on out.”
Thankfully, he’d kept the leg. Unfortunately, the old wound had a nasty habit of acting up at the worst possible moment.
As it happened, Ben Hobbes was presently experiencing a sharp pain that radiated from his mid-thigh, right down to the tips of his toes. It was an ugly sort of pain that materialized like broken glass in his mind's eye.
It was also the sort of pain he was used to, and in the name of professionalism, he choked it down like a swell of particularly bad medicine. The pain helped him focus, but it also sent him into a terrible, humourless mood that wouldn’t likely bode well for anyone unfortunate enough to cross him.
And someone, unfortunately, had crossed him.
The Marsh broad was the sort of gorgeous that Hobbes had long-trained himself to be interested in. She turned heads, so she turned his head. Had the opportunity arose, he’d have likely done the sort of thing expected of a virile, red-blooded American man in his early 40s.
Well, that was until he figured out she’d offed her old man.
If everything went well, he’d convince the stupid girl to turn herself in. A confession, coupled with the evidence he intended to gather from her safe, would be more than enough to see the spoiled dame safely behind bars.
And if nothing went well? He supposed that was another of those proverbial bridges he’d have to cross when he got to it.
Places like the Bellevue always rang eerie in the bleak after hours. Ben had never been one for crowds, not since the Pacific, so he hadn’t made a habit of visiting the place often when it was open. Still, the investigation had brought him by a few times, and while the display mannequins had felt awkward in the daylight, here in the abysmal hours of the night, they took on an ugliness Ben thought was almost otherworldly.
Something frail and thin moved in the shadows, and Ben Hobbes stiffened. His 9mm was a comfortable weight in his right hand, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
“Ms. Marsh,” he called out, his voice echoing off the high ceiling, “This is over now. Come on out.”
arbus
Member
A faint rustling of clothes, over by the cash register. Then, silence followed, and it stretched. The semi-darkness was penetrated only by the faint pinkish glow of a neon sign outside, advertising the Adelphi Theater, and the light thrown onto the floor bleed the white marble crimson. The mannequin's faces remained non-descript and pretty and attentive, hollow eyes under big fake lashes watching every last of the trespasser's movements.
Gun, they whispered like an illusion like wind in tree crowns like nothing at all, he has a gun.
"Mr. Hobbes", came the voice of Annie Lynn from the marble top counter, "I'm so glad you have found me. Come here, quick."
Suddenly, the loudspeakers installed against the ceilings sprang to life screeching, a tone high-pitched and drawn out and penetrating the eardrums like an invasion. Annie Lynn clapped her hands over her ears in a gasp, the noise of it drowned out by the static filling the air around them like water being poured into too small of a container. She swayed under the onslaught of it, a step to her left which brought the detective into view, a dark outline against the glass windows of the storefront. It prompted her to grow still, to slowly lower her hands from her head. "I'm not feeling well", she informed him, but her voice was low and sultry and the lipstick smears made her mouth appear big, a nightmarish vision of a harpy rather than a woman as it stretched into a teeth-bearing smile.
The pearl handle of her revolver was smooth and perfect in her delicate palm. She made no attempt to hide it. Her right shoulder jerked, the only indicator that she was raising her right arm, and with a loud bang a bullet shot through the air, hasty and hungry for Benjamin Hobbes' midriff, and there was a noise halfway between a cackle and a sob but the next bullet flew and then another one, grazing a column.
Gun powder settled, and the voice in Annie Lynn's head screeched: Good good good, and through the loudspeakers blasted jolly and soothing Tonight You Belong to Me and wasn't that a beautiful song!
Gun, they whispered like an illusion like wind in tree crowns like nothing at all, he has a gun.
"Mr. Hobbes", came the voice of Annie Lynn from the marble top counter, "I'm so glad you have found me. Come here, quick."
Suddenly, the loudspeakers installed against the ceilings sprang to life screeching, a tone high-pitched and drawn out and penetrating the eardrums like an invasion. Annie Lynn clapped her hands over her ears in a gasp, the noise of it drowned out by the static filling the air around them like water being poured into too small of a container. She swayed under the onslaught of it, a step to her left which brought the detective into view, a dark outline against the glass windows of the storefront. It prompted her to grow still, to slowly lower her hands from her head. "I'm not feeling well", she informed him, but her voice was low and sultry and the lipstick smears made her mouth appear big, a nightmarish vision of a harpy rather than a woman as it stretched into a teeth-bearing smile.
The pearl handle of her revolver was smooth and perfect in her delicate palm. She made no attempt to hide it. Her right shoulder jerked, the only indicator that she was raising her right arm, and with a loud bang a bullet shot through the air, hasty and hungry for Benjamin Hobbes' midriff, and there was a noise halfway between a cackle and a sob but the next bullet flew and then another one, grazing a column.
Gun powder settled, and the voice in Annie Lynn's head screeched: Good good good, and through the loudspeakers blasted jolly and soothing Tonight You Belong to Me and wasn't that a beautiful song!
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sspky
ooof my bones
“Fuck,” Ben spat, flinching beneath the screech of the overhead speakers, “What the fuck?”
The sudden noise grated at his skull, and he suspected he’d be nursing one hell of a headache when all this was over.
Suddenly, Annie Lynn Marsh was in view, and Ben quickly came to appreciate just how unwell she was. The woman looked worse than a wreck, with her makeup smudged and her hair a mess. He thought, perhaps, she must be high on something, but the thought was fleeting, because no sooner had she spotted him, she was raising her damn firearm.
Gun, a warning voice, bred out of the literal fires of war, screamed in his skull, Down.
Benjamin Hobbs could feel an all-too-familiar heat welling up in his gut. Getting shot, Ben had found from personal experience, never really hurt. There would be pain, of course, but only once the adrenalin dried up and the healing started. In the moment, there was only a burning flurry of energy that seemed to set his heart aflame.
Thankfully, the second two shots were wild, one clipping a column while the other knocked a half-inch hole in the window behind him.
Left hand pressed hard against the blood blooming on his white dress-shirt, Ben fired on the Marsh woman twice as he hurled himself behind the nearest pillar. The music overhead, coupled with the heavy shadows and the cramp in his stomach wound, had a way of making the entire situation seem both dreamlike and absurd.
The sudden noise grated at his skull, and he suspected he’d be nursing one hell of a headache when all this was over.
Suddenly, Annie Lynn Marsh was in view, and Ben quickly came to appreciate just how unwell she was. The woman looked worse than a wreck, with her makeup smudged and her hair a mess. He thought, perhaps, she must be high on something, but the thought was fleeting, because no sooner had she spotted him, she was raising her damn firearm.
Gun, a warning voice, bred out of the literal fires of war, screamed in his skull, Down.
Benjamin Hobbs could feel an all-too-familiar heat welling up in his gut. Getting shot, Ben had found from personal experience, never really hurt. There would be pain, of course, but only once the adrenalin dried up and the healing started. In the moment, there was only a burning flurry of energy that seemed to set his heart aflame.
Thankfully, the second two shots were wild, one clipping a column while the other knocked a half-inch hole in the window behind him.
Left hand pressed hard against the blood blooming on his white dress-shirt, Ben fired on the Marsh woman twice as he hurled himself behind the nearest pillar. The music overhead, coupled with the heavy shadows and the cramp in his stomach wound, had a way of making the entire situation seem both dreamlike and absurd.
arbus
Member
Annie Lynn had never fired a gun in her life, and if asked she would have claimed that she was terrified doing it, but now she felt a surge of power washing through her veins. Except you did, the voice in her head drawled, didn't you, baby doll? And when had that voice turned into the steadying presence it now proofed to be, like the eye in the midst of a storm that had swept Annie Lynn off her feet — thrown her off her rocker as her daddy would have said — and now she was whirrling whirrling, and the eye was watching, calm and collected and glistening like amber, like a cat‘s eye, unblinking and unmoved by her pain.
