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[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/25b9f4eb-a8b1-46ca-8ab3-88c168ed18b3.png[/img]

Joel Beck 
[b]Location[/b]: Cozza's: A sketchy biker bar with unscrupulous patrons 
[b]Tags[/b]: Joel's very numerous issues, open[/center]

Joel looked out at the shimmering water of the river. The sky was lightening, and the traffic was picking back up. He looked down at the metal bracelet in his hand, willing the poor soul connected to it to accept his makeshift burial and be at rest. Then, he flung it into the water.

[i]"You've been busy tonight[/i]." The fluid black cloak appeared behind him, the figure filling it slowly. It was a stark contrast to the dawn sun shining off the river.

"Yeah. Thanks for the help earlier."

"[i]Help with what[/i]?"

"With that guy at the street fight…nevermind." Joel tossed another bracelet into the water. He couldn't put their bodies to rest, but he figured this was better than nothing. At least they weren't being kept as trophies any more. "Hey, when you go back, can you take Doug with you? He's out again, and he won't stop following me around."

"[i]Joel, Douglas Beck is right where he's always been, since the night I crossed his soul into the afterlife[/i]."

Joel paused, looking down at the bracelet in his hands. He ran his thumb over the engraved numbers that once signified a human life, now lost and nameless. "Well, then who the hell have I been talking to all night?" 

The Reaper was silent for a moment. His skeletal face didn't portray any emotion, but after working with the guy for so long, Joel learned to pick up on it. His words held a slight tone of pity.

"[i]I think you should see your therapist again.[/i]"

A smooth voice drew him out of his thoughts as he stared at the gold rimmed clock on the wall. The minute hand was slightly too fast.

"Have you had any more homicidal ideations since we last met?" The doctor looked over her half moon reading glasses at him. Joel sat, arms crossed, on the dark green couch across from her chair. The office showed signs of an era gone by: wood paneling, a cherry stained desk, carpet tiles…

"Only a few." 

"More or less than last time?"

Joel shrugged. "About the same, I guess." 

She wrote on her clipboard and continued. "Any suicidal thoughts?" 

Joel let out a single cold chuckle. "I've got two feet in the grave. No point in offing myself [i]now[/i]."

She paused and raised her eyes back up to him. Joel spent most of his free time hanging around criminals, gangs, and junkies, but this woman intimidated him in a way that even the most notorious of villains couldn't. Every time he came into this office, he felt like he was being placed under a microscope.

"You're referring to the FFI?"

Joel nodded.

The doctor put her clipboard in her lap and looked at him, meeting his eyes evenly. She was young for this line of work; Joel could only imagine how long getting a degree in superhuman psychology would take. She tilted her head slightly, shiny brown hair falling over the shoulders of the very professional blazer she wore. 

"I was hoping you may bring that up. I've been doing research about it. I assume you know just how rare FFI is?" 

"Very."

"Only seventy families worldwide carry the genetic mutation that causes it. Your's isn't one of them." 

"My family lived in a crackhouse. I doubt either of my parents even had insurance. Mom probably never saw a doctor in her life." 

"She has a death certificate, you know."

Joel blinked. He wasn't sure where she was going with this. He'd always been told the same thing: the disease had claimed his mother in her thirties, not long after it manifested. "Well, what does it say?" 

"She died of a drug overdose, Joel. She never had fatal familial insomnia. And neither do you." 

The cold water hit his face. Once again, the building's hot water heater was on the fritz and the landlord was dragging his ass to get it fixed. Joel didn't mind too much. The cold locked him in, reminding him that he was here and this was, in fact, real. 

A quick shower and a protein shake later, and Joel was forced to actually sit and reflect on what Dr. Martin had told him today. He wasn't sure if he believed it or not, but weirder things had happened. 

"You agreed that I should have full access to your medical records, so I finally decided to look over them. Three years ago, you suffered a major brain injury. You were in a coma for six weeks. After your heart failed, you were pronounced dead."

