Neziul
Antlers
CassidyTheButch
ML
Simply Not Real
NoriWasHere
Blizz
Passable Writer
Evil Ghost NoteCollab featuring @JulienJaden
She wasn’t quite sure if she was awake or even alive. It was the same kind of state her body went in after snorting a line of Fairy Dust through a clipped straw, except there were no wonderful dreams or visions. There was a word for this state. Someone had warned her about it, once. The end result of using too much dust. Being sloppy. Was that it? A sloppy state. No, no, she did not think so. She didn’t get sloppy. She pretended that she didn’t get sloppy. She pretended that she cared enough to pretend that she didn’t get sloppy. Where was she? Oh. The word. She could almost picture it in her head. Who had warned her about it? Sander? No. No. Quinn? As if that woman would warn her about anything. Her solution for ODs was to inject someone with a little pick me up. Rich? Of course, it’d have to be that pig. Words began shuffling through her mind like flash cards. Addict. Withdrawals. Relapse. Broke. Criminal. Jail. Bail. Desperation. Whore. STDs. HIV. AIDS. Dying. Dead. It was like a grade school scared straight special. She began to add in her own: Runes. Blood. Ritual. Undead. Ascension. Lichdom. Power. Revolution. Peace. Eternal. Unaging.
She heard the quiet sound of breathing.
Oh. There it is. Coma.
There was a whimper. A groan.
Shit. Why me.
She heard something else. It was muffled.
I’ll get clean. If I wake up I’ll get clean. If I wake up I’ll say that I’ll get clean. If you’re there god, buddha, lucifer, whatever neopagan flavor of the week bullshit goddess people like me are supposed to be into, I swear that I’ll try really hard to say to the right people that I’ll try to get clean so that they feel better about themselves you mother—
“—fucking piece of shit.” It was her voice. Quiet, weak, barely audible, but she had heard it. It was followed by a soft chuckle.
Jesus, you’re gullible. Like I’d do that.
With that final blasphemous thought, the feeling came back to Valorie’s body in slow, rising waves. Everything hurt. Her feet throbbed, her legs ached, and there was a pressure on her left thigh. Her stomach was in a knot; her chest felt tight. Her arms were heavy; there was a sharp pain in her fingers. Her face felt hot. She couldn’t smell anything. No, no, not just that, she couldn’t breath. She was choking on smoke. No, no, not smoke. There was no air, no air at all. Something was grabbing her right shoulder. It hurt. It hurt. She couldn’t breath. Her heart hammered. What the fuck was touching her. Get the fuck off. She was trapped. Something was trapping her and it was making it so she couldn’t breath. She began thrashing about. Don’t struggle, it’ll only make you feel worse. Fuck that. She struggled. It felt worse. She was suffocating. She was dying. It was that trap. It wasn't a coma. They had put her in a fucking trap like a fucking rat to kill her. She had to get out of it. She had to get away. She had to get the fuck away. She had to get the fuck away. She had to—
“Get the fuck away!” she yelled, bolting upright and scrambling backwards on her heels and elbows from that trap that was not there. Plastic sheets shifted beneath her body as her back slammed against a headboard. She felt something rip from her body; warm blood slowly oozed from where she had ripped the half-finished stitches from the gunshot that had cut a deep line across the surface of her shoulder. The rising wave of pain that had been building over the last few minutes pulled back for the briefest of seconds before rushing back, crushing Valorie like a tsunami. The noise that exited her mouth was not unlike the horrific shrieks of a frightened rabbit caught in the crushing maw of a vicious predator. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
It was single handedly the most painful experience Valorie had felt in her twenty years on this planet. Iit worked wonders on pulling her out of the fugue state and returning her alertness to her, as if someone had shot her heart full of adrenaline. She looked around the room through her misty eyes. The floor was wooden, not unlike her apartment, and she could see a couch. That was where the similarity stopped; everything else was completely wrong. For starters, there was an actual bed, although it was covered with plastic sheets similar to the one Sander used when moving a corpse. A tasteful oil painting hung on a less tasteful wall. There were shelves of books, some of which had archaic spines covered in runes that would have, on another occasion, filled Valorie with curiosity instead of confusion. It all had a rather traditional feel to it; like the owner was the kind of person who was into antiques, if not an antique him or herself. She still could hardly smell, but she knew the apartment would not smell like slightly rotting dog. If she’d have to give it a smell solely judging by style, she’d say that it had the smokey oak scent found in a good bourbon.