Annie Lynn had been hit, twice, two dull blows in quick succession that knocked the air out of her lungs. Her legs wobbled and she did not understand what was happening. Like a specter, something not from this world she hovered and swayed and stumbled forward. The first bullet had ripped a hole into her skirt, that's Prada you bastard, and was now stuck in her right thigh. The second one blew right through her midriff, in beneath her sternum and out the other side, grazing her lungs and imploding her spleen. She did not fall, did not stop, but moved onwards, and her cherry-mouth shook from the giggles erupting from her throat.
"Mr. Hobbes", a voice said, raspy and dark and not quite Annie Lynn's, "you have been a treat for sore eyes but now it's time to put you to sleep."
Annie Lynn's feet shuffled over the floor, her ankle giving way as her left shoe slipped off. She stumbled forward and almost fell, but then regained her balance, and it was like a puppeteer pulled her upright once again. Annie Lynn thought of her daddy, and wondered about that trail of blood pooling under her feet as she kept moving.
"Come out come out wherever you are", the raspy voice sing-songed, even deeper now. "Are you scared yet, detective?"
Annie Lynn was the kind of delightful that was hard to give up on, especially since she harbored a whole lot of potential, but her crazy had started to show and it was impossible to keep this under wraps and live inconspicuously if her drive for more, that insatiable greed, got the better of her. That was a conclusion as disappointing as it was inevitable, especially since her finger lay snug and ready around that trigger still, gun raised in an outstretched arm. The scent of copper lay heavy on him, delicious and heady and dangerously seductive. He must not succumb, because that would not do. Annie Lynn's blood smelled of ambition and the suppressed rage of a woman whose whole identity was the farce of being daddy's little girl, but the detective's blood had its very own appeal. Perhaps that was dangerous, but a little lick would not hurt now, would it?
All the sudden, the music stopped.
"Detective", Annie Lynn said in her own voice, clear as a bell in the sudden silence. She was paces away from the column, from the hiding place, but her legs gave way and she fell onto her knees. There was a throbbing pain in her chest that she did not understand. "It hurts."
Annie Lynn had been hit, twice, two dull blows in quick succession that knocked the air out of her lungs. Her legs wobbled and she did not understand what was happening. Like a specter, something not from this world she hovered and swayed and stumbled forward. The first bullet had ripped a hole into her skirt, that's Prada you bastard, and was now stuck in her right thigh. The second one blew right through her midriff, in beneath her sternum and out the other side, grazing her lungs and imploding her spleen. She did not fall, did not stop, but moved onwards, and her cherry-mouth shook from the giggles erupting from her throat.
"Mr. Hobbes", a voice said, raspy and dark and not quite Annie Lynn's, "you have been a treat for sore eyes but now it's time to put you to sleep."
Annie Lynn's feet shuffled over the floor, her ankle giving way as her left shoe slipped off. She stumbled forward and almost fell, but then regained her balance, and it was like a puppeteer pulled her upright once again. Annie Lynn thought of her daddy, and wondered about that trail of blood pooling under her feet as she kept moving.
"Come out come out wherever you are", the raspy voice sing-songed, even deeper now. "Are you scared yet, detective?"
Annie Lynn was the kind of delightful that was hard to give up on, especially since she harbored a whole lot of potential, but her crazy had started to show and it was impossible to keep this under wraps and live inconspicuously if her drive for more, that insatiable greed, got the better of her. That was a conclusion as disappointing as it was inevitable, especially since her finger lay snug and ready around that trigger still, gun raised in an outstretched arm. The scent of copper lay heavy on him, delicious and heady and dangerously seductive. He must not succumb, because that would not do. Annie Lynn's blood smelled of ambition and the suppressed rage of a woman whose whole identity was the farce of being daddy's little girl, but the detective's blood had its very own appeal. Perhaps that was dangerous, but a little lick would not hurt now, would it?
All the sudden, the music stopped.
"Detective", Annie Lynn said in her own voice, clear as a bell in the sudden silence. She was paces away from the column, from the hiding place, but her legs gave way and she fell onto her knees. There was a throbbing pain in her chest that she did not understand. "It hurts."
sspky
ooof my bones
Gritting his teeth against the cramp in his gut, Ben let the shock of adrenalin pull him to his feet. A thick sheen of sweat coated his brow, clinging his dark hair to his forehead. He’d lost his hat, a fact he was oblivious to, and his tan coat was wet with blood and perspiration. He’d curse himself out later, but for now, his focus was pin-prick narrow on the woman currently trying to kill him.
Attributing the strange tone in Anne Lynn’s voice to a mixture of shock and the distortion of the jarring music filling the room, Ben optimistically hoped he’d managed to hit something. It was when the music finally shut the hell up, that Ben decided to make his move. Backing up, he rose his gun level to where he imagined she would be and stepped carefully to the side.
She was on her knees -- Ben smoothly adjusted his aim, keeping her in the pistol’s sights -- and she looked pretty rough. It was unfortunate he’d had to shoot her. The cops would be breathing down his neck over this one. At least he had the hole in his gut to prove it had been self-defence.
“It’s no wonder. You’re bleeding pretty bad, Miss Marsh,” he said, “So, you’re going to put that gun flat on the floor there, or I’m going to blow a hole clean through the back of your head, do you understand?”
Attributing the strange tone in Anne Lynn’s voice to a mixture of shock and the distortion of the jarring music filling the room, Ben optimistically hoped he’d managed to hit something. It was when the music finally shut the hell up, that Ben decided to make his move. Backing up, he rose his gun level to where he imagined she would be and stepped carefully to the side.
She was on her knees -- Ben smoothly adjusted his aim, keeping her in the pistol’s sights -- and she looked pretty rough. It was unfortunate he’d had to shoot her. The cops would be breathing down his neck over this one. At least he had the hole in his gut to prove it had been self-defence.
“It’s no wonder. You’re bleeding pretty bad, Miss Marsh,” he said, “So, you’re going to put that gun flat on the floor there, or I’m going to blow a hole clean through the back of your head, do you understand?”
arbus
Member
One hand came up and trailed over her torso, over the frayed blood-smeared hole in her blouse. The powder-blue was turning red and fast, spreading from the small bullet hole. Her hands trembled, and as she turned the bloodied palms upwards as if to inspect them, the gun slipped from her fingers. It landed with a hard thud on the marble floor. Her whole body began to shake so violently it almost looked like she was laughing, or sobbing uncontrollably.
But her eyes were dry and her mouth devoid of humor as she raised her head, sensing the figure looming over her. Imposing, now, the man in his trench coat looking at her from behind the gaping black mouth of a gun. She felt his presence as if he were breathing down her neck, and the fine hair on her arms stood. Annie Lynn's eyes were adorned with long fake lashes, but they were baby blue and round and big like a deer's. And all they read was confused terror. She shook so hard her teeth chattered and gnashed together.
"I don't", she said, but it came out in a stutter. "P-please ... I don't understand. It hurts so bad." She dropped her head, and her hands drove over the the bullet hole without applying any pressure. A trickle of blood ran from the exit wound in her back. She felt the fabric stick to her skin.
"Shoot me", she begged, then gasped in horror. "N-no! I -- I didn't mean for my daddy to die." And then she added, pressed between gnashed teeth: "... though I kinda did, so. C'mon, detective", the last word obstructed by a wailing cry.
"STOP it!", she howled, suddenly clutching her head.
But her eyes were dry and her mouth devoid of humor as she raised her head, sensing the figure looming over her. Imposing, now, the man in his trench coat looking at her from behind the gaping black mouth of a gun. She felt his presence as if he were breathing down her neck, and the fine hair on her arms stood. Annie Lynn's eyes were adorned with long fake lashes, but they were baby blue and round and big like a deer's. And all they read was confused terror. She shook so hard her teeth chattered and gnashed together.
"I don't", she said, but it came out in a stutter. "P-please ... I don't understand. It hurts so bad." She dropped her head, and her hands drove over the the bullet hole without applying any pressure. A trickle of blood ran from the exit wound in her back. She felt the fabric stick to her skin.
