I don't know if anybody actually visits this website (the view counter keeps going up, so someone is visiting), but just in case, here's the thing:
I've lost most of my enthusiasm for Open For Business. I've tried to keep writing more of chapter 10 and onward, but most of the ideas I'd have for them either don't pan out very well or fall flat and becoming something out of a young adult novel, which is not the theme I wanted to follow for this story in particular.
For now, this story isn't being updated and is effectively in hiatus. Maybe one day, I'll pick it up again.
Then again, this was the entire purpose of starting this site: to have a place to self-publish that might get some public notice, in order to improve on my writing. If a story doesn't work, it doesn't work.
No shame in starting a new one.
May 17, 2017
Jun 15, 2016
9 - The Offer
Yuma. Big name for this busy city. At night, you get the sense that no one wants you anywhere, despite the flashing billboards. The highway roads and connecting path just seem sparse in the bright moonlight. Taking a left, I turned out onto an almost invisible pathway just near the city limits, far from any of the real city centers. Straight away, a building appeared in the distance, although at this distance, the night was more prominent than the lights in the window.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Melissa slept quietly. She had passed out somewhere along the Arizona border, and for a while, the silence was kind of nice. Said border crossing lasted all of three minutes - apparently, whoever these people are had also gotten connections in the government as well, considering the lack of checking for any weapons in the backseat. The air had grown drier the farther we had gotten, and soon, the temperature approached winter mid-day levels. Which might be a problem - I wasn't sure if this car had A/C.
---
Getting nearer the building, I started slowing down and reducing the headlights. A driveway came up and I turned in. The building was two stories tall, simple doors lining each floor, and a multitude of windows around each side. Too open, so the man knew something would happen.
The sign gleamed in the night and nearly burnt my eyes from the shine of it. Jackal's Overnight Motel, with a simple Free Wi-Fi just underneath.
Parking, I looked over to Melissa, who had just started to wake up from the car jolting to a stop. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, disappointed. "We're here."
She pouted. "Half-expected to wake up with a bear in my hands."
"You have a teddy bear?"
She shook her head, then pulled out her phone. A hand went over to the folder that Leigh had given her, then she dialed numbers into the phone. A second passed, then she placed the phone on the armrest in speaker mode.
Leigh's voice came out loud and clear through the small screen. "You've arrived in Yuma, then?"
Melissa spoke. "Yeah, Liam just pulled in right now."
A shuffling sound came over the phone, then Leigh spoke again, her voice cold now. "Alright, here is what is going to happen: you are to approach Mr. Buchanan with an offer for three hundred thousand dollars, advanced, invested, on his property. Then, a fifty-thousand dollar offer for his assistance, personally. You are not to tell him anything - what it's for, why we are asking, and most importantly, why we have 'hired' you to do so."
Melissa looked at me, searching for an answer. I piped up. "Are you going to tell us what the deal is for, then?"
A pause, then Leigh responded. "No. Too much risk to take, especially on you two."
I rolled my eyes, then looked at Melissa. She had turned to the shotgun in the back, eying it with suspicion. Turning back to the phone, I spoke. "What's the risk here?"
"The risk is, Buchanan expects aggression and decides to hire help. In which case, weapons are free. As well, the possibility of him turning down our offer has happened before - however, as this is his third offense against us, you are to then eliminate him cleanly. I would prefer if you brought him back, however. Too much violence means too much cleanup." A sigh came through the phone. "Look, Mr. Ferguson, Ms. Faelin, I really just want him to take the offer." Her voice was exhausted, seeming almost like she was pleading. "This back and forth business has gone on long enough, and he knows that he is in debt. Get him to agree, please."
The phone hung up, and the two of us sat there for several minutes. Finally, I opened the door and got out, grabbing the shotgun from the backseat. Melissa followed suit, taking her phone in her hands, and we began to walk across the parking lot.
---
The pavement and concrete have pretty much fused after, what I assume, has been a decade of Arizona summers. The door to the building was covered in multiple building code violation papers and numerous complaints, with a Closed sign desperate to cover it all up. On the sides, above and below the hinges, the stucco threatened to keep the door shut.
We knocked on the door. A sudden clatter came from somewhere far inside, and footsteps began. I turned to the doors lined alongside the motel side; if I was a little paranoid, I might've thought someone was watching us.
The doorknob turned, and a frowning, balding man stood behind the door. He was in a small plaid shirt and beige shorts, with a purple sun-visor atop his head. His glasses were close to falling off his misshapen nose, but his deep brown eyes seemed fine.
Buchanan spoke. "Hey, don't know if you saw, but we're, uh, closed." His voice had a weird sort of accent - I couldn't exactly place it. He pointed at the Closed sign with a thick, hairy arm to make his point. "I mean, I'd be happy to help ya out in the morning, but, uh, yeah." He paused, then his eyes widened. He noticed the sling across my back, pointing at it. "You, uh, you taking your daughter hunting or something?"
I shook my head. "You Buchanan?"
His eyebrow rose. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"
I sighed, looked at Melissa. She frowned and turned to Buchanan. "Ms. Stafferson sent us."
He crossed his eyes, before the realization of the name came to him. Then he slammed the door in our faces. The rumbling and rustling of locks told us he wouldn't play nice with us.
I knocked on the door, rattling the lock chains. "Mr. Buchanan!" I shouted, careful of where my voice was carrying. "Mr. Buchanan!" More knocking, more shouting, more rattling.
His voice came out muffled, further into the building. "I tell you the same damn thing I told Leigh, Nathan, Pavel, Mickey, all them freaks in that rusted hunk of shit bar - ain't no way!" The overturning of a table came through louder than his voice. "I've had enough of it!"
Melissa jingled the door handle, trying to pull it open. "Look, Mr. Buchanan, we can talk this out," she called out over the clatter inside. "Please, open the door!"
I drew the shotgun from behind and cocked the handle, pointing it at the doorknob. "Melissa, get back."
She turned to me, her eyes going wide, then stepped back. With a loud pop, I pulled the trigger and blew the doorknob clean off the door, leaving shredded wood chips and metal bits in its wake. The door started to drift open. I kicked it in, watching as it slammed against the wall inside.
The floor of the motel management room was covered in the remains of the doorknob. Gears and screws, all scattered across. The walls were a weird looking beige, possibly due to the light of the moon. The management desk was covered in a unruly mess of documents, keys, and dollar bills, all grey against the night air. The dim, dirty light in the nearby hallway cast rough shadows across all about the room.
Some of the furniture heading into the hallway was overturned, giving us an idea of where Buchanan ran to. Melissa withdrew her pistol, her hands shaking near the trigger. "Melissa, I want you to do something for me."
She looked up at me, trying to seem calm. "What?"
I nodded my head towards the side of the motel, then lowered my voice. "There might be a backdoor. See if you can head around." I cocked the shotgun, letting loose a shell.
She nodded, terrified but determined, and walked out of the motel. The clatter of her footsteps started and stopped.
I turned back to the hallway, still dimly lit. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled out the pistol, checking its weight. Hefting it up in front, I started down the hallway. Generic paintings of landscapes and log cabins decorated the walls, trying to distract from the crusted beige stucco. Turning the corner, a doorway was barred by a square table, facing me. Behind it was the face of Buchanan, holding a tire iron and staying near the door frame. In the light, every set wrinkle was brought out, showcasing just how many years this man had endured. A bandage on his wrist was also still noticeably red. Behind him, in the room, was a backdoor; hopefully Melissa found it.
I lowered the pistol, making sure to meet his eyes. "Mr. Buchanan--"
"Shut up!" He smacked the wall with the tire iron, leaving a large dent. "You think you're the first one to come down here, spouting off that stupid corporate shit?" He threw a book at me; it missed entirely, clattering against the wall opposite me and onto the floor. "Fuck Mickey! I paid my debt. I did my time. You, him, Leigh, and the rest of the Council can go fuck right off - I'm done with your stupid underground bullshit!"
Another object, this time a knife, struck and stuck into the wall beside me. He was getting better with his aim.
"Look, Mr. Buchanan. Ms. Stafferson is offering an advance payment on your property--"
Another blade, closer this time.
"She always offers money, you fuck." His voice was quieter, if still filled with anger. "It's always about the money to them. That's how they got me! That's how they got me and Jameson and Ferguson and everyone, man!"
I paused, staying behind the corner, thinking. Who the hell was Jameson? Why am I doing this anyway? By all accounts, Buchanan was probably right - it was all about the money. That's why I'm standing here, armed with law-enforcement weapons, in a motel at five in the morning, trying to reason a man into some stupid shadow conspiracy. And for what? A debt over sixty years old, brought up by a man with no discernible background besides a nod and a whisper?
A sudden clatter, a door slamming open, and a gasp from Buchanan brought me back to the hallway. Melissa's voice filled the hallway, nervous but trying to seem tough. "Freeze!"
I looked past the hallway corner: Melissa was standing there, pistol aimed directly at Buchanan's back. He stood there, heart pounding behind his hairy chest, hand slowly loosing it's grip on the tire iron. Melissa walked slowly, keeping her azure eyes on him and the pistol high, if shaking.
Walking towards the door, Buchanan turned back toward me, frightened. Melissa yelled, "Hey, towards me!" Buchanan did as told, returning his gaze back to the college-age woman with pistol trained on him. Her ears were uncovered now; it probably took some focus to keep them hidden. I pushed the table out of the door frame, moving it against the wall.
I sunk my pistol into Buchanan's back, watching as he tensed up from the cold metal pressing into his skin. He was sweating tremendously now, the stench of it forcing a hard breath from me. As I kept him scared, Melissa lowered her weapon and exhaled, visibly relaxing.
Buchanan lowered his arms and relaxed as well, despite the pistol still pressing on him. "Faelin. That your name, kid?"
Melissa flinched, then nodded.
Buchanan gave a sad smile. "Shit, kid, I'm sorry." He scratched the back of his red neck. "I know Adrianne, and she's not the kind of woman to see you like this."
Melissa froze. "H-how do you know my mother?" She looked to me, then back at Buchanan. "How?"
Buchanan frowned. "Adrianne never mentioned me?" He looked at the floor, disappointed. "Damn. Look, me and Adrianne go way back, kid." He smirked, still sad. "Hell, she's the reason I'm in this situation. The motel thing, I mean."
"Speaking about that..." I chimed in, pushing the barrel against his spine. He turned himself to me, the pistol against his stomach. "We still have a deal to work out."
Buchanan squinted, studying my face. "So, what's your story? Which ditch did Mickey dig up to find you lying at the bottom of it?"
I punched him in the face. He recoiled, his hands going to his face. A bit of blood flew against the wall; coming back, I saw that I clipped him across the nose. "Shit!"
Buchanan rubbed his nose, looking as if he was moving it back into shape. Melissa picked up an overturned chair and motioned for him to sit down. He hesitated, then sat, the chair creaking under his weight.
He sighed, clutching his head. "Goddamn. She can't leave me in peace." He reached into his pockets and pulled out a beaten leather wallet, filled with several envelopes and cards, folded. "How much do they want this time?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Actually, they're offering you money."
He looked up at me, his eyes red with exhaustion, pain, and anger. "What. What is she offering now? A slap on the wrist if I even mention elves and the U.S. in the same sentence?" He looked at Melissa. "Tell me, Fae, is Mickey paying off Adrianne for this?"
Melissa looks at me, unsure about the question. "Liam?"
I sighed. "Ms. Stafferson is offering a sum of three-hundred thousand, invested, on your business and its related property."
Buchanan eyes open wide, unsure of the number. "D-did I fucking hear that right? That much?"
I nodded. He turned to Melissa, who shrugged and nodded, confirming the number.
He laughed. "Anything else?"
"The initial offer also comes with a secondary sum of fifty-thousand, paid for you directly." I pulled the shotgun out, cocking out a (unknown to him) live shell. " And the offer is final."
He sat there, looking at the shotgun and mulling offer the price. His lips moved as if he was muttering something, but nothing but silence filled the air. Whatever energy filled him before had left upon hearing those numbers, like a buffalo in a cage. "What, uh... what is the offer for?"
I shrugged. "She wouldn't say. Too much risk."
He shook his head. "Damn it." Scratching his neck and looking towards the wall, he seemed more like a sad old man than the crazy paranoid owner that freaked out at Leigh's name. He looked towards us, given his best sad smile. "Guess I don't have a fucking choice. Or did Leigh give you a back-up plan?"
Melissa held up the pistol, barrel pointing towards the ceiling. "These were our back-up plan, Mr. Buchanan."
He glanced at the weapons, then chuckled again. "The, uh, the name's Archie, by the way."
Melissa smiled. "We know. We saw your medical records."
"Of course you did." Archie sighed. "Did you bring papers, or is Leigh sending them?"
A knock brought our eyes to the hallway door. A voice called out from the lobby. "Buchanan? You here?" Footsteps came through the hall, followed by the sight of a humanoid figure. A man, with pointed ears and tusks and stretched skin, clad in another black suit, carrying a pistol at his side. His jaw was hidden behind a full, trimmed red beard, but I got the distinct impression of him smiling as he saw us with Buchanan. "Ah, Ferguson. Faelin." His eyes narrowed in on Archie as he walked through the hallway. "And Mr. Buchanan."
Archie chuckled. "Gratch. The hell you want?"
Gratch placed the pistol in his coat and fished out a lighter from his back pocket. "Keeping tabs on Mickey's newest agents." He took a cigar from his suit and lit it up. "Hoping that we didn't have to resort to any extreme measures to get you to agree to the offer."
Melissa looked around the room, then back at Gratch. "Wait, Ms. Stafferson sent you... to keep an eye on us?"
Gratch blew smoke. "Not on you, exactly, Faelin." He pointed at me. "Ferguson, here, definitely."
Archie turned his head up at me. "Ferguson? You Henry's gran-kid?"
I nodded.
Archie smiled. "Goddamn, Mickey knows how to make me feel like a piece of shit."
"In any case," Gratch continued. "I see that you have made the right decision and that our agents proceeded in the correct manner. I will send my report to Ms. Stafferson soon, then." He turned from us and left the hallway. In a few seconds, we heard the door of the motel slam shut.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Melissa slept quietly. She had passed out somewhere along the Arizona border, and for a while, the silence was kind of nice. Said border crossing lasted all of three minutes - apparently, whoever these people are had also gotten connections in the government as well, considering the lack of checking for any weapons in the backseat. The air had grown drier the farther we had gotten, and soon, the temperature approached winter mid-day levels. Which might be a problem - I wasn't sure if this car had A/C.
