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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 3:40:50 GMT -8
Charlotte turned slowly, tracking him as he prowled around her, never letting her eyes leave him. She realised that she was seeing more features of him than she ever had before (those scars...), though she still could not see his FACE. Who are you...
“But you’re NOT. You’re not trying to bring to light anything! All you’re doing is playing psychological games.” She said, voice lashing out at him. “I’m not refusing to acknowledge anything.”
She coughed, hard. When it ended she was breathless and aching. But she ploughed ahead.
“You don’t have a purpose. Your ‘help’ was as bad as those Shadows. Maybe, MAYBE, you stopped one from getting to me. Doesn’t change the fact that you practically drove me into their fucking arms.” She took a breath. “You played with my fucking mind. Terrified me to the point that I fled, directly towards the Shadows that you supposedly want to prevent me from becoming one of. And now you drove me up the Clock Tower with flames and smoke. No. Help. At ALL.”
He stopped moving, and she stopped moving with him.
“No one can see that because you are not HELPING.”
There was something different about his tone now, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There was almost a... wildness to it.
“Not your design? Reflects upon Him, and reflects upon me? How, exactly, does it do that?” She... was confused. What the hell was he going on about? Well, whatever it was, it didn’t matter. “You’re merely a pawn? You’re telling me you’re taking orders? Why?”
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 18, 2011 17:44:24 GMT -8
"Do NOT PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT I AM AND AM NOT DOING!" The words were bellowed with markedly more force than he had ever used before - he took a step forward, treading on the cigarette he had dropped. His fists clenched at his sides, his body stiffened with anger.
"I could have let that one kill you, Charlotte. I could have. But I didn't. You have to learn to fight back - once they can see you, it's FIGHT or DIE. You said it yourself, didn't you? Things are different from the first time? You're learning to fight in situations that would make most simply...stop. You are standing here SHOUTING at a man who you believe is TORTURING YOU. You may not think I am helping...but I HAVE left my mark on you."
Just as he was gaining ground back...what she had just said settled in. Her question rung in his ears, and he actually faltered back a step as if she had thrown water on him. Why WAS he taking orders? Why WAS he answering to the designs and stray thoughts of a young man who could not even see what he was unwittingly fighting against? Someone who was...so much...weaker than he was?
Why...WAS he?
He fell silent, seething in the smoke.
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 18:00:57 GMT -8
“I will presume to tell you whatever I damn well please. Since I’m obviously seeing things clearer than you are!” she snapped at him. “You’re crazy. Certifiably batshit INSANE.” She coughed again, and her ribs protested. She probably should have stopped baiting him, but she couldn’t. Her ire had a target now.
“How do you know that it would have killed me? The others I encountered up close and personal didn’t. I managed to defend myself well enough. Without your ‘help’, I might add.” She smirked. “I’m not most people. I hate to burst your delusional bubble, but I’m not learning to do anything.”
She made a disgusted noise.
“Left your mark on me? You threw my mother’s murder in my face, you son of a bitch.” Her voice was biting, cutting through the smoke in a way that was almost physical. “That is not helping, in any sense of the word.” She kept going, without thinking; using his words against him. “You’re a pawn. A marionette, dancing on your master’s strings. Doing whatever you’re told without thinking for yourself. Can you? Is it even possible for you to?” She fell silent for a moment, creeping through the smoke as stealthily as she was able, towards where his voice had come from.
As much as she didn't want to get close to the psychopath... she was at the end of her rope, irritation-wise.
“Maybe if you could you’d have realised that psychologically torturing people isn’t the best way to ‘help’ them.”
Sensing someone (it had to be him, he was the only other person on the bloody roof) in the greyness, she swung, hard, towards where she estimated his face to be.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 18, 2011 19:15:44 GMT -8
The Smoking Man could feel his temper rising out of his control - he shook, fists once again clenched tightly enough to draw blood from his palms. Despite his better efforts, what she had said distracted him - he was stuck on that idea, that concept that she kept reiterating. Why was he doing someone else's bidding? Why was he doing what someone else wanted? Why was he bridled...why wasn't he just doing things HIS WAY? "I am NOT CRAZY," he growled, wrenching his eyes shut. "And I can See JUST FINE - I'm here because HE CA-" He was cut off sharply as Charlotte's fist connected with his eye, knocking him into a twisted, bent over position. he didn't move for a long moment...he was stunned. She had hit him. Not by throwing anything this time...no, she had attacked him directly. A soft, strange sound came from him, off, strangled...he was laughing, softly, a breathless and hysterical chuckle that sounded little other than involuntary. Then all at once, his grimy hands shot through the smoke, grabbing Charlotte around the shoulders and plowing her backward. His hands were hot, as if the fire he seemed to favor burned within him - they were also strong, forcing her right up against one of the pillars at the corner of the rooftop. His cigarette forgotten for the moment, he left the cloud of smoke behind...the haze clearing away from his head and shoulders. He was young, perhaps younger than she had expected, but his otherwise-nice features were too gaunt, making him look sickly, ghostly; ashes and filth darkened his short brunette hair, now disheveled with his bangs falling against his sweat-soaked forehead. His skin was sallow, the darkness under his eyes deep and pronounced against his pallor, his lips cracked and bleeding; his expression was twisted into one of pure rage - teeth yellowed from the cigarettes bared in a feral snarl, stormy, bloodshot gray eyes wide and full of blind fury. But more frightening than anything.... It was a face that Charlotte knew. "...There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point...."