"Shoot me", she begged, then gasped in horror. "N-no! I -- I didn't mean for my daddy to die." And then she added, pressed between gnashed teeth: "... though I kinda did, so. C'mon, detective", the last word obstructed by a wailing cry.
"STOP it!", she howled, suddenly clutching her head.
sspky
ooof my bones
“As it turns out, Miss Marsh, getting shot hurts,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice echoing strangely in the new silence of the department store. “It hurts real bad.”
Damn, this broad belonged in the loony bin. He’d had an off feeling about her for a while now, but Hobbes hadn’t imagined she’d degenerated this far. Between her make-up smeared face and blood-soaked dress, Anne Lynn Marsh was looking less like a classy debutante and more like something out of some sleazy grindhouse film.
And the way she was rambling to herself? Ben Hobbes could mostly chalk that up to shock. It was only through bitter experience that had him handling is current gut-wound so well, and even now that pain was creeping up on him like a slow night chill. He needed to act now and act fast.
Nudging the discarded gun away from her with his foot, he said, “I’m not going to shoot you, so shut up.”
Without taking his eyes off of her, he reached down for the firearm, intent on tucking it safely away in his jacket pocket. The act of crouching sent a shallow wave of nausea up through his spine.
“What I am going to do is phone the police. You manage not to bleed to death first, and I’m thinking there might just be a luxury padded cell in your future. A real nice one, just for you.”
Damn, this broad belonged in the loony bin. He’d had an off feeling about her for a while now, but Hobbes hadn’t imagined she’d degenerated this far. Between her make-up smeared face and blood-soaked dress, Anne Lynn Marsh was looking less like a classy debutante and more like something out of some sleazy grindhouse film.
And the way she was rambling to herself? Ben Hobbes could mostly chalk that up to shock. It was only through bitter experience that had him handling is current gut-wound so well, and even now that pain was creeping up on him like a slow night chill. He needed to act now and act fast.
Nudging the discarded gun away from her with his foot, he said, “I’m not going to shoot you, so shut up.”
Without taking his eyes off of her, he reached down for the firearm, intent on tucking it safely away in his jacket pocket. The act of crouching sent a shallow wave of nausea up through his spine.
“What I am going to do is phone the police. You manage not to bleed to death first, and I’m thinking there might just be a luxury padded cell in your future. A real nice one, just for you.”
arbus
Member
Annie Lynn's eyes followed the revolver as it slid over the floor and out of reach. She did not stir, but sobbed. Her hands, clawing at her skull, lowered to her knees now. She did not know how she got there, how on earth she got into a situation like this, or why detective Hobbes was being so mean. Why he had shot her, she thought, on the brink of hysteria. But there was something else there in her mind, bouncing in her skull, rushing through her synapses like errant electricity, an undercurrent that now emerged.
As the detective bent, a waft of fresh, coppery blood drafted towards her. Her nostrils flared. Her whimpering subsided, slowly, until for a moment utter silence prevailed. Then:
"You don‘t look so hot, detective."
The eyes that lifted from the marble floor were not blue any longer but a deep, saturated amber. They blinked slowly, deceptively calm. Annie Lynn's voice had dropped a few pitches again, came in a rasp. In a movement that was far too quick for a body that was so severely wounded, a delicate hand dashed forward, ringed fingers closing around the detective's wrist in the moment he grabbed the gun. "How very noble of you, Mr. Hobbes", the voice rasped, "aren't you angry that I shot you, at all?"
As the detective bent, a waft of fresh, coppery blood drafted towards her. Her nostrils flared. Her whimpering subsided, slowly, until for a moment utter silence prevailed. Then:
"You don‘t look so hot, detective."
The eyes that lifted from the marble floor were not blue any longer but a deep, saturated amber. They blinked slowly, deceptively calm. Annie Lynn's voice had dropped a few pitches again, came in a rasp. In a movement that was far too quick for a body that was so severely wounded, a delicate hand dashed forward, ringed fingers closing around the detective's wrist in the moment he grabbed the gun. "How very noble of you, Mr. Hobbes", the voice rasped, "aren't you angry that I shot you, at all?"
sspky
ooof my bones
(( Sorry again for the delay! I was in a bit of a funk all weekend and couldn’t motivate myself to write. I’m back in the game now, tho! : ) ))
Now, Hobbes was absolutely certain Miss Marsh had been blue-eyed. It wasn’t uncommon for the whites of a man’s eyes to turn red. Hobbes had seen that often enough on the battlefield -- stress, irritation, poor hygiene, and eye-damage all leading to ruptured capillaries and swollen inner eyelids -- but the detective wasn’t certain he’d ever seen an iris change its colour before.
That, and her rasping voice, set him swiftly on edge. A man in his line of work knew when to trust his gut, even when he wasn’t entirely certain what is gut was trying to tell him. This was all wrong. He knew it, and that battle-hard voice in his head screamed danger.
He yanked his arm back, the hole in his gut screaming at the sudden, jerking motion, and snapped, “Lady, there’s only one reason I haven’t pistol-whipped you bloody, and it’s got nothing to do with chivalry,”
God, but did he ever hate the feeling of her skin on his. Ben Hobbes had always been fairly indifferent to the feminine touch. Sure, he acted the part, but he’d never once felt warmed by a woman’s caress. This was different, though. Miss Marsh left him feeling suddenly cold and very repulsed.
He was a little surprised to find that he really did want to bash the girls face in. It was a sort of sudden violence he was unaccustomed to, having never been the sort to abide by violence towards the fairer sex. Yet here he was, firearm in one hand, held back only by the knowledge that this situation was already going to be a god damn mess to explain to the cops. He’d hang for sure if he beat the woman to death after shooting out her stomach.
Now, Hobbes was absolutely certain Miss Marsh had been blue-eyed. It wasn’t uncommon for the whites of a man’s eyes to turn red. Hobbes had seen that often enough on the battlefield -- stress, irritation, poor hygiene, and eye-damage all leading to ruptured capillaries and swollen inner eyelids -- but the detective wasn’t certain he’d ever seen an iris change its colour before.
That, and her rasping voice, set him swiftly on edge. A man in his line of work knew when to trust his gut, even when he wasn’t entirely certain what is gut was trying to tell him. This was all wrong. He knew it, and that battle-hard voice in his head screamed danger.
He yanked his arm back, the hole in his gut screaming at the sudden, jerking motion, and snapped, “Lady, there’s only one reason I haven’t pistol-whipped you bloody, and it’s got nothing to do with chivalry,”
God, but did he ever hate the feeling of her skin on his. Ben Hobbes had always been fairly indifferent to the feminine touch. Sure, he acted the part, but he’d never once felt warmed by a woman’s caress. This was different, though. Miss Marsh left him feeling suddenly cold and very repulsed.
He was a little surprised to find that he really did want to bash the girls face in. It was a sort of sudden violence he was unaccustomed to, having never been the sort to abide by violence towards the fairer sex. Yet here he was, firearm in one hand, held back only by the knowledge that this situation was already going to be a god damn mess to explain to the cops. He’d hang for sure if he beat the woman to death after shooting out her stomach.
arbus
Member
(( Not to worry! There's nothing to do but sit a writing funk out. It is like a strained ankle that way. ))
Annie Lynn, who was not quite Annie Lynn anymore, sensed the new tension in the detective like a hound sniffs blood. Well, for that matter, her nose was getting rather good as sniffing out blood as well. That woman had it in her, he thought, and it was a shame she was deteriorating quite so fast. Like a fuse that burned bright but far too quickly. Annie Lynn reveled in the alarmed confusion on the detectives face, a small victory underneath the rubble of madness that was piling onto her like an avalanche. If he was not careful he would be stuck underneath, and from there it was easy to be dragged down down down into the pitch-black abyss that was her subconscious. He got lost once, in another's synapses like that, and his escape had been far too close a call.
Dementia was an unfortunate side-effect of demonic possession, he had learned over the decades, but some succumbed much faster than others.
This was getting dangerous.