---
Getting nearer the building, I started slowing down and reducing the headlights. A driveway came up and I turned in. The building was two stories tall, simple doors lining each floor, and a multitude of windows around each side. Too open, so the man knew something would happen.
The sign gleamed in the night and nearly burnt my eyes from the shine of it. Jackal's Overnight Motel, with a simple Free Wi-Fi just underneath.
Parking, I looked over to Melissa, who had just started to wake up from the car jolting to a stop. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, disappointed. "We're here."
She pouted. "Half-expected to wake up with a bear in my hands."
"You have a teddy bear?"
She shook her head, then pulled out her phone. A hand went over to the folder that Leigh had given her, then she dialed numbers into the phone. A second passed, then she placed the phone on the armrest in speaker mode.
Leigh's voice came out loud and clear through the small screen. "You've arrived in Yuma, then?"
Melissa spoke. "Yeah, Liam just pulled in right now."
A shuffling sound came over the phone, then Leigh spoke again, her voice cold now. "Alright, here is what is going to happen: you are to approach Mr. Buchanan with an offer for three hundred thousand dollars, advanced, invested, on his property. Then, a fifty-thousand dollar offer for his assistance, personally. You are not to tell him anything - what it's for, why we are asking, and most importantly, why we have 'hired' you to do so."
Melissa looked at me, searching for an answer. I piped up. "Are you going to tell us what the deal is for, then?"
A pause, then Leigh responded. "No. Too much risk to take, especially on you two."
I rolled my eyes, then looked at Melissa. She had turned to the shotgun in the back, eying it with suspicion. Turning back to the phone, I spoke. "What's the risk here?"
"The risk is, Buchanan expects aggression and decides to hire help. In which case, weapons are free. As well, the possibility of him turning down our offer has happened before - however, as this is his third offense against us, you are to then eliminate him cleanly. I would prefer if you brought him back, however. Too much violence means too much cleanup." A sigh came through the phone. "Look, Mr. Ferguson, Ms. Faelin, I really just want him to take the offer." Her voice was exhausted, seeming almost like she was pleading. "This back and forth business has gone on long enough, and he knows that he is in debt. Get him to agree, please."
The phone hung up, and the two of us sat there for several minutes. Finally, I opened the door and got out, grabbing the shotgun from the backseat. Melissa followed suit, taking her phone in her hands, and we began to walk across the parking lot.
---
The pavement and concrete have pretty much fused after, what I assume, has been a decade of Arizona summers. The door to the building was covered in multiple building code violation papers and numerous complaints, with a Closed sign desperate to cover it all up. On the sides, above and below the hinges, the stucco threatened to keep the door shut.
We knocked on the door. A sudden clatter came from somewhere far inside, and footsteps began. I turned to the doors lined alongside the motel side; if I was a little paranoid, I might've thought someone was watching us.
The doorknob turned, and a frowning, balding man stood behind the door. He was in a small plaid shirt and beige shorts, with a purple sun-visor atop his head. His glasses were close to falling off his misshapen nose, but his deep brown eyes seemed fine.
Buchanan spoke. "Hey, don't know if you saw, but we're, uh, closed." His voice had a weird sort of accent - I couldn't exactly place it. He pointed at the Closed sign with a thick, hairy arm to make his point. "I mean, I'd be happy to help ya out in the morning, but, uh, yeah." He paused, then his eyes widened. He noticed the sling across my back, pointing at it. "You, uh, you taking your daughter hunting or something?"
I shook my head. "You Buchanan?"
His eyebrow rose. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"
I sighed, looked at Melissa. She frowned and turned to Buchanan. "Ms. Stafferson sent us."
He crossed his eyes, before the realization of the name came to him. Then he slammed the door in our faces. The rumbling and rustling of locks told us he wouldn't play nice with us.
I knocked on the door, rattling the lock chains. "Mr. Buchanan!" I shouted, careful of where my voice was carrying. "Mr. Buchanan!" More knocking, more shouting, more rattling.
His voice came out muffled, further into the building. "I tell you the same damn thing I told Leigh, Nathan, Pavel, Mickey, all them freaks in that rusted hunk of shit bar - ain't no way!" The overturning of a table came through louder than his voice. "I've had enough of it!"
Melissa jingled the door handle, trying to pull it open. "Look, Mr. Buchanan, we can talk this out," she called out over the clatter inside. "Please, open the door!"
I drew the shotgun from behind and cocked the handle, pointing it at the doorknob. "Melissa, get back."
She turned to me, her eyes going wide, then stepped back. With a loud pop, I pulled the trigger and blew the doorknob clean off the door, leaving shredded wood chips and metal bits in its wake. The door started to drift open. I kicked it in, watching as it slammed against the wall inside.
The floor of the motel management room was covered in the remains of the doorknob. Gears and screws, all scattered across. The walls were a weird looking beige, possibly due to the light of the moon. The management desk was covered in a unruly mess of documents, keys, and dollar bills, all grey against the night air. The dim, dirty light in the nearby hallway cast rough shadows across all about the room.
Some of the furniture heading into the hallway was overturned, giving us an idea of where Buchanan ran to. Melissa withdrew her pistol, her hands shaking near the trigger. "Melissa, I want you to do something for me."
She looked up at me, trying to seem calm. "What?"
I nodded my head towards the side of the motel, then lowered my voice. "There might be a backdoor. See if you can head around." I cocked the shotgun, letting loose a shell.
She nodded, terrified but determined, and walked out of the motel. The clatter of her footsteps started and stopped.
I turned back to the hallway, still dimly lit. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled out the pistol, checking its weight. Hefting it up in front, I started down the hallway. Generic paintings of landscapes and log cabins decorated the walls, trying to distract from the crusted beige stucco. Turning the corner, a doorway was barred by a square table, facing me. Behind it was the face of Buchanan, holding a tire iron and staying near the door frame. In the light, every set wrinkle was brought out, showcasing just how many years this man had endured. A bandage on his wrist was also still noticeably red. Behind him, in the room, was a backdoor; hopefully Melissa found it.
I lowered the pistol, making sure to meet his eyes. "Mr. Buchanan--"
"Shut up!" He smacked the wall with the tire iron, leaving a large dent. "You think you're the first one to come down here, spouting off that stupid corporate shit?" He threw a book at me; it missed entirely, clattering against the wall opposite me and onto the floor. "Fuck Mickey! I paid my debt. I did my time. You, him, Leigh, and the rest of the Council can go fuck right off - I'm done with your stupid underground bullshit!"
Another object, this time a knife, struck and stuck into the wall beside me. He was getting better with his aim.
"Look, Mr. Buchanan. Ms. Stafferson is offering an advance payment on your property--"
Another blade, closer this time.
"She always offers money, you fuck." His voice was quieter, if still filled with anger. "It's always about the money to them. That's how they got me! That's how they got me and Jameson and Ferguson and everyone, man!"
I paused, staying behind the corner, thinking. Who the hell was Jameson? Why am I doing this anyway? By all accounts, Buchanan was probably right - it was all about the money. That's why I'm standing here, armed with law-enforcement weapons, in a motel at five in the morning, trying to reason a man into some stupid shadow conspiracy. And for what? A debt over sixty years old, brought up by a man with no discernible background besides a nod and a whisper?
A sudden clatter, a door slamming open, and a gasp from Buchanan brought me back to the hallway. Melissa's voice filled the hallway, nervous but trying to seem tough. "Freeze!"
I looked past the hallway corner: Melissa was standing there, pistol aimed directly at Buchanan's back. He stood there, heart pounding behind his hairy chest, hand slowly loosing it's grip on the tire iron. Melissa walked slowly, keeping her azure eyes on him and the pistol high, if shaking.
Walking towards the door, Buchanan turned back toward me, frightened. Melissa yelled, "Hey, towards me!" Buchanan did as told, returning his gaze back to the college-age woman with pistol trained on him. Her ears were uncovered now; it probably took some focus to keep them hidden. I pushed the table out of the door frame, moving it against the wall.
I sunk my pistol into Buchanan's back, watching as he tensed up from the cold metal pressing into his skin. He was sweating tremendously now, the stench of it forcing a hard breath from me. As I kept him scared, Melissa lowered her weapon and exhaled, visibly relaxing.
Buchanan lowered his arms and relaxed as well, despite the pistol still pressing on him. "Faelin. That your name, kid?"
Melissa flinched, then nodded.
Buchanan gave a sad smile. "Shit, kid, I'm sorry." He scratched the back of his red neck. "I know Adrianne, and she's not the kind of woman to see you like this."
Melissa froze. "H-how do you know my mother?" She looked to me, then back at Buchanan. "How?"
Buchanan frowned. "Adrianne never mentioned me?" He looked at the floor, disappointed. "Damn. Look, me and Adrianne go way back, kid." He smirked, still sad. "Hell, she's the reason I'm in this situation. The motel thing, I mean."
"Speaking about that..." I chimed in, pushing the barrel against his spine. He turned himself to me, the pistol against his stomach. "We still have a deal to work out."
Buchanan squinted, studying my face. "So, what's your story? Which ditch did Mickey dig up to find you lying at the bottom of it?"
I punched him in the face. He recoiled, his hands going to his face. A bit of blood flew against the wall; coming back, I saw that I clipped him across the nose. "Shit!"
Buchanan rubbed his nose, looking as if he was moving it back into shape. Melissa picked up an overturned chair and motioned for him to sit down. He hesitated, then sat, the chair creaking under his weight.
He sighed, clutching his head. "Goddamn. She can't leave me in peace." He reached into his pockets and pulled out a beaten leather wallet, filled with several envelopes and cards, folded. "How much do they want this time?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Actually, they're offering you money."
He looked up at me, his eyes red with exhaustion, pain, and anger. "What. What is she offering now? A slap on the wrist if I even mention elves and the U.S. in the same sentence?" He looked at Melissa. "Tell me, Fae, is Mickey paying off Adrianne for this?"
Melissa looks at me, unsure about the question. "Liam?"
I sighed. "Ms. Stafferson is offering a sum of three-hundred thousand, invested, on your business and its related property."
Buchanan eyes open wide, unsure of the number. "D-did I fucking hear that right? That much?"
I nodded. He turned to Melissa, who shrugged and nodded, confirming the number.
He laughed. "Anything else?"
"The initial offer also comes with a secondary sum of fifty-thousand, paid for you directly." I pulled the shotgun out, cocking out a (unknown to him) live shell. " And the offer is final."
He sat there, looking at the shotgun and mulling offer the price. His lips moved as if he was muttering something, but nothing but silence filled the air. Whatever energy filled him before had left upon hearing those numbers, like a buffalo in a cage. "What, uh... what is the offer for?"
I shrugged. "She wouldn't say. Too much risk."
He shook his head. "Damn it." Scratching his neck and looking towards the wall, he seemed more like a sad old man than the crazy paranoid owner that freaked out at Leigh's name. He looked towards us, given his best sad smile. "Guess I don't have a fucking choice. Or did Leigh give you a back-up plan?"
Melissa held up the pistol, barrel pointing towards the ceiling. "These were our back-up plan, Mr. Buchanan."
He glanced at the weapons, then chuckled again. "The, uh, the name's Archie, by the way."
Melissa smiled. "We know. We saw your medical records."
"Of course you did." Archie sighed. "Did you bring papers, or is Leigh sending them?"
A knock brought our eyes to the hallway door. A voice called out from the lobby. "Buchanan? You here?" Footsteps came through the hall, followed by the sight of a humanoid figure. A man, with pointed ears and tusks and stretched skin, clad in another black suit, carrying a pistol at his side. His jaw was hidden behind a full, trimmed red beard, but I got the distinct impression of him smiling as he saw us with Buchanan. "Ah, Ferguson. Faelin." His eyes narrowed in on Archie as he walked through the hallway. "And Mr. Buchanan."
Archie chuckled. "Gratch. The hell you want?"
Gratch placed the pistol in his coat and fished out a lighter from his back pocket. "Keeping tabs on Mickey's newest agents." He took a cigar from his suit and lit it up. "Hoping that we didn't have to resort to any extreme measures to get you to agree to the offer."
Melissa looked around the room, then back at Gratch. "Wait, Ms. Stafferson sent you... to keep an eye on us?"
Gratch blew smoke. "Not on you, exactly, Faelin." He pointed at me. "Ferguson, here, definitely."
Archie turned his head up at me. "Ferguson? You Henry's gran-kid?"
I nodded.
Archie smiled. "Goddamn, Mickey knows how to make me feel like a piece of shit."
"In any case," Gratch continued. "I see that you have made the right decision and that our agents proceeded in the correct manner. I will send my report to Ms. Stafferson soon, then." He turned from us and left the hallway. In a few seconds, we heard the door of the motel slam shut.
May 6, 2016
8 - The Job
Nathaniel stood out in the hall, burning a cigar through his teeth. Dressed in the same black suit as the rest of the group, he almost seemed like a cross between Mr. Hyde and Dick Tracy who got slapped in the face with a clothing iron. A bulge in his coat pocket told me he was packing something - probably assuming I might try to bust out of here quick, the smug blue bastard.
The pistol in my coat, the Remington across my back, shells and bullets jingling around, I should bust out of here.
He puffed the cigar, blowing a ream of blue smoke into the air, and gave his standard asshole smile. "Alright, now it's time you got a taste of what we do 'round here, boy." He crushed the cigar between his fingers, and motioned his head.
We followed him through hallways, dark again, and remaining out of sight of anything. These were darker, dustier, older than the ones I crossed through earlier. I assume these were here since the building above ground was active, since leaks were falling through the ceiling, probably from busted pipes. Melissa had been moving quickly behind me, staying as quiet as possible despite the clatter of the weapons.
We came upon the original bar, now empty - it was probably much later in the day (or night, considering) and I assume everybody went home. Nathaniel pulled out a keyring from his coat and went to the door that had brought us down here. He began fiddling with the lock, going through the multiple keys and figuring which one was right.
As he was unlocking the door, I studied the room around me. The bar was actually pretty small, considering the crowd that was in here earlier - only six real stools at the counter, and four shelves behind it. The place resembled a British pub, like the surface building did but cleaner and not burnt to shit. Here and there, the wallpaper faded, whether due to age or lighting, and the fake oil lamps that lighted the room had been put out, leaving the ceiling fans the only lights in the room. The rumbling of the pipes above and below us stood out against the constant grunts of Nathaniel.
