RE: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 3: Deluge]
05-30-2018, 01:22 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-30-2018, 01:27 AM by seedy.)
Morning was beginning its daily fumbling attempts to pierce through the clouds as Cade and the boy arrived at the church, although from the looks of things it was already beginning to give up. There was a light on in a building towards the back, so Cade paid the kid a haggled amount and attempted to scare him off of going immediately to the cops with warnings of long interrogations and possible detainment just for having any connection to the ‘sun lady.’ Probably wouldn’t work.
Cade considered the church. Front door, side door, back door? He was getting too old to go in through a window. And picking a lock just didn’t feel right, even if it was in pursuit of a woman he doubted was a member of the church. Cade rubbed his forehead. It had been a long night. Usually around this time--and after this many drinks--he would be drifting off into an uneasy doze. But instead he was here, chasing down a lead for a thing he didn’t even begin to know the name of.
He wasn’t sure how Mlle. Pearson would feel about knowing that--beast?--had been looking for her, but she didn’t need to know. All he needed to do was pin down her location. Besides, he felt in his gut that it was somehow, without a doubt, her responsibility.
Apparently, more than a few things in this town this morning were her responsibility.
Cade walked down the loose-stoned path to the door closest to the lit window. It wasn’t St. Eleanora’s, after all, but a smaller church, and his rudimentary education on symbology didn’t help him identify whatever saint it was dedicated to. He wondered if they even had a flock to speak of anymore.
He knocked on the door. It was good material, hadn’t gone rotten through yet. He hoped the cops wouldn’t destroy it once they got the tip-off.
He switched the radio off, silencing the almost-comforting static and half-words. In the quiet, a metal pipe dripped into a barrel, its sound echoing around the small courtyard. After about 20 drips, a young nun opened the door hesitantly. She looked exotic in a way Cade couldn’t remember ever having seen before, and he squinted at her in the shaded half-light. She gave him a remarkably hard look--Cade knew he didn’t look reputable, but was it really that bad?--and seemed to be weighing whether to close the door in his face.
“I’m looking for Robin Pearson,” he said quickly, “I’ve heard this is where she’s at.”
Now that got a reaction. The nun was startled, angry--scared. She seemed to weigh options again, scanned the courtyard to see if anyone else was watching.
“I see. You had best come inside.” Her accent was just as unplaceable as her looks--Cade reminded himself to focus on finding Robin Pearson and not on the mystery of this nun who had seemingly travelled across half the world to die on a foreign island. Faith demands sacrifice, he supposed. Although he couldn’t shake the feeling he had heard her voice before.
She led him down a hallway dimly lit by a single overcast window at the end. Another nun--or perhaps a woman under the care of the church, she wore no veil and bore the look of someone haunted by her past--peered from around a corner curiously.
“Should I get--”
“It’s all right,” the first nun cut her off, “I’m seeing to it. And put on your veil.” A new initiate, then. She made a small look of concern, then darted off, up a flight of stairs from the sound of it.
“In here, please.” The nun led him into a small room made smaller by rows of bookcases, with chairs in the corners, two low couches and a long table. Cade wondered how many of the books were too rotten to read anymore. He took a seat, and after lighting the small oil-lamp--with some difficulty--the nun did as well.
“Now, where did you hear the name ‘Robin Pearson?’”
“Sister,” he said, and the nun furrowed her brow at him, “I know I don’t look like a good citizen, but I’m no criminal. I’m looking for Mlle. Pearson to--” how to put it? “--to let her know her friend is sick.”
The nun’s expression hardened further. “Her friend.”
He seemed to be saying all the wrong things. He was reminded of being a young boy, lying to the nuns who tried to teach him and the other hard-luck kids the alphabet and various virtues, lying about who had thrown this or who had started that. They had always been able to tell when someone was lying. Or maybe Cade had just always lied and they had always assumed his guilt.