"Not a knight in shining armor then, detective?", the raspy voice asked. The static of his presence made the loudspeakers rustle again. The pale pinkish light of the neon sign outside threw flickering shadows on the walls. They morphed and twisted and played tricks on the eyes, a slim figure of a woman turning into a winged, hunched figure and back. The amber eyes traveled to the spreading stain on the shirt -- cheap, non-descript fabric, now soaked in sweat and the detective's pretty red blood -- and widened in a sudden bout of greed. Its fragrance was so sweet! "What's the reason then? Why haven't you let out all that bent-up anger on me? All that nihilistic rage, Mr. Hobbes. It very much suits you, much more than that nice facade you keep putting up."
Annie Lynn, who was not quite Annie Lynn anymore, sensed the new tension in the detective like a hound sniffs blood. Well, for that matter, her nose was getting rather good as sniffing out blood as well. That woman had it in her, he thought, and it was a shame she was deteriorating quite so fast. Like a fuse that burned bright but far too quickly. Annie Lynn reveled in the alarmed confusion on the detectives face, a small victory underneath the rubble of madness that was piling onto her like an avalanche. If he was not careful he would be stuck underneath, and from there it was easy to be dragged down down down into the pitch-black abyss that was her subconscious. He got lost once, in another's synapses like that, and his escape had been far too close a call.
Dementia was an unfortunate side-effect of demonic possession, he had learned over the decades, but some succumbed much faster than others.
This was getting dangerous.
"Not a knight in shining armor then, detective?", the raspy voice asked. The static of his presence made the loudspeakers rustle again. The pale pinkish light of the neon sign outside threw flickering shadows on the walls. They morphed and twisted and played tricks on the eyes, a slim figure of a woman turning into a winged, hunched figure and back. The amber eyes traveled to the spreading stain on the shirt -- cheap, non-descript fabric, now soaked in sweat and the detective's pretty red blood -- and widened in a sudden bout of greed. Its fragrance was so sweet! "What's the reason then? Why haven't you let out all that bent-up anger on me? All that nihilistic rage, Mr. Hobbes. It very much suits you, much more than that nice facade you keep putting up."
sspky
ooof my bones
Lurching back in surprise and horror, Hobbes yanked his wrist free. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through his stomach, which quickly levelled out into a low, pulsing cramp. The impossible thing he just saw did wonders for that desperate throb of adrenaline currently keeping him on his feet.
There was so much blood, he realized, his head spinning. He’d seen a lot of it back in the war, but he’d never really grown used to it. He was especially distressed by the knowledge that much of it was his own.
Stumbling, he blinked away the strange illusion and steadied his gun arm once again. He pressed his other hand hard against the bullet wound in his side, his fingers plugging the blood flow. The pain was sharp, but it gave him a sense of clarity.
‘Stem the flow’, the survivor’s voice demanded in his head, ‘Leave her. Move your ass. Get to the telephone.’
His skin, shining with sweat in the neon glow, had taken on a deathly pallor, and his limbs felt weight down, coated in tar, and entirely useless. So he dug his fingers in deeper and let the sharp jerk of agony propel him forward.
On unsteady legs, he limped passed the woman, towards one of the nearby checkout counters, where he suspected he’d find a telephone.
There was so much blood, he realized, his head spinning. He’d seen a lot of it back in the war, but he’d never really grown used to it. He was especially distressed by the knowledge that much of it was his own.
Stumbling, he blinked away the strange illusion and steadied his gun arm once again. He pressed his other hand hard against the bullet wound in his side, his fingers plugging the blood flow. The pain was sharp, but it gave him a sense of clarity.
‘Stem the flow’, the survivor’s voice demanded in his head, ‘Leave her. Move your ass. Get to the telephone.’
His skin, shining with sweat in the neon glow, had taken on a deathly pallor, and his limbs felt weight down, coated in tar, and entirely useless. So he dug his fingers in deeper and let the sharp jerk of agony propel him forward.
On unsteady legs, he limped passed the woman, towards one of the nearby checkout counters, where he suspected he’d find a telephone.
arbus
Member
There was, indeed, a rather huge amount of blood, and it smeared all over the white marble of the floor, so immaculately polished for all those fancy housewives and pretty soon-to-be's and the odd man in loafers and uncomfortable in this environment that was so obviously geared towards the feminine sphere. He liked this world that Annie Lynn Marsh had introduced him to. It was filled with so much delicious yet delicate rage, bent-up and wriggling underneath perfect surfaces. Maybe it all had become a little too heady; it was momentum not yet gained, an energy that would burst free in the decades to come. Men like Ben Hobbes, he knew, would come to appreciate this burst of liberation, even though the detective would probably too old, too set in his ways to appreciate the change, once it finally happened.
It was endearing, almost, his quiet, desperate struggle. The detective was dragging himself on legs that were about to give out on him. The waft of blood and fever and a brink of lurking darkness came towards him. Annie Lynn had gone quiet in her head, too, her frame sunken and almost-useless. She was on the brink of death herself, now, and he thought that was a pity and a shame and that he should probably be angry with the detective for wasting a life like that, such an angry little life.
"Tick-tock", a sing-song voice rasped, dark and not unappealing. But it did not come from Annie Lynn, who had not moved since the detective had decided to finally call in for help. "Tick-tock, detective. Time's running out on you, isn't it?"
The voice was bodiless; it came from the same shadows that flickered in the neon light; it came from the ceiling which lay in darkness; it came from behind Benjamin Hobbes' neck, right up against the shell of his ear, but no breath went along with it, no indication of a living being.
"The question is, will the cops show before you bleed to death, or after." A hum like deliberation, and this did produce a stream of air, foul and warm. "What do you think, Mr. Hobbes?"
It was entanglement; it was a deliberate play for time, because the detective and his ill-fated client were not the only ones running short on it. The thread that held him to the bleeding woman wore down with each pulse of her heart, spurting yet another throb of blood into her clothes and the floor. She was growing cold, her mouth tinting blue under her cherry-red lipstick.
It was endearing, almost, his quiet, desperate struggle. The detective was dragging himself on legs that were about to give out on him. The waft of blood and fever and a brink of lurking darkness came towards him. Annie Lynn had gone quiet in her head, too, her frame sunken and almost-useless. She was on the brink of death herself, now, and he thought that was a pity and a shame and that he should probably be angry with the detective for wasting a life like that, such an angry little life.
"Tick-tock", a sing-song voice rasped, dark and not unappealing. But it did not come from Annie Lynn, who had not moved since the detective had decided to finally call in for help. "Tick-tock, detective. Time's running out on you, isn't it?"
The voice was bodiless; it came from the same shadows that flickered in the neon light; it came from the ceiling which lay in darkness; it came from behind Benjamin Hobbes' neck, right up against the shell of his ear, but no breath went along with it, no indication of a living being.
"The question is, will the cops show before you bleed to death, or after." A hum like deliberation, and this did produce a stream of air, foul and warm. "What do you think, Mr. Hobbes?"
It was entanglement; it was a deliberate play for time, because the detective and his ill-fated client were not the only ones running short on it. The thread that held him to the bleeding woman wore down with each pulse of her heart, spurting yet another throb of blood into her clothes and the floor. She was growing cold, her mouth tinting blue under her cherry-red lipstick.
sspky
ooof my bones
“I think you should fuck off,” the detective said, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. Back in Okinawa, when Ben had been bleeding out on some swampy jungle floor, his stomach slit open and the hole in his leg leaking heat down his soiled pantleg, he’d heard a good many voices in his own head.
They’d rattled away up there, telling him to move and to fight and to stop being such a god damn nancy-boy and survive. But there had been others, just as loud, telling him he deserved this, telling him how futile it all was. Even if he managed to drag himself back to camp, he’d bleed out soon enough, his wounds already packed with mud and surely festering.
He’d told those other voices to shut up, too, out in the jungle and in that awful field hospital, and when he’d laid, drugged and delirious in the noisy hospital wing back on the Big Island -- he’d told them to shut up and fuck off and leave him the hell alone.
