eightysixsanity

[eightysixsanity]

The years dragged on. It's been a decade since she was banished to this desolate island, left to adapt to her new, cursed form. Her adversaries, in the beginning, were defeated mostly by virtue of the disfigurement bestowed upon her by the reviled God, Poseidon. This youngest of the Gorgon sisters admires her visage in the reflection of the seawater for the thousandth time. Her voluminous head of hair comprised of dozens of snakes undulates calmly, tying knots in itself and correcting almost magically the same way a breeding ball of snakes shifts in its endless fractals of scaly flesh. She closely examines the human-like skin of her T-zone, nose, and chin. She scowls and scratches off a developing white head with her painstakingly manicured nails. Short, but hard, they are very utilitarian and rough given the stone and shells she's been provided with.

The stress of going weeks without a new challenger has started to show on her face, apparently. It's been so long that a new arrival is seemingly guaranteed within the next day or so, according to her own superstition. The opportunity in the next battle is for more than pride. She's so close to getting off this rock.

[eightysixsanity]

The cloaked man lowered his hood revealing a grimacing, monstrous face hiding in the shadow. He turns so this new visage faces you and it now speaks.

"Who do you think you are?"

It stands on its tiptoes, extending its arms out like a cross. From it issues some meaty popping sounds as every joint in its body hyperextends and travels past where a normal human could move. His palms become the back of his hands, his fingernails face inward, and his knees pop inside out. For all intents and purposes, seeing an outline of this creature it would seem normal, but when one realizes what's happened it sends chills down the spine.

(this is the original concept art for Voldemort)

[eightysixsanity]

Teacher, teacher

(Now, this is a scene I remember from a dream. It doesn't have much context so I've tried to add some framework to it. The vivid image I got from it was so bizarre that I had to write it down. I can't even describe just how encompassing this was, and just how much sense it made.)

Marty sighed, "Come on now class, can I get some quiet?"

The students simmered down and slinked into their seats in the various ways they were capable. 

Marty taught at a special school, for kids like him. These teenagers could do things, special things, that normal humans aren't capable of. 

"Ok. Thank you. First things first. It has come to my attention that certain gang activity has escalated nearby. Now, full disclosure, I was involved in one of these gangs in my early years. This group has been more active recently and I've received several, uh, messages I guess you could put it. With their sudden revitalization, whoever is in charge is chomping at the bit to have me back. I've made it very clear that that I'm not interested."

Dominic, the unflappable class clown, interrupts, "I'm sorry but it's hard for us to take no for an answer." He grins.

Marty slits his eyes, not sure whether to take Dom seriously. 

Dom continues his shitty grin and sits forward in his chair, the two front legs smacking on the ground.

Professor Martin, by reflex, snatches the cone on his desk and underhand flicks it at Dom in the same motion. It hits the student causing him fall back in his chair, seemingly much more forcefully than how it hit him, and then the chair careens into the wall at the back of the classroom. Dom's head enters the wall and the brick forces his shoulders down to his waist. He's a stretchy fucker so this doesn't bother him. He pulls his long neck out from the hole and stands, his torso and arms two feet from the ground. 

Martin observes this and his heart rate increases. He breaths deeply, "Next lesson," his fight or flight is going nuts and he can barely get this out while his voice quakes, "One can never tell what another is capable of when berserking."

Dom lunges but then stops.

Marty is floating with his legs crossed under him, the tips of his fingers touching. A third eye has opened in his forehead. 

The universe takes a deep breath.

Everything is still.

Dom feels weird and looks at his fingers. Little versions of himself begin to fractal out from the tips. Soon the image of Marty has begun to expand from himself and everything in the room, in ever smaller iterations. The other students grow from Dom's fingers and extremities and twist like hot sugar. His waist and the universe's waist expands and spins, all of reality growing small versions of itself from the chaos that has become of everyone's body. It's as if Marty has put the universe into a kaleidoscope. Colors and shapes blending and breaking. This goes on for what feels like hours, but time has no meaning in this physicist's hellscape. All Dom can see for sure is Marty's third eye glowing at the center. 

After several picoseconds, or millenia (who can be sure), the fractals start to coalesce and blend together. They continue to multiply and form familiar shapes. The colors swirl and start to look like a soft peach hue. Dom's hands take shape and the classroom around him start to define themselves from the chaos the swirls bind together into straight lines and distinct shapes. Dom finds himself back in the classroom with the knowledge that everything he knows (and doesn't know) has multiplied and divided so many times that it has randomly formed back into the reality he is familiar with.

Martin is standing there in front of him.

Dom has a warm, wet sensation in his pants. 

Marty extends a hand to offer help standing. The spot on his forehead where the eye was has a small, red crease, like he slept face down on a wrinkled pillow. 

Dom panics and flees from the classroom. After a few weeks still no one knows what ever happened to him.

[eightysixsanity]

What am I supposed to do

If I want to talk about peace and understanding

But you only understand the language of the sword

What if I want to make you understand that the path you chose leads to downfall

But you only understand the language of the sword

What if I want to tell you to leave me and my beloved ones in peace

But you only understand the language of the sword

I let the blade do the talking...