He looked at the nun. She seemed pretty ready to assume his guilt too. He doubted a story of a limping creature of water and shadow beaching itself on the side of the river and calling out for Robin Pearson in a human tongue would gain him sympathy or belief.
“Listen,” he began awkwardly, and slouched to his feet. The nun rose--quickly. “I just want to speak to Mlle. Pearson--I’ve got information for her ears only.” He made for the door. She was likely up in the second-story lit room. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed being forceful, but he didn’t have the time for this nun to give him the third degree.
The nun moved faster than he expected, standing between him and the door.
“Sit back down.”
“Sister, please.” She was angry now--Cade couldn’t understand it. Who was Robin Pearson? “This is-” might as well say it, “You don’t have time for this. The cops are probably on their way as we speak.”
She didn’t look any happier, which Cade had expected, and then suddenly he was in a submission hold with his arm wrenched and slammed into a bookshelf, which he hadn’t expected.
“Start talking. What did you do.” she hissed, and the out-of-place smell of humid early summers grew stronger.
“What the hell kind of nun are y-” She wrenched his arm. Cade had been in plenty of situations like this, but never with a young nun--or perhaps, he thought, perhaps not a nun after all--or a young woman of any kind. It was disconcerting.
“I didn’t,” he breathed, “Send the damn cops, but they’re on their way all the same. Lotta people talking about your friend tonight.”
“Who.”
Cade tried to sort through all the information so it could be delivered in a way that wouldn’t get his arm wrenched again, when someone tapped at the door and then another person opened it impatiently. In the doorway stood the worried young nun (not-a-nun?) and a man--no, a woman, dressed like a man, bloodstained, with hair cut short to her jawline. Somehow he could guess that this was Robin Pearson.
The nun had straightened up slightly but still held him tight. There was a long, tense pause, and then Pearson started laughing.
“Amaranth,” she chuckled, “What are you doing?”
“I’m glad you--I’m glad you think this is funny.”
“Florica tells me some man is asking for me and I come in to find you bad-copping it up in a nun habit. It’s like a schlocky movie.” She laughed a little to herself and shook her head. “Besides, I’m still a little hopped-up.”
“You realize what this means, don’t you? We’ve barely been here for a couple hours and our location’s already compromised. People are looking for us! For you!” Déjà vu pricked again in the back of Cade’s head.
“‘Our location’s compromised’--you really are a soldier. I’m surprised you don’t get along with Arokht better.” Amaranth’s hand clenched painfully around Cade’s arm. Pearson smiled and walked into the room, and Cade heard a thud from the couch. “Now, let him go and I can be the good cop.”
“Arokht.” Her voice was cold and contorted. “Yes, Arokht. I’m so glad you remember Arokht. But you know, you didn’t really know him. You didn’t see--Arokht, who slaughtered a dozen helpless people without a second thought--he held Anila, he held her, like she was the most precious thing in his entire world.” Her voice was laughing spite and strained terror. “And now--” and she did laugh a tiny bit, “And now she’s dead.” The last word was thrown at Pearson, rough with emotion.
The room was silent.
Amaranth let out a long, shuddering sigh, and startled Cade by beginning to frisk him, tossing his shoulder-holstered gun onto the floor.
“Handcuffs are inner jacket pocket.” He said, guessing her intention and wanting to avoid drawing this out. I probably should have said something, but you can’t interrupt a scene like that. Especially when you’re in an armlock. She cuffed him, but continued diligently patting him down. A soldier, huh. His arm was numb from where she had been holding it.
Amaranth flipped him around, sitting him on the couch across from Pearson. She stayed standing. Pearson looked lost in concerning thought, no longer amused by the situation. The young girl--Florica--was on a chair in the corner, watchful but evidently feeling that she wasn’t really a part of this conversation.
“So, did Arokht send you then?”
Cade tried to shrug, was hampered by handcuffs.
“I don’t think so.” Arokht--he had heard that name over the radio. “I don’t know the name of the thing that was asking after her--if it has a name.”