This voice now was different. It felt somehow more real than the hateful inner monologue that drove him towards survival. He could feel the fairs ont he back of his neck raise as the shapeless entity egged him on.
But it was all the same, in the end. It was something dark and terrible inside of him, and he wasn’t going to let it win.
Screwing his eyes shut, he leaned heavily against the checkout desk, a long stain of blood following his hand across the wooden surface until he finally found the phone.
“If you’re not going to be helpful,” his voice wobbled as he rose the receiver to his ear, “Then fuck off back to…”
He trailed off, his fingers hooking the dial and pulling it round carefully, knowing all he needed to do was hit three simple numbers and he’d be set for life.
They’d rattled away up there, telling him to move and to fight and to stop being such a god damn nancy-boy and survive. But there had been others, just as loud, telling him he deserved this, telling him how futile it all was. Even if he managed to drag himself back to camp, he’d bleed out soon enough, his wounds already packed with mud and surely festering.
He’d told those other voices to shut up, too, out in the jungle and in that awful field hospital, and when he’d laid, drugged and delirious in the noisy hospital wing back on the Big Island -- he’d told them to shut up and fuck off and leave him the hell alone.
This voice now was different. It felt somehow more real than the hateful inner monologue that drove him towards survival. He could feel the fairs ont he back of his neck raise as the shapeless entity egged him on.
But it was all the same, in the end. It was something dark and terrible inside of him, and he wasn’t going to let it win.
Screwing his eyes shut, he leaned heavily against the checkout desk, a long stain of blood following his hand across the wooden surface until he finally found the phone.
“If you’re not going to be helpful,” his voice wobbled as he rose the receiver to his ear, “Then fuck off back to…”
He trailed off, his fingers hooking the dial and pulling it round carefully, knowing all he needed to do was hit three simple numbers and he’d be set for life.
arbus
Member
I think you should fuck off. The bodiless voice snickered with glee. "Feisty", it announced, and did the detective not smell of the same kind of rage that had driven Annie Lynn? A different tinge, perhaps, buried deeper and more expertly covered behind a facade not of makeup and pretty nails (though perhaps that would be right up the detective's ally, he had a hunch, and his hunches were often right), but of the stoic, stern kind that was more appreciated in men.
Truly, he loved humans for their fickleness and inability to see reason. One should think it would be easy to solve all their problems if they just stopped being so stupid, but it never was, and he had been around long enough in this world to know it. All those petty little conflicts, both self-inflicted and imposed by whatever society deemed en vogue at that point in time. He was a historian, a connoiseur of the human species in general and the human psyche in particular. They tell him he will dissolve inbetween mankind's steady fluctuation of anxiety and hubris, and maybe they are right. But he had developed a taste for it, a long, long time ago, and like any addict, did not know how to stop.
"Back to where?", he inquired, hovering.
He was but a ghost of his self, this sturdy, demonic body he has not inhabited for decades now. He was a spectre, and he was linked to Annie Lynn by that thin, waning thread. Annie Lynn would take her last breath in about four minutes time -- that was the extent he could see into the future, sometimes, and he saw it now, clearly, starkly: His own obliteration if he did not cut her loose.
Benjamin Hobbes was as good a host as any; it did not matter because there was only a choice between him and extinction. He watched as the detective's flimsy, blood-smeared fingers dialed the three digits, listened to the crack in the line and the tinny voice of an operator blarring into the silence dense with shallow breaths and the stench of blood. And he allowed it all to happen, because the detective must live, for both their sake (and, perhaps, because that blood smelled sticky-sweet like a promise to be claimed later).
"It's your lucky day, Benjamin", he said, that whisper of a voice in the crook of the detective's neck. He reached, and it was effort and strain and thinned the thread holding him to Annie Lynn's heaving, hunched body. For a mere moment, he felt her grab for him, for that lifeline that was his energy. But she was too weak to hold on, and with an audible snap the thread broke. Annie Lynn, pretty, deadly Annie Lynn gasped, body convulsing before she fell over.
"I'm going to be extraordinarily helpful", he announced against damp fever-warm skin, and it was like the brush of feathers, like razor-sharp claws scratching over the detective's spine, like a wave flodding over the detective's body and mind that pressed, urged forward, with a strength that aimed to pull the detective under: That, if the detective had not the strength to withstand, would subdue him and knock him out cold, but at the same time, would feed him with strength that was currently pouring out of him in a red and steady stream.
Truly, he loved humans for their fickleness and inability to see reason. One should think it would be easy to solve all their problems if they just stopped being so stupid, but it never was, and he had been around long enough in this world to know it. All those petty little conflicts, both self-inflicted and imposed by whatever society deemed en vogue at that point in time. He was a historian, a connoiseur of the human species in general and the human psyche in particular. They tell him he will dissolve inbetween mankind's steady fluctuation of anxiety and hubris, and maybe they are right. But he had developed a taste for it, a long, long time ago, and like any addict, did not know how to stop.
"Back to where?", he inquired, hovering.
He was but a ghost of his self, this sturdy, demonic body he has not inhabited for decades now. He was a spectre, and he was linked to Annie Lynn by that thin, waning thread. Annie Lynn would take her last breath in about four minutes time -- that was the extent he could see into the future, sometimes, and he saw it now, clearly, starkly: His own obliteration if he did not cut her loose.
Benjamin Hobbes was as good a host as any; it did not matter because there was only a choice between him and extinction. He watched as the detective's flimsy, blood-smeared fingers dialed the three digits, listened to the crack in the line and the tinny voice of an operator blarring into the silence dense with shallow breaths and the stench of blood. And he allowed it all to happen, because the detective must live, for both their sake (and, perhaps, because that blood smelled sticky-sweet like a promise to be claimed later).
"It's your lucky day, Benjamin", he said, that whisper of a voice in the crook of the detective's neck. He reached, and it was effort and strain and thinned the thread holding him to Annie Lynn's heaving, hunched body. For a mere moment, he felt her grab for him, for that lifeline that was his energy. But she was too weak to hold on, and with an audible snap the thread broke. Annie Lynn, pretty, deadly Annie Lynn gasped, body convulsing before she fell over.
"I'm going to be extraordinarily helpful", he announced against damp fever-warm skin, and it was like the brush of feathers, like razor-sharp claws scratching over the detective's spine, like a wave flodding over the detective's body and mind that pressed, urged forward, with a strength that aimed to pull the detective under: That, if the detective had not the strength to withstand, would subdue him and knock him out cold, but at the same time, would feed him with strength that was currently pouring out of him in a red and steady stream.
sspky
ooof my bones
((Can’t remember if we ever specified an actual address and floor, so if I got it wrong I’ll edit it after the fact. ))
“The Green Room, 86th and Main.” he told the voice in the receiver, “Third floor. There’s been a shooting. Two victims.” he wanted to say more, but gray at the edges of his vision had been pushing steadily inward and darkening considerably.
His lips felt painfully dry, which was an odd thing for him to notice, all things considered, but when coupled with how damn heavy and fat his tongue felt in his mouth, Ben was finding it difficult to really motivate himself to say any more.
The voice on the other end was speaking -- asking him all sorts of questions, but he could only manage a grunt before the phone slipped from his hand and rattled noisily off the side of the counter, where it swayed from its cable like a pendulum.
Shutting his eyes a moment, Ben forced himself to speak again, “Get up. Keep moving. Keep --”
Someone else was talking. Back to where? Good question. He needed to stay in the open, where the first responders could easily spot him. But the rest of it made less sense. He certainly wasn’t feeling terribly lucky, nor was he in any state to be useful, extraordinarily or otherwise.
“Stay awake,” he grumbled, his thumb pushing into the hole in his gut, “Stem the bleeding.” The numb throbbing in his abdomen didn’t really feel like pain anymore. It was a reminder that he needed to keep living, certainly, but it felt as if his brain had quartered of that part of itself that recognized the twisting as anything painful.