Finally, a click sounded, and Nathaniel hefted the door open. Calling us over, he began up the stairs and we followed. Several flights, and we reached the cellar, with the closet door against the wall and broken in places. Nathaniel looked to me, then kept moving, leading us out of the cellar and into the tavern frame above.
---
The moon was full, and the night sky was clear, black and white stars moving across the firmament. The street lights of the town were on, yet it only seemed to make the surrounding area darker than black. Nathaniel turned to us and waved us over, his eyes moving to each small sound. "Alright, you need to be quiet here, buddy. We got an operation that needs doing, and you got a debt that needs paying. Wait here." He moved and disappeared behind the walls, leaving to get something.
For a moment, it was pitch black and quiet. Adjusting the shotgun strap across my shoulder, I took out my lighter and lit up a cigarette. Melissa sat down on one of the soot-covered chairs, trying not to get soot on her leggings, and held her hands over ears. Whispering the same incantation from earlier, her hands started glowing with a violet energy, then dimmed and finally vanished. Her ears were now small, human. The glamour was in effect, even if it was just something really small.
The sound of a car starting and driving up in front of the building frame brought our eyes to the door frame. The lights of a sedan pulled up outside and a door opened and closed with a slam. Nathaniel came back into view, holding a pair of keys.
"You need to be in Yuma by 4 AM. Leigh's gonna be expecting a call from you and Fae, here, so you're gonna either use her phone," he said, pointing at Melissa, "Or you better have a couple o' quarters." After a second, he tossed the keys to me and began walking back to the cellar.
Catching the keys in the air, I turned them over in my hand. Simple car keys, for a small vehicle. Looking at the door, the headlights were still on. Melissa stood up and walked towards the car; I followed behind her.
It certainly wasn't some cheapo salesman's used prop. Thing was properly cared, polished, the works. It also looked stock, so that could be it, but it didn't matter. Melissa promptly opened the passenger door while I entered the driver's side. Placing the key in the engine, I powered the thing to life with a loud roar. The radio came on - the sound of guitar, drums, and a Southern accent filled the cabin. I hit the pedal and we sped off, maneuvering around the old burnt pub that was our new workplace.
---
The highway leading out of the town was silent, dark, sort of what you'd see in a horror movie intro. Only illumination for miles was the headlights of the car and the signs passing every so often. Only noise we had was the radio going on and on - some group by the name of Kings of Leon, or something like that. Melissa pulled out her phone somewhere along the road and was pretty much occupied with it for a good hour or two.
No banter, no chatter, for that drive. Eventually we reached a pit stop; I never noticed that the damn thing didn't even have a full tank of gas. Pulling in, I pulled out my wallet. Only had enough for one full gallon, so these guys better be fronting the next fill-up.
I turned to Melissa, who was still looking at her phone. She looked up at me, then a look of realization came over her face as she pulled out a folder from behind her jacket. She opened it up and placed it on the center rest, leaning against the stick-shift. "Almost forgot - Ms. Stafferson handed me all this; said I should only open this when we're on the road or something."
I leaned against the seat, hitting the lights in the cabin. "What is it?"
"Information. On this "Buchanan" guy, mainly." She looked over and flipped the pages as she spoke. "Horse-better - big surprise. Says here he took out a loan from Mickelson, promised to pay it back tenfold once he got his motel business up and running, or maybe after he struck it big from all the races." She whistled as she pulled out a receipt, looking and turning it over in her hands. "Del Mar, $4 exacta on 4 and 2; lost." She took another few out, going through them one by one. "Turf Paradise, $12 on a box trifecta; lost. Sunland Downs, $9 across-the-board on 2; lost." There were numerous receipts like these, all in various combinations of bet types, amounts, and choices; apparently, the man loved the races. "Every single one, a loss. A grand total of $466, on horses alone." She pulled more receipts from the folder. "And he wasn't just a gambler when it came to horses, either."
I leaned back a little more against the door and stared at the visor. Getting out, I walked to the pump and started paying. The station was quiet - it looked like it was two in the morning, dead time, and all the truckers and cross-country guys were sleeping. Only sounds were the hums of the lights and the whirrs of the pump as the tank filled up with a click. Withdrawing the pump, I looked through the window - Melissa was still looking through the folder. I knocked on the windshield to get her attention; she turned to look at me.
"I'm gonna get something - you want anything?"
She paused. "Just, like, juice or anything. Thanks." She turned back to the folder and picked out more pages.
---
Walking in to the station store, the beeping of the door alarm going off, I searched and picked up a bottle of juice and a large soda. Standing behind the register, the cashier - some weird looking kid, probably barely into his twenties - nods to me, and I pay for the things. Soon as I hand him the money, however, he pauses, then looks at me.
At this point, several seconds have passed by and I haven't had a proper night's sleep. I ask him, "Something wrong, man?"
He smiles. "Nah. Just wondering if you noticed."
Now I was confused. I studied him closely - nothing strange: a simple uniform, baseball cap, light blue pants, curled brown hair. Nothing was strange, so I nodded my head.
He points out to the parking lot, directly at our car. Following his hand, I saw a small black dot on the front bumper of the car - if I wasn't staring directly at it, I'd never have noticed it ever. It almost disappeared in the night. He turned back to me, then smiled. "Stafferson left you a present, Ferguson."
I froze. This kid knew? "What present?"
He leaned against the counter, putting the money into the register. As he hands me the change, he chuckles. "A little back-up. In case something goes wrong with Buchanan. But I ain't heard nothing, man." He looks up at me and blinks - with his eyes turning yellow once they opened.
---
Walking back to the car, I took a closer look at the black dot - which looked like a coaster attached to the bumper frame. It had a latch on it and I pulled it off, causing something to fall out. Picking up the object, it turned out to be some kind of stone, a lot like the one Melissa held in the room. A runic letter was carved into the face of it, but it wasn't glowing and I couldn't make out what it said in the dim light of the station lamps. I placed it in my back pocket, then opened up the driver side door.
Melissa was back on her phone, probably chatting with whatever friends were up at fucking 1 in the morning. Climbing in, the folder was open on the armrest, turned to Buchanan's medical records. I handed Melissa her drink and we sat there in silence.
Finally, Melissa looked at me and spoke. "His name is Archibald. Archibald Buchanan." She brought up her phone and showed me the screen. There was a picture of a man in his late fifties; white, black balding hair, definitely out-of-shape. He looked like the guy from All In The Family, except if he lost a drunk bet. The picture was of him, standing at a coffee shop counter, paying for his drink. He seemed to be looking around, probably hoping no one caught a good picture of him. "He owns the Jackal's Overnight Motel, just on the outskirt of Yuma. According to the records, place has stayed in business despite hemorrhaging money for a couple years."
Poor bastard. "So, we need to get to Yuma, put two in this guy's head, then our debt is gonna get paid."
Melissa looked at me with a look of concern in her eyes. "Liam, we... we're not actually going to kill him?"
I was confused. "You saw the records. The receipts." I pointed at our guns currently holstered. "They wouldn't have given us these if they didn't expect something."
"Yeah, but... it just seems wrong."
I sighed. "Of course it's wrong, kid. But, what the hell are we going to do?" I turned the key in the ignition, and brought the car to life again. The same song played over the radio. "We got debts to pay."
The car pulled out of the station, and a minute later, we were on the road to Yuma to murder a man for money. "I've just... I've never killed a man before." Melissa spoke up around ten minutes after we left the station. "I don't think anyone gets around that."
The signs passing by us, I glanced at her and brought my eyes back to the road. "No one does, Mel. It just isn't right. But neither us is this whole situation." I smiled and turned to her. "At least you can go into hiding. I have to keep up appearances."
She sighed, then brought the seat back, lying down in an attempt to get some rest. "My dad is going to freak."
The pistol in my coat, the Remington across my back, shells and bullets jingling around, I should bust out of here.
He puffed the cigar, blowing a ream of blue smoke into the air, and gave his standard asshole smile. "Alright, now it's time you got a taste of what we do 'round here, boy." He crushed the cigar between his fingers, and motioned his head.
We followed him through hallways, dark again, and remaining out of sight of anything. These were darker, dustier, older than the ones I crossed through earlier. I assume these were here since the building above ground was active, since leaks were falling through the ceiling, probably from busted pipes. Melissa had been moving quickly behind me, staying as quiet as possible despite the clatter of the weapons.
We came upon the original bar, now empty - it was probably much later in the day (or night, considering) and I assume everybody went home. Nathaniel pulled out a keyring from his coat and went to the door that had brought us down here. He began fiddling with the lock, going through the multiple keys and figuring which one was right.
As he was unlocking the door, I studied the room around me. The bar was actually pretty small, considering the crowd that was in here earlier - only six real stools at the counter, and four shelves behind it. The place resembled a British pub, like the surface building did but cleaner and not burnt to shit. Here and there, the wallpaper faded, whether due to age or lighting, and the fake oil lamps that lighted the room had been put out, leaving the ceiling fans the only lights in the room. The rumbling of the pipes above and below us stood out against the constant grunts of Nathaniel.
Finally, a click sounded, and Nathaniel hefted the door open. Calling us over, he began up the stairs and we followed. Several flights, and we reached the cellar, with the closet door against the wall and broken in places. Nathaniel looked to me, then kept moving, leading us out of the cellar and into the tavern frame above.
---
The moon was full, and the night sky was clear, black and white stars moving across the firmament. The street lights of the town were on, yet it only seemed to make the surrounding area darker than black. Nathaniel turned to us and waved us over, his eyes moving to each small sound. "Alright, you need to be quiet here, buddy. We got an operation that needs doing, and you got a debt that needs paying. Wait here." He moved and disappeared behind the walls, leaving to get something.
For a moment, it was pitch black and quiet. Adjusting the shotgun strap across my shoulder, I took out my lighter and lit up a cigarette. Melissa sat down on one of the soot-covered chairs, trying not to get soot on her leggings, and held her hands over ears. Whispering the same incantation from earlier, her hands started glowing with a violet energy, then dimmed and finally vanished. Her ears were now small, human. The glamour was in effect, even if it was just something really small.
The sound of a car starting and driving up in front of the building frame brought our eyes to the door frame. The lights of a sedan pulled up outside and a door opened and closed with a slam. Nathaniel came back into view, holding a pair of keys.
"You need to be in Yuma by 4 AM. Leigh's gonna be expecting a call from you and Fae, here, so you're gonna either use her phone," he said, pointing at Melissa, "Or you better have a couple o' quarters." After a second, he tossed the keys to me and began walking back to the cellar.
Catching the keys in the air, I turned them over in my hand. Simple car keys, for a small vehicle. Looking at the door, the headlights were still on. Melissa stood up and walked towards the car; I followed behind her.
It certainly wasn't some cheapo salesman's used prop. Thing was properly cared, polished, the works. It also looked stock, so that could be it, but it didn't matter. Melissa promptly opened the passenger door while I entered the driver's side. Placing the key in the engine, I powered the thing to life with a loud roar. The radio came on - the sound of guitar, drums, and a Southern accent filled the cabin. I hit the pedal and we sped off, maneuvering around the old burnt pub that was our new workplace.
---
The highway leading out of the town was silent, dark, sort of what you'd see in a horror movie intro. Only illumination for miles was the headlights of the car and the signs passing every so often. Only noise we had was the radio going on and on - some group by the name of Kings of Leon, or something like that. Melissa pulled out her phone somewhere along the road and was pretty much occupied with it for a good hour or two.
No banter, no chatter, for that drive. Eventually we reached a pit stop; I never noticed that the damn thing didn't even have a full tank of gas. Pulling in, I pulled out my wallet. Only had enough for one full gallon, so these guys better be fronting the next fill-up.
I turned to Melissa, who was still looking at her phone. She looked up at me, then a look of realization came over her face as she pulled out a folder from behind her jacket. She opened it up and placed it on the center rest, leaning against the stick-shift. "Almost forgot - Ms. Stafferson handed me all this; said I should only open this when we're on the road or something."
I leaned against the seat, hitting the lights in the cabin. "What is it?"
"Information. On this "Buchanan" guy, mainly." She looked over and flipped the pages as she spoke. "Horse-better - big surprise. Says here he took out a loan from Mickelson, promised to pay it back tenfold once he got his motel business up and running, or maybe after he struck it big from all the races." She whistled as she pulled out a receipt, looking and turning it over in her hands. "Del Mar, $4 exacta on 4 and 2; lost." She took another few out, going through them one by one. "Turf Paradise, $12 on a box trifecta; lost. Sunland Downs, $9 across-the-board on 2; lost." There were numerous receipts like these, all in various combinations of bet types, amounts, and choices; apparently, the man loved the races. "Every single one, a loss. A grand total of $466, on horses alone." She pulled more receipts from the folder. "And he wasn't just a gambler when it came to horses, either."
I leaned back a little more against the door and stared at the visor. Getting out, I walked to the pump and started paying. The station was quiet - it looked like it was two in the morning, dead time, and all the truckers and cross-country guys were sleeping. Only sounds were the hums of the lights and the whirrs of the pump as the tank filled up with a click. Withdrawing the pump, I looked through the window - Melissa was still looking through the folder. I knocked on the windshield to get her attention; she turned to look at me.
"I'm gonna get something - you want anything?"
She paused. "Just, like, juice or anything. Thanks." She turned back to the folder and picked out more pages.
---
Walking in to the station store, the beeping of the door alarm going off, I searched and picked up a bottle of juice and a large soda. Standing behind the register, the cashier - some weird looking kid, probably barely into his twenties - nods to me, and I pay for the things. Soon as I hand him the money, however, he pauses, then looks at me.
At this point, several seconds have passed by and I haven't had a proper night's sleep. I ask him, "Something wrong, man?"
He smiles. "Nah. Just wondering if you noticed."
Now I was confused. I studied him closely - nothing strange: a simple uniform, baseball cap, light blue pants, curled brown hair. Nothing was strange, so I nodded my head.
He points out to the parking lot, directly at our car. Following his hand, I saw a small black dot on the front bumper of the car - if I wasn't staring directly at it, I'd never have noticed it ever. It almost disappeared in the night. He turned back to me, then smiled. "Stafferson left you a present, Ferguson."
I froze. This kid knew? "What present?"
He leaned against the counter, putting the money into the register. As he hands me the change, he chuckles. "A little back-up. In case something goes wrong with Buchanan. But I ain't heard nothing, man." He looks up at me and blinks - with his eyes turning yellow once they opened.