Pearson perked up, looked excited. “Was it--”
“Don’t ask leading questions.” Amaranth cut her off, sighed. “Describe what sent you.”
“Well…” Cade began, searching for a way to describe the indescribable.
Cade considered the church. Front door, side door, back door? He was getting too old to go in through a window. And picking a lock just didn’t feel right, even if it was in pursuit of a woman he doubted was a member of the church. Cade rubbed his forehead. It had been a long night. Usually around this time--and after this many drinks--he would be drifting off into an uneasy doze. But instead he was here, chasing down a lead for a thing he didn’t even begin to know the name of.
He wasn’t sure how Mlle. Pearson would feel about knowing that--beast?--had been looking for her, but she didn’t need to know. All he needed to do was pin down her location. Besides, he felt in his gut that it was somehow, without a doubt, her responsibility.
Apparently, more than a few things in this town this morning were her responsibility.
Cade walked down the loose-stoned path to the door closest to the lit window. It wasn’t St. Eleanora’s, after all, but a smaller church, and his rudimentary education on symbology didn’t help him identify whatever saint it was dedicated to. He wondered if they even had a flock to speak of anymore.
He knocked on the door. It was good material, hadn’t gone rotten through yet. He hoped the cops wouldn’t destroy it once they got the tip-off.
He switched the radio off, silencing the almost-comforting static and half-words. In the quiet, a metal pipe dripped into a barrel, its sound echoing around the small courtyard. After about 20 drips, a young nun opened the door hesitantly. She looked exotic in a way Cade couldn’t remember ever having seen before, and he squinted at her in the shaded half-light. She gave him a remarkably hard look--Cade knew he didn’t look reputable, but was it really that bad?--and seemed to be weighing whether to close the door in his face.
“I’m looking for Robin Pearson,” he said quickly, “I’ve heard this is where she’s at.”
Now that got a reaction. The nun was startled, angry--scared. She seemed to weigh options again, scanned the courtyard to see if anyone else was watching.
“I see. You had best come inside.” Her accent was just as unplaceable as her looks--Cade reminded himself to focus on finding Robin Pearson and not on the mystery of this nun who had seemingly travelled across half the world to die on a foreign island. Faith demands sacrifice, he supposed. Although he couldn’t shake the feeling he had heard her voice before.
She led him down a hallway dimly lit by a single overcast window at the end. Another nun--or perhaps a woman under the care of the church, she wore no veil and bore the look of someone haunted by her past--peered from around a corner curiously.
“Should I get--”
“It’s all right,” the first nun cut her off, “I’m seeing to it. And put on your veil.” A new initiate, then. She made a small look of concern, then darted off, up a flight of stairs from the sound of it.
“In here, please.” The nun led him into a small room made smaller by rows of bookcases, with chairs in the corners, two low couches and a long table. Cade wondered how many of the books were too rotten to read anymore. He took a seat, and after lighting the small oil-lamp--with some difficulty--the nun did as well.
“Now, where did you hear the name ‘Robin Pearson?’”
“Sister,” he said, and the nun furrowed her brow at him, “I know I don’t look like a good citizen, but I’m no criminal. I’m looking for Mlle. Pearson to--” how to put it? “--to let her know her friend is sick.”
The nun’s expression hardened further. “Her friend.”
He seemed to be saying all the wrong things. He was reminded of being a young boy, lying to the nuns who tried to teach him and the other hard-luck kids the alphabet and various virtues, lying about who had thrown this or who had started that. They had always been able to tell when someone was lying. Or maybe Cade had just always lied and they had always assumed his guilt.
He looked at the nun. She seemed pretty ready to assume his guilt too. He doubted a story of a limping creature of water and shadow beaching itself on the side of the river and calling out for Robin Pearson in a human tongue would gain him sympathy or belief.