Maybe she wasn't really a doctor. Maybe she was hired by someone from his past to fuck with him. She had the paperwork, but anyone could fake that. How could [i]he[/i] fake not sleeping for the past three years?

"Well doc, that's not possible. Because here I am, very much alive." 

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, and suddenly Joel felt that microscope zooming in. He was an amoeba pressed between two glass plates. Dr. Martin was very much no-nonsense; she had to be in her line of work. She dealt with mentally unstable individuals who could snap her neck, shoot her with laser beams, or set her aflame at any given moment. She'd always had a talent for reading Joel like an open book, prying open the pages and airing them out without mercy.

"You've been obsessed with death for as long as I've known you. The ghosts, the Grimm Reaper, fatal familial insomnia… Whether or not these records were a mistake, this obsession seems to have started around the same time: three years ago. I know you don't like to talk about her, but I really think you should revisit the memories you have of Ro-"

"Not today," Joel cut her off quickly before she could say the name, "[i]Please[/i], it's been a long night and- …I'll try when I get home. I just can't…"

She leaned back again, and Joel could feel the pressure withdraw. His dark eyes met hers, and she could see the pain and panic that the mere mention of the woman's name had caused. Dr. Martin let out a soft sigh. 

"I understand how hard it's been for you. I won't make you talk about her if you don't want to. But I believe she might be the key to where all this started for you."

There was a knock at his apartment door. Joel peeled himself off of the old couch in his living room and went to go see who it was.

"Oh querido muchacho, te ves como un desastre. ¿Cuándo fue la última vez que dormiste? ¿O cuando tuviste una buena comida caliente? ¡Me alegro de que me tengas a mí para cuidarte!"

The short, round, elderly woman standing outside his door with a heaping plate of tamales rattled off at him. A small smile tugged at his lips. Mrs. Ruiz had been doting on him and his family ever since they moved in up the hall so many years ago. Her and his mother would sit and gossip in the living room for hours. He figured she was just happy to have a family of Spanish speakers to talk to. Her English had always been patchy at best. She had taken to visiting him since the very day he moved back here. After the… events that led to the move, he had welcomed the distraction.

"Se ven pesados, Sra. Ruiz. Deja que te ayude." Joel took the loaded plate and stepped aside to let the woman in. He knew she would want to stay and talk for a minute, as she always did. Like himself, Mrs. Ruiz didn't have anyone else left in this world. Her only son had gotten wrapped up in gang affairs, leading up to being found dead in the street one morning. Mrs. Ruiz had poured over Joel and his brother when their mother had passed. She had always had such a kind heart. It was a shame she had to live in a dump like this. 

Joel set the plate down on his rickety kitchen table and went to start the coffee maker up. Mrs. Ruiz had already taken a seat, the table coming all the way up to her chest. Minutes later, Joel sat down in the seat across from her and slid her a fresh mug of coffee, just the way she liked it. They chatted for a while. Joel didn't mind her company. Honestly, she was the only reason his Spanish had remained so fluent. After his mother had passed, he didn't have much reason to speak it. Mrs. Ruiz was thrilled to have the excuse to come over and escape her own, too quiet, too empty home.

A few hours later and the loading bar on an old laptop dragged along while Joel dully watched. The wifi in this place was an absolute nightmare. As he waited for the page to load, his eyes drifted to the manilla folder that Dr. Martin had given him. The one that detailed a hospital stay he didn't recall and a death that never happened. That was a can of worms he didn't want to open just yet. 

The screen flashed as his Google search finally came back: a listing of every current and former ceramic factory in the Chicago area. He'd stared at those photos for hours, trying to figure out what kind of furnace he was looking at. Funeral homes had furnaces for cremation, but those were typically shaped to fit an actual human body. These were square, and almost too small. The bodies would have been stuffed inside with no regard to dignity, or possibly dismembered to fit.