---
Walking back to the car, I took a closer look at the black dot - which looked like a coaster attached to the bumper frame. It had a latch on it and I pulled it off, causing something to fall out. Picking up the object, it turned out to be some kind of stone, a lot like the one Melissa held in the room. A runic letter was carved into the face of it, but it wasn't glowing and I couldn't make out what it said in the dim light of the station lamps. I placed it in my back pocket, then opened up the driver side door.
Melissa was back on her phone, probably chatting with whatever friends were up at fucking 1 in the morning. Climbing in, the folder was open on the armrest, turned to Buchanan's medical records. I handed Melissa her drink and we sat there in silence.
Finally, Melissa looked at me and spoke. "His name is Archibald. Archibald Buchanan." She brought up her phone and showed me the screen. There was a picture of a man in his late fifties; white, black balding hair, definitely out-of-shape. He looked like the guy from All In The Family, except if he lost a drunk bet. The picture was of him, standing at a coffee shop counter, paying for his drink. He seemed to be looking around, probably hoping no one caught a good picture of him. "He owns the Jackal's Overnight Motel, just on the outskirt of Yuma. According to the records, place has stayed in business despite hemorrhaging money for a couple years."
Poor bastard. "So, we need to get to Yuma, put two in this guy's head, then our debt is gonna get paid."
Melissa looked at me with a look of concern in her eyes. "Liam, we... we're not actually going to kill him?"
I was confused. "You saw the records. The receipts." I pointed at our guns currently holstered. "They wouldn't have given us these if they didn't expect something."
"Yeah, but... it just seems wrong."
I sighed. "Of course it's wrong, kid. But, what the hell are we going to do?" I turned the key in the ignition, and brought the car to life again. The same song played over the radio. "We got debts to pay."
The car pulled out of the station, and a minute later, we were on the road to Yuma to murder a man for money. "I've just... I've never killed a man before." Melissa spoke up around ten minutes after we left the station. "I don't think anyone gets around that."
The signs passing by us, I glanced at her and brought my eyes back to the road. "No one does, Mel. It just isn't right. But neither us is this whole situation." I smiled and turned to her. "At least you can go into hiding. I have to keep up appearances."
She sighed, then brought the seat back, lying down in an attempt to get some rest. "My dad is going to freak."
Apr 11, 2016
7 - The Plan
"You're not the first to get yourself into this mess, Ferguson." The wolf growled at me, whether with disgust or pity. "Thing is, you're just a bit feistier than most of the others."
Others. Every single instance of that word made my blood boil. How many others were down here, anyways? This secret of an operation, yet as open as it was, more than me were bound to come upon it.
"For the record, we ain't trying to kill you."
I stopped walking, which prompted him to pause and look back at me. "Are you seriously trying to sell me on that, mutt?"
The wolf growled at the word, but kept his composure. "First of all, it's Pavel. Second, I ain't selling you on nothing, boy." He walked up to me, staring me down from a foot higher. "We don't do murder... unless it's mandated by the Council." He drew his claws and bared them in front of my face. "These don't come out unless Mickey or Charlotte give me the say-so, got that?"
I narrowed my eyes, matching his stare. "And when's that, Pavel?" His name felt weird when I said it, like it didn't belong to him.
A second of silence, and he spoke. "When Mickey or Charlotte have decided that you're no longer of any real worth - to the surface or otherwise, boy." He turned, shoving his claws into the pockets of his suit. "Now, come on. Stafferson don't like people being late."
I hesitated for a second, then continued walking.
Several minutes of walking passed. We crossed through a number of hallways, trying to stay out of sight of the other patrons of the bar. Here and there, Pavel would pause, tell me to hide, and watch as people moved from restroom to backroom to parlor to pantry - none of which managed to catch a slight glimpse of me; or, if they did, their eyes (or ears, or antennae, or otherwise) did not betray them. Once they left - usually after being frightened by Pavel - he checked, then gave the command to move. This happened several times before we arrived at a hallway with a door at the end.
Pavel turned to me. "This is Stafferson's private room."
I raised my eyebrows. "'Private room'?"
Pavel grinned, showcasing his row of sharpened canines. "No meeting in the public office. Mickelson's order. Too many witnesses, he says."
My blood chilled. Witnesses. So, the order was given, then. "I assume, then, Melissa is in there as well?"
Pavel shrugged. "I got the order to take you down here, sight unseen. No questions, no details - they told me, 'get him down there, then go.' Anything else, Stafferson will tell you herself, boy." And with that, he sauntered off, leaving me in the dim hallway, staring at the oak door.
A minute of contemplation passed. I was alone; I could bolt out of here, make it back home. Fuck the patrons and fuck Mickelson; I'd make it before they'd catch me.
I looked back at the hallway I came from. Aside from the hallway lights and the sounds of the nearby parlor, it was dead silent and pitch black. Pavel had moved fast enough to get back to his other duties, whatever they were. As far as I could see and hear, I was alone. For a minute, I squinted at the dark, almost making out what could be mistaken for a pair of eyes; nothing, however, came to me or emerged from the shadows, so I turned back to the door.
On the one hand, I could've left immediately; however, the more I thought of it, the more unlikely it seemed. Mickelson had pretty much saw to it that I wouldn't be leaving easily - if he allowed Pavel to leave as soon as I got to the hallway, he might've also made sure to leave an extra guard in the cellar to catch me.
That, and he's been keeping data on me; he might know where I live, exactly. Which isn't the best thing for someone who has it out for your family to know about.
With a deep breath and heavy feet, I walked over and pulled open the door.
The room was larger than I expected for her. It seemed almost a carbon copy of Mickelson's office, just with the desk arranged against the wall and the cabinets built inside it, allowing for more movement and more guests. Which, considering this was supposed to be her 'private room', doesn't exactly make a lot of sense, but then again, I'm standing here, deep below the earth, in a secret bar, staffed and maintained and visited by fairytale creatures, all of them probably wishing to put a bullet in my head - sense has flown out of a window and was probably shot by a skeet shooter at this point
Standing in the center of the room was Melissa and Leigh, both heads turned towards the new arrival. Melissa was holding a thin folder - just handed to her by Leigh, I assume - and was in the middle of leafing through it.
Leigh looked at me, eyes tired, then turned back to Melissa. "Right. You have your orders. Mr. Mickelson wants it done quick and clean; otherwise, no payment on this one." She turned around and walked behind the desk, crouching and fumbling through the drawers.
I walked next to Melissa, who handed me the folder. Forms, detailing the information of one "A. Buchanan." Forty-six, divorced, no kids, owner of a small motel just outside Yuma. Medical info, business records, travel - unlike the previous reports, this one was in-depth, almost a clinical study. They wanted to keep full account of this guy, whatever his importance. I kind of feel bad for him, whoever he is.
Melissa's eyebrows were raised, giving the thought that she was feeling the same way. A rustling and thud from the desk brought us out of our invisible conversation and turned our heads toward Leigh.
She had placed two handguns on the desk; Smith and Wesson, unloaded and polished to a bright silver hue. Ammunition boxes were placed nearby; .40 S&W, standard, two-hundred rounds worth. A hand popped out from behind the desk, as Leigh pushed herself up. She hefted up a shotgun, black, pump-action from the bar, and placed it on the desk. From her pocket, she produced a box of shells.
A minute of silence before Melissa finally decided to speak, pointing at the firearms. "Are those for...?"
Leigh nodded, then sat down, taking a clipboard from the desk. "Smith and Wesson Model 4006, cleaned, stock, two with one-hundred allowed." She pointed her pencil at the guns. "Remington Model 870, cleaned, stock, one with fifteen allowed."
Melissa swallowed hard. "A-are we gonna... need these?"
Leigh sighed hard. "Mr. Buchanan has proven in the past to be ridiculously uncooperative with our demands, despite our polite demeanor and... the benefits of working with us. Thus, it should be assumed he might resort to lethal force, should our agents show themselves on his premises again." She wrote something on the clipboard. "These weapons have been reprimanded from California Highway Patrol officers. We don't want any activities to result in exposure."
A switch flipped. "Wait, if these are government weapons, would firing them result in..."
"The American government has deigned to allow a few officers to take the fall, should any incidents arise." Leigh spoke, with such a coldness in her voice.
Melissa placed a hand over her mouth, muffling a gasp. "You mean, if he fights back and we're forced to... kill him..."
My forehead furrowed at the thought. "We have a patsy in the officers."
Leigh looks at me, stopping her writing. Her eyes bled a cold air, almost like she was trying to stare daggers through me. "A job needs doing, Mr. Ferguson. A bullet finds a victim. A corpse needs a killer. A newspaper needs headlines. And people need a word." She turned her head back to her clipboard. "In this case, you need a way to pay off your debts."
"My grandfather's."
"Your debt. You're the only one who's in a position to do so." A look of realization came over her, and she reached into her pocket to pull out a box. "Oh, you will also want to have these."
I hesitated, then walked over to the desk. Melissa followed behind, unsure of everything. I picked up the two pistols, handing one to Melissa, then pocketed the other one. I gripped the shotgun in my arm, testing the pump and opening the well. Nothing - it was clean for them moment. Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I looked over at Melissa, who was aiming the pistol at the wall, unsure of how exactly to hold it or whether or not it would explode right there and then. After a minute, she assumed a stance, pointing the gun toward the ceiling, trying to look like the wingman gunner in an action movie.
I turned towards Leigh, and within a second, I withdrew the pistol from my coat and pointed it at her, point-blank and aiming at her forehead. She didn't flinch, merely staring up at me. Her eyes caught me - cold, unfeeling, uncaring. Whatever happened, it didn't matter at all to her. She opened her mouth.
"The gun's unloaded, you know."
I smiled and pressed the trigger. A click confirmed it. "Just testing." I replaced the pistol and looked at Melissa, who's face had gone slightly pale and who had widened her eyes. Turning back to Leigh, I spied the box on the desk. Picking it up, I studied it.
Specialty .40 S&W rounds, 'enhanced'. I opened it, revealing ordinary ammunition cartridges covered with a magenta band. I raised an eyebrow, picked a cartridge, and studied it in the light. An almost-faint, light shine glimmered around them, as if it was seeping into the air. Placing the cartridge away, and putting the box in my coat, I looked back at Leigh, who was smiling.
"Enhanced."
"With iron. The bullets are tempered silver coated in a thin iron shell, allowing for an anti-magic weapon that works cleanly."
Melissa walked up to the desk, nervous. "Are we really going to need cold iron for this, Ms. Stafferson?"
Leigh looks at her, her smile warming considerably. "Hopefully, Buchanan will decide to cooperate this time. If not, at least you two should be equipped to deal with all threats that will be presented in the situation." She waved her shooing us away. "Now, away. Nathaniel will be waiting outside with the last thing you'll need."
And with that, we turned away and walked outside.
Others. Every single instance of that word made my blood boil. How many others were down here, anyways? This secret of an operation, yet as open as it was, more than me were bound to come upon it.
"For the record, we ain't trying to kill you."
I stopped walking, which prompted him to pause and look back at me. "Are you seriously trying to sell me on that, mutt?"
The wolf growled at the word, but kept his composure. "First of all, it's Pavel. Second, I ain't selling you on nothing, boy." He walked up to me, staring me down from a foot higher. "We don't do murder... unless it's mandated by the Council." He drew his claws and bared them in front of my face. "These don't come out unless Mickey or Charlotte give me the say-so, got that?"
I narrowed my eyes, matching his stare. "And when's that, Pavel?" His name felt weird when I said it, like it didn't belong to him.
A second of silence, and he spoke. "When Mickey or Charlotte have decided that you're no longer of any real worth - to the surface or otherwise, boy." He turned, shoving his claws into the pockets of his suit. "Now, come on. Stafferson don't like people being late."
I hesitated for a second, then continued walking.
Several minutes of walking passed. We crossed through a number of hallways, trying to stay out of sight of the other patrons of the bar. Here and there, Pavel would pause, tell me to hide, and watch as people moved from restroom to backroom to parlor to pantry - none of which managed to catch a slight glimpse of me; or, if they did, their eyes (or ears, or antennae, or otherwise) did not betray them. Once they left - usually after being frightened by Pavel - he checked, then gave the command to move. This happened several times before we arrived at a hallway with a door at the end.
Pavel turned to me. "This is Stafferson's private room."
I raised my eyebrows. "'Private room'?"
Pavel grinned, showcasing his row of sharpened canines. "No meeting in the public office. Mickelson's order. Too many witnesses, he says."
My blood chilled. Witnesses. So, the order was given, then. "I assume, then, Melissa is in there as well?"
Pavel shrugged. "I got the order to take you down here, sight unseen. No questions, no details - they told me, 'get him down there, then go.' Anything else, Stafferson will tell you herself, boy." And with that, he sauntered off, leaving me in the dim hallway, staring at the oak door.
A minute of contemplation passed. I was alone; I could bolt out of here, make it back home. Fuck the patrons and fuck Mickelson; I'd make it before they'd catch me.
I looked back at the hallway I came from. Aside from the hallway lights and the sounds of the nearby parlor, it was dead silent and pitch black. Pavel had moved fast enough to get back to his other duties, whatever they were. As far as I could see and hear, I was alone. For a minute, I squinted at the dark, almost making out what could be mistaken for a pair of eyes; nothing, however, came to me or emerged from the shadows, so I turned back to the door.
On the one hand, I could've left immediately; however, the more I thought of it, the more unlikely it seemed. Mickelson had pretty much saw to it that I wouldn't be leaving easily - if he allowed Pavel to leave as soon as I got to the hallway, he might've also made sure to leave an extra guard in the cellar to catch me.
That, and he's been keeping data on me; he might know where I live, exactly. Which isn't the best thing for someone who has it out for your family to know about.
With a deep breath and heavy feet, I walked over and pulled open the door.
The room was larger than I expected for her. It seemed almost a carbon copy of Mickelson's office, just with the desk arranged against the wall and the cabinets built inside it, allowing for more movement and more guests. Which, considering this was supposed to be her 'private room', doesn't exactly make a lot of sense, but then again, I'm standing here, deep below the earth, in a secret bar, staffed and maintained and visited by fairytale creatures, all of them probably wishing to put a bullet in my head - sense has flown out of a window and was probably shot by a skeet shooter at this point
Standing in the center of the room was Melissa and Leigh, both heads turned towards the new arrival. Melissa was holding a thin folder - just handed to her by Leigh, I assume - and was in the middle of leafing through it.