That was until the strangeness hit him. It can into him like what he imagined a bolt of lightning must feel like. It came into him like a fever broken by a sudden plunge of icy water. It came into him and knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his legs.
Falling to his knees, Ben Hobbes croaked out a guttural, bloody noise, his spine ridged and pulled back far enough to strain the tear in his stomach. For a moment he clung to the pain of the gunshot wound, desperate for its familiarity in the face of this terrible new sensation.
Benjamin fought. Of course, he fought. He had been fighting for just about every moment of his life, and if there was one constant to the man, it was his refusal to ever take anything lying down. So he fought, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what it was he was fighting, and in the end, against every ouch of will and fibre of instinct, he succumbed and plunged into the cold, depthless darkness.
“The Green Room, 86th and Main.” he told the voice in the receiver, “Third floor. There’s been a shooting. Two victims.” he wanted to say more, but gray at the edges of his vision had been pushing steadily inward and darkening considerably.
His lips felt painfully dry, which was an odd thing for him to notice, all things considered, but when coupled with how damn heavy and fat his tongue felt in his mouth, Ben was finding it difficult to really motivate himself to say any more.
The voice on the other end was speaking -- asking him all sorts of questions, but he could only manage a grunt before the phone slipped from his hand and rattled noisily off the side of the counter, where it swayed from its cable like a pendulum.
Shutting his eyes a moment, Ben forced himself to speak again, “Get up. Keep moving. Keep --”
Someone else was talking. Back to where? Good question. He needed to stay in the open, where the first responders could easily spot him. But the rest of it made less sense. He certainly wasn’t feeling terribly lucky, nor was he in any state to be useful, extraordinarily or otherwise.
“Stay awake,” he grumbled, his thumb pushing into the hole in his gut, “Stem the bleeding.” The numb throbbing in his abdomen didn’t really feel like pain anymore. It was a reminder that he needed to keep living, certainly, but it felt as if his brain had quartered of that part of itself that recognized the twisting as anything painful.
That was until the strangeness hit him. It can into him like what he imagined a bolt of lightning must feel like. It came into him like a fever broken by a sudden plunge of icy water. It came into him and knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his legs.
Falling to his knees, Ben Hobbes croaked out a guttural, bloody noise, his spine ridged and pulled back far enough to strain the tear in his stomach. For a moment he clung to the pain of the gunshot wound, desperate for its familiarity in the face of this terrible new sensation.
Benjamin fought. Of course, he fought. He had been fighting for just about every moment of his life, and if there was one constant to the man, it was his refusal to ever take anything lying down. So he fought, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what it was he was fighting, and in the end, against every ouch of will and fibre of instinct, he succumbed and plunged into the cold, depthless darkness.
arbus
Member
(( We didn't, 's all good. I took some freedom in regards to the backstory and Hobbes' state of health. The last one, specifically, because of demonic possession. Does wonders for one's constitution! Let me know if you want me to change anything. ))
The sheets were of the immaculate whiteness Lieutenant Roger Kling had come to associate with hospitals a long time ago, pristine and crackling stiffly under the touch as he ran his fingertips along them. The room was dim, the curtains drawn to lock out much of the afternoon sun. The room held three beds, but only one of them was currently occupied. A little sourly, the lieutenant's hooded eyes drifted over the motionless shape of the patient in the bed by the window, covered with not only sheets but a palish pink woolen blanket against the perpetual chill. When Kling had been in this exact same hospital to have an emergency surgery after a shoot-out with some members of the mob roughly a year ago, he had been forced to share his room with three other patients of varying degrees of annoying. That incident cost him his spleen, his wife's affection and a months-long recuperation period, much of which he spent tied to a bed or a wheelchair. Curtsey of the ongoing investigation of last night's events, however, private detective Benjamin Hobbes enjoyed the full privacy that went along with the two officers that guarded his door from the outside. Kling found this -- perhaps irrationally, yet nonetheless profoundly -- unfair.
He had never liked Hobbes, and he assumed the feeling was mutual. The man struck him as slightly odd; there was just something about him that Kling could not stand. It did not help that he stood in the Deputy Superintendent's high regards. Kling had never managed to figure out why that was. In his view, the private eye was nothing but some sleazy crook, too burnt-out or lazy or both to make it in the actual police force. And yet, here Kling was, deployed to clean up his mess again, like an over-paid babysitter. Perhaps this time, though, Kling would be able to pin something to Hobbes; he wanted to get him for unlawful conduct since that first case they had come across each other's paths, but so far, everything had just slipped off Hobbes' immaculate veneer like oil from a raincoat. Dirt did not stick easy to the PI, Kling thought, and that was just as suspicious as anything else about that freeloading asshole.
In three large steps he crossed the room and ripped the curtains open. Sunlight spilled onto the linoleum floor, a slant of it hitting Hobbes' face. Devoid of violence, but with not much care either, Kling wrapped his hand around Hobbes' shoulder and shook it once.
"You've had enough rest, Hobbes", he said gruffly, and banged the side of his foot against the leg of the bed for good measure, sending the metal frame rattling. "It's me, your pal Kling, and I have some question for you. Stop pretending you're asleep, asshole, and let me do my job."
Fine was not quite the right word for Hobbes' condition right now, but he could be significantly worse off. From what the doctors had told him, Hobbes had been admitted with a bullet wound to his abdomen and a severe case of blood loss. But the man was a sturdy son of a bitch, apparently, because while the blood loss alone should have been enough to send Hobbes six feet under, the surgery had gone more smoothly than anyone could have expected, and a mere ten hours later the man's vitals were stable. If Hobbes would have had the decency to just kick the bucket, Kling would now not to have bend over backwards to solve this utter mess of a situation: A shot PI, a gruesomely bloody department store -- closed for business at the moment -- and the late business mogul Randolf Marsh's only daughter, currently on the intensive care unit, attached to a respirator because she would stop breathing without it.
The sheets were of the immaculate whiteness Lieutenant Roger Kling had come to associate with hospitals a long time ago, pristine and crackling stiffly under the touch as he ran his fingertips along them. The room was dim, the curtains drawn to lock out much of the afternoon sun. The room held three beds, but only one of them was currently occupied. A little sourly, the lieutenant's hooded eyes drifted over the motionless shape of the patient in the bed by the window, covered with not only sheets but a palish pink woolen blanket against the perpetual chill. When Kling had been in this exact same hospital to have an emergency surgery after a shoot-out with some members of the mob roughly a year ago, he had been forced to share his room with three other patients of varying degrees of annoying. That incident cost him his spleen, his wife's affection and a months-long recuperation period, much of which he spent tied to a bed or a wheelchair. Curtsey of the ongoing investigation of last night's events, however, private detective Benjamin Hobbes enjoyed the full privacy that went along with the two officers that guarded his door from the outside. Kling found this -- perhaps irrationally, yet nonetheless profoundly -- unfair.
He had never liked Hobbes, and he assumed the feeling was mutual. The man struck him as slightly odd; there was just something about him that Kling could not stand. It did not help that he stood in the Deputy Superintendent's high regards. Kling had never managed to figure out why that was. In his view, the private eye was nothing but some sleazy crook, too burnt-out or lazy or both to make it in the actual police force. And yet, here Kling was, deployed to clean up his mess again, like an over-paid babysitter. Perhaps this time, though, Kling would be able to pin something to Hobbes; he wanted to get him for unlawful conduct since that first case they had come across each other's paths, but so far, everything had just slipped off Hobbes' immaculate veneer like oil from a raincoat. Dirt did not stick easy to the PI, Kling thought, and that was just as suspicious as anything else about that freeloading asshole.
In three large steps he crossed the room and ripped the curtains open. Sunlight spilled onto the linoleum floor, a slant of it hitting Hobbes' face. Devoid of violence, but with not much care either, Kling wrapped his hand around Hobbes' shoulder and shook it once.
"You've had enough rest, Hobbes", he said gruffly, and banged the side of his foot against the leg of the bed for good measure, sending the metal frame rattling. "It's me, your pal Kling, and I have some question for you. Stop pretending you're asleep, asshole, and let me do my job."