She scanned her body; for some reason she was only wearing her dark camisole and panties. The reason quickly became apparent. Her body was a mess, and not in the usual ways that she observed every time she came across a mirror. It was actually messed up. Purple and yellow bruises blended with her pale skin, accented by reddish cuts and scraps. Her thigh had a tightly wrapped bandage around it that was soaked in a dark, deep crimson. Her knuckles were bloodied; her fingers were red with minor burns and sticky with ointment. The old scars on her bony arms were crisscrossed with new cuts. A bullet-sized canyon was carved out of her right shoulder; beyond it sat an older man, needle and thread in hand. If Valorie had guessed she’d put his age around forty, although young people are horrible at guessing ages. She didn’t care about guessing his age right now. The only thing she cared about was finding out why she was almost naked in a stranger’s bed while covered in blood and bruises.
This was the part in films where she’d say something that was supposed to be witty but was actually something fucking dumb, like “hell of a party” or “was it good for you, too?” The line would show up in the trailers. Hiveminded shitheads would turn to their friends and laugh or smile while pretentious assholes rolled their eyes and groaned. It was supposed to make people think that the person on film was brave, or smart, or sexy. Valorie did not feel like any of those people in the movies. She felt terrified, and confused, and exposed. She was still crying; her brown eyes were puffy and muddy and betrayed all of her fears. She opened her mouth to speak; her voice cracked. Only air came out. She choked back more tears and tried again:
All she said was, "Why?"
And that wasn't an easy question to answer. In fact, Cain wasn't sure the girl was all there yet. The first two things she said had been semi-coherent at best, not to mention her sudden recoil and scream that not only scared the shit out of him but also ripped her entire shoulder wide-open again, causing it to bleed even stronger than it had before his treatment.
It had to be well past midnight and Cain was feeling the exertion of a long day. Between carrying her a good three blocks - even a small, borderline-underweight woman got heavy after a while - chanting healing spells all the while that dried his throat and magically drained his energy reserves and actually tending to her wounds, he was feeling about ready for a big glass or two of bourbon, anything he could find in the fridge and a good night's sleep. His wardrobe had taken some casualties tonight: The trench coat had two big patches of drying blood on it and lay discarded halfway to the open kitchen, but its valiant sacrifice had protected his grey jacket from harm. The shirt he wore was beyond saving, though - between all her cuts and scrapes, the oozing wound on her thigh that just hadn't wanted to stop bleeding the first two times he tried to bandage it and was now going on failed attempt #3, and the flesh wound on her shoulder, it was covered in a number of small and large patches of blood, as were his face and arms; his hands could have passed for a butcher's right now - unfortunately, the first-aid gloves he had tore from age when he tried to put them on, so all he could do was douse his hands in clean water and disinfectant and hope that that was enough. All things considered, maybe Valorie had the right idea when she backed away; he definitely wasn't the most pleasant picture to wake up to.
Maybe he ought to get himself cleaned up before he tried to converse with her but that wasn't an option. In her confused state, she might have taken that opportunity to bail, even if that was the opposite of what would be in her best interest.
Cain opted to ignore the "Why?": It was too broad. She could have been asking about why she was here, or why she was alive, or why she was in her underwear, or why he had saved her, or why he had put her in a suffocation trap until she passed out - if she wanted to know about any of that, he figured that she would ask again when she was a little more lucid. Right now, his only real concern was to calm her down and have her let him resume, or rather start over, his work on her shoulder.
And for that, he lifted his hands before his chest in a defensive gesture and used the most gentle tone of voice he could muster, even though that still came out pretty gravelly.
"Easy. It's alright. I know you must be confused and scared right now but you're alive and safe. I took care of most of your wounds but your shoulder", he carefully gestured with the needle to her bullet hole, "is wide open now."