Plenty of factories had furnaces, but they typically had a heating  element inside. This one had slots, almost as if it intended to hold shelves. That was when he realized that these machines weren't just furnaces, they were kilns. 

Chicago wasn't particularly known for pottery. Outside of quaint mom and pop shops, the only factory large enough to require that size kiln was in South Deering, just outside of the Eastsider's territory. It had been shut down for a decade before it was recently purchased. With the slow wifi, it took almost an hour to search for the deeds and the name on the account. The name wasn't familiar, but through some Google stalking, Joel found that the owner was associated with other Eastside gang members. He would need to cash in a few favors to find the asshole, and Joel knew just the place to do it. 

It was a balmy night with clouds drifting past a dull moon. Motorcycle engines roared in the small parking lot, the patrons measuring dicks no doubt. Joel strode into the dive bar with the confidence of someone who belonged there. The glares he got from most of the bikers said otherwise. But they weren't stupid enough to test their luck. 

He made for the basement door and was plunged into a cloud of cigarette smoke mixed with rank weed. The underground room was crowded, shoulder to shoulder just about, save for the ring in the middle. A guy Joel had beat last week was currently swallowing his own teeth. The guy beating him up paused for only a second, eyes meeting Joel's, before he went back to work. 

Joel wasn't stupid. He knew most of the people in this room would gladly kill him given the chance. The only exception [i]might[/i] be the two he invited here. Fortunately for Joel, his reputation made his attention undesirable. They knew the unspoken rule as it had stood for years: he didn't start shit here if they didn't start it first. 

Finding the others in this hot, crowded mess would be almost impossible. He didn't even try; they'd see him soon enough. Joel put his name down on the roster and noticed that it looked particularly empty tonight. Not many were willing to step into the ring with the raging maniac currently ensuring his opponent's next meal would be through a straw. 

The fight in the ring was called. The man with the stink eye won. Joel would be next, and the bets were being placed. He climbed up into the ring and peeled off his shirt, already starting to sweat in the hot, thick air down there. His skin was a road map of scars and bruises. The suit only healed what he got while wearing it. He was on his own here, and that was sort of the point. 

The man burning a hole through him with his eyes was called Coke Lightning. It was a stupid name, but Joel had no room to talk. The man was around his same weight; this could have been an even match. At least, until Joel watched someone slip his opponent a large crowbar. There were no rules. The bets were placed and the single round fight would begin in 3, 2, 1.

The bell sounded and Lightning flew at Joel, crowbar swinging. He dodged the first blow and weaved behind his opponent to deliver a solid swing to the head. Lightning stumbled a bit, but whipped around again with his weapon just barely missing Joel's face. Joel dropped to the floor in a crouch and swept the man's legs out from under him. Once Lightning was grounded, Joel was on top of him, trying to wrestle the crowbar away. 

Lightning managed to jerk away from his hold and create just enough room to kick Joel right in the jaw. Joel stumbled back, the room spinning. Lightning wasted no time recovering and rounded on him. 

"You put my brother in the ICU last night, Beck," He growled menacingly, "I've tolerated your ass so far, but you fucked up now." 

Joel was back on his feet, but was a second too late to dodge the next blow. The heavy iron caught him in the ribs, and he felt bones break. He was once again on the ground, struggling to get his breath back. Lightning wasn't going to let it happen. Immediately, he began pummeling Joel with the bar, leaving deep gashes in skin and flecks of blood covering the floor. The crowd began to count in joyous unison.

"One!"

A blow to his skin, biting pain. He covered his head to protect himself.

"Two!"

Lightning reared back and kicked right into Joel's already broken ribs, sending him sprawling across the ring. 

"Three!" 

That was a mistake. The new distance allowed Joel time to get back to his knees. The crowd stopped counting, begrudgingly, and watched the beaten man struggle to his feet. Every breath hurt. Every muscle was screaming for relief. Blood stung at his eyes from the fresh cut in his hairline. 