Fine was not quite the right word for Hobbes' condition right now, but he could be significantly worse off. From what the doctors had told him, Hobbes had been admitted with a bullet wound to his abdomen and a severe case of blood loss. But the man was a sturdy son of a bitch, apparently, because while the blood loss alone should have been enough to send Hobbes six feet under, the surgery had gone more smoothly than anyone could have expected, and a mere ten hours later the man's vitals were stable. If Hobbes would have had the decency to just kick the bucket, Kling would now not to have bend over backwards to solve this utter mess of a situation: A shot PI, a gruesomely bloody department store -- closed for business at the moment -- and the late business mogul Randolf Marsh's only daughter, currently on the intensive care unit, attached to a respirator because she would stop breathing without it.
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sspky
ooof my bones
(( It's perf. : ) ))
The last time Ben had been hospitalized with a near-fatal wound, he hadn’t dreamt much at all. The combination of physical stress and a cocktail of medication had plunged him into a pool of gray haze that had taken weeks to swim free from.
This time, his sleep was fitful and vivid. Although Ben had never been one for lucid dreaming, he generally had a pretty good memory for the contents of his nightly imaginings, which was unfortunate considering a good deal of his dreams took him back to the Pacific. When he wasn’t reliving the dirt and horror of the island, his dreams were generally benign.
He went to places he knew -- his office, Megs Diner over on 4th, the park by his house, and sometimes he went further back, to his childhood home in the Fens, to the St. Joseph’s Catholic School where he spent much of his youth, to his father’s old autobody shop, to the basement of the East-Harbour community center where, when he was 14, he and beaten Martin Flymen to death.
Now, his dreams took him elsewhere. They took him to somewhere that he knew, inexplicably and without context, to be ageless and alien and wholly dangerous. Benjamin Hobbes was creative where it counted -- he could get in the head of a suspect and ferret out the whys and hows of a case -- but he had no head for the sort of pulp-fiction crap that showed up in the serialized magazines and Hollywood movies.
He didn’t have a head for spires of obsidian and starlight that pierced upwards into an infinite void. He didn’t have a head for the ever-folding, almost liquid near-man-shaped things that walked on countless legs and peered at him with countless, misshapen faces.
These terrible nightmares quickened his pulse and sent his muscles into spasms until he woke drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Finally, a few days after surgery, the nightmares began to recede. As soon as he’d regained consciousness enough to piece together his whereabouts, he’d begun to panic over the predicament he had let himself fall into.
That damn dame had actually shot him.
When Lieutenant Kling graced him with his presence, Hobbes had been drifting on a wave of lethargy, the queer nightmares lingering in the peripheral of his subconscious.
“You’re a headache and a half, Kling,” he grumbled, his throat hoarse from lack of use, “You know I’d never dream of obstructing you at your job.”
The last time Ben had been hospitalized with a near-fatal wound, he hadn’t dreamt much at all. The combination of physical stress and a cocktail of medication had plunged him into a pool of gray haze that had taken weeks to swim free from.
This time, his sleep was fitful and vivid. Although Ben had never been one for lucid dreaming, he generally had a pretty good memory for the contents of his nightly imaginings, which was unfortunate considering a good deal of his dreams took him back to the Pacific. When he wasn’t reliving the dirt and horror of the island, his dreams were generally benign.
He went to places he knew -- his office, Megs Diner over on 4th, the park by his house, and sometimes he went further back, to his childhood home in the Fens, to the St. Joseph’s Catholic School where he spent much of his youth, to his father’s old autobody shop, to the basement of the East-Harbour community center where, when he was 14, he and beaten Martin Flymen to death.
Now, his dreams took him elsewhere. They took him to somewhere that he knew, inexplicably and without context, to be ageless and alien and wholly dangerous. Benjamin Hobbes was creative where it counted -- he could get in the head of a suspect and ferret out the whys and hows of a case -- but he had no head for the sort of pulp-fiction crap that showed up in the serialized magazines and Hollywood movies.
He didn’t have a head for spires of obsidian and starlight that pierced upwards into an infinite void. He didn’t have a head for the ever-folding, almost liquid near-man-shaped things that walked on countless legs and peered at him with countless, misshapen faces.
These terrible nightmares quickened his pulse and sent his muscles into spasms until he woke drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Finally, a few days after surgery, the nightmares began to recede. As soon as he’d regained consciousness enough to piece together his whereabouts, he’d begun to panic over the predicament he had let himself fall into.
That damn dame had actually shot him.
When Lieutenant Kling graced him with his presence, Hobbes had been drifting on a wave of lethargy, the queer nightmares lingering in the peripheral of his subconscious.
“You’re a headache and a half, Kling,” he grumbled, his throat hoarse from lack of use, “You know I’d never dream of obstructing you at your job.”
arbus
Member
The demon's slumber was deep. It was a regenerative state accompanied by the steady humming and drumming of his new host's body. Like white blood cells rush to fight off an infection, the sturdy psyche of Benjamin Hobbes tried to wash him out in an onslaught of bad dreams that formulated in the equivalent of a fever. But most demons have claws -- this particular specimen certainly did -- and his dug deep, unconsciously holding on as not to risk his own existence.
Kling had some very strong opinions on the profession of private detective in general and Benjamin Hobbes in particular. None of them mattered in this current moment, however, and he resigned himself to the next couple of minutes spent in the other's presence. With an irritated noise, he crossed his arms before his chest, looking down at the figure in the bed that looked profoundly smaller than his usual, flouncing self.
"So you're running around shooting women now, eh?", he started. Hobbes was not the only one that could be an asshole, after all.
*
"Fuck you", Kling spat, because Hobbes was being a contrary bastard just for the sake of it. "When have you ever done anything else than obstruct me at my job?" He eyed the pale face resting on an even paler sheet with the hawk-eyed scrutiny that his subordinates feared and his collegues knew to appreciate. Kling had done many questionable things in his life, especially if you asked his wife, but he was a man of vocational integrity and prided himself on that fact. Perhaps that was the reason he so despised the sleazy PI; because the guy was self-righteous to the point of complacency -- at least in Kling's perspective -- whilst teetering on the edges of the law like a self-proclaimed vigilante.
Kling had some very strong opinions on the profession of private detective in general and Benjamin Hobbes in particular. None of them mattered in this current moment, however, and he resigned himself to the next couple of minutes spent in the other's presence. With an irritated noise, he crossed his arms before his chest, looking down at the figure in the bed that looked profoundly smaller than his usual, flouncing self.
"So you're running around shooting women now, eh?", he started. Hobbes was not the only one that could be an asshole, after all.
sspky
ooof my bones
“I haven’t made a habit of it, no. And anyway, the last I checked,” he said, gently patting the blanket above his bandaged stomach, “She’s the one who shot me. You arrest her yet, by the by? For that, and the murder?”
He was fishing for information. For all he knew, Miss. Marsh was taking up a nice little drawer in the morgue somewhere. Hell, given the dreadful state she’d been in back at the department store, he’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case. Unfortunately, anyone who might have known a thing or two about the girl was so far being very tight-lipped about the entire affair.
As for the matter of the gunshot wound in her gut -- well, Hobbes wasn’t about to comment on that little matter without a lawyer present.
All in all, he was keeping a surprisingly cool head about this impromptu interrogation, considering the morphine drip current plugged into his right arm. In fact, opioid-haze aside, Ben was oddly thankful for the lieutenant’s presence. Ben had a lot of questions, after all, and besides that, he’d been growing weary of the unwelcome dreams that had been plaguing him since before he regained consciousness.
He was fishing for information. For all he knew, Miss. Marsh was taking up a nice little drawer in the morgue somewhere. Hell, given the dreadful state she’d been in back at the department store, he’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case. Unfortunately, anyone who might have known a thing or two about the girl was so far being very tight-lipped about the entire affair.