“Listen,” he began awkwardly, and slouched to his feet. The nun rose--quickly. “I just want to speak to Mlle. Pearson--I’ve got information for her ears only.” He made for the door. She was likely up in the second-story lit room. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed being forceful, but he didn’t have the time for this nun to give him the third degree.
The nun moved faster than he expected, standing between him and the door.
“Sit back down.”
“Sister, please.” She was angry now--Cade couldn’t understand it. Who was Robin Pearson? “This is-” might as well say it, “You don’t have time for this. The cops are probably on their way as we speak.”
She didn’t look any happier, which Cade had expected, and then suddenly he was in a submission hold with his arm wrenched and slammed into a bookshelf, which he hadn’t expected.
“Start talking. What did you do.” she hissed, and the out-of-place smell of humid early summers grew stronger.
“What the hell kind of nun are y-” She wrenched his arm. Cade had been in plenty of situations like this, but never with a young nun--or perhaps, he thought, perhaps not a nun after all--or a young woman of any kind. It was disconcerting.
“I didn’t,” he breathed, “Send the damn cops, but they’re on their way all the same. Lotta people talking about your friend tonight.”
“Who.”
Cade tried to sort through all the information so it could be delivered in a way that wouldn’t get his arm wrenched again, when someone tapped at the door and then another person opened it impatiently. In the doorway stood the worried young nun (not-a-nun?) and a man--no, a woman, dressed like a man, bloodstained, with hair cut short to her jawline. Somehow he could guess that this was Robin Pearson.
The nun had straightened up slightly but still held him tight. There was a long, tense pause, and then Pearson started laughing.
“Amaranth,” she chuckled, “What are you doing?”
“I’m glad you--I’m glad you think this is funny.”
“Florica tells me some man is asking for me and I come in to find you bad-copping it up in a nun habit. It’s like a schlocky movie.” She laughed a little to herself and shook her head. “Besides, I’m still a little hopped-up.”
“You realize what this means, don’t you? We’ve barely been here for a couple hours and our location’s already compromised. People are looking for us! For you!” Déjà vu pricked again in the back of Cade’s head.
“‘Our location’s compromised’--you really are a soldier. I’m surprised you don’t get along with Arokht better.” Amaranth’s hand clenched painfully around Cade’s arm. Pearson smiled and walked into the room, and Cade heard a thud from the couch. “Now, let him go and I can be the good cop.”
“Arokht.” Her voice was cold and contorted. “Yes, Arokht. I’m so glad you remember Arokht. But you know, you didn’t really know him. You didn’t see--Arokht, who slaughtered a dozen helpless people without a second thought--he held Anila, he held her, like she was the most precious thing in his entire world.” Her voice was laughing spite and strained terror. “And now--” and she did laugh a tiny bit, “And now she’s dead.” The last word was thrown at Pearson, rough with emotion.
The room was silent.
Amaranth let out a long, shuddering sigh, and startled Cade by beginning to frisk him, tossing his shoulder-holstered gun onto the floor.
“Handcuffs are inner jacket pocket.” He said, guessing her intention and wanting to avoid drawing this out. I probably should have said something, but you can’t interrupt a scene like that. Especially when you’re in an armlock. She cuffed him, but continued diligently patting him down. A soldier, huh. His arm was numb from where she had been holding it.
Amaranth flipped him around, sitting him on the couch across from Pearson. She stayed standing. Pearson looked lost in concerning thought, no longer amused by the situation. The young girl--Florica--was on a chair in the corner, watchful but evidently feeling that she wasn’t really a part of this conversation.
“So, did Arokht send you then?”
Cade tried to shrug, was hampered by handcuffs.
“I don’t think so.” Arokht--he had heard that name over the radio. “I don’t know the name of the thing that was asking after her--if it has a name.”
Pearson perked up, looked excited. “Was it--”
“Don’t ask leading questions.” Amaranth cut her off, sighed. “Describe what sent you.”
“Well…” Cade began, searching for a way to describe the indescribable.