So my tongue shall become iron

And my words the mighty roar of war

Revealing my divine anger´s arrow shall strike

All action for the good of all

I see my reflection in your eyes

But my new age has just begun.

Heilung - Krigsgaldr

[eightysixsanity]

A man hating antique shop: Misundry

The antique shop across the street run by men who "aren't like the others" and want to prove their competitors wrong: m' sundry

[eightysixsanity]

The pirate queen

Alec slumps to the deck of his captors' massive ship. Its red sails blaze in the sun, tinting everything underneath in a pink hue. He's heard of flying a red flag, but this ship is serious. He ordered his men to push his clipper to its limits, but this monster effortlessly ran them down like a hungry cat, defying everything he knew as a seasoned mariner.

He disdainfully surveys the filthy women around him, their dreadlocks dripping with the blood of his crew, further staining their already once-white shirts. It wasn't a particularly bloody battle, it was quick, but they just decided to soak their hair in blood anyway. Off to his right a young, loinclothed man slowly scrubs the wooden floor planks; his eyes are just crusty sockets.

"Get up, worm," grunts the woman gripping his hair around her hand. She tugs him to his feet with surprising force, and the sharp point in his spine convinces him to help her out. She marches him to a wooden door, gently reminding him of the point slowly pushing into his skin, getting closer to the bone with every hitch he has in his gait.

He is led into a dark room. There are windows but they're obscured with lush fabrics that don't allow light to pass through. Thin bands of light play across the walls and floor as the ship rocks with the motion of the seas.

He feels a warm flow from the hole in his back as she pulls the sharp point from him and hurls a golden trident in front of him onto the floor. It thumps to the ground with the weight of the metal. She boots him forward and he falls to his knees above the weapon. He hears the door slam shut and the light from behind him disappears.

A triple knock on wood issues forth, and he then hears a wet, sucking, squirming sound. From the deeper shadows his slowly adjusting eyes can see some light glint off of a black mass oozing into this chamber from the floor. It swarms a lightly colored couch on the wall and seems to lounge there. The trident is plucked from off the floor in front of him by a black tentacle and hovers in front of the unintelligible mass.

From another corner he now notices two glowing coals spaced like eyes. They turn to look at the trident.

"What do you think, sister?" The coals emphasize its s's.

The golden trident turns back and forth, "Yes. It's definitely my father's." The trident turns on its x axis and plunges into the wooden floor.

The coals round on Alec, "What business do you have with a relic of Poseidon?" He feels a warmth wash over him and a creaking/shuffling sound as the coals rise from their resting place.

He defiantly juts his chin out with no answer.

The coals burn slightly brighter and his skin starts to sting. A weight smashes into his ribs and he is flung into the wall by the door.

The coals speak again, "Where is the temple you're headed to?"

He coughs and manages to breathe through the pain of his broken ribs, "North. Just go north."

The coals let out a satisfied sigh, "Charybdis, darling, we'll be headed north, full speed."

"Aye aye captain," the tentacled mass croons, and slips its way below deck.

Alec tries to stand and protest, the coals offer a hissing shushing sound.

The door opens from the inside. From the corner of his eye he sees the tip of what looks like the tail of a snake slip off the handle.

What he sees makes him loose any urine that may be present in him, because he knows he will receive no mercy. The coals burn bright and a dozen or so smaller sets of coals ignite around them. The eyes of Medusa pierce his soul and the tingling in his skin escalates to boiling and every ounce of flesh converts to stone. The pain is unfathomable, and lasts much longer than one would think.

She usually disposes of these statues, but her scales feel itchy and she might need to molt soon, so she decides to keep it to rub against.

The pirate queen slithers from her chambers. She raises her voice so all her crew can hear, "I've discovered another temple of the Defiler. We sail north."

The women on deck cheer and begin working the sails and various ropes.

Medusa can detect the sweet smell of charred wood as they depart from their kill.

[eightysixsanity]

Ashes 2 Ashes

"From the title you've probably guessed my name is Ash. Welp, you're right about that. You've probably also guessed that maybe death is involved somehow. Well there you're half right."

Chapter 1

Awakening; Ash gains consciousness. Something akin to a headache wracks his brain. Bright light encompasses his vision, then dims to a monochromatic filter. What he sees is a forest, or what he guesses is a forest considering there's no color. It could be a swamp.

Greens and browns start to fade in and he can finally determine that it is mid day in the middle of a green canopy.

Discovery; A tug by the neck pulls him to the right. He grabs for what's hugging his neck and discovers a wrought iron collar attached to a chain glowing with runes he can't discern. It's not exactly iron; as he looks closer with more light he can faintly see through it to the forest floor beneath. He follows the chain to what was exerting its will over him and discovers a man, also chained by the neck. Ash can clearly see through the collar and make out the skin beneath it.

The man is slowly making his way in a direction Ash can't determine given the time of day, but seems to be heading out of the heavily wooded area into what is decidedly more clear.