Leigh looked at me, eyes tired, then turned back to Melissa. "Right. You have your orders. Mr. Mickelson wants it done quick and clean; otherwise, no payment on this one." She turned around and walked behind the desk, crouching and fumbling through the drawers.
I walked next to Melissa, who handed me the folder. Forms, detailing the information of one "A. Buchanan." Forty-six, divorced, no kids, owner of a small motel just outside Yuma. Medical info, business records, travel - unlike the previous reports, this one was in-depth, almost a clinical study. They wanted to keep full account of this guy, whatever his importance. I kind of feel bad for him, whoever he is.
Melissa's eyebrows were raised, giving the thought that she was feeling the same way. A rustling and thud from the desk brought us out of our invisible conversation and turned our heads toward Leigh.
She had placed two handguns on the desk; Smith and Wesson, unloaded and polished to a bright silver hue. Ammunition boxes were placed nearby; .40 S&W, standard, two-hundred rounds worth. A hand popped out from behind the desk, as Leigh pushed herself up. She hefted up a shotgun, black, pump-action from the bar, and placed it on the desk. From her pocket, she produced a box of shells.
A minute of silence before Melissa finally decided to speak, pointing at the firearms. "Are those for...?"
Leigh nodded, then sat down, taking a clipboard from the desk. "Smith and Wesson Model 4006, cleaned, stock, two with one-hundred allowed." She pointed her pencil at the guns. "Remington Model 870, cleaned, stock, one with fifteen allowed."
Melissa swallowed hard. "A-are we gonna... need these?"
Leigh sighed hard. "Mr. Buchanan has proven in the past to be ridiculously uncooperative with our demands, despite our polite demeanor and... the benefits of working with us. Thus, it should be assumed he might resort to lethal force, should our agents show themselves on his premises again." She wrote something on the clipboard. "These weapons have been reprimanded from California Highway Patrol officers. We don't want any activities to result in exposure."
A switch flipped. "Wait, if these are government weapons, would firing them result in..."
"The American government has deigned to allow a few officers to take the fall, should any incidents arise." Leigh spoke, with such a coldness in her voice.
Melissa placed a hand over her mouth, muffling a gasp. "You mean, if he fights back and we're forced to... kill him..."
My forehead furrowed at the thought. "We have a patsy in the officers."
Leigh looks at me, stopping her writing. Her eyes bled a cold air, almost like she was trying to stare daggers through me. "A job needs doing, Mr. Ferguson. A bullet finds a victim. A corpse needs a killer. A newspaper needs headlines. And people need a word." She turned her head back to her clipboard. "In this case, you need a way to pay off your debts."
"My grandfather's."
"Your debt. You're the only one who's in a position to do so." A look of realization came over her, and she reached into her pocket to pull out a box. "Oh, you will also want to have these."
I hesitated, then walked over to the desk. Melissa followed behind, unsure of everything. I picked up the two pistols, handing one to Melissa, then pocketed the other one. I gripped the shotgun in my arm, testing the pump and opening the well. Nothing - it was clean for them moment. Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I looked over at Melissa, who was aiming the pistol at the wall, unsure of how exactly to hold it or whether or not it would explode right there and then. After a minute, she assumed a stance, pointing the gun toward the ceiling, trying to look like the wingman gunner in an action movie.
I turned towards Leigh, and within a second, I withdrew the pistol from my coat and pointed it at her, point-blank and aiming at her forehead. She didn't flinch, merely staring up at me. Her eyes caught me - cold, unfeeling, uncaring. Whatever happened, it didn't matter at all to her. She opened her mouth.
"The gun's unloaded, you know."
I smiled and pressed the trigger. A click confirmed it. "Just testing." I replaced the pistol and looked at Melissa, who's face had gone slightly pale and who had widened her eyes. Turning back to Leigh, I spied the box on the desk. Picking it up, I studied it.
Specialty .40 S&W rounds, 'enhanced'. I opened it, revealing ordinary ammunition cartridges covered with a magenta band. I raised an eyebrow, picked a cartridge, and studied it in the light. An almost-faint, light shine glimmered around them, as if it was seeping into the air. Placing the cartridge away, and putting the box in my coat, I looked back at Leigh, who was smiling.
"Enhanced."
"With iron. The bullets are tempered silver coated in a thin iron shell, allowing for an anti-magic weapon that works cleanly."
Melissa walked up to the desk, nervous. "Are we really going to need cold iron for this, Ms. Stafferson?"
Leigh looks at her, her smile warming considerably. "Hopefully, Buchanan will decide to cooperate this time. If not, at least you two should be equipped to deal with all threats that will be presented in the situation." She waved her shooing us away. "Now, away. Nathaniel will be waiting outside with the last thing you'll need."
And with that, we turned away and walked outside.
Apr 4, 2016
6 - The Past
"Henry Ferguson." Mickelson repeated to me, facing the desk. "Never seen a better shot at pool. Granted, that didn't mean much when everyone was drunk, but it was something."
The two bodyguards were now standing in front of the door, right behind us. Uncomfortable stares. Aggressive thoughts. They were ready to break us in case we tried to run for it.
"All them horse-bets and twenty dollar shot nights catch up to you, though." He turned back to me, the receipts in his hand. He flicked through them, then set them aside on the desk. He walked behind the desk, opened the drawer, and withdrew another pile of receipts. These, he threw to Melissa, who caught them as awkwardly as possible.
Flipping through them, her eyes turned wider, almost the size of plates. She looked at me, then at Mickelson. "What the hell? Are you fucking serious?!"
"And that's the drink and betting tab, princess." Mickelson went, pulling out another pile of receipts. "I got one here for... protections."
Melissa dropped the receipts, pulling her hands to her face as she closed her eyes. "Damn it, Dad... the hell were you doing?"
Mickelson smiled. "Honestly? Your mother."
Melissa gave Mickelson a hard stare. "That's not funny."
"It is, when you've got two new employees that far in-debt." He grinned, his smirk dominating his face again, and motioned towards me. "Shit, at the rate inflation hits, I can piss on city-boy, here, and the only words out of your mouth would be, 'Good thinking, sir.'"
A moment of silence. The only noise in the room was the sound of the big brutes behind us breathing. For a minute, I contemplated trying to draw the blade.
Finally, he continued speaking. "So, here's what's going on now, and what's been going on since you two knew how to breathe, kids." He sat down, and withdrew a pad of paper from below the desk. Taking the pen from the desk, he started writing. "Your families owe me money. A lot of money." He grinned. "Now, I'm being pretty lenient when I offer you this job."
Offer. Cute. He's trying to make this out to be a legitimate job.
"You see, the Council doesn't exactly like losing any money. Especially if it was on a... unprofitable business proposition such as..." He waved his arms, trying to encapsulate the entire bar in one motion. "This." He pointed at me. "None of which was helped by a certain horse-betting drunk."
I frowned. "And you loaned the money to him, knowing that?"
Mickelson replaced the pen. "Your grand-pappy knew how to grease people up, boy." He threw the pad at me; I managed to catch it in time. "I hope you got the same qualities and skills - else, you gonna be having a hard time around here."
I took a look at what he wrote on the notepad:
He knows that this is his territory, his game, his arena. It's just a question of how much of us he can own within five sentences or less. I intend to walk away, but Melissa might end up losing more than she earns through this.
"Now, Miss Faelin, I'm going to need you to meet with Miss Stafferson in the other room." He held his hand out, and Nathaniel jumped to open the double-locked door. As he held the door open, Melissa kept a hard stare on Mickelson. He placed his hand on the table. "You see, I... overheard the discussion you and our associate had in the backroom a while ago and..." He looked away for a minute, pausing, then continued. "I must have a clear discussion and debriefing with him."
Melissa looked to me, her eyes softening, then she turned and walked outside. The bodyguards followed her, and soon Mickelson and I were alone in the office. Another minute of silence passed before he spoke.
"So. You... know."
The hair on my neck bristled again. Somehow, he managed to get our conversation.
"Miss Faelin meant well when she was telling you about the world underground. But the problem is..." He stood up, and walked behind his chair, moving to a cabinet behind him that was shrouded in the dark. "She doesn't understand the... standard operating procedure that is required when someone on the surface learns to look."
I gripped the switchblade in my sleeve. The blade was sheathed still, but I can probably get it out quickly enough.
I contemplated those words as he searched for his files. Standard operating procedure; this has happened enough before, for there to be a proper response. From what I saw in the backroom, it's already happened three times before.
He withdrew a manilla-colored folder, filled with forms. Shutting the cabinet door, he walked over to me and handed the folder to me. Taking it, I opened it up and beheld what seemed like a mixture of police reports and psychiatric evaluation forms. Each was filled with writing, all of it supposed to be mad, supposed to be crazy.
The name at the top of forms was all the same: Henry Ferguson, signed in cursive script.
"So, he was a crazy bastard."
Mickelson grinned, flashing that stupid toothy smile. "The first psychologist to interview him ran out of the room screaming. They needed four officers and a cane to restrain him when they questioned him about the report."
"Why?"
"Because he was drunk and a sore loser."
"No, I mean, why all the forms?"
He seemed to not understand the question for a minute. "People... are very unsure of what they see, especially of it startles them enough. You grand-pappy definitely was frightened - the difference was, he was too drunk to care about forgetting it." He walked to the desk and studied the receipts. "The Council doesn't like the people up above knowing about the people down below. Frightens some, makes converts out of others."
"Who."
He turned his head in my direction. "Who, what?"
"Who is and isn't?"
He chuckled before turning his head back to the table. Moving the receipts around, he continued. "Believing the Council, everyone isn't. We're all just one big pot of normal." He picked up a receipt, studied it for several seconds, then threw out to the side. "'Course, reality is, magic hides a lot of things. Fur, ears, scales, eyes, noses... just gotta know the right glamour, and you can be human from dawn to dusk."
Melissa's ears. Leigh's height. Nathaniel's skin. Things that can be hidden.
"Most of the people that hide never try to become important. Too much risk. Paparazzi are persistent bastards and glamour doesn't hold up under the flash of a bulb. At least, not long enough." More receipts get thrown off the table. I'm wondering now if the chance can be taken. "New spells, new illusions, new magic. Combine that with new tech, and you'd be surprised who is and who isn't."
Irritating. "My question stands, Mickey."
"Everyone is and isn't. You want specifics? Look at alternative news. 'New world order, Illuminati members, secret lizard people running the government'. It's crazy, but the crazy ones always speak when they know for sure." Turning back to me, he was grinning. "Granted, things aren't as connected as they seem, and never as large, but size ain't the issue here." For a minute, he looked to be thinking. "Also, I seriously have no idea why reptilians keep going into politics."
The words held in the air for a moment before he kept going. "Plus, no direct answers. The Council doesn't like when I spill highly-confidential government secrets. And considering how nosy and curious the U.S. population is, that's a simple precaution." He turned to me, holding a large receipt form. Probably the full bill, to hand off to Leigh when I'm supposed to leave. "The Council, by the way, is the Council of Human and Nonhuman Relations. Despite essentially being HR for fairy tales, they're probably the most important governing office when it comes to the underground. See, people like thinking of stories as stories - something else, somewhere else. No one wants to see a man made of bees show up at their door, wearing a trench-coat and offering the latest in affordable vacuum cleaners. So, we keep it under the rug."
The door opened behind me as if on cue. Leigh walked past me and handed a folder to Mickelson. "The files on Faelin, Ferguson, Sanderson, Mitchell, and Guzman, sir. Faelin will be held until her father receives word." Taking the folder, Mickelson gave me a look of smug pride, before facing Leigh. She continued. "Also, Ms. Charlotte would like to know when the Council should be notified of Ferguson's... arrival. I'm sure the Senator wants full knowledge of the situation."
He chuckled. "Of course he would. Tell Mr. Cameron that we have the situation under control and that negotiations are being made. Be vague if you can, Ms. Stafferson. We need to account for all possible outcomes and consequences in this case."
Consequences. Like an experiment, a thought bubble easily popped and discarded. This man's telling me much, but he's not meaning any of it.
Leigh turned to look at me, then handed me a pen. I hesitated before taking it. She smiled, then proceeded to leave.
Mickelson spoke. "Leigh Stafferson. Smart young woman. Been working for me for a decade." He looked through the folder for a minute, then moved to the back. "Now, Mr. Ferguson, I must request that you leave me. I have a phone call to make and messages to send, and you have an appointment with Stafferson." Before he walked into an unseen door, he turned to me, with a hard look in his eye. "And no, you never had a choice or a chance. That blade of yours doesn't work when you're trying to cut through bureaucracy." And with those words, he walked through the dark door, and disappeared with a click.
I stood there in the office for a second, then returned the blade to my inner coat pocket. A loud knock on the door startled me. It opened, and the werewolf walked in, his displeasure evident on his face. "Come on, Ferguson. Stafferson's waiting." He motioned to the hallway.
With no more real questions, a whole mess of ideas in my head, and an aching chest, I followed the mutt out into the hallway.
Despite all this, I had a shred of hope that I was somehow safe. That, hopefully, this works out for me.
The two bodyguards were now standing in front of the door, right behind us. Uncomfortable stares. Aggressive thoughts. They were ready to break us in case we tried to run for it.
"All them horse-bets and twenty dollar shot nights catch up to you, though." He turned back to me, the receipts in his hand. He flicked through them, then set them aside on the desk. He walked behind the desk, opened the drawer, and withdrew another pile of receipts. These, he threw to Melissa, who caught them as awkwardly as possible.
Flipping through them, her eyes turned wider, almost the size of plates. She looked at me, then at Mickelson. "What the hell? Are you fucking serious?!"
"And that's the drink and betting tab, princess." Mickelson went, pulling out another pile of receipts. "I got one here for... protections."
Melissa dropped the receipts, pulling her hands to her face as she closed her eyes. "Damn it, Dad... the hell were you doing?"
Mickelson smiled. "Honestly? Your mother."
Melissa gave Mickelson a hard stare. "That's not funny."
"It is, when you've got two new employees that far in-debt." He grinned, his smirk dominating his face again, and motioned towards me. "Shit, at the rate inflation hits, I can piss on city-boy, here, and the only words out of your mouth would be, 'Good thinking, sir.'"
A moment of silence. The only noise in the room was the sound of the big brutes behind us breathing. For a minute, I contemplated trying to draw the blade.
Finally, he continued speaking. "So, here's what's going on now, and what's been going on since you two knew how to breathe, kids." He sat down, and withdrew a pad of paper from below the desk. Taking the pen from the desk, he started writing. "Your families owe me money. A lot of money." He grinned. "Now, I'm being pretty lenient when I offer you this job."
