Re: Backwards Mafia [D6]
October 11th, 2011
Desperation has pushed me closer and closer to the city's center, where there is the greatest chance that I will be spotted and apprehended, but also the greatest chance that I might learn something that would put me back onto the trail of the organization. I've been floating adrift, chased down blind alleys by the whims of the spirits and buffeted by the necessities of survival. It would be too easy for me to slip into this marginal existence forever, to forget who I was and where my duty lies. I have to take action before all impetus flees me.
As it happened, I was to experience both capture and revelation today. I was staying to the edge of the crowd, all too able to pretend that I was another homeless person begging for aid, when I was approached by a young man. "Professor Stanburg?" he asked, eyes screwed up and head cocked to one side as he approached.
I took a step back, not sure if I should flee. To do so would draw more attention to myself than I wanted; better if I could deflect this one man's attention without making a scene. "No," I grunted, and turned away from him, but he went on as though he hadn't heard me.
"It is you, isn't it? But what happened to you? You look terrible."
Who was he? A former student? A junior faculty member? I felt I hadn't seen him before in my life, but it's so hard for me to be sure of anything these days. I wasn't prepared for him to reach out and seize my shoulder, nor for the blast of yelling from the spirits that assaulted me as he did so.
He was saying something, trying to guide me somewhere, and I could only stagger along, trying to remain standing despite my hazing vision and the pounding in my head. His words reached me as if from a great distance, tinny and meaningless--"Here, come on, why don't we get something to eat? We can talk then. I can't believe I saw you there--do you know how hard they've been looking for you?"
Though the clamor for blood and violence was still booming against the inside of my skull, that last range through loud and clear. I managed to pull away, dragging my arm out of his grip and turning to flee. I'm sure he called after me, but I couldn't hear, not with the dead calling for me to turn around again and strike him down. I was half-blind, not caring for the people I shoved aside in my flight. Streets flashed past, half-noticed, as I ran back into the warren of urban decay. Eventually, I flung myself down behind a dumpster, choking on each painful breath, and rested my pounding temples against the heels of my hands.
I hadn't even noticed his pursuit, though I suppose it was lucky he chose to follow. Even as I was cursing the jabbering voices that would not recede, the sound of footsteps cut through their clamor, and I scrabbled to grab a half-rotted hunk of wood jutting from a pile of rubbish next to me and scrambled to my feet, stepping out to confront whoever it was strolling through the alley. It was him, of course.
I swung the beam without thinking, goaded on by bloodthirsty spirits, but he caught it without apparent effort and wrenched it out of my hands. "Come on, now. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you." His tone was soothing, as though he were talking to a dangerous animal--which I suppose I was, at that point. But he was smiling, almost smirking, and he tossed the piece of wood aside as casually as could be.
It was suddenly easy to concentrate on his words, as though the spirits thought I needed no more prompting to do as they commanded. As ever, they proved far wiser than I. For the man spread his hands and said, "I suppose you think there's no way out for you now. But that's not true. You could be very useful to our organization, you know--much more useful alive than dead. Working against us clearly isn't doing you any good. I can assure you that we'd treat you much better than your... present colleagues have." He took a step forward, hands spread. "Certainly we wouldn't leave you living out on the streets like discarded rubbish."
He was expecting me to pull away, or maybe be too stunned to do anything at all. I threw my weight forward, slamming an elbow into his chest and knocking him off-balance. He fell backwards, and I scrambled around him to retrieve my makeshift weapon. He was rising as I swung it as hard as I could into his head. It struck true, the impact jarring my arm so badly that I dropped it, but he only shook his head and laughed before regaining his feet.
"Well, you didn't really let me get the chance to finish my offer," he said, "But perhaps you can guess that things won't be very pleasant for you if you decide to refuse."
I imagine he expected me to be intimidated, but it was almost a relief. There is some measure of regret to killing even the most deserving human being, but the demonborn are a different matter, and they are not quite as impervious as they would like people to believe.
There is a prayer to ward off evil. It works well enough, if you do not contaminate it with the evil in your own heart. There is a prayer to smite evil, and it works, too, if not in a very general way. But with the anger of the departed to aid you and only a very small target that you need to make vulnerable, it is very effective indeed. I swept up two of the largest shards of the shattered board and made ready.
Let them wonder, at the police department, why their latest homicide had stakes rammed through both his eyes.
Flower Doll is dead. She was mafia.
Forty-eight hours for night actions.