Lightning's mouth turned up into a cruel smirk. He figured this fight was as good as won, and he'd beat the so-called Wraith until he saw brains. He charged at Joel again, putting his whole weight behind the swing that would have crushed the man's head in. But Joel threw himself to the side and Lightning's blow met empty air. He stumbled, off balance, and that was the opening that Joel needed. 

He was on his feet and swinging a kick into the other man's gut in an instant. Joel pushed down the urge to retreat from the searing pain in his ribs. He could take it for now. Lightning landed on his back, the crowbar flung from his grip. Joel kicked it away and began to lay into the man with his fist. Lightning took several brutal hits before his hand caught Joel's face.

Lightning shoved Joel off and tried to get back up. The countdown stopped yet again. Joel's hand wrapped around the cold metal of the crowbar and came back swinging. The iron caught Lightning in the jaw, and he was done. 

Joel's breath was ragged, painful with each lungful of air. He staggered back onto his feet and glared down at the bloodied man before him. The countdown began.
 
"One!" 

Joel white knuckled the iron bar. It would be so easy to cave that smug face in. 

"Two!" 

Lightning was a piece of shit and everyone knew it. His brother got everything he deserved, maybe less. 

"Three!"

His opponent wasn't getting back up. It seemed that the final strike had been too much. A broken jaw would do that to a guy. Finishing him off would be so easy. Even with all these witnesses, he knew he could get away with it. These people didn't call the cops. 

"Four!"

Joel stood over the man, bar in hand, watching for the slightest sign of retaliation; any excuse at all to paint the floor with gray matter.

"Five! Our winner: The Insomniac!" 

Joel looked up as if he'd forgotten that winning was the actual goal here. He looked back down at Lightning, still unconscious. Joel threw the crowbar down beside the man with a loud clatter and turned to leave. He held his side as he slowly climbed through the ropes and walked towards the stairs. He needed to take a breather before he dealt with the others. 

[I]"When did you get so fucked up in the head, Joel? You weren't like this when I was still around."[/i]

"Shut the hell up," Joel spat, "[I]You're[/i] the one that brought me into this." Joel had let himself out the back door of the bar. There wasn't much out there but dumpsters and an alleyway that smelled like urine.

[I]"I taught you to fight, not to be a psychopath. The hell is wrong with you?"[/i]

"I was raised in a crackhouse, what do you expect?" 

[I]"So was I! But I didn't lose my goddamn mind!"[/i]

"That's because you're [i]dead[/i], Doug. You went and got yourself killed at the ripe old age of twenty-three, and you left [i]me[/i] alone to figure this shit out on my own. What the hell did you think was gonna' happen to a fifteen year old kid with a dead mom, a dad in prison, no money, and wondering why the hell his big brother never came home." 

Joel clenched his side where a large, ugly bruise was starting to form. The blood oozing from the cut on his forehead had now reached his neck and was starting to clot. He rubbed at the pesky tingling feeling in his eyes, then turned back to look at the silvery form of his brother. 

Doug had his arms crossed, eyes downcast. [I]"I never asked for any of that shit, either, you know. I did what I had to do to keep food on the table, and I got shot for my troubles. I didn't want you to have to end up like me.[/i]"

"Is that why you follow me around and play Jiminy Cricket? So I don't end up a killer like you? I think it's a little too late for that, bud." 

[I]"Well, that's the thing, isn't it? I don't follow you around. I'm not even really here. I'm just a visual representation of your own conscience, and you should listen to me more often." [/i]

Joel almost laughed. It was too stupid, but he'd humor the ghost for a second. 

"So, what, you're saying you're a [i]hallucination[/i]? If I was going to make someone up to play the little angel on my shoulder, why the hell would it be my drug dealer brother?" 

Doug shrugged his shoulders. [I]"I don't know, Joel, it's [b]your[/b] fucked up head."[/i]

Joel rolled his eyes and turned on his heel to head back inside. "Go back to the Otherside and stay the hell out of my way." 

He had a scumbag to interrogate.