And your thigh doesn't look good either, he thought but kept to himself. Nothing to worry about right now, at least not until he knew whether she would settle down again. From his time as a detective, Cain knew that talking to somebody who was panicked, injured and confused could go either way, no matter how much effort you put into appearing friendly and trustworthy, and both his looks and his role in her going unconscious made things a little more difficult than usual. But there was no way around the obvious next step.
"If you allow me, I'll give you a small anesthetic and stitch it again. I'm not gonna lie, it's probably still going to hurt, but not nearly as much as anything else you've been through tonight."
He didn't move towards her or away from her but simply kept his hands where they were, his intense blue eyes meeting her puffy, teary brown ones for the second time tonight and asking the silent question: May I?
She broke his gaze and nodded as she looked down at her body, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. The last thing she remembered was barging into that goblin's workshop. Everything else was a dark, angry haze. Still, it was obvious somebody had put in some effort to keep it together, and she had no other option but to trust this man's word. As he prepared to patch up her shoulder she found a few more words. Opening her dry mouth, she attempted to try them out.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice as quiet as a mouse. "Why am I like, like..." She didn't finish her sentence, wincing as she gestured at her body with her left hand.
"You really don't remember, do you", Cain said, the surprise not completely hidden from Valorie. "Lucky you", he murmured, more to himself than to the other person in the room. He remembered everything from the time he had the same great idea, when he thought that something to make you super-powerful would fix a potentially life-threatening problem; he had only been half-joking to Vigilance about that and the results had been catastrophic, forever burned into his memory. Maybe the girl hadn't been wrong in her assessment, since it seemed to have bought her the few precious minutes it took him to find them, but if she not only never got the chance to do any real damage but forgot about the entire thing, then that was the best thing to happen to her.
As Cain pondered what he should tell her and what to leave out, if anything, he washed his hands in a large bowl of now-lukewarm water, dried them off on a formerly white towel and then handed her a sealed bottle of water. It had surprised him how soon she woke up but he wasn't entirely unprepared for it - even the anesthetic was ready, sitting idly next to a spare needle; he picked it up and prepared the injection, careful to keep his movements slow and observable so she wouldn't feel threatened.
"Well, let me think", he said as he proceeded to numb the area around the wound. "From what I know, you were heading to a Goblin's workshop with a group of Rats; they wanted to fuck him up, and you didn't, so you got the Goblin and a guy named 'Sandy' or something out of there. That should be enough", he commented, setting aside the syringe in exchange for a fresh cotton ball soaked in disinfectant. She winced a little as he touched the wound, but much less than she would have without the anesthesia.
"Sorry. It should stop stinging in a minute", he apologized, an almost fatherly tone about him. "Well, somewhere along the line, I suppose the Rats caught wind of what you were pulling; I'm not entirely sure about that part but I definitely wouldn't bet my life on their ignorance - or yours, for that matter."
He dropped the cotton ball onto a small pile of its similarly stained siblings and picked up the threaded needle from before. With effortless, precise movements he removed the stained thread that had held together half of her wound, re-threaded the needle and tied a new knot. He doused his fingers, the needles and thread in disinfectant before leaning over her. "This is probably going to bite a little through the numbness but it'll be over before you know it... There, one down already. So, what you and the Rats didn't know or didn't count on was that the Goblin works for the Bloodbloom Syndicate and the Faerie found out about this stint, so she sent somebody to...", his eyes had shifted up for a moment and looked at her face, and he didn't know whether it was the drying tears or how young she looked from this angle but he couldn't bring himself to say 'wipe you out' or 'kill you'.
The pause was getting awkward but he finally overcame the blockade in his head and set the fourth of seven stitches.
"Halfway there. Anyway, the... enforcer probably backed you into a corner, so you injected yourself with Demon's Blood", he shifted uncomfortably while pronouncing it, "and fought. Must have fought like crazy. But by the time I showed up, you were on the losing end of the battle. Only one more stitch,", he interjected. "Luckily, I knew that particular enforcer and I got all of us out of there in one piece; but I have to say, you were really fucking stubborn. It's the blood, you see? Makes you think you're invincible, even when you're so exhausted you're about to drop dead. Dangerous stuff. There, that's it for the needlework", he announced with a proud smile, reaching for dressing material for the finishing touches.