Offer. Cute. He's trying to make this out to be a legitimate job.
"You see, the Council doesn't exactly like losing any money. Especially if it was on a... unprofitable business proposition such as..." He waved his arms, trying to encapsulate the entire bar in one motion. "This." He pointed at me. "None of which was helped by a certain horse-betting drunk."
I frowned. "And you loaned the money to him, knowing that?"
Mickelson replaced the pen. "Your grand-pappy knew how to grease people up, boy." He threw the pad at me; I managed to catch it in time. "I hope you got the same qualities and skills - else, you gonna be having a hard time around here."
I took a look at what he wrote on the notepad:
Vague. No singular job, no singular boss. No real payment, just nonsense weasel words. Perfect way to get some workers to consider, and some to walk away.
" Duties: Cleaning, Service, and anything else demanded by Mickelson and/or associates whom are labeled as such. Payment: Held, until full loans have been payed off ~ salary dependent on quality of service, with increases/decreases dependent on service performed."
He knows that this is his territory, his game, his arena. It's just a question of how much of us he can own within five sentences or less. I intend to walk away, but Melissa might end up losing more than she earns through this.
"Now, Miss Faelin, I'm going to need you to meet with Miss Stafferson in the other room." He held his hand out, and Nathaniel jumped to open the double-locked door. As he held the door open, Melissa kept a hard stare on Mickelson. He placed his hand on the table. "You see, I... overheard the discussion you and our associate had in the backroom a while ago and..." He looked away for a minute, pausing, then continued. "I must have a clear discussion and debriefing with him."
Melissa looked to me, her eyes softening, then she turned and walked outside. The bodyguards followed her, and soon Mickelson and I were alone in the office. Another minute of silence passed before he spoke.
"So. You... know."
The hair on my neck bristled again. Somehow, he managed to get our conversation.
"Miss Faelin meant well when she was telling you about the world underground. But the problem is..." He stood up, and walked behind his chair, moving to a cabinet behind him that was shrouded in the dark. "She doesn't understand the... standard operating procedure that is required when someone on the surface learns to look."
I gripped the switchblade in my sleeve. The blade was sheathed still, but I can probably get it out quickly enough.
I contemplated those words as he searched for his files. Standard operating procedure; this has happened enough before, for there to be a proper response. From what I saw in the backroom, it's already happened three times before.
He withdrew a manilla-colored folder, filled with forms. Shutting the cabinet door, he walked over to me and handed the folder to me. Taking it, I opened it up and beheld what seemed like a mixture of police reports and psychiatric evaluation forms. Each was filled with writing, all of it supposed to be mad, supposed to be crazy.
The name at the top of forms was all the same: Henry Ferguson, signed in cursive script.
"So, he was a crazy bastard."
Mickelson grinned, flashing that stupid toothy smile. "The first psychologist to interview him ran out of the room screaming. They needed four officers and a cane to restrain him when they questioned him about the report."
"Why?"
"Because he was drunk and a sore loser."
"No, I mean, why all the forms?"
He seemed to not understand the question for a minute. "People... are very unsure of what they see, especially of it startles them enough. You grand-pappy definitely was frightened - the difference was, he was too drunk to care about forgetting it." He walked to the desk and studied the receipts. "The Council doesn't like the people up above knowing about the people down below. Frightens some, makes converts out of others."
"Who."
He turned his head in my direction. "Who, what?"
"Who is and isn't?"
He chuckled before turning his head back to the table. Moving the receipts around, he continued. "Believing the Council, everyone isn't. We're all just one big pot of normal." He picked up a receipt, studied it for several seconds, then threw out to the side. "'Course, reality is, magic hides a lot of things. Fur, ears, scales, eyes, noses... just gotta know the right glamour, and you can be human from dawn to dusk."
Melissa's ears. Leigh's height. Nathaniel's skin. Things that can be hidden.
"Most of the people that hide never try to become important. Too much risk. Paparazzi are persistent bastards and glamour doesn't hold up under the flash of a bulb. At least, not long enough." More receipts get thrown off the table. I'm wondering now if the chance can be taken. "New spells, new illusions, new magic. Combine that with new tech, and you'd be surprised who is and who isn't."
Irritating. "My question stands, Mickey."
"Everyone is and isn't. You want specifics? Look at alternative news. 'New world order, Illuminati members, secret lizard people running the government'. It's crazy, but the crazy ones always speak when they know for sure." Turning back to me, he was grinning. "Granted, things aren't as connected as they seem, and never as large, but size ain't the issue here." For a minute, he looked to be thinking. "Also, I seriously have no idea why reptilians keep going into politics."
The words held in the air for a moment before he kept going. "Plus, no direct answers. The Council doesn't like when I spill highly-confidential government secrets. And considering how nosy and curious the U.S. population is, that's a simple precaution." He turned to me, holding a large receipt form. Probably the full bill, to hand off to Leigh when I'm supposed to leave. "The Council, by the way, is the Council of Human and Nonhuman Relations. Despite essentially being HR for fairy tales, they're probably the most important governing office when it comes to the underground. See, people like thinking of stories as stories - something else, somewhere else. No one wants to see a man made of bees show up at their door, wearing a trench-coat and offering the latest in affordable vacuum cleaners. So, we keep it under the rug."
The door opened behind me as if on cue. Leigh walked past me and handed a folder to Mickelson. "The files on Faelin, Ferguson, Sanderson, Mitchell, and Guzman, sir. Faelin will be held until her father receives word." Taking the folder, Mickelson gave me a look of smug pride, before facing Leigh. She continued. "Also, Ms. Charlotte would like to know when the Council should be notified of Ferguson's... arrival. I'm sure the Senator wants full knowledge of the situation."
He chuckled. "Of course he would. Tell Mr. Cameron that we have the situation under control and that negotiations are being made. Be vague if you can, Ms. Stafferson. We need to account for all possible outcomes and consequences in this case."
Consequences. Like an experiment, a thought bubble easily popped and discarded. This man's telling me much, but he's not meaning any of it.
Leigh turned to look at me, then handed me a pen. I hesitated before taking it. She smiled, then proceeded to leave.
Mickelson spoke. "Leigh Stafferson. Smart young woman. Been working for me for a decade." He looked through the folder for a minute, then moved to the back. "Now, Mr. Ferguson, I must request that you leave me. I have a phone call to make and messages to send, and you have an appointment with Stafferson." Before he walked into an unseen door, he turned to me, with a hard look in his eye. "And no, you never had a choice or a chance. That blade of yours doesn't work when you're trying to cut through bureaucracy." And with those words, he walked through the dark door, and disappeared with a click.
I stood there in the office for a second, then returned the blade to my inner coat pocket. A loud knock on the door startled me. It opened, and the werewolf walked in, his displeasure evident on his face. "Come on, Ferguson. Stafferson's waiting." He motioned to the hallway.
With no more real questions, a whole mess of ideas in my head, and an aching chest, I followed the mutt out into the hallway.
Despite all this, I had a shred of hope that I was somehow safe. That, hopefully, this works out for me.
Mar 23, 2016
5 - The Rundown
Sitting in the room, staring at the ceiling, Melissa made as many faces as she could, figuring out a plan of attack. Or anything, really.
Her ears wavered around until she finally piped up. "Alright, so I don't have a real plan."
It's been much longer than an hour in the room. The Dutch woman hadn't returned. It probably means that they meant to spy on me, but frankly, I have completely forgotten about her. All that mattered to me now was getting out of this place and getting home. From the way Melissa spoke, she wanted to as well. And that was good enough for me.
'Course, now that meant a plan needed to be made. And that had been a massive time sink.
"So, you were out there with them?" I spoke up, sounding as demanding as possible. I needed her to remember that we were on thin ice as it was.
She looked at me, confused. "Yeah?"
"That means they have had to bring you in from somewhere else. Which means..." I went to the clipboard, turning a page over and placing the pen to it. "You had to have seen something. At least the room adjacent."
She thought about it, her face frowning as she did. "Hmm, I remember that there were three other rooms connected to that one."
As she spoke, I managed a good enough diagram of the area she explained. Of the central room were four backrooms: ours, three others. All had the same door type, so we needed to hit the right one and just bolt for it. If we don't, we weren't getting a second chance.
"Now it's all a matter of dodging Blue." She said. The realization of this came over us at once. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to manage that one."
I thought back, and realized that I might be able to try something. "Nathan's only got the two arms to hurt us with. Those legs of his don't seem two bad." I pulled out the switchblade. "I might be able to pull something off that will leave him... struggling."
She stared at the switchblade, then her eyes opened with realization. A smile, then a frown. "Then we have to be hoping that the werewolf over in the back doesn't show up today." She sighed, leaning back against the bed frame. "Man, this was not how I was hoping to spend my weekend."
I put the switchblade, turning to her. "So, how did you plan on spending it?"
She looked at me, looking as if she was checking my face, probably for any means of telling whether or not I was lying or joking. After a second, she leaned against the frame again. "I don't know if you realize it, but I'm not exactly..." She looked for the right words, then gave up on it. "Normal."
I flipped the blade closed. "Well, the ears kinda gave it away, hun."
She felt her ears. Her face went wide and blushing red with shock. She covered them, then whispered words in that strange language from earlier, trying not to stutter. Her hands glowed with a strange mist, a yellow fog, then it vanished. Her ears were now ordinary rounded ones, as if she removed them like a Halloween costume.
I flicked the blade out, but kept it between my hands and the ground. "So, you mind explaining that bit, or am I gonna have to redact my handshake from before?"
She looked at her hands, a look of sorrow on her face, then turned to me, looking slightly confused. "I... covered them. With magic."
I scoffed, frowning at her. "Are you fucking serious."
She sat up and showed me her hands, as if to show the parts of her ears weren't there. They were empty. "No, I..." A deep breath, and she began. "I am. You know, a lot of people in the world aren't... people. Like you, you know. They're, like, other people." She felt one of her ears. "People like me. And that scares a lot of people..." She pointed at me. "People like you."
I nodded, getting most of what she just attempted to say. "So, those stupid stories about fantasy creatures invading Times Square and the like that you'd see on the dollar shelves at bookstores."
"All true." She finished, then grinned. "Although, we didn't take over Times Square, we kinda helped build it. They never bother to include those parts."
I threw my hands up. "Well, see, that's... people like you, if you want to go with that." I pointed at the door. "What about people like them?"
She blew a bit of air, then leaned forward. "Okay, so." She stopped, trying to find the right words. "There are..." She scratched the back of her head. "Okay, so fairy tales are real." A desperate grin appeared on her face. "Like, those stupid bedtime stories, those games that the kids play nowadays, all that shit - that stuff is real."
I ran my fingers through my hair and felt the back of my neck. "Yeah, I kinda got that once I saw the entire bar staring back at me. I'm wondering about the assholes who have us locked up back here and are probably buying new shovels for us."
She looked at the door, probably expecting one of the henchmen to burst in and shoot her for saying anything. Turning to me, she fished around in her front pocket, and brought out a flat circular disc. It appeared to be made of stone, but what was curious was the glowing magenta lettering on the face of it. Almost like a warning beacon. "Mickelson."
My eyebrows rose. "Yeah, that bastard. The psychotic fucker."
She looked to me, then put the disc back. "Mr. Mickelson is kind of a big deal in the... underground." She rolled her eyes, looking like she was searching for the proper words. "He ran the Open Door Bar a good... god, what was it, fifty or sixty years ago?" She scratched her head, trying to remember. "Before an arson took the place."
I remembered the burned building upstairs, the frame being the only thing intact and keeping up the facade. Wait. "So, hold on. An arson took the entire building?"
She nodded.
"Then how is that bastard still alive?"
She held the shadow of a smile. "Rumor was, Mickelson set the fire himself. See, the bar didn't exactly attract a lot of well-paying customers - no uptown socialites, no rich yuppies looking for 'common drink'." She closed her eyes for a second, making motions and mumbling, trying to remember. "Ah, yeah. It was, I think, the first time regular blue collar folks got to see anybody from the... er, underground, in person."
The flyer from the attic flashed back to my head; opening day, all those years ago. And my grand-father was part of it.
She stood up and walked to the broken TV, inspecting it while she spoke. "Mickelson probably felt like he needed a return on his investment." After tapping the buttons and poking at the screen, she gave up and walked over to the other side of the bed. "So, boom. Up it goes in flames." She made a little motion to indicate the fire, and for a second, a small spark appeared between her hands.
"So what about them? The Dutch woman? The bodyguards? The patrons?"
As she was about to start, a knock on the door brought us both back down to earth and our eyes to the door. A voice, the Slavic werewolf, came through. "Faelin, Ferguson, get up. Mickey wants a word."
We turned to each other, concern, anger, and agreement on our faces. This was it.
The door opened, and the werewolf walked on, hunched over but trying to keep a dignified face. It didn't matter; the snout got in the way anyways. He gestured his head towards the doorway and walked back out. We stood up and followed him, my switchblade still held and still hidden my coat sleeves.
Melissa wasn't lying; the holding area was accompanied by three other doors, all beat up and made to look like a motel door. The latches on these three were bolted four times over - looking back at our door, we had the same set, plus one more bolt at the top. Nathan and Leigh were gone, meaning the werewolf was the only one watching the door at the time. Fuck. We could've attempted something.
A new door, behind a couple of barrels, opened, and from here, we came into a hallway reminiscent of an English pub. The wallpaper was just as shoddy and falling apart here, but the lack of any decent light took some focus from that. A couple of windows were here, and from these, I got to see the entirety of the bar from a floor above.
The place was crowded, but from the sizes of the patrons, I could barely count how many people were in there. I could also scarcely count how many hoax animals and creatures were downing glasses. Here, I thought I saw what looked like Sasquatch drinking a large pint while chatting up what looked from here like several faeries drinking from thimbles. Every single... thing, just down there, drinking away as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
I must've stood there for a minute or two, because I heard the werewolf growl behind me. Turning quick, he barked at me. "Move, Ferguson. I'm payed to get you to the boss, not to babysit ya." I saw him open a door at the end of the hallway, light streaming past the door frame.
Making sure Melissa was standing next to me, we walked into the next room. An office. His office. The desk was pine, an almost exact replica of the one in the burnt building. Where that one was covered in soot, this one was covered in receipts. A small pen holder was built into the side, and the entire thing screamed professionalism.