A moan escapes from the leader of the chain, and he stumbles over a root in the ground and falls flat on his face. With no sound he crawls forward a little bit and makes it back onto his feet.

His hair looks familiar to Ash, but from this angle he can't quite place it. He walks towards the man, the chain slackening to the ground as he does so.

He should feel panicked as he rounds the side of the figure and starts to recognize more of this person's features, but oddly he doesn't feel anything when he sees the familiar crow's feet on the corner of the eye and the thin lips coming into view under the bulbous, rosacea afflicted nose.

He stares into his own, blank expression when he finally rounds the front; his eyes sullen and dull, they look forward with no focus or recognition of the man that's come to inspect him.

"Hey!" Ash yells at the man, but still no reaction. Ash tries to shove his chest and stop the shambling, but his hands phase through. The doppelganger continues hobbling straight through Ash.

A ghostly whoosh, like the simultaneous exhalation of dozens, comes from Ash's incorporeal body and wisps of ectoplasmic vapor cling to, and then evaporate from, his physical form as it passes through. (Author's note: from here on, Ash's consciousness will be referred to as “He”, and his physical body will be “It”)

“I'm dead,” he finally comes to realize. He notices that he doesn't really feel any particular way; of course he has his thoughts and opinions on the matter, but whatever was inside him before that made him feel sad, anxious, happy, etc, is gone.

“Well what the hell is going on? How am I still alive here?” He points at his body, then realizes he is monologuing every thought. He's a ghost, though, so it's not like anyone can listen in.

“So... are zombies real? Is that what's going on?” There's no one there to answer him so his question just hangs in the open air.

The janky breathing of his body continues to be the only sound he can hear, as well as the slight crunch of the dirt and underbrush.

“Wait! Where did I die?!” He turns to face where he came from and tries to float back to investigate the scene of his death.

His chain snaps tight and if he were alive would probably have choked him and dropped him to the floor.

He pulls at the chain, trying to exert some authority over the plodding body, but his efforts prove fruitless. The shadow infested depths of the forest will continue to hold their secrets.

Effectively depressed, though he doesn't really feel it, Ash slumps down and let's his corpse drag him out of the treeline.

He begins to try and remember the last thing before waking up, but only figurative moths remain in his memory banks.

“Who the hell am I?” He floats back in front of himself and starts to inspect everything he can. He tries to reach into his pocket but of course his hand just wafts through. He thinks for a tick and then tries to stick his face into the front of the pocket but can't see anything because of the lack of light.

TBC

[eightysixsanity]

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

August 2nd, 1800 hours: “Leech Ward”, Grey District

As dusk begins to filter into the Grey District Martin parks the car on the side of a street completely bereft of vehicles.

Draz clears his throat, “What are we doing here? Isn't this gang territory?”

Martin hums an affirmative while eyeing the main building’s stoop that has 3 occupants, 2 of which have warrants and the last has some priors, “I have a rapport with the ‘Blood Queen’, we'll be good.”

“Well, that's not what I was worried about, jus’, what we're actually doing.”

“Oh, yeah well it seems like the life drinkers could either have a hand in what's going on or at least know something about it.”

“Ah. Yeh. That makes sense.”

Martin takes a moment to send a communique to the woman he wants to meet with to let her know of his arrival.

The trio exit the car and make their way to the only building not boarded up.

Weena takes up her usual perch on Martin's shoulder, “Are these guys going to give us trouble?”

Martin chuckles, “With you here? We don't have anything to worry about.” He shrugs his shoulder bobbing her up and down.

As the group approaches the front stoop the three gangsters inhabiting it end their boisterous conversation and square up on Martin.

Martin pulls his badge, “Evening, folks, I have an appointment to see Nezera.”

The charismatic leader of the three, a swinely, slovenly looking fellow, snorts, “You're far from home, pig. That shiny bit a metal ain't got much influence here.”

“Influence, three syllables, not bad,” Martin quips.

The two thugs snicker under their breath and are silenced by a terse, sideways glance from the big boss.

The boarish man levels an eye at Martin, “We're freshly fed, nuttin the likes of you three could handle,” he points at them with a knife he quickly retrieved from his back.

“I wouldn't imagine you miss too many meals, bud.”

Being sensitive about his weight, the lieutenant lowers the knife into a combat stance ready to strike. The other two reach for their weapons.

Martin slips his hand into his duster reaching for his gun, but when he curls his fingers around the handle he sees Draz blink into existence behind the large one with his blade already tucked under the thug’s belt. Draz severs the cord and immediately disappears. Reappearing a fraction of a second later crouched to the left of the girl with the Mohawk he removes her knife from the sheath and replaces it with a stick, another blink and he is above her slicing a lock of her pink hair off. Two blinks later and he's disarmed the third one and is behind Martin, doing some tricks with the last guy’s butterfly knife. At this moment the trousers of the leader hit the ground with a clang, the pink locks flutter in front of the girls face as she pulls up a stick, and Martin pulls his chunky revolver up to eye level. A click of the hammer is enough to convince this group to stand aside.

