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Post by David Young Henning on Jan 19, 2011 14:37:40 GMT -8
[Long post to make up for some lost time-]Henning stood at the gates of Hell, and all the air was heat and ash... The clean, conservative brick building he'd seen on the front of almost all the tourism pamphlets he'd picked up from the hotel was now almost completely enveloped in thick, impenetrable black smoke. Driving up towards the Community Center, he couldn't even see the prized clock tower... Why hadn't someone alerted the police or the fire department? Surely the smoke must have been noticed by now... But he dared not interrupt the deadly exchange taking place over his cell phone to call the authorities. And there was no time to drive elsewhere for help. He was on his own. The main entrance had been locked from the inside with a heavy padlock and chain, dispatched easily enough with a few rounds from his standard-issue handgun. There was a risk that the noise would eliminate any element of surprise, but at least the phone still seemed to be operating somewhat, and it didn't appear as if his entrance had been heard. He entered the first floor with his suit jacket draped over his head and pressed against his nose and mouth, the phone stuttering convulsively in his ear. "I suppose that this *KKKSSH* you either, then? *SSSHKKKSSS* Charlotte? NOW I am *KKKSSSH* -UCKING PSYCHOPATH. *KKKSH* LIKE BEING RIGHT?"
The reception crackled like the flames he could feel, but not see. He stumbled blindly into the smoke and almost tripped over the first step. Despair and rage mingled to form grasping claws in his head, threatening to drag composure from him, until the strangely comforting phrases from his Quantico training returned to anchor his emotions: Crisis situation. Severe environmental hazards. The kidnapper is mentally disturbed. Do not presume he can be reasoned with... Your only priority is to rescue the hostage, by any means necessary.
Always remember protocol.He stepped over a grimy deck of playing cards scattered all over the staircase as he made his way upward, his only unhampered sense coming from the increasingly erratic voices in his ear. Reception and visibility, not to mention oxygen levels, were steadily worsening. He might have still been on the first floor, for all he knew; it was impossible to tell how high up he was, how much farther he'd have to go to find them. Charlotte: “Not... used to someone... fighting back *KKKKSSSSH* don’t know what to do... *SSSHKKCH* cower in fear.” The Smoking Man, sounding fuzzy and far away. Laughing. "*SSSHKKK* don't *SSHK* when to stop talking." God, Charlotte, don't antagonize him... Stay quiet until you know exactly what he's after... Always remember protocol...Charlotte, her voice pinched and strained: “...always *SSSHKSS* a scintillating... conver *KSSSHHSSK* any circumstances.”
Henning tore the cloth from his nose and mouth, and ignoring the toxic air screamed up the stairs: "HEY! YOU UP THERE! THIS IS THE FBI! GIVE US THE HOSTAGE AND-" The smoke overwhelmed him and he subsided into a coughing fit, which ended just in time for him to hear the Smoking Man's nearly unintelligible reply to Charlotte: "*CRKKKKSHH* that so? *SSSHKK* wonder what sort of conversation you'll make on the way down." Protocol dropped by the wayside as flames of a different sort leaped into Henning's abused chest and erupted out his mouth. He began running, ignoring the foul taste of the ashen air and the scorching in his lungs. "IF YOU'VE DONE ANYTHING TO HER I SWEAR I WILL TAKE YOUR GODDAMN EYES OUT WITH YOUR OWN FUCKING CIGARETTE YOU COWARDLY SON OF A PYROMANIACAL BITCH-"
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 19, 2011 23:26:12 GMT -8
When the cigarette was kicked away, he stared at his empty hand for a long moment, the breeze blowing by and tousling his dark, dirty hair. Slowly, he turned his gaze towards her, ignoring the cigarette as it tumbled downward...no, now she had gotten his full focus again. Alarmingly...he didn't look angry anymore.
He looked like he had an idea.