His smiling face. Mickelson was grinning from ear to ear, showcasing a number of wrinkles that really accentuated his age. His hat was removed this time, showcasing his gray hair and the streaks of white that were mixed into it. The hair mixed directly into his beard and mustache ensemble, only unable to dominate his nose. The wrinkles on his face were self-evident; the man, however old he was, wore it as well as he possibly could. And his eyes, still holding an intense gaze, must've been frightening when he was younger. As it were, they made his smile look less like a Rogers-style happy hello, and more like Peewee Herman about to climax in the dark.
None of this was helped by the black-and-gray pinstripe suit he wore, which made him look like the demented older brother of Scarface. And from the looks of it, there were stains on the suit. Scarlet, brass-colored stains.
"So, you enjoy the room?" He spoke, finally, as the wolf closed the door behind us. He sat up straight, lowering his folded arms to the desk. "I understand Charlotte came by to break up a little... spat."
I studied him, looking for an opening. If he was expecting a surprise, he wasn't giving me an inch. Looking around, I noticed Nathaniel and another bodyguard I hadn't seen before standing to both sides of him. No smiles, no frowns; they were like statues to this man.
"So." I looked back at Mickelson. "Ferguson."
My spine felt a chill. He knew my name. That meant he knew who I was. No point in hiding that bit, now. I made it out to look like I relaxed, and cleared my throat, keeping the blade in my wrist completely covered. "Liam. Liam Ferguson." I gave him a strict frown, hoping to get him to drop his guard. Nothing. "Although, with everything going the way it is, I'm pretty sure you knew who I was."
His grin faltered, but not through any action of my own. "Oh, yes. I try to do research on all of my employees."
I raised an eyebrow. "Employee?"
He opened his arms wide. "That's what you are, now, boy. You work for me, now." He grabbed the sides of the desk, and turned his head toward Melissa. "And young Faelin here will be your partner."
"What." I said, turning towards Melissa. She looked at me in surprise, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head in complete confusion.
"Don't worry." His voice came off as a hell of a lot more menacing, now. "I'll try to ease the two of you into this wonderful new job of yours. You see, I got a special project for you two." He opened a drawer behind the desk, and pulled out a stack of receipts, throwing onto the table. Bills, tabs, the likes, all banded together. "And you two have got a lot of debt."
Now he was talking crazy. "Hold on, there, Mickey, or whatever." The bodyguards stiffened, but didn't move. Guess they knew when to stay still. "I get that you think I'm a pushover or whatever, but I've never been to this fucking bar. I can't pay off a tab that I never had."
Mickelson stopped smiling. He picked up the bundle, and walked around the table to me. My hand gripped the switchblade hard, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to take his neck. I needed to hear this.
He handed me the receipts and stepped back. As I looked, my eyes went wide. "Henry Ferguson."
He grinned again. "Your grand-pappy owes me a fuckton of money, Liam. I intend to make my investment back."
Her ears wavered around until she finally piped up. "Alright, so I don't have a real plan."
It's been much longer than an hour in the room. The Dutch woman hadn't returned. It probably means that they meant to spy on me, but frankly, I have completely forgotten about her. All that mattered to me now was getting out of this place and getting home. From the way Melissa spoke, she wanted to as well. And that was good enough for me.
'Course, now that meant a plan needed to be made. And that had been a massive time sink.
"So, you were out there with them?" I spoke up, sounding as demanding as possible. I needed her to remember that we were on thin ice as it was.
She looked at me, confused. "Yeah?"
"That means they have had to bring you in from somewhere else. Which means..." I went to the clipboard, turning a page over and placing the pen to it. "You had to have seen something. At least the room adjacent."
She thought about it, her face frowning as she did. "Hmm, I remember that there were three other rooms connected to that one."
As she spoke, I managed a good enough diagram of the area she explained. Of the central room were four backrooms: ours, three others. All had the same door type, so we needed to hit the right one and just bolt for it. If we don't, we weren't getting a second chance.
"Now it's all a matter of dodging Blue." She said. The realization of this came over us at once. "Yeah, I don't think we'll be able to manage that one."
I thought back, and realized that I might be able to try something. "Nathan's only got the two arms to hurt us with. Those legs of his don't seem two bad." I pulled out the switchblade. "I might be able to pull something off that will leave him... struggling."
She stared at the switchblade, then her eyes opened with realization. A smile, then a frown. "Then we have to be hoping that the werewolf over in the back doesn't show up today." She sighed, leaning back against the bed frame. "Man, this was not how I was hoping to spend my weekend."
I put the switchblade, turning to her. "So, how did you plan on spending it?"
She looked at me, looking as if she was checking my face, probably for any means of telling whether or not I was lying or joking. After a second, she leaned against the frame again. "I don't know if you realize it, but I'm not exactly..." She looked for the right words, then gave up on it. "Normal."
I flipped the blade closed. "Well, the ears kinda gave it away, hun."
She felt her ears. Her face went wide and blushing red with shock. She covered them, then whispered words in that strange language from earlier, trying not to stutter. Her hands glowed with a strange mist, a yellow fog, then it vanished. Her ears were now ordinary rounded ones, as if she removed them like a Halloween costume.
I flicked the blade out, but kept it between my hands and the ground. "So, you mind explaining that bit, or am I gonna have to redact my handshake from before?"
She looked at her hands, a look of sorrow on her face, then turned to me, looking slightly confused. "I... covered them. With magic."
I scoffed, frowning at her. "Are you fucking serious."
She sat up and showed me her hands, as if to show the parts of her ears weren't there. They were empty. "No, I..." A deep breath, and she began. "I am. You know, a lot of people in the world aren't... people. Like you, you know. They're, like, other people." She felt one of her ears. "People like me. And that scares a lot of people..." She pointed at me. "People like you."
I nodded, getting most of what she just attempted to say. "So, those stupid stories about fantasy creatures invading Times Square and the like that you'd see on the dollar shelves at bookstores."
"All true." She finished, then grinned. "Although, we didn't take over Times Square, we kinda helped build it. They never bother to include those parts."
I threw my hands up. "Well, see, that's... people like you, if you want to go with that." I pointed at the door. "What about people like them?"
She blew a bit of air, then leaned forward. "Okay, so." She stopped, trying to find the right words. "There are..." She scratched the back of her head. "Okay, so fairy tales are real." A desperate grin appeared on her face. "Like, those stupid bedtime stories, those games that the kids play nowadays, all that shit - that stuff is real."
I ran my fingers through my hair and felt the back of my neck. "Yeah, I kinda got that once I saw the entire bar staring back at me. I'm wondering about the assholes who have us locked up back here and are probably buying new shovels for us."
She looked at the door, probably expecting one of the henchmen to burst in and shoot her for saying anything. Turning to me, she fished around in her front pocket, and brought out a flat circular disc. It appeared to be made of stone, but what was curious was the glowing magenta lettering on the face of it. Almost like a warning beacon. "Mickelson."
My eyebrows rose. "Yeah, that bastard. The psychotic fucker."
She looked to me, then put the disc back. "Mr. Mickelson is kind of a big deal in the... underground." She rolled her eyes, looking like she was searching for the proper words. "He ran the Open Door Bar a good... god, what was it, fifty or sixty years ago?" She scratched her head, trying to remember. "Before an arson took the place."
I remembered the burned building upstairs, the frame being the only thing intact and keeping up the facade. Wait. "So, hold on. An arson took the entire building?"
She nodded.
"Then how is that bastard still alive?"
She held the shadow of a smile. "Rumor was, Mickelson set the fire himself. See, the bar didn't exactly attract a lot of well-paying customers - no uptown socialites, no rich yuppies looking for 'common drink'." She closed her eyes for a second, making motions and mumbling, trying to remember. "Ah, yeah. It was, I think, the first time regular blue collar folks got to see anybody from the... er, underground, in person."
The flyer from the attic flashed back to my head; opening day, all those years ago. And my grand-father was part of it.
She stood up and walked to the broken TV, inspecting it while she spoke. "Mickelson probably felt like he needed a return on his investment." After tapping the buttons and poking at the screen, she gave up and walked over to the other side of the bed. "So, boom. Up it goes in flames." She made a little motion to indicate the fire, and for a second, a small spark appeared between her hands.
"So what about them? The Dutch woman? The bodyguards? The patrons?"
As she was about to start, a knock on the door brought us both back down to earth and our eyes to the door. A voice, the Slavic werewolf, came through. "Faelin, Ferguson, get up. Mickey wants a word."
We turned to each other, concern, anger, and agreement on our faces. This was it.
The door opened, and the werewolf walked on, hunched over but trying to keep a dignified face. It didn't matter; the snout got in the way anyways. He gestured his head towards the doorway and walked back out. We stood up and followed him, my switchblade still held and still hidden my coat sleeves.
Melissa wasn't lying; the holding area was accompanied by three other doors, all beat up and made to look like a motel door. The latches on these three were bolted four times over - looking back at our door, we had the same set, plus one more bolt at the top. Nathan and Leigh were gone, meaning the werewolf was the only one watching the door at the time. Fuck. We could've attempted something.
A new door, behind a couple of barrels, opened, and from here, we came into a hallway reminiscent of an English pub. The wallpaper was just as shoddy and falling apart here, but the lack of any decent light took some focus from that. A couple of windows were here, and from these, I got to see the entirety of the bar from a floor above.
The place was crowded, but from the sizes of the patrons, I could barely count how many people were in there. I could also scarcely count how many hoax animals and creatures were downing glasses. Here, I thought I saw what looked like Sasquatch drinking a large pint while chatting up what looked from here like several faeries drinking from thimbles. Every single... thing, just down there, drinking away as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
I must've stood there for a minute or two, because I heard the werewolf growl behind me. Turning quick, he barked at me. "Move, Ferguson. I'm payed to get you to the boss, not to babysit ya." I saw him open a door at the end of the hallway, light streaming past the door frame.
Making sure Melissa was standing next to me, we walked into the next room. An office. His office. The desk was pine, an almost exact replica of the one in the burnt building. Where that one was covered in soot, this one was covered in receipts. A small pen holder was built into the side, and the entire thing screamed professionalism.
His smiling face. Mickelson was grinning from ear to ear, showcasing a number of wrinkles that really accentuated his age. His hat was removed this time, showcasing his gray hair and the streaks of white that were mixed into it. The hair mixed directly into his beard and mustache ensemble, only unable to dominate his nose. The wrinkles on his face were self-evident; the man, however old he was, wore it as well as he possibly could. And his eyes, still holding an intense gaze, must've been frightening when he was younger. As it were, they made his smile look less like a Rogers-style happy hello, and more like Peewee Herman about to climax in the dark.
None of this was helped by the black-and-gray pinstripe suit he wore, which made him look like the demented older brother of Scarface. And from the looks of it, there were stains on the suit. Scarlet, brass-colored stains.
"So, you enjoy the room?" He spoke, finally, as the wolf closed the door behind us. He sat up straight, lowering his folded arms to the desk. "I understand Charlotte came by to break up a little... spat."
I studied him, looking for an opening. If he was expecting a surprise, he wasn't giving me an inch. Looking around, I noticed Nathaniel and another bodyguard I hadn't seen before standing to both sides of him. No smiles, no frowns; they were like statues to this man.
"So." I looked back at Mickelson. "Ferguson."
My spine felt a chill. He knew my name. That meant he knew who I was. No point in hiding that bit, now. I made it out to look like I relaxed, and cleared my throat, keeping the blade in my wrist completely covered. "Liam. Liam Ferguson." I gave him a strict frown, hoping to get him to drop his guard. Nothing. "Although, with everything going the way it is, I'm pretty sure you knew who I was."
His grin faltered, but not through any action of my own. "Oh, yes. I try to do research on all of my employees."
I raised an eyebrow. "Employee?"
He opened his arms wide. "That's what you are, now, boy. You work for me, now." He grabbed the sides of the desk, and turned his head toward Melissa. "And young Faelin here will be your partner."
"What." I said, turning towards Melissa. She looked at me in surprise, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head in complete confusion.
"Don't worry." His voice came off as a hell of a lot more menacing, now. "I'll try to ease the two of you into this wonderful new job of yours. You see, I got a special project for you two." He opened a drawer behind the desk, and pulled out a stack of receipts, throwing onto the table. Bills, tabs, the likes, all banded together. "And you two have got a lot of debt."
Now he was talking crazy. "Hold on, there, Mickey, or whatever." The bodyguards stiffened, but didn't move. Guess they knew when to stay still. "I get that you think I'm a pushover or whatever, but I've never been to this fucking bar. I can't pay off a tab that I never had."
Mickelson stopped smiling. He picked up the bundle, and walked around the table to me. My hand gripped the switchblade hard, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to take his neck. I needed to hear this.
He handed me the receipts and stepped back. As I looked, my eyes went wide. "Henry Ferguson."
He grinned again. "Your grand-pappy owes me a fuckton of money, Liam. I intend to make my investment back."
Mar 22, 2016
4 - The Deal
I don't remember how long I slept, only that I could hear them all in my head, laughing hard. Leigh, Nathaniel, the stupid werewolf, and that crazy bastard, Mickey. All of them ready to rip my head off and throw me to the dogs - or werewolf, in this case.
In a fit, I woke, gasping. The same floor, the same dimly-lit backroom for interrogation, even the same pain in my side. Still, I had to get up. Trying to stand up, I checked my pockets. Flip lighter and cigarettes in the first, switchblade in the second, flashlight in the third. Same as before. They really need to learn to check the pockets of hostages.
I glanced around, and spied a clipboard on the dresser. Moving over to it, the pain in my side shot out and I bent over the bed, clutching at my hip. Whatever Leigh hit, I was really feeling it now.
Leigh. That fucking dwarf. Playing dumb for the time being, then strikes when she knows I couldn't get her. Soon as Mickey gave the word, though, she's an obedient little sheep.
I managed to get myself up with difficulty and picked up the clipboard. It had several sheets on it, filled to the brim with information on...
Others.
Here, a Hispanic. Then a Caucasian. Black. She read off the previous victims, that cold bitch. And she was keeping records. Age, occupation, medical, hobbies, familial. Holy shit, they were keeping track of us before we even got here.
I found mine. Twenty-seven, currently unemployed, physically healthy, it goes on. When did they get this, how did they know all this?!
A turning knob and several opening locks brought me back to reality. Shit, they're coming back. I drew the switchblade, primed it, then got near the frame, just behind the door for an ambush. First lock, then second, then third...