Martin has never seen anything like that before, nor has he heard of such a skill outside of some sort of magic, and Draz doesn't strike him as the studious type. Martin has a good poker face, which he demonstrates now.

Martin disengages the hammer and holsters his weapon with a steely glare. Weena just has her arms crossed. The trio walks past and Draz clunks the closed butterfly knife into its owner's chest and lets it go. The knife falls into clumsy hands. Then Draz holsters the woman's shank for her with a rough stab. They proceed inwards followed by dirty looks.

The inside of the building is entirely contrary to the outside and is set up more like a posh mansion rather than an apartment building. The main foyer is spectacularly appointed with marble top side tables, uncomfortable and stiff looking leather chairs with ornate woodwork, hand cut tile floors, and a magnificent crystal chandelier. Stopping under the splendid light fixture Martin looks around and sees a bell sitting on a small table near the stairs. He walks over and picks up the gold inlaid, jewel-encrusted instrument, gives it a jingle, and sets it back down. He turns his party and says, “Been here before.”

A moment passes where Draz and Martin are admiring the exquisitely framed artwork on the walls and painstakingly crafted lacework on the doilies covering the marble tables and then Weena gives Martin a tap and points to the top of the stairs where a few seconds later a woman enters view from the hallway to the left.

This is no ordinary person. Just laying eyes on her anyone can tell she's not the type to play silly games, just serious ones that she knows she'll win. This 2 meter tall, dark olive skinned Amazon descends the stairs like a warrior; sure-footed, steady. She is wearing a simple sweater and sweatpants and looks out of place from the rich surroundings. Thick, shiny, curly, black hair roosts on her shoulders like the grass in an Easter basket. Her sleeves are pushed up and the closer she gets the jagged veins in her arms snaking over the steel cables making up her forearms start to become more apparent.

Upon entering there was an overall scent of musky incense, but as she descends it changes to a soft, floral aroma.

“Well hello there, Detective,” she says in her deep, silky voice with plenty of vocal fry. “Pardon my appearance, you gave me little warning.”

“Your trappings don't sully your beauty, your highness,” a straight-faced Martin responds with a slight bow. He understands the value of demonstrating respect to those who expect it.

She can see through his farce, but that's all part of the game.

“Come, follow me,” she says while turning and making a ‘come hither’ motion with one of her long fingernails over her shoulder. She leads them to a side room through an impeccably crafted archway and a very heavy wooden door. This room has a roaring (digital) fire crackling in what looks like a real fireplace, like possibly in the winter it is converted to a functional piece. In front of it is a tall-backed armchair. The walls are lined with bookshelves inhabited by countless books, mostly leatherbound. A brass wheelie ladder is set in the corner ready to assist in the plucking of a desired tome. Nezera moves to a glass front hutch China cabinet and removes a 4 finger tumbler glass, unstoppers a tear-shaped decanter containing a dark brown, clear liquid, and pours two fingers.

Earlier, Martin observed Larry performing a similar move. There is a difference, however. Nezera is a person who harbors even a modicum of taste. Larry is not. Larry just thinks it looks cool. What he was pouring was a middle shelf whiskey whose label he thought looked cool and manly. Nezera just poured liquor from a bottle that had a handwritten, papyrus label, and was probably aged for about 20 years more than Larry's (which was 0).

“Would you like a… couple fingers?” she asks Martin.

Martin raises an eyebrow, “No, that's fine, though it does seem you have paramount taste.” He's moved further into the room now and looks around again and sees a sprawled, nude figure in the armchair. She seems to have her head back, eyes closed, mouth open and drooling. Nezera follows his gaze and closed mouth chuckles. She walks over to the figure and strokes her cheek. The eyes of the girl open groggily and Nezera mumbles something into her ear while stroking her cheek. The naked girl looks around and adopts a shocked look on her face and scurries out of the room, covering her figure with her arms. Martin runs a facial recognition and finds she's been reported missing for several weeks. He fixes a steely glare on Nezera.

“So, hun, who are these two tasty biscuits you brought with you?” Nezera walks toward the group and closely inspects Draz. The left corner of her mouth rises slowly.

Martin holds his left hand out towards Draz and says, “This here is Draz, he's a civilian consultant helping me with the case we're on.”

She keeps the smirk and scans over to Weena sitting on Martin's shoulder, “And this little cutie?”

Weena brightens up and holds her hand out while Martin motions up toward her with his right hand, “I'm Weena, I'm lending Martin a hand as his partner.”

Nezera grasps her little hand, “Very nice to meet you. Not too many of your people around here.” Nezera plants a kiss on Weena’s hand and Weena giggles. Nezera stands tall, turns, and walks toward the fireplace. “Now, Martin, please enlighten me on why you've brought the ‘Shade’ into my domicile.”

Martin hears Draz’s hand grip his knife, the leather wrapping makes a chirp with the force that he's grasping it.

Nezera turns toward them and continues, “You know, I hear he doesn't even cast a shadow, is that natural? Not to mention he's from a rival gang, a goody two shoes at that. Least he can make his cobbler happy, can't say the same about his glove maker.”