"Oh, good," he rasped. "So now I know how to get you to SHUT UP." With that, he released his grip, letting her drop and dangle from his wrist. Her nails dug hard into his flesh, cutting him, drawing more blood from the cracked, scarred skin...but his grimace looked suspiciously like a grin. He laughed his usual soft laugh, watching her hang for a moment - and then with a quick swing, he flung her back onto the rooftop again, turning neatly on his heels to face her.
He moved towards her, reaching behind his back. "If I drop you, that would be indirect, wouldn't it? Well...." With the hitching of a latch and the scraping of metal, he pulled from beneath his shirt a wakizashi, the blade rusted and caked with violet blood...a warped parody of the sword Michael carried. He spun it around in a flourish, moving to stand right over her.
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 19, 2011 23:58:21 GMT -8
Charlotte hit the roof and rolled to a stop, wheezing and gasping for breath as she lay on her back. The instant when he had let go had terrified her. What if her hands had slipped? Then he threw her... and the immediate danger of plummeting to the ground passed. She pressed a hand to her ribs, trying not to cry from the pain. She couldn’t, not in front of him.
“Sorry, Hyde. You don’t get that pleasure,” she retorted, voice hoarse and weak. She could feel his blood trickling down her neck. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Of COURSE he has a sword. He stood over her, rusty, violet-stained blade in hand. Pushing herself up on one elbow, she met his gaze defiantly. She couldn't run; he was too close. But she wouldn't go down without a fight.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 20, 2011 0:38:33 GMT -8
As he stood there, looming, lording over her with a cold smirk on his lips, he looked her over in a quick flick of his eyes...he was taking a toll. Exhausting her. She would have to stop eventually. In fact, he could make her stop right now, if he wanted to.
"...You know, that name is growing on me, the more I think about it." He stood still for a moment, watching her pull herself up onto her elbow. He canted his head to one side, his smirk broadening - then kicked forward against the arm, knocking her back down. Slowly, oh-so-CAREFULLY, he rested his foot down upon her throat...the grit of the ash on the bottom of his shoes digging into her skin.
"Yes. 'Hyde' isn't such a bad nickname, after all."
He put just a little more pressure down, then let it up again, smirk giving way to a broad, cruel grin.
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 20, 2011 1:20:58 GMT -8
Charlotte wanted nothing more than to knock that cold smirk off his face. He was wearing her out... and he knew it. But she knew that she would keep going as long as she had to. Her stubbornness has some uses, it seemed.
Then he knocked her back to the ground and rested a foot against her neck. She refused to show him any more fear than she already had, though lying there with his foot on her neck sent more than a little of it coiling down her spine. Hyde’s growing on him, eh? She gasped, or tried to, as he placed a little more pressure.
“Maybe I should call you something else,” she whispered hoarsely, hands moving in sign language simultaneously. “Like ‘Useless’. Or ‘Psycho’.” She moved then, surprisingly quickly for all that she’d been through. Snaking a hand around his ankle (the one NOT attached to the foot resting on her neck, of course), she wrenched it towards her as hard as possible.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 20, 2011 2:45:40 GMT -8
It was so AMUSING, watching her gasp and squirm underfoot. He was rather glad he didn't throw her off the tower at this point...yes, this was much better. He hefted the sword in his hands, relishing the weight of the rusted steel. He watched her try to speak, that strange grin still on his features.
"No, no...stick with your first instinct-"
Suddenly as he spoke, she was wrenching his foot out from under him - and with a yelp, he lost his balance, tumbling backwards head-over-heels...and over the edge of the rooftop. He hissed with pain as the sword fell uselessly downward and out of sight - he had let it go in favor of grabbing the edge of the rooftop, bloodstained fingers shaking as he had the edge in a white-knuckled grip. He clawed and kicked at the wall, trying to pull himself up - to no avail, it seemed.
He glared upward, growling over the wind.
Damn it.