"Stick out your arm a little. Yeah, just like that. Now hold it. ... After you passed out-", he paused for a second, then decided, for some reason, to go with honesty, "actually, after I put you out - like I said, you were stubborn - I got you out of there before the cops looked into all the noise, I ran into that Sandy guy who apparently came back looking for you, then I brought you here and three hours and a lot of blood later, here we are. And you. Are. Done."
With that, he withdrew his fingers and presented the finished bandage to her. Cain gave her the most comforting smile he could muster but his gaze wandered down to her leg again and he cursed silently - it was completely soaked, again, and he didn't understand what he was doing wrong. What had caused the wound? Had Narcissa have somebody imbue her equipment with bleeding curses? Francis was starting to think that he might have to give the healing magic a more serious attempt.
He washed and cleaned his hands again, tried to not let on any of his concern for now, not until he had time to look something up in one of the tomes, and rose to his feet.
"Are you hungry? The fridge doesn't leave a lot of room for choice but I'm sure what I can offer still beats hospital food."
“Anything’s fine. I’m not picky,” she said as she admired the dressing. Normally she would be very picky. Normally she’d ask for things she couldn’t afford to get herself just to see how far people were willing to bend for her. Normally she wouldn’t eat them, because she didn’t like the flavor and because she thought it was fun to see people get upset. Normally she was pretended to be somebody different. She didn’t have the energy to fake it tonight. “Water, too,” she added as Cain went to the fridge. As he fixed her something to eat Valorie shifted into a more comfortable position, or at least she tried. There was none to be found. With every shift in weight or turn of a joint came a new sensation. The worst came from her leg. It was like she was being jabbed with a hundred needles, except none of them filled her veins with the sweet relief of dangerous chemicals.
“I think you triggered some memories,” said Valorie. She talked because sitting in silence scared her. If she was silent, then she’d have to think. If she thought, then she’d have to worry about what the future held for her. In the future, she only saw herself dead—and not in the way she envisioned in her childish dreams of supremacy through necromancy.
“No, not memories, really, more like feelings, if that makes sense.” She didn’t care if it did; she didn’t care if he could even hear her from the kitchenette. She just had to distract herself. “I’m remember being terrified. No, that wasn’t quite it. Excited? It was like you’re riding a roller coaster and it slowly cranks its way to the top of the hill and then suddenly plummets. Like that, you know?” She smiled, the murky image of the reaper catching her on the street playing through her mind. “And there was something else, like a, like a, I can’t even express it. It was horrifying and awful but, but, but beautiful, too. Oh man, it was fucking intense,” she said, excitedly. Her voice was almost manic. The image of the dying girl played, rewinded, and repeated like a VHS tape. There was something in that girl’s dying moment, but she couldn’t grasp it. “Shit, what was it. Shit. Shit. It was, it was, it was…”
Gone. Whatever had been revealed was gone; it had been replaced with the feelings that had overcome her body when she shove the spike of Demon’s Blood into her veins. And it was great, she thought. That was the best I had ever felt in my life. No doubts. No fears. No pain. Demon’s Blood was dangerous indeed; it made Valorie realize how much everything else in her life absolutely sucked. She leaned back against the headboard. Her lips creased shut; her eyes slowly drifted downwards. She felt like shit. It wasn’t because of her body. Even before tonight she had felt like shit. She always had. A plate entering her vision drew her out of her navel. A sandwich.
“Thanks,” she said, grabbing the plate and the glass of water from the man. She drank greedily and set the glass on the nightstand. “For everything, I guess.” She picked the crust off of her sandwich before taking a small bite. It was better than hospital food, but only because the bar was set so low. She looked up at the man. Valorie hadn’t noticed it earlier, but he was kind of handsome in that salt-and-pepper sort of way. In the back of her head was a quiet, nagging sensation of familiarity. It had been there ever since his fingers had brushed over her skin. She almost said something, but something else was nagging her. There was a part in his story that he had omitted. A very, very important part.