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 19:34:01 GMT -8
His hands burned hot on Charlotte’s shoulders as he forced her against one of the pillars at the corner of the rooftop. She gasped in surprise. He was stronger than she expected, and she had the sinking feeling that getting away from him would be fucking difficult.
Then she saw his face.
Everything went very very still.
She knew that face.
It was MICHAEL. Gaunter and grimier than she’d seen before... but Michael. Something clicked into place, like a tumbler on a lock. This was the secret Mister Stewart had been keeping. What he couldn’t tell her. The Smoking Man was MICHAEL. FUCK.[/b] The burned bookmark tucked into Jekyll and Hyde suddenly made sense...
Wait.
It wasn’t possible for Michael to have changed appearances so incredibly drastically in the time between running into him at the library and now. He’d looked under the weather... But he could not spontaneously grow this gaunt. Not to mention her having seen the Smoking Man at Mister Stewarts’ moments before seeing Michael... Then the passage she read earlier at the library popped into her head.
Son of a... Jekyll and motherfucking HYDE.
“Fuck,” she breathed softly. “Hyde. You’re his Hyde.”
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 18, 2011 20:12:45 GMT -8
Charlotte's sudden stillness did little to curtail his anger - he was right in her face now, breath hot and reeking of his cigarettes as he hissed in low tones. 'Hyde,' she had called him. Something ugly, something undesirable. His hands tightened around her shoulders.
"Let me get something straight," he growled, shaking her a bit up against the pillar. "I am NOT - I will NOT BE - HIS ANYTHING." With a sudden rough motion, he threw her towards the ground, bringing his hand up to where his eye was still stinging. He gave another strangely involuntary laugh, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Now that the smoke had faded so much, his arms were clearly not the only thing scarred...the top few buttons on his shirt were open, showing off similar scars across his sternum. Did Michael have the same marks?
"You're right. I don't have to be his puppet. I don't have to keep his ideals. He doesn't know what they're like...he can't even See them. He only knows that He wants to get at them...he only knows that HE is HELPLESS. That doesn't mean I need to be." He prowled closer, striking a match and lighting up before standing over her. He took a drag.
"Time to try that direct approach."
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 20:30:49 GMT -8
Instinctively Charlotte recoiled... or tried to. The pillar at her back stopped her from going anywhere. His cigarette breath made her stomach churn. Or maybe that was the fear. Her breath came in nervous gasps. His hand tightened around her shoulders. Did he not like that she called him Hyde?
“You’ll always be his Hyde. That’s how it works,” she retorted, once again using words as a weapon. “No matter how much you wish otherwise.”
He threw her towards the ground. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and made her ribs throb. She hissed in pain, climbing to her knees and gazing at him defiantly. As if to say “no matter what you do, you will not cow me”.
“How do you know you’re NOT helpless?” Her tone dripped with scorn. “So what if you can see them? You haven’t done much towards them, save for when it helps you torment someone.”
He prowled closer, looming over her as he lit up another cigarette and took a drag. She raised her chin a little, challenging, even now. Bring it.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 18, 2011 21:39:17 GMT -8
It was with a loud snarl that he regarded her defiance - her insistence that he would always be 'His Hyde.' The thought twisted about within him, sickening him...no. No, he was the one in control here. He was stronger. He was more aware, less afraid. He didn't have to 'wish' anything. He merely had to ACT.
"And how do you know - how can you ASSUME - how many of them I have actually killed? You are not my keeper...you do not know where I go, what I DO each night...." The little lift of her chin infuriated him - lip curling, he pulled his foot back, bringing it forward in a swift, harsh kick towards her side. He wasn't playing anymore. His patience was spent - hell, it was a wonder he had made it this long, especially after the night he had just had.
"I'm NOT the one who is helpless here, in the end...."
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 22:00:51 GMT -8
“We already established what I think you do,” she told him, “You remember, don’t you? I believe ‘nothing’ sums it up quite nicely.”
His foot hammered into her side, and white hot pain exploded in her ribs as Charlotte heard something break. She cried out, tumbling back with the force of the blow. Sprawled on the wooden floor, she tried to breathe, to gather herself. She pulled herself shakily up to her hands and knees, one hand pressed to her ribs.