The door swung open, and I lunged for the nearest neck. I grabbed it, buckled back, and raised the blade. A scream flew out in some language, flowery and light. Her neck was thin, soft. And it was easy to handle, probably easier to snap.
Before I knew what was going on, I stood there, with my switchblade around the neck of a woman and a werewolf and the big lug looking for an opening. I couldn't let them see my surprise, so I kept my face behind hers.
Her. She had really soft, orange hair, smelled like peach. I couldn't see her face or the rest of her - you know, due to the hostage thing - but she was shorter than me, around neck height. She was shaking, trying not to struggle and get the blade closer.
The werewolf was growling. His fur was a deep brown, almost black, but his yellow eyes were glowing with fury. His teeth, longer than spikes, were bared, and his claws were ready to start on me as soon as I let her go. From the way they were positioned, I assumed they were this woman's bodyguards. Some job.
A good, solid minute of silence passed between the four of us, filled with the wolf's growling, Nathaniel's stare, my thoughts, and her whimpering.
The wolf spoke first. "Okay, I'm gonna give you to the count of five to let go of her before I tear your fucking throat out and shit on it." His accent placed him as European, probably Slavic. It didn't matter much. "One."
Nathaniel cracked his knuckles and smiled, intent on getting his boxing practice. He nudged his head towards the wolf, his neck snapping as well. "I'd do it, Smiley. He hasn't eaten all day."
I felt myself slightly lower the blade, then brought it back against her throat close enough to touch skin. She made a slight gagging sound. "Actually, I was thinking you'd help show me out. See, I don't know the run of this place, and you guys seem like you know your way around."
The wolf was frustratingly silent. "Two."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Yeah, that's a funny joke. Now hand her over and we can get back to beating the shit out of you." He smacked his fists.
I shook my head. "See, here's the thing. You guys might have some weight, but I'm making the demands here. After all," I pressed the switchblade edge, and heard more gagging. "I'm the one who's about slit her throat. And from the looks of it, that's a might bit more important to you than the blood in my body."
Her voice pipped up, and she tried to turn her head to get a look at me. "S-stop…"
The wolf started licking his lips. "Three."
Nathaniel, for the first time I've seen of him, stopped smiling and narrowed his eyes at me. "Buddy, you have no idea what kind of enterprise you're messing with. Do you even know who Mickey is? Do you even know who she is?" He pointed at the woman currently struggling in my hands. "Because you've been stepping into a world that you should never have walked into, never have known about."
"I don't care either way. I want out."
"Four."
He smiled. "Your grand-pappy wanted out, too, son. Didn't do him no good, neither."
"Five--" And on that, the wolf hesitated, as another person opened the door behind them, walked passed him into the room, and stood silent.
I gripped the blade, but had my eye on the newcomer. A decently tall woman, dirty blonde hair with orange highlights, human this time. Dressed in what looked like a weird mix of a flapper girl's dress, a modern coat, and black stockings, she was quite beautiful for what looked to be forty years of age. 'Course, she probably isn't. Her stance and the way that both the werewolf and Nathaniel pretty much fell silent in her presence told me that she might be a big one.
She took a moment to glance at the scene - her underlings trying to weasel their way around a Mexican standoff with a hostage-taking surface psycho.
She clapped, and both the wolf and Nathaniel left the room, quietly closing the door with a *click* as they made their way out. The girl in my hands stiffened, then relaxed within the span of a second. She focused on me, her eyes momentarily darting to the hostage girl, and smiled.
She spoke, and her accent betrayed her as another European, probably Dutch. "Resourceful, I see."
I felt a smile come onto my face. A wild one. "You gotta learn pretty quick, you see."
She gave a quick grin, then turned and walked out, speaking as she went. "We can't let you leave, hun, but we'll at least let you know your co-workers." As she stood in the door frame, she sighed and turned to me again. "You get an hour. Better be taking Mickey's deal, kid."
The door shut behind her, but I managed to catch one last thing she said: "Ain't no one gone through Vince the same way."
I stood there in silence, hands holding tight around a switchblade that was still rubbing against the girl's neck. She tried turning her head again, then spoke. "U-um, I'd probably take the offer if I were you."
I looked at her head, then let her go, lightly pushing her away and keeping the switchblade raised. I finally got a good look at her, too: short, and with long, pointed ears, almost like a fantasy elf. Wearing a soft hoodie, t-shirt, and skirt and leggings into hi-tops. It just occurred to me that she might not actually work here; still, the blade remained high and pointed towards her head.
She was keeping her eye on the blade, but made glances towards me, keeping careful of the distance. She finally worked up the nerve to speak. "Now, I understand that all this might be a bit too much for you to handle…"
I snapped. "No, it's all perfectly clear to me, girl. It's all clear."
She stepped back towards the door, afraid to turn around and handle the knob, in case I decided to lunged. Cautious. This girl knew to be scared, what to be scared of. "But, really, you, uh, you should take it. It's not so bad."
I swung the blade lazily, enough to scare her a bit. "Really? And I'm supposed to trust you? They looked like they were about break my neck just for grabbing you; you think I'm gonna trust anything you're telling me right now?" I pointed at the door. "Realize you're in the same room as a psycho. Start talking, girl."
She looked nervous, nauseous. I think I managed to get the point across. "Okay, so, first things first." She stuck her arm out, hand open. I think she figured she could get a handshake out. "My name is Melissa."
A good minute passed before she realized she wasn't gonna get me to drop the blade, so she reeled her arm in. "Right. Look, we're both in a bit of hot water here; I'm not your enemy. In fact, none of us are."
"Us."
She look confused. "W-what?"
"You're saying 'us', and you're supposed to be on my side?" I said, waving the blade slightly. "Stop it with that shit and maybe I might believe you."
She threw her hands up. "Fucking unbelievable. You see, this is why we're down here!" She hit the door with her fist. "That attitude of 'us or them' ain't gonna cut it here!" She turned to me. "Look, I get it. You are so not supposed to be down here. Neither am I. But we're in the same decaying backroom together and I'm pretty sure that Blue already locked the door on me, anyways."
She took a deep breath. "We need to work together on this."
"...And what's in it for you, anyways?"
She rolled her eyes. "Does it really matter? I want to get out of here - I'm sick of this shit already."
I thought for a minute. Why would they bring her here? She looked barely out of college, let alone one of their cronies, and she spoke like it too. Plus, I need to start making friends, in case I might end up with a knife in my backside or whatever these people intended to do with me.
I hesitated, then lowered the blade. "I'm taking a massive, fucking risk here." I picked up my arm and held out my hand. "But you better not be conning me." She looked at me, surprised that her sappy speech made it through. Smiling, we shook hands.
"If we gonna be buried, we'll at least have close graves."
In a fit, I woke, gasping. The same floor, the same dimly-lit backroom for interrogation, even the same pain in my side. Still, I had to get up. Trying to stand up, I checked my pockets. Flip lighter and cigarettes in the first, switchblade in the second, flashlight in the third. Same as before. They really need to learn to check the pockets of hostages.
I glanced around, and spied a clipboard on the dresser. Moving over to it, the pain in my side shot out and I bent over the bed, clutching at my hip. Whatever Leigh hit, I was really feeling it now.
Leigh. That fucking dwarf. Playing dumb for the time being, then strikes when she knows I couldn't get her. Soon as Mickey gave the word, though, she's an obedient little sheep.
I managed to get myself up with difficulty and picked up the clipboard. It had several sheets on it, filled to the brim with information on...
Others.
Here, a Hispanic. Then a Caucasian. Black. She read off the previous victims, that cold bitch. And she was keeping records. Age, occupation, medical, hobbies, familial. Holy shit, they were keeping track of us before we even got here.
I found mine. Twenty-seven, currently unemployed, physically healthy, it goes on. When did they get this, how did they know all this?!
A turning knob and several opening locks brought me back to reality. Shit, they're coming back. I drew the switchblade, primed it, then got near the frame, just behind the door for an ambush. First lock, then second, then third...
The door swung open, and I lunged for the nearest neck. I grabbed it, buckled back, and raised the blade. A scream flew out in some language, flowery and light. Her neck was thin, soft. And it was easy to handle, probably easier to snap.
Before I knew what was going on, I stood there, with my switchblade around the neck of a woman and a werewolf and the big lug looking for an opening. I couldn't let them see my surprise, so I kept my face behind hers.
Her. She had really soft, orange hair, smelled like peach. I couldn't see her face or the rest of her - you know, due to the hostage thing - but she was shorter than me, around neck height. She was shaking, trying not to struggle and get the blade closer.
The werewolf was growling. His fur was a deep brown, almost black, but his yellow eyes were glowing with fury. His teeth, longer than spikes, were bared, and his claws were ready to start on me as soon as I let her go. From the way they were positioned, I assumed they were this woman's bodyguards. Some job.
A good, solid minute of silence passed between the four of us, filled with the wolf's growling, Nathaniel's stare, my thoughts, and her whimpering.
The wolf spoke first. "Okay, I'm gonna give you to the count of five to let go of her before I tear your fucking throat out and shit on it." His accent placed him as European, probably Slavic. It didn't matter much. "One."
Nathaniel cracked his knuckles and smiled, intent on getting his boxing practice. He nudged his head towards the wolf, his neck snapping as well. "I'd do it, Smiley. He hasn't eaten all day."
I felt myself slightly lower the blade, then brought it back against her throat close enough to touch skin. She made a slight gagging sound. "Actually, I was thinking you'd help show me out. See, I don't know the run of this place, and you guys seem like you know your way around."
The wolf was frustratingly silent. "Two."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Yeah, that's a funny joke. Now hand her over and we can get back to beating the shit out of you." He smacked his fists.
I shook my head. "See, here's the thing. You guys might have some weight, but I'm making the demands here. After all," I pressed the switchblade edge, and heard more gagging. "I'm the one who's about slit her throat. And from the looks of it, that's a might bit more important to you than the blood in my body."
Her voice pipped up, and she tried to turn her head to get a look at me. "S-stop…"
The wolf started licking his lips. "Three."
Nathaniel, for the first time I've seen of him, stopped smiling and narrowed his eyes at me. "Buddy, you have no idea what kind of enterprise you're messing with. Do you even know who Mickey is? Do you even know who she is?" He pointed at the woman currently struggling in my hands. "Because you've been stepping into a world that you should never have walked into, never have known about."
"I don't care either way. I want out."
"Four."
He smiled. "Your grand-pappy wanted out, too, son. Didn't do him no good, neither."
"Five--" And on that, the wolf hesitated, as another person opened the door behind them, walked passed him into the room, and stood silent.
I gripped the blade, but had my eye on the newcomer. A decently tall woman, dirty blonde hair with orange highlights, human this time. Dressed in what looked like a weird mix of a flapper girl's dress, a modern coat, and black stockings, she was quite beautiful for what looked to be forty years of age. 'Course, she probably isn't. Her stance and the way that both the werewolf and Nathaniel pretty much fell silent in her presence told me that she might be a big one.
She took a moment to glance at the scene - her underlings trying to weasel their way around a Mexican standoff with a hostage-taking surface psycho.
She clapped, and both the wolf and Nathaniel left the room, quietly closing the door with a *click* as they made their way out. The girl in my hands stiffened, then relaxed within the span of a second. She focused on me, her eyes momentarily darting to the hostage girl, and smiled.
She spoke, and her accent betrayed her as another European, probably Dutch. "Resourceful, I see."
I felt a smile come onto my face. A wild one. "You gotta learn pretty quick, you see."
She gave a quick grin, then turned and walked out, speaking as she went. "We can't let you leave, hun, but we'll at least let you know your co-workers." As she stood in the door frame, she sighed and turned to me again. "You get an hour. Better be taking Mickey's deal, kid."
The door shut behind her, but I managed to catch one last thing she said: "Ain't no one gone through Vince the same way."
I stood there in silence, hands holding tight around a switchblade that was still rubbing against the girl's neck. She tried turning her head again, then spoke. "U-um, I'd probably take the offer if I were you."
I looked at her head, then let her go, lightly pushing her away and keeping the switchblade raised. I finally got a good look at her, too: short, and with long, pointed ears, almost like a fantasy elf. Wearing a soft hoodie, t-shirt, and skirt and leggings into hi-tops. It just occurred to me that she might not actually work here; still, the blade remained high and pointed towards her head.
She was keeping her eye on the blade, but made glances towards me, keeping careful of the distance. She finally worked up the nerve to speak. "Now, I understand that all this might be a bit too much for you to handle…"
I snapped. "No, it's all perfectly clear to me, girl. It's all clear."
She stepped back towards the door, afraid to turn around and handle the knob, in case I decided to lunged. Cautious. This girl knew to be scared, what to be scared of. "But, really, you, uh, you should take it. It's not so bad."
I swung the blade lazily, enough to scare her a bit. "Really? And I'm supposed to trust you? They looked like they were about break my neck just for grabbing you; you think I'm gonna trust anything you're telling me right now?" I pointed at the door. "Realize you're in the same room as a psycho. Start talking, girl."
She looked nervous, nauseous. I think I managed to get the point across. "Okay, so, first things first." She stuck her arm out, hand open. I think she figured she could get a handshake out. "My name is Melissa."
A good minute passed before she realized she wasn't gonna get me to drop the blade, so she reeled her arm in. "Right. Look, we're both in a bit of hot water here; I'm not your enemy. In fact, none of us are."
"Us."
She look confused. "W-what?"
"You're saying 'us', and you're supposed to be on my side?" I said, waving the blade slightly. "Stop it with that shit and maybe I might believe you."
She threw her hands up. "Fucking unbelievable. You see, this is why we're down here!" She hit the door with her fist. "That attitude of 'us or them' ain't gonna cut it here!" She turned to me. "Look, I get it. You are so not supposed to be down here. Neither am I. But we're in the same decaying backroom together and I'm pretty sure that Blue already locked the door on me, anyways."
She took a deep breath. "We need to work together on this."
"...And what's in it for you, anyways?"
She rolled her eyes. "Does it really matter? I want to get out of here - I'm sick of this shit already."
I thought for a minute. Why would they bring her here? She looked barely out of college, let alone one of their cronies, and she spoke like it too. Plus, I need to start making friends, in case I might end up with a knife in my backside or whatever these people intended to do with me.
I hesitated, then lowered the blade. "I'm taking a massive, fucking risk here." I picked up my arm and held out my hand. "But you better not be conning me." She looked at me, surprised that her sappy speech made it through. Smiling, we shook hands.
"If we gonna be buried, we'll at least have close graves."
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