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 20, 2011 2:54:57 GMT -8
Charlotte struggled to her feet, gasping in pain. She HURT. Coughing, she made her way shakily over to the edge of the roof. She could see his blood stained fingers clinging to the rooftop. Almost... She knelt down far enough away that he couldn’t try to grab her, one hand pressed flat against its wooden surface.
She smirked.
“How does it feel? Being on the opposite side for once?” Her smirk deepened. “I, for one, am finding it thoroughly enjoyable. I notice you’re not grinning anymore. Not as amusing now?”
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 20, 2011 3:07:01 GMT -8
"No - it isn't - but if you're enjoying it - what does that - make - you?"
His voice was strained with the effort of holding himself up - his hands were still slick with blood, slippery and making it hard to grip. He struggled, fingernails digging into the wood. He tried to find a footing and failed, his dress shoes catching no traction against the side of the building. He narrowed his gray eyes up at her, teeth bared in a grimace.
"What do you plan - ungh - to do? Let - let me die?" He growled, his left hand slipping away from the edge - the fingernail of his ring finger caught in the wood and was torn away. He scrambled to get his grip back, an edge in his voice.
"Let HIM die?"
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 20, 2011 3:26:15 GMT -8
Charlotte shrugged.
“It makes me human.”
The smirk that had been on her face faded as his words sank in. Whatever happens to him... happens to Michael? So... If he falls... He'd be hurt too. She couldn’t let that happen. Not just for Michael, but Mister Stewart. He trusts me. If Michael died because of something she did...
There was a chance he was lying. Saying whatever he thought would get her to pull him up. Maybe Michael wouldn't die. Maybe there wasn't such a symbiotic relationship between the two...
It didn't matter. She couldn't take the chance.
“FUCK,” she hissed. She wanted to let him fall. GODS, she wanted to let him fall. But there were more important things. She knew that helping him back onto the roof would put her too close for comfort. She would be right back in his grasp. But if she didn’t...
For Michael. For Mister Stewart.
She moved closer.
“I HATE this. But I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for him. Count your bloody blessings,” she told him, venom in her voice.
Charlotte held out a hand.
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Post by David Young Henning on Jan 20, 2011 9:27:00 GMT -8
At some point during the long journey upstairs, Henning had dropped the phone; he didn't notice; he didn't need it any longer. Gun in hand, he burst through yet another door out onto the roof of the Clock Tower, where the sky was just as obscured as the rest of the building in a dark cloud of soot... But what he saw there was not what he had expected. It was just as well his throat had rasped to a halt under the pressure of blackened air, or his yelling might have upset the delicate proceedings he was about to witness.
Charlotte had turned the tables, or so it seemed; Henning had emerged just in time to see a dark figure slipping almost unobtrusively over the side of the roof, and all he could see clearly was the bright fire of Charlotte’s hair as she stood with her back to him, leaning over the edge, uttering words he couldn’t quite hear.
Had she killed her opponent? Who was she talking to? Henning dared not interrupt… With a growing sense of nauseated shock, he watched as Charlotte crouched down and offered her hand to what must have been the Smoking Man- out of sight, but apparently still alive.
From his vantage point in the doorway, Henning slowly started edging towards the lone red-haired figure standing precariously at the other end of the rooftop, his gun held to the side and at the ready.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 20, 2011 14:57:11 GMT -8
As David inched forward, he would find, after a couple of steps, that there was something just underfoot - something that rolled forward as he put his foot down upon it. Something dented, bloody, metal, and familiar.
When Charlotte relented, when she offered the hand, the Smoking Man's grimace became a grin again...his voice was low and sly as he reached up to take the hand, the blood on his fingers still burning-hot. "Well, let's see. One - you named me. They say names have power...." He hissed with effort as she pulled him up onto the rooftop, finally getting his footing. He promptly shuffled around her and away from the edge, backing up a couple of paces and circling.
"The second would be that you pulled me up. How generous of you. The third...."