“I’m new here, but not that new. You aren’t just some random good Samaritan or my guardian angel or whatever stupid shit you want to call it. People like that don’t come to this city,” said Valorie. “Why did you help me?” Her eyes narrowed, recalling the message from her police contact. She amended her question, “Who told you to help me?”
That question was bound to come up, so Cain wasn't exactly aback, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth. Up until this point, the atmosphere in the room had been 'clean', like a fresh mountain breeze; yes, Valorie was scared and injured but she trusted him - not that she had much of a choice - and he was so focused on helping her that most of the outside world and everyday concerns were blocked out. It didn't feel like an encounter like that was even possible in Santa Somabra, because this city was all about who you knew, who you were allied with or bound to, and what you had to do in order to stay alive.
The question broke that little reverie of a perfect world where you could help out of the kindness of your heart and polluted - worse: it forced Francis to pollute - the room with the name of his old friend:
"You already know the answer to that."
He was half-tempted to ask her to 'say it with me'.
"Richard fucking Kennedy. What was it he asked me to tell you? 'The professor sent me' or something."
His lips curled to a wry smile and he walked over to the bookshelves to look for... where did he see these spells again?
"He is a bastard who thinks he can be the 'police kingpin' and play other games on the side. If I had known what shadow of a man he'd turn out to, I wouldn't have partnered with him back in the day...", he trailed off, memories of fresh uniforms, pristine moral codes and those first few days of innocence and friendship seducing his conscious mind; but not for long, for they were quickly replaced by the harsh realities of murders and rape every day, orders from up the foodchain to 'drop the case' and a web of shady relations and conflicting loyalties that broke any illusions he had when he started.
Still... He interrupted his search and looked to the woman in his bed. He didn't smile anymore.
"I have to admit, though, he got it right this time. You were not doing well and, for once, I'm glad he asked me to help. Of course, you are right: I'm not an angel and he did offer me something in exchange for your safety, but..."
He went silent. A couple of minutes ago, Cain had felt tempted to ask her if she remembered him, but now that he thought about it, what was he going to say? 'Hey, do I look familiar? We got really drunk one night and had sex, remember?' Vigilance's words still echoed in the back of his head: "How heroic."
What absolutely didn't help was that he still felt somewhat attracted to her, despite all the blood, all the grime and the same thought that had crossed his mind that night: She would be gorgeous if she wasn't so damn thin. He saw himself in her, his younger self, full of doubts and anger and untapped potential, and he wasn't sure whether that added to the attraction or to the guilt over it.
But he decided not to mention it, not now anyway. Cain shook his head, as if he had lost his train of thought.
"Nevermind." He directed his eyes back to the books, to 'Pyromancy - The Hottest Thing, Period' and 'Djinns - How To Rub One Out', hoping that a bulb over his head would light up when he saw the right title.
Her head had turned downwards as he mentioned Rich's name, singed hair falling over her face and casting a shadow across her eyes. Valorie had known the answer to the question. It had been obvious. There could not have been any other reason. So why did she feel her stomach clench and taste acidic bile in her mouth? Her fingers gripped the plastic sheet below. That, too, was a question with an answer she had already known. Everything in this town, one way or another, led back to the fucking cops from who she worked with to where she lived at to what drugs she ingested. And, apparently, the strangers I slept with. One sharp, bitter laugh escaped from her mouth, sounding more like a pained sob than anything. She realized she was blaming others for her decisions. She knew it was a childish way of thinking. She didn't care.
"No," she said, a harshness in her voice. "No, let's hear it. You're probably thinking I'm just some fucking junkie whore anyway, and you're probably fucking right. So let's hear it. How much?" she asked. "How much is my fucking life worth to you assholes?" She was standing up now, her eyes burning at the old man with betrayal, anger, and regret. A splitting pain shooting through her thigh forced her to collapse back on the bed. The world turned dark.
She had no dreams that night as she slept.