Through clenched teeth, Draz retorts, “I may not cast a shadow but at least I can stand in the sun, Vampire.” He almost spits the last word.

The glass in Nezera’s hand shatters and glass shards slice her hand open. She continues squeezing, the blood starting at a drip but eventually makes an audible trickle sound. She whips her hand to the side, clearing the glass shards and within a few seconds, the blood stops flowing. She moves quicker than most humans can react and goes to grab Draz by the neck, but he poofs to where she was by the fireplace. She turns, expecting that and leaps at him even faster than he can respond to and slams him into the brick mantle. She growls in his face with her hand around his neck as he tries to gut her with his knife, her midsection dancing back and forth to avoid it. She grabs his wrist and wrenches it, placing the tip of the knife against his sternum.

The two hear the click of a hammer being pulled back and Martin clears his throat.

There are many superstitions in Origin. With the introduction of magic and aliens and the advancement of science, it seems pretty much anything is possible, and indeed a lot of this superstition is based in reality. Martin has a reputation in the underworld as a man of steadfast mind and spirit, who constantly walks the tightrope between law and morality, even siding with those who are morally right yet legally in the wrong.

Though these two may or may not believe the falsehoods they accuse each other of, anyone who's anyone takes heed of the superstition that “Detective Martin never misses”.

Nezera lets go and raises her hands. Draz gasps for breath and shoves her away, sheaths his knife and rests hunched over with his hand on his knee, cursing all the while.

“That was a bit dramatic, don't you think?” Martin growls. “Are you two done?”

Weena is fluttering overhead in case she needs to do something, her arms crossed in front of her and wearing her pouty mouth.

Nezera just smirks and Draz exhaustedly nods. Draz walks over to the chair and flops down into it.

“My sincerest apologies, that is no way to treat a guest, even one so insolent.” She has adopted her milky smooth cadence again, and not even a hint of bitterness.

Martin disengages the hammer and holsters his weapon. Weena floats down and over to Draz to comfort him.

“Now, I'm here for a case involving a good deal of missing people,” he says, with a knowing look but for an unrelated reason, more to freak her out.

It works, Nezera stiffens imperceptibly (to normal people) and states as if by rote, “There is no one here against their will.” She levels an eye and a raised eyebrow at Martin.

Martin can detect that she isn't lying, but he also never asked a question.

“You assume I am implicating you. That is far from why I'm here.”

She softens again to her comfortable self, “Oh? Then what can I help you with? Not sure little ol me will know much about anything.”

“You and I both know how far and fast word can travel, especially to someone who is listening. We've caught the scent of some sort of kidnapper snatching people and, so far as we know, animals and leaving not a shred of evidence. We also looked into any reports of corpse burning or mass burial and nothing came up. From that angle, we figure something is storing them alive or eating the victims. The modus operandi points to some kind of trap set up in an innocuous corner and then swiftly whisked away with no witnesses. Of course I knew this wasn't you or your people because, of course, you don't feed on animals, and you definitely leave evidence.”

Nezera grins with a lick of her teeth, “I appreciate your… knowledge. Personally, I haven't heard anything about such a practice, but I do know of people that are missing, some of whom I held dearly.” She gets solemn for a moment and walks to the doorway and leans out of it, issues an ear-splitting whistle, and yells “Lords and Ladies. Parlor. NOW!” The rumble of this roar echoes through the building, and throughout it some scrambling and scuffing of feet can be heard. She turns back to Martin, “Before I was just being silly regarding why you were here, but I can see you're finally dealing with something that actually matters.” Martin raises an eyebrow. “Not that you don't do that, but I think we can both agree that what the police force investigates never affects us here,” she says while raising her hands and pointing towards herself with four fingers on each hand.

At that moment a group of four enters - two men and two women. Due to the impromptu summoning, they probably met outside the door before coming in, probably theorizing with each other whether Nezera will be in a good mood or not. They are each in casual attire as a formal meeting wasn't expected. They are relieved somewhat when they see their leader also underdressed.

Nezera turns to them, “Ah, excellent, my lovelies are here.” She approaches each, leans down (as they're all shorter than her), and kisses them on the cheek.

“Dears, this is Detective Martin, and he's investigating something we've been trying to figure out ourselves. ‘Bout time they get off their cute asses,” she says, eyeing Martin up and down. “So what kinda leads do we have for the missing people?”

She looks at her people. They stare blankly.

Martin speaks up, “So, are there any new groups of, um, mmm…” He struggles to find the word. “Carnivores.” It wasn't the best word.

Nezera adopts a gross look on her face. The others roll their eyes.

“Ignoring your poor choice of words, no, and we've been looking. They generate heat we don't need.”

One of the ladies chimes in, “We haven't found any evidence or heard any whispers of anything lurking the shadows, or behind our backs.”

Martin rubs his chin, “Well, we do have a theory that someone is setting traps and then either picking them up quickly or the trap may have an automated return system, which is probably the most plausible of the two.”

Nezera’s eyes get a little wider, “Why do you think there are traps? We haven't found any in our searches.”