Gazing up at him through a curtain of hair, she smirked, a little pained laugh escaping.
“Have you heard of a little thing called Dissociative Identity Disorder? That’s all you are. Only you have a little more... range than the usual alternate personality.”
Wincing in pain, she drew herself up.
“And helpless? Helpless would be not standing up to you. Letting you scare me. I’m afraid you don’t get that privilege. Not anymore.”
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 18, 2011 22:47:01 GMT -8
The Smoking Man had heard enough - he was tired of playing noble, tired of playing 'nice' while it was so very clear that she would hear none of it. She was just going to keep snapping back from his strikes, going to keep making her little comments and quipping her little quips until she wasn't breathing anymore.
Perhaps that could be arranged.
Roaring wordlessly, he rushed up to her, closing his hands around her throat. His touch was blazing, his grip strong - he pulled her up off her feet, moving forward steadily, his fierce gray eyes locked with hers as he held her out...and over the edge of the Clock Tower. He let the cigarette drop from between his lips, tumbling over the edge and downward towards the ground below.
"I suppose," he rasped, his voice cold and shaking with rage, "That this doesn't scare you either, then? Hm? You see, Charlotte? NOW I am torturing you. NOW I'm just being a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH. DO YOU LIKE BEING RIGHT?"
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 18, 2011 23:57:51 GMT -8
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
Panic practically SANG through Charlotte’s veins as the Smoking Man closed his hands around her throat and pulled her off her feet. His grip was strong and tight, and she couldn’t help the involuntary strangled gasping sound as he moved forward. Her breathing was a shallow rasp, and his hands burned hotly against her skin. She struggled, though it did no good. His grip was strong.
There was a moment of almost-vertigo as he thrust her over the edge of the Clock Tower, and she locked her hands around his wrist. Her mind was racing... trying to figure a way out. She’d long since forgotten the phone in her pocket.
His cigarette fell from his lips, plummeting past her towards the ground below.
“Not... used to someone... fighting back... are you?” she forced out. Knew my mouth was going to get me in trouble one of these days. Just never knew it’d be with the alternate personality of a sword wielding, rhyming aide. Only in Greenvale. “You just... don’t know what to do... when someone doesn’t cower in fear.”
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 19, 2011 2:03:48 GMT -8
In spite of his anger, the Smoking Man actually laughed as she continued to talk...even as he was dangling her over her potential death. He literally had her life in his hands, and here she was, still insulting him. If he wasn't so frustrated right now, if he wasn't so angry...he might even think this was funny.
"...And you don't know when to stop talking."
He shifted his grip, moving one hand away - only holding her out with one arm while preparing a new cigarette with his now-free hand. An eerie, wry smile crossed his lips...and once the cigarette was lit, he put the match out against the back of one of her hands, blowing smoke into her face. Some of the rage had receded from his gaze...he was calming, ever so slightly. He was thinking...thinking about his situation, and what she had said. Coming to some...interesting conclusions, in fact.
...I will always be Hyde, hm...?
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 19, 2011 2:33:57 GMT -8
Charlotte’s grip on his wrist tightened when he removed one of the hands around her neck, making it feel as though she were one terrifying moment away from plummeting to the ground below. The fight was slowly, inevitably easing out of her, as both his grip on her neck, and the weight of dangling from said grip was making it harder and harder to breathe.
“...always have been a scintillating... conversationalist,” she gasped, “under... any circumstances.” He casually lit another cigarette, putting out the match on the back of her hand and making her hiss breathlessly at the burn. The smoke he blew in her face wound and curled its way down her throat. The coughing fit it started caused tears to start trickling down her cheeks.
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Post by The Smoking Man on Jan 19, 2011 3:34:19 GMT -8
"Is that so?" He chuckled, that horrible, mirthless sound, shifting his grip again - the blood where he had cut his palms was slicking against her throat, acting as a conduit for the heat. That calculating look in his eyes was getting more focused...his temper receding in favor of a much eerier calm. It was almost casually, now, that he was holding her over the edge...especially with the leisurely drags he kept taking from his cigarette.
"I wonder what sort of conversation you'll make on the way down."
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Post by Charlotte Jacobs on Jan 19, 2011 10:58:59 GMT -8
This wasn’t going to do. Charlotte refused to just continue... dangling there, as breathing grew more and more difficult. It was a perilous position she was in, but she couldn’t STOP fighting. The only problem was... he had the advantage. When has that ever stopped me? She tightened her grasp on his wrist more, short nails digging into his skin. His grip on her neck felt white hot now, his blood burning her skin.
“Wouldn’t that... be more of a monologue?” she rasped. “I... don’t do monologues.”
She lashed out, hard, sweeping her leg up and to the right... knocking the cigarette from his fingers.
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