As for the matter of the gunshot wound in her gut -- well, Hobbes wasn’t about to comment on that little matter without a lawyer present.
All in all, he was keeping a surprisingly cool head about this impromptu interrogation, considering the morphine drip current plugged into his right arm. In fact, opioid-haze aside, Ben was oddly thankful for the lieutenant’s presence. Ben had a lot of questions, after all, and besides that, he’d been growing weary of the unwelcome dreams that had been plaguing him since before he regained consciousness.
arbus
Member
Kling followed the movement of Hobbes' hand with his eyes, and scoffed. The evidence, according to the Deputy Superintendent at least, was in Hobbes' favor. Not that he had any intentions of letting him know that.
A shot dame was a problem, but the shot daughter of an established member of the mob an entirely different beast, one that, theoretically, the police force in their district had every power to tame. Theoretically, because despite his captain's best intentions, their police squad was rotten to the core. Kling had not been particularly surprised to find himself informed of Randolf Marsh's dubious business practices. Whilst he himself had never met Marsh or any of his associates, he was well aware of the man's connections into City Hall. And what was City Hall if not a vernimous pool of corruption? Kling knew of more cops that took money from the mob than those who didn't. Those cops would be interested in pinning the whole nasty affair on Hobbes, and even though Kling resented such methods, he was hard-pressed to feel pity for the man before him.
Looking at Hobbes, he wondered if he, now and then, accepted a little shot in the arm. Somehow, he could not quite picture it.
"She's as good as dead", Kling informed him bluntly. "Likely what you will be, too, once her father's connections get wind that you're still alive and kicking."
What Kling also shouldn't be surprised about was Hobbes' allegation. "You think she murdered her old man?"
A shot dame was a problem, but the shot daughter of an established member of the mob an entirely different beast, one that, theoretically, the police force in their district had every power to tame. Theoretically, because despite his captain's best intentions, their police squad was rotten to the core. Kling had not been particularly surprised to find himself informed of Randolf Marsh's dubious business practices. Whilst he himself had never met Marsh or any of his associates, he was well aware of the man's connections into City Hall. And what was City Hall if not a vernimous pool of corruption? Kling knew of more cops that took money from the mob than those who didn't. Those cops would be interested in pinning the whole nasty affair on Hobbes, and even though Kling resented such methods, he was hard-pressed to feel pity for the man before him.
Looking at Hobbes, he wondered if he, now and then, accepted a little shot in the arm. Somehow, he could not quite picture it.
"She's as good as dead", Kling informed him bluntly. "Likely what you will be, too, once her father's connections get wind that you're still alive and kicking."
What Kling also shouldn't be surprised about was Hobbes' allegation. "You think she murdered her old man?"
sspky
ooof my bones
Right. Of course. The mob. Ben was mentally kicking himself for ever getting involved in this bloody case. He should have known better than to get mixed up with anything that even smelt like organized crime.
If worse came to worse, he’d need to skip town and lay low. He hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that. Ben had a life here. A shitty, lonely life, sure, but it was his, and he’d worked hard to built it. With any luck, he’d be able to deflect this situation a little. If Miss Marsh was, indeed, totally incapacitated, then that more or less removed her testimony from the equation.
It wouldn’t be a matter of his word against hers, thank God.
Sighing, he gave the lieutenant a tired look and said, in the tone of a school teacher explaining something incredibly obvious, “Of course she did the old man in.”
“How well did your lot search the department store? Did you even check the safe in the office?” there was an edge to his voice that he very quickly brought under control.
If worse came to worse, he’d need to skip town and lay low. He hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that. Ben had a life here. A shitty, lonely life, sure, but it was his, and he’d worked hard to built it. With any luck, he’d be able to deflect this situation a little. If Miss Marsh was, indeed, totally incapacitated, then that more or less removed her testimony from the equation.
It wouldn’t be a matter of his word against hers, thank God.
Sighing, he gave the lieutenant a tired look and said, in the tone of a school teacher explaining something incredibly obvious, “Of course she did the old man in.”
“How well did your lot search the department store? Did you even check the safe in the office?” there was an edge to his voice that he very quickly brought under control.
arbus
Member
"Of course?"
Hobbes really had a knack of pushing his buttons, with that irritable tone and irritable expression that seemed smug and condescending more often than not. Even now, as he was laying in a hospital bed, shot and drained of half his life-blood he managed to treat Kling as if he was some sort of nasty fly -- annoying and yet inevitable. Kling made a point in not reacting at all, even though his jaw locked in suppressed anger.
"So you scouted the place, eh?", he retorted, because Kling was many things but he was not as stupid as Hobbes made him out to be, "Found the time to have a little look around? Got into the back office? Maybe surprised a certain damsel, have her walk in on you snooping around? That's breaking and entering, and I know you're just some busybody who gets off on playing cop every once in a while, but even you must know that that's enough of a reason to earn you a bullet in the gut and some jail time on top." Maybe he was being harsher than he initially intended, especially to a man restricted to a hospital bed, and maybe his ex-wife had been right with her accusations about his anger issues and whatnot, but could he really be blamed? Marsh's affiliates would certainly try to spin the story that way. And Kling was curious on Hobbes' strategy to get out of this bloody mess, if nothing else.
Did he think Hobbes broke into the department store to steal the bit of cash a business like that made? No. But to gather evidence? Maybe.
Hobbes seemed like the type to take such risks.
Hobbes really had a knack of pushing his buttons, with that irritable tone and irritable expression that seemed smug and condescending more often than not. Even now, as he was laying in a hospital bed, shot and drained of half his life-blood he managed to treat Kling as if he was some sort of nasty fly -- annoying and yet inevitable. Kling made a point in not reacting at all, even though his jaw locked in suppressed anger.
"So you scouted the place, eh?", he retorted, because Kling was many things but he was not as stupid as Hobbes made him out to be, "Found the time to have a little look around? Got into the back office? Maybe surprised a certain damsel, have her walk in on you snooping around? That's breaking and entering, and I know you're just some busybody who gets off on playing cop every once in a while, but even you must know that that's enough of a reason to earn you a bullet in the gut and some jail time on top." Maybe he was being harsher than he initially intended, especially to a man restricted to a hospital bed, and maybe his ex-wife had been right with her accusations about his anger issues and whatnot, but could he really be blamed? Marsh's affiliates would certainly try to spin the story that way. And Kling was curious on Hobbes' strategy to get out of this bloody mess, if nothing else.
Did he think Hobbes broke into the department store to steal the bit of cash a business like that made? No. But to gather evidence? Maybe.
Hobbes seemed like the type to take such risks.
sspky
ooof my bones
"She called me, Kling," he corrected the officer, "Begged me to come and speak with her. Broad only shot me when I told her the jig was up, and that she'd better consider turning herself in."
Once again, it was her word against his, and by the sounds of it, poor miss Marsh wouldn't be saying much of anything anytime soon. And if she did wake up? Well, for his sake, he hoped she was manic as she had been when he'd shot her in the department store. Damn, Miss. Marsh had been a real mess. The way she'd been speaking, hell...the way she'd been moving. There had been something very wrong with that woman.
And then there was the other stuff -- the noises over the loudspeaker, and that sick way the shadows had moved about her -- that had all been nonsense the detective was more than willing to chalk up to some sort of trauma-induced hallucination.
The memories stirred uncomfortably in the back of Hobbes's mind. Suddenly pale, he shut his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
Once again, it was her word against his, and by the sounds of it, poor miss Marsh wouldn't be saying much of anything anytime soon. And if she did wake up? Well, for his sake, he hoped she was manic as she had been when he'd shot her in the department store. Damn, Miss. Marsh had been a real mess. The way she'd been speaking, hell...the way she'd been moving. There had been something very wrong with that woman.
And then there was the other stuff -- the noises over the loudspeaker, and that sick way the shadows had moved about her -- that had all been nonsense the detective was more than willing to chalk up to some sort of trauma-induced hallucination.
The memories stirred uncomfortably in the back of Hobbes's mind. Suddenly pale, he shut his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