“We were fortunate that the two scenes we investigated were both occupied by a lot of grass. In an out of the way corner there was a rectangular depression in the grass where the tenants said there was never anything kept there. We think it's a trap, and Weena couldn't get any useful odors off of the area, other than the victim's.”

“Interesting indeed,” Nezera taps her right temple with her pointer finger, her other arm crossed over her midsection and leaning onto her right hip. “Could you use your police ties to inquire about any aerial activity that's going unaccounted for?”

Martin makes an impressed face and bobs his right pointer finger at her, “That's a decent idea. I'll look into that. In the meantime keep your ears open. If the victims aren't being eaten then they are either alive and being held somewhere, or are dead and the bodies need to be taken care of. On another note, they could have been shipped off somewhere but that would be really hard to do without someone noticing. We have very few leads, so anything is useful,” he points at Nezera, “You have my email if anything comes up. We gotta head outta here, see if we can't drum something up.” Martin walks past the collected group. He turns to see if Draz is following and he's not in the chair, he turns back and Draz is in front of him.

“Oh, shit, don't make a habit of that.”

Draz snuffs, “Oh. Sorry.”

“Let's get outta here, eh?”

Draz nods, still massaging his neck.

The trio walks toward the front door.

Martin sees Draz hanging his head slightly.

“Don't feel too bad. They don't call her the Blood Queen for nothing. She's constantly fully fed, like a mosquito, and she'd be a beast even without the mutation.”

“Nah, just disappointed in myself. Should be faster than that.”

“All it is is you underestimated her, just don't do that anymore.”

The group clears the doorway and is out on the stoop. The group of chuckleheads is no longer hanging out there.

On the way to the car, Martin stops, Draz walks forward a few steps. Martin grimaces, grabs Weena with one hand, lofting her toward Draz, pulls his gun with his other hand, turns and sees the fat leader four meters from him, charging with a drawn knife and a murderous look.

By the time the attacker is three meters away Martin smoothly glides the sights of the gun to line up with the altered reality targeting reticle he placed with his implant. Around the reticle are important figures like wind speed and direction, velocity vectors of the moving target, which automatically aligns the reticle with where the target will be accounting for said velocity and projected acceleration statistics.

Martin starts pulling the trigger before it's fully lined up to account for the time it takes for the hammer to travel back into its primed position before firing (as he hadn't cocked the hammer beforehand).

He has to ensure his arms are in the right position for firing. The enhanced powder load gives a hell of a kick and of his wrists or elbows aren't correct then the recoil will cause a nasty bruise. This is fine with Martin though because he doesn't believe an implement of death should be comfortable. It shouldn't be fun to use. It's a tool for a grisly job - and its user should feel it.

To describe the weapon as a revolver is technically incorrect. It bears a lot of resemblance to one, but it is, in fact, a break barrel, single chamber firearm. Martin's father gifted it to him when he made it on the force and always taught Martin “If you need more than one shot to solve the situation, then something is wrong”. The “one shot” in this case, however, is a doozy. The cartridge case resembles something that belongs in a shotgun (for ease of rearming). Martin carries multiple varieties of loadouts, including some he's had custom made for certain situations including a magnesium powder load to spray fire for a good distance and a thermite load (He might need it), all made by him personally.

His favorite standard bullet, which is what comes screaming out of the barrel now, is a custom milled, carbide tipped, lead-filled number that is crafted like the tip of a porcupine quill; serrated frills spiral down the side reducing the force required for penetration by half. The powder load is heavy, for extra velocity and penetration. This thing could disable any vehicle or armor known if placed in the right spot. Though in this situation it is overkill, it's just what was loaded already.

The nasty, carbide missile blasts through the man's knee, completely destroying the entire joint and removing the lower section of his leg.

The look of shock hits his face as his foot doesn't connect to the ground on his next pass and the realization of pain becomes clear and his body hits the ground. Writhing in pain, the overweight vampire lieutenant screams for his troop. Martin slowly walks over, opening the gun and removing the spent cartridge, and places it in his pocket for later reloading. If he could somehow dig the bullet out of the concrete it would still be usable, as the carbide didn't mar or distort in any way.

The troop was watching from behind the stoop and starts making their way over.

Martin slides another round in the chamber (a magnesium “Dragon’s Breath” load) and flicks the barrel closed, staring down the rest of them. Draz draws his proper, full-length sword and rests it on his shoulder. Weena hovers overhead and the breeze on the street picks up.

Martin kneels down and picks up the severed limb. He looks over at Draz, offering the appendage, and says “Hide this somewhere, please.”

Draz nods and grabs the shin, disappearing for a moment and reappears in the same spot, sans severed body part. The vampire group stops and retreats back to the stoop.

The man on the ground has already stopped screaming and bleeding and is just glaring at Martin, frozen.

Martin looks him square in the eye. “Enjoy that prosthetic, kid. Maybe you can take something away from this, if not your leg.”

He turns his back and walks toward the car, holstering the hand cannon on his way. Draz waits outside of the car until it's driven off, then blinks out of sight.

