yoda_ic

Spook dropped down from the corner of the ceiling, touching off the walls to control his descent. The shadows whirled round him, protecting him from sight. He hit the floor lightly, making no sound as he dropped into a crouch. Spook is very good at sneaking.

He made his way through the crates in the warehouse and watched silently as the two men entered the secret vault with their odd package. He waited until they were inside before he moved. Spook is good at watching.

Spook walks up quietly to the vault door, peering curiously at it. Pondering for a while, he checks if he can open it and looks saddened when he can't. Spook can't open the door.

The shadows still obscuring him, he looks at the door intently before simply walking through it. Spook is good at getting into places.

Spook blinks in the light. It's much brighter in here, his pale mottled skin seems translucent in the light. The two men are ahead - clad in white suits, strapping a naked girl to an operating table. Spook sidles up to them, unheard, unseen. One of them turns and Spook's hand flashes out, a knife embedding itself in his opponent's neck. The other one grabs a tray, trying to shield himself. Knives appear from nowhere in Spook's hands. Savagely glinting in the stark light. The makeshift shield provides little defense against Spook's blades and the mutilated corpse falls to the floor heavily. Spook is good at stabbing people.

He looks at the girl, her asian features highlighted in the bright light. Squinting, he smashes out the operating light and looks at her again. Not her. He sighs and slices through the straps, the knives seamlessly appearing and disappearing without a trace. He picks her up and puts her over his shoulder, staggering a bit under her slight weight. Blood pools on the floor around him, but he steps back towards the vault door, leaving no footprints in the blood. He concentrates, screwing up his face and opens the door, stepping into the Hedge with the girl. Spook is good at helping.


Crossposted to writing_shadows

Spook climbed up the side of the building, shifting his weight with practise and ease. Spook is good at climbing.

Spook stopped at the window, hanging on with his fingertips and toes. He looks inside the room and it's dark inside. Moving his weight to the windowsill, he starts levering open the window. He uses the knife Fliss gave him. Spook likes Fliss.

Spook opens the window and sneaks in, switching off the alarms. Spook is good at sneaking.

Spook goes to one of the computers and shakes the mouse a bit. A log-in screen comes up. Spook wrinkles up his face and concentrates before flicking through post-its and notes until he finds what he's looking for. He types slowly on the keyboard, inputting details found on bits of paper. Hitting enter, the system logs in. Spook is ok at computers.

Spook frowns at the computer and pushes buttons. The screen asks him to find the source picture. He pulls out a photo from one of his pockets, cradling it softly, holding it against the world, before putting it in the scanner and pushing another button. The scanned image loads onto the screen and Spook stops to look at it. Spook misses her.

He pushes more buttons and it starts scanning through hundreds of pictures trying to find a match. Spook looks at the results then pulls out more photos and does it again. And again. Spook is looking for stuff.

Spook looks at screen after he's finished and nods, checking he remembers. He writes stuff on his arms, so he doesn't forget. Spook is bad at remembering.

Then he quietly moves back to the window and silently makes his way back home, closing the window. Spook is really good at sneaking.

The computer's screen glows, giving the room an eerie luminescence after Spook's departure.


Crossposted to writing_shadows

Time is a valuable thing
Tal looked at the watch dangling from his hand, watched it swing from side to side with the barest movement of his fingers, the black cord teasing itself from his hand. He'd picked it up after his encounter with the Tick-Tock Men. Didn't know why.. it just appealed to him at the time. Ishtar said it wasn't magical, so must just be a normal watch. Must be.

Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
So why was he so attached to it? He kept it on him all the time now, taking it out to swing it round his hand every so often. It'd become like a habit, doing tricks with it - his hands inhumanly nimble now thanks to the cabal.

Watch it count down to the end of the day
It didn't even work, that was the stupid thing. It was broken, the hands bent and displaced under the glass face. He could probably have asked someone to fix it, not like there wouldn't be someone who could fix things around... but he didn't want to.

The clock ticks life away
It called to him in a way. An outer reflection of how he felt inside. Maybe that was it. Broken watch, broken Tal. Could be as simple as that, right? Just something stupid and simple like that, yeh?

It's so unreal
So why did he still feel out of place? Why did everything kind of seem to.. not quite fit any more? It was probably just trauma. Not like he didn't know he wasn't exactly the same after the Tick-Tock Men. He put on a good show, but he was good at that. Drinking and whoring are easy... Feeling like everything's okay again? That's hard.

He can't tell her. She's got enough to deal with without worrying about me. If he can put on this show for anyone, he can do it for her - she needs to know he's okay, so for her he will be.

"Love you sis." he thinks as he watches the clock swing.


Crossposted to writing_shadows

Laine guides Gareth through the doors of the Fiddler's Rest and into the back area where Laine makes his home. Pulling a key from his pocket, Laine opens the door to his office, opening it into his room in the Hollow-side of the hotel.

Gently, Laine rests Gareth down on the bed and pulls Gareth's shoes off before gently covering him with the blanket. Laine stays with him until he falls into a deep sleep.

After a few minutes, Laine gets up and goes back towards reception, stopping at the staff apartment door. Knocking civilly, he waits until Beth opens the door. "Evening Laine. What can I do for you?" Beth asks, answering the door in pyjamas and a robe.

"Gareth's a bit of a mess from some bad news. You mind taking shifts with me to keep an eye on him? He's in my room." Wide-eyed, Beth nods. "Of course I will. You want me to sit with him now?" Laine nods and she turns away from the door. "Just give me a moment to get myself organised and I'll be right along." But when she turns back, Laine's moved on.