His gaze slid over to where the tin of salmon had come to a stop, just a few feet away - his eyes followed its path, falling upon David...burning with amusement. He pulled out a new cigarette and twirled it about his fingers, the white paper sides staining with his blood.
"...Is that our new guest can't see or hear me."
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 20, 2011 17:01:53 GMT -8
Charlotte didn’t like the way his grimace melted into a grin. She didn’t like anything about pulling his psychotic ass back onto the roof. But she had no choice. So she grabbed his hand tightly (his blood burning her skin) and pulled, ribs protesting vehemently... until he was getting his footing and circling around her. Counting his blessings.
She moved away from the edge of the roof. I did name him, didn’t I. I can only hope that names have enough power...
“You owe him your life. He’s the only reason I pulled you up. If I had my druthers you’d still be dangling there.”
Her eyes followed his, to the salmon... over to David, who had emerged onto the roof, gun in hand. The relief at seeing him was quickly surpassed by worry, and the guilt of having dragged him into another dangerous situation. She wasn’t sure if the threat in the Smoking Man’s word was directed towards her, or David... but it didn’t matter. She would make it directed at her. She took careful, measured steps, until she was standing in between the two men. If I tell you to run, David... I hope you run. I won’t let him hurt you.
“Perhaps not. But I can.” She smirked. “Not man enough to continue to take me on?”
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Post by David Young Henning on Jan 20, 2011 17:46:07 GMT -8
As he moved closer, Henning could hear some of what Charlotte was saying... Even if he hadn't been stopped in his tracks by the thing he'd just kicked- the sight of it turning his blood cold, even though the air was acrid with the smell of something burning- Even if whoever it was she was speaking to had been visible, her words wouldn't have made any more sense. She said she'd pulled "him" up... But all he could see was a sort of dark flickering smudge that could very well have been a waft of smoke drifting in front of his eyes. He started to raise the gun, then stopped.
"Charlotte?" he called desperately across the shrinking distance that seperated them. His eyes flicked warily back and forth across the rooftop, but she was the only solid shape he could identify beside the tin of salmon. "Who the hell are you talking to? What does he want?"
He was still moving forward by inches.
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 20, 2011 18:16:19 GMT -8
Charlotte didn’t take her eyes off of the Smoking Man. She couldn’t. She was the only one on the roof that could see him. All that stood between him and David. She turned a little, holding a hand out towards David. Please listen to me. Please.
“David... I need you to stay there. Please. No matter what happens,” she told him, voice steady. She had to keep him at a safe distance. Until the Smoking Man... Hyde, had gone wherever the fuck he went when not out being a psychotic chain smoker about town.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 20, 2011 23:43:24 GMT -8
He watched in silence as Charlotte and David had their little exchange...canting his head to one side, amusement clear on his face. The comment about 'not being man enough' rolled off his shoulders for the time being - or at least, it seemed to. In point of fact, he started to...laugh. Softly at first...then louder, harsher, his stormy eyes flicking from Charlotte to David and back again.
OH. I see. How...cute.... A twinge of something caught him off-guard - his expression flickered, his smile going rather fixed and his eyes burning. She was protecting this man. From him. But she was protecting him...because...? He felt another twinge. His mind went back to the night before, ever so briefly - to the Shadow he had run through with his sword. He tried to remember his own expression when he had done that - tried to remember if it held the same flare that Charlotte's gaze held now. When he killed that Shadow...had he looked that way? A hand brushed up, slowly, running over one side of his face as if checking that it was the same as it had been. His gaze went unfocused - lost in thought for just a split second before he blinked it away.
No. It wasn't for her. I just wanted to kill it.
The grin reappeared in force, his eyes darkening. "...Oh, you want for me to go after you again? And here I was...thinking I might show you a bit of gratitude for saving me. Huh." He laughed - but there was something...weird about it. Unnerved. Unhinged. "But if...that's what you WANT...."
He started to stalk towards her, slowly, stopping a couple of paces away to light his cigarette and take a drag from it, letting the smoke curl through the air.
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