RE: Incident [TEXT]
03-31-2013, 07:17 PM
(03-29-2013, 12:52 AM)Sanzh Wrote: »A week ago. You've been trying to quit, though seeing as you got a full box shortly before this all went down you've been kinda shitty at kicking the habit.
(03-29-2013, 01:21 AM)btp Wrote: »Take a drag - considering you just broke your hand and could probably be killed any moment, health doesn't really seem to be your primary concern.
Might as well be direct. If he just wanted to chat, what was the whole point of tying you up with crazy-fangs in the first place?
You've been smoking in sporadic periods over the past five years, but you're currently trying to kick the habit again. You wish you weren't so dependent, but something about this city just drives you to it. Nicotine patches are never enough, hard drugs are too risky, and alcohol... too many bad memories. So smokes it is.
You tell yourself you're just going to close the box and put it back on the desk, but your hands have quite a different idea and before you're even really aware of what you've done there's a cigarette between your lips.
Just the one, then. You think this counts as extenuating circumstances.
Glancing back down at the open box, you take a moment to consider the smoke bomb disguised as one of the twenty (now nineteen) and the glint of the razorblade you taped to the inside of the box. Not incredibly useful, and far from the high tech gadgets you wish you had concealed in here, but you reasoned that something was better than nothing.
But you doubt one razorblade and a bit of smoke will be any help against two sparkers in a fight. Especially when you're not even sure what said sparkers can do.
And so the box returns to the desk.
You pat your pockets absent-mindedly for a moment before you remember that the gyroscope is all you have, and look to Number 6.
“Have you got a light?”
A lighter appears between his fingers and he leans forward over the desk.
the fire bursts from his fingertips and he lifts the flames to a cigar clenched between his teeth
you pretend it doesn't mean anything, like you don't know what they're dying to ask
and when she finally brings up the question you hate them more than you have ever hated anyone
“what is it that you can do?”
You mutter your thanks, puff and inhale. You briefly wonder why you suddenly remembered that day of all days, but the rage the memory brings bubbling up convinces you that it would be better to just not think about it.
“Right. You want to talk? Great.” A growl creeps into your voice. “You can start with telling me why the hell you thought knocking me out and tying me to a chair was of any use to anyone.”
You realise your fists are clenched on the desk, your cigarette slightly bent from your grip on it. Then you realise that you're getting angry, and that it feels a hell of a lot better than being afraid.
“You're registered as the child of two sparkers, but also as having no abilities yourself. I understand that the authorities have always viewed this situation as... unlikely.”
“True, but I'm not really seeing what this has to do with my kidnap.” You reposition your cigarette between your teeth and start inspecting your nails.
You're rewarded with obvious irritation when Number 6 speaks.
“For a while everyone who was aware was forced to accept that you were not a sparker. But doubts about your claim have resurfaced.”
That gets your attention.
“What? Why?”
Your mind races. You assumed the lack of work recently was just a normal slump, as does happen every now and then, but if everyone has started thinking that you're illegally hiding 'Unnatural Abilities' from the authorities... And come to think of it, your informants have been oddly cagey lately...
But... no. Coincidence. Has to be. If your normalcy has been accepted for this long, why would it suddenly be decided that you were lying?
“You drew attention to yourself with that bounty you brought in a few weeks ago.”
“Bounty?” You ask, but you know exactly what he's talking about. You're a detective, not a bounty hunter, but the money was so good and you had a tip off about where to go. You even had a plan. It worked out beautifully, too. Your coat was scorched but otherwise you didn't even get singed...
“The pyro. Wanted for murder, thought to be hiding out in the lower city. I'm sure you remember.”
You rub your temples and try to think. Surely... surely he's not saying what you think he is?
“Let me get this straight. If I bring in someone wanted for murder, that's fine, take your money and get out of here. But the second that person starts being able to conjure up a little flame, the only possibility is that I'm a sparker?”
“There was a reason the money on offer was so high. Non-sparkers hate pyros. Something about fire scares people more than it should. The term 'sparker' even comes from the misconception that we can all spout flame and shoot sparks.”
“But he- he wasn't even that dangerous! He was a contact pyro! All he can do is set himself on fire-”
“The crucial difference being that he's fireproof,” Number 6 points out flatly.
“Well, yeah, but that means he wasn't dangerous if you stayed out of reach!”
“Nevertheless, this is what people believe. You are being watched, and not just by the police. Do you appreciate why I made this look like a kidnapping? I thought a cordial invitation to meet with an infamous sparker would have gone down badly.”
“Are they checking my mail?”
“I wasn't being serious. But of course. You're suspected of quite a significant crime.”