Raising a slightly shaking flask to his lips, Martin takes a swig, to take the edge off and reduce his heart rate.

Fading into existence in the rear passenger seat, Draz leans forward and claps Martin on the shoulder, “Wooo, now that was something!”

“Yeah, sure,” Martin grumbles.

Weena reaches over, squeezes his hand, and gives it a couple pats.

Martin sighs slightly, enough for Weena to hear at least.

“So what's up with you, Draz? How do you do that stuff?” Martin eyes him in the rearview mirror.

Draz exhales through pursed lips, “Well, I don' know. How do you breathe? How do Oogli change the air around them? How do I do it? I jus’ do. Always have done.”

Weena gets excited, “Ooh, ooh, that's a good way of explaining that! How do you guys see? There's organs and such.”

Martin nods, “Yeah, that's a good point. I just didn't know if there was any magic involved or some kinda advanced teleporter.”

Draz snickers, “Nah, nothin’ that complicated.”

A few minutes pass and Draz sighs, “So where we goin’ next?”

Martin changes lanes, “Well, I sent a communique to the air traffic AI and she says that there hasn't been any illicit activity, even of small craft, and she can even track birds. Everything is accounted for in that department.”

“So, what do we do next? It's not an airborne trap pickup like you said and it's very unlikely that someone picked them up manually, because Weena here would've made ‘em. So I don't think we're looking at traps.”

“No smell, I woulda got em if there was anything.”

“Weena here is the best nose I've met, one of the few reasons I keep ‘er around,” Martin chuckles and nudges her.

“Come on I know it's because of my pretty smile,” and she sticks her purple tongue out at him.

“Well, I haven't eaten in awhile, and I can guarantee Weena is hungry…”

“Yeah!”

“... so we should probably get a meal in, amenable?”

Draz pats his stomach, “Yeah, sounds decent. Shiftin’ takes it outta me.”

That'll give me time to think about what to do next.

“Where we going after that?”

Damn.

Martin shrugs, “So shifting is what you call it? How's that?” Martin signals right and makes a turn.

“Good question, no one's put it to me that way. Hm. It just feels like a shift I guess.”

“You're shifting positions?”

“Well, no. That's the end result but its must slower than that.”

“Slow? You made a fool of those goons in under a few seconds.”

“Oh yeah. I guess to you it's fast. Uh. Hm, I don't know. I shift, and everythin’ kinda freezes and gets foggy, shimmery. Then I just, move. I can go anywhere I want, up, down, even through stuff. It's kinda like swimming in that I have to hold my breath, but instead of moving my arms and legs I  just kinda like, will it.”

Martin has no idea what to make of this, “Interesting. Have you spoken to any kinda scientists about this?”

Draz laughs heartily, “Nah, I never gave that much thought. I've been rolling with Shintaro and his crew since I can remember. We're a busy buncha knuckleheads.”

You got that right. Martin chuckles.

Weena turns around and sticks her head into the gap between the seats, “Who's Shintaro?”

Martin smirks.

Draz smiles, “He's my best bud. We've known each other since our formative years in the orphanage. Then he discovered he's a pyro, he’s a Crota so no big surprise, and we both decided that no kids would haveta grow up like us. No education, no jobs, no money, and no family. ‘The Fireminds’ is our lifeblood, it's why we exist. Now technically what we do sometimes isn't legal, but somehow it's always Detective Martin covering those cases. Someone is looking after us.” He gives Martin a knowing grin in the mirror and Martin winks at him. “We never officially met until yesterday, and Shintaro always keeps his distance.”

“For everyone's sake,” Martin responds.

Weena hugs Martin's arm.

“So you teach kids like school?”

“Yeah, and a lot of pyro kids who don't know what they are or how to control it. It's a dangerous gift…” Draz gets really solemn.

Martin frowns, “Yeah, I can imagine.” He doesn't have to imagine. He knows that Shintaro was a suspect in the arson of the orphanage they grew up in, they could never get enough evidence together. Whether he did it on purpose or not, the contribution he's made to his community since is enough to exonerate him in Martin’s eyes. Besides, there were no fatalities.

Martin perks up, “So Weenie, what are you gonna eat?”

Weena fidgets and stretches in her seat, “Oooooh, I don't know! So much food I want to stick in my face!”

Draz and Martin share a smile.

[eightysixsanity]

Martin's gun, and some ruthlessness

On the way to the car Martin stops, Draz walks forward a few steps. Martin grimaces, grabs Weena with one hand, lofting her toward Draz, pulls his gun with his other hand, turns and sees the fat leader four meters from him, charging with a drawn knife and a murderous look.

By the time the attacker is three meters away Martin smoothly glides the sights of the gun to line up with the altered reality targeting reticle he placed with his implant. Around the reticle are important figures like wind speed and direction, velocity vectors of the moving target, which automatically aligns the reticle with where the target will be accounting for said velocity and projected acceleration statistics.

Martin starts pulling the trigger before it's fully lined up to account for the time it takes for the hammer to travel back into its primed position before firing (as he hadn't cocked the hammer beforehand).