In the bar, Laine's standing behind the counter. Two glasses loaded with ice in front of him. He pours a measure of fine whiskey into both before putting the bottle back down. Taking a glass, he raises it and pauses, considering. "To absent.. friends. Why'd you leave Punk?" He shakes his head and drains the glass before slamming it back on the table. Picking up the bottle he refills it again. Raising his glass again, he pauses before announcing "Velvet, this is for Gareth more than me. You weren't a friend, but you were one of us." Draining the glass, he slams it down again, reaching for the bottle to refill the glass again...

Gareth sleeps deeply, all through the night, Beth watching over him until Laine, two glasses of whiskey in hand, stumbles into the room. Unsteadily putting the glasses down on the sideboard, he shoos Beth back to bed and flops into a chair to sleep until the morning...

 Cross-posted to writing_shadows

How do I tell her?

The door closes softly as Ishtar heads back to her own room.

What can I tell her?

Tal rolls over, no longer feigning sleep. His thoughts were wild, uncontrolled. He couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking. It wasn't that he wanted to make light of it all. Well, he did - might make it seem like it didn't happen. He can't even put it all together in his own head.

She doesn't need to know.

He doesn't even believe that himself. She need to know, needs to know what happened. He just doesn't want to tell her. Doesn't want to worry her more.

I don't want to tell her.

That's more true. He doesn't want to worry her. He doesn't want her to know what happened, what he said, what he had to say...

There's no escape.

Out from one prison to another. And yet, what keeps him caged is the thoughts in his head. He has to make light of it, has to make fun, because if he doesn't? It'll be more real, harsher.

I'm in so much trouble.

Never were truer words said. It could be worse, but it was bad enough. Impossible to explain, he doesn't want to tell her. He doesn't want to tell her the truth.

At least I held out...

Small mercy. They'd have waited as long as it took. Slow and persistent, they got the answers they wanted.

He lies there in the darkness, head reeling. Maybe he'd tell her in the morning. Maybe then, maybe tomorrow, maybe he'll be able to tell her that they didn't force him to say anything... That he gave them their true names without even being threatened with hardship, or torture...

Or maybe worse that...

They made sense...

{Scrawled on a scrap of paper in Rocker's handwriting}




If you want to hear it, ask.

Training again. Always training, but this time it's important. Things are coming to a head soon and we need to be prepared.

There's not time to worry about the trivial things. Only a matter of time before someone brings up the 'incident'. I'll work out who was behind it, but that can wait.

Right now, I should be showing Darren how to dodge a staff.

Still need to talk to Wren. Doesn't matter if she was behind that or not, she's too useful an asset to just lose. And I can't afford to alienate everyone.

Need to be training with Sheena soon as well. Emily too, if I can catch her. Taking things slowly may not be an option for much longer.

It's time to get serious.

Rocker cruises down the road, wind licking at his hair, throwing it round his head. The bandana he'd taken helped that. Less hair in his face. More able to see.

There was a peace to driving like this, roaring down the road at insanely high speeds. People in their boxes swerving to avoid him. He's only following the path. The line set out in front of him. And still they get angry.

Elaine tells him he should slow down, stay on one side of the road, but the speed is wondrous. The rhythms of the world come together when he moves this fast, it almost seems like the music is shouting itself out, naturally broadcasting the songs he hears to anyone that would listen.

But they're all too angry to listen. None of them listen, not to Rocker or the music. He was cursed, brought to this existence, this pain by the one who he seeks. And when he finds them, they will pay for every hurt, every slight, every iota of pain that he's received.

Vengeance will come. And Rocker shall not be stopped.

Angered, he guns the bike more, reaching higher speeds. Sirens and flashing lights echo behind him, but he ignores them. It means nothing to him.

William sighed, gazing up at the grotesque hanging from the ceiling. A poor parody of art fashioned from human parts, the grotesque loomed overhead.

Back to the penance. As his confessor required of him, he had spent his time painting. Poor shadows of his former art, but what life could he bring to his work when his only love has seen her final death?

There was no vibrancy to his art, no joy in painting. His skill had not lessened, but his heart was torn asunder and how could anyone expect true art without that?

His left arm still hadn't returned. William suspected the damage dealt while he was possessed was truly severe for it to take this long to heal. Not that he had a lack of sustenance. Jessica has seen to that.

And if he was desperate, there was always the mockery. Mockery of his existence, of his beliefs, of his life. The wretched pitiful ghoul. Jessica probably found it amusing to have the ghoul look after him. That Strix had a lot to answer for. Would that he could take out some of his fury on it, but they told him it was dead.

But still, the very fact that his blood was responsible for creating such a thing felt foul. He wanted nothing to do with it.

Jessica had gone out of her way to supply him with materials. The quality of art supplies she had obtained for him was far beyond anything he'd had access to in decades, if not longer. But still, it was wasted, his talent dead to him as he created only facsimiles of art. No true expressions of art, of the beauty of the world, the masterworks of man and God.

How could he express the blood and sweat that went into the creation of a cathedral when he couldn't touch the feelings such works inspire within himself. He felt as an empty husk, the wounds on the outside hardly representing the wounds he felt deep inside.

But still, he cannot rest, or lay idle. There are works that must be achieved before then. He looks at the bag Jessica brought him. Contained within are her remains. Claire's ash. The last he'll ever see of her. Perhaps.. perhaps he could immortalise her somewhat, make an artwork that would outlast even him and be revered for centuries to come.

Yes, that's something he could do. And then, to Paris again. He would see it one last time before he tried to set things right.