You slump in your chair, cigarette half forgotten. Stupid. You got complacent, comfortable in the knowledge that you're incapable of the weird shit half the populace seems to be able to do. Sitting up, you rest your head in your hands.
Take deep breaths. It could be that he's lying.
You shift in your chair. You want to get out of here, or at least pace a bit, but neither are looking too likely. And you have questions. There's too much that still doesn't make sense.
So what will you ask?
You tell yourself you're just going to close the box and put it back on the desk, but your hands have quite a different idea and before you're even really aware of what you've done there's a cigarette between your lips.
Just the one, then. You think this counts as extenuating circumstances.
Glancing back down at the open box, you take a moment to consider the smoke bomb disguised as one of the twenty (now nineteen) and the glint of the razorblade you taped to the inside of the box. Not incredibly useful, and far from the high tech gadgets you wish you had concealed in here, but you reasoned that something was better than nothing.
But you doubt one razorblade and a bit of smoke will be any help against two sparkers in a fight. Especially when you're not even sure what said sparkers can do.
And so the box returns to the desk.
You pat your pockets absent-mindedly for a moment before you remember that the gyroscope is all you have, and look to Number 6.
“Have you got a light?”
A lighter appears between his fingers and he leans forward over the desk.
the fire bursts from his fingertips and he lifts the flames to a cigar clenched between his teeth
you pretend it doesn't mean anything, like you don't know what they're dying to ask
and when she finally brings up the question you hate them more than you have ever hated anyone
“what is it that you can do?”
You mutter your thanks, puff and inhale. You briefly wonder why you suddenly remembered that day of all days, but the rage the memory brings bubbling up convinces you that it would be better to just not think about it.
“Right. You want to talk? Great.” A growl creeps into your voice. “You can start with telling me why the hell you thought knocking me out and tying me to a chair was of any use to anyone.”
You realise your fists are clenched on the desk, your cigarette slightly bent from your grip on it. Then you realise that you're getting angry, and that it feels a hell of a lot better than being afraid.
“You're registered as the child of two sparkers, but also as having no abilities yourself. I understand that the authorities have always viewed this situation as... unlikely.”
“True, but I'm not really seeing what this has to do with my kidnap.” You reposition your cigarette between your teeth and start inspecting your nails.
You're rewarded with obvious irritation when Number 6 speaks.
“For a while everyone who was aware was forced to accept that you were not a sparker. But doubts about your claim have resurfaced.”
That gets your attention.
“What? Why?”
Your mind races. You assumed the lack of work recently was just a normal slump, as does happen every now and then, but if everyone has started thinking that you're illegally hiding 'Unnatural Abilities' from the authorities... And come to think of it, your informants have been oddly cagey lately...
But... no. Coincidence. Has to be. If your normalcy has been accepted for this long, why would it suddenly be decided that you were lying?
“You drew attention to yourself with that bounty you brought in a few weeks ago.”
“Bounty?” You ask, but you know exactly what he's talking about. You're a detective, not a bounty hunter, but the money was so good and you had a tip off about where to go. You even had a plan. It worked out beautifully, too. Your coat was scorched but otherwise you didn't even get singed...
“The pyro. Wanted for murder, thought to be hiding out in the lower city. I'm sure you remember.”
You rub your temples and try to think. Surely... surely he's not saying what you think he is?
“Let me get this straight. If I bring in someone wanted for murder, that's fine, take your money and get out of here. But the second that person starts being able to conjure up a little flame, the only possibility is that I'm a sparker?”
“There was a reason the money on offer was so high. Non-sparkers hate pyros. Something about fire scares people more than it should. The term 'sparker' even comes from the misconception that we can all spout flame and shoot sparks.”
“But he- he wasn't even that dangerous! He was a contact pyro! All he can do is set himself on fire-”
“The crucial difference being that he's fireproof,” Number 6 points out flatly.
“Well, yeah, but that means he wasn't dangerous if you stayed out of reach!”
“Nevertheless, this is what people believe. You are being watched, and not just by the police. Do you appreciate why I made this look like a kidnapping? I thought a cordial invitation to meet with an infamous sparker would have gone down badly.”
“Are they checking my mail?”
“I wasn't being serious. But of course. You're suspected of quite a significant crime.”
You slump in your chair, cigarette half forgotten. Stupid. You got complacent, comfortable in the knowledge that you're incapable of the weird shit half the populace seems to be able to do. Sitting up, you rest your head in your hands.
Take deep breaths. It could be that he's lying.
You shift in your chair. You want to get out of here, or at least pace a bit, but neither are looking too likely. And you have questions. There's too much that still doesn't make sense.
So what will you ask?
Spoiler