To describe the weapon as a revolver is technically incorrect. It bears a lot of resemblance to one, but it is in fact a break barrel, single chamber firearm. Martin's father gifted it to him when he made it on the force, and always taught Martin “If you need more than one shot to solve the situation, then something is wrong”. The “one shot” in this case, however, is a doozy. The cartridge case resembles something that belongs in a shotgun (for ease of rearming). Martin carries multiple varieties of loadouts, including some he's had custom made for certain situations including a magnesium powder load to spray fire for a good distance and a thermite load (He might need it), all made by him personally.

His favorite standard bullet, which is what comes screaming out of the barrel now, is a custom milled, carbide tipped, lead filled number that is crafted like the tip of a porcupine quill; serrated frills spiral down the side reducing the force required for penetration by half. The powder load is heavy, for extra velocity and penetration. This thing could disable any vehicle or armor known if placed in the right spot. Though in this situation it is overkill, it's just what was loaded already.

The nasty, carbide missile blasts through the man's knee, completely destroying the entire joint and removing the lower section of his leg.

The look of shock hits his face as his foot doesn't connect to the ground on his next pass and the realization of pain becomes clear and his body hits the ground. Writhing in pain, the overweight vampire lieutenant screams for his troop. Martin slowly walks over, opening the gun and removing the spent cartridge, and places it in his pocket for later reloading. If he could somehow dig the bullet out of the concrete it would still be usable, as the carbide didn't mar or distort in any way.

The troop was watching from behind the stoop and starts making their way over.

Martin slides another round in the chamber (a magnesium “Dragon’s Breath” load) and flicks the barrel closed, staring down the rest of them. Draz draws his proper, full length sword and rests it on his shoulder. Weena hovers overhead and the breeze on the street picks up.

Martin kneels down and picks up the severed limb. He looks over at Draz, offering the appendage, and says “Hide this somewhere, please.”

Draz nods and grabs the shin, disappearing for a moment and reappears in the same spot, sans severed body part. The vampire group stops and retreats back to the stoop.

The man on the ground has already stopped screaming and bleeding and is just glaring at Martin, frozen.

Martin looks him square in the eye. “Enjoy that prosthetic, kid. Maybe you can take something away from this, if not your leg.”

He turns his back and walks toward the car, holstering the hand cannon on his way. Draz waits outside of the car until it's driven off, then blinks out of sight.

[eightysixsanity]

Okonomiyaki [Japanese pancake] stuffed with red cabbage, shrimp, cod, green onion, green hot peppers, and rice. Topped it off with a combo of mayo/okonomiyaki sauce [thick Worcestershire essentially], chicken thigh, kakuteki [radish kimchi], and crispy chicken skin. That's a mouthful. #food #foodporn #okonomiyaki #kakuteki #japanesefood #pancake #ricepancake #comfortfood #crispychickenskin #cookslife #cooksofinstagram #cooksoftumblr #whitemancooks

[eightysixsanity]

Reunion with @grootdog what a sweetie.

[eightysixsanity]

Idk. Just something I made for lunch today. Juevos rancheros with cornbread, soft curd scrambled eggs, pepper jack, chorizo patty ground by a colleague. #food #foodporn ? #juevosrancheros #chorizo #scrambledeggs #cornbread #pepperjack #familymeal #cookslife #cooksofinstagram #cooksoftumblr

[eightysixsanity]

Caramelized onion and blue cheese bread pudding with a Dijon cheddar mornay, balsamic glaze, and fried sage. #food #foodporn #breadpudding #bluecheese #caramelizedonion #mornay #balsamicglaze #brunch #balsamicglaze #cookslife #cooksoftumblr #cooksofinstagram

[eightysixsanity]

Made falafel at work today, these look a lot better deep fried than pan fried. Everyone was super happy with them. #food #foodporn #falafel #toum #familymeal #cookslife #cooksofinstagram

[eightysixsanity]

Garam masala pulled pork with fresh cucumbers and pickled red onions on garlic naan. New lighting setup. #food #foodporn #culinary #pulledpork #garammasala #pickledredonions #cucumber #garlicnaan #cookslife #cooksofinstagram #cooksoftumblr

[eightysixsanity]

Grilled cheese with some spanikopita filling (spinach and feta), and blistered shishito peppers. #food #foodporn #grilledcheese #spanikopita #spinach #feta #shishitopeppers #familymeal #cookslife #cooksofinstagram

[eightysixsanity]

My newest attempt at Ramen. Have some fish in my freezer to use up so this is both thin sliced eye round and a piece of cod. Starting at the top going clockwise is a 5 minute egg, corn, matchstick carrot, sauted shitake mushroom, and Savoy (cheaper than napa) cabbage. Underneath it all is a little baby spinach (gotta have your dark green veggies) all in a garlic and ginger Dashi broth. My mentor says Ramen is all about technique, I hope I did something right. #food #foodporn #ramen #dashi #homecooked #cookslife #cooksofinstagram #technique #culinaryarts