Re: Journal of Sociology [S!6] - [Round One: The Pacific Spire]
06-26-2012, 06:57 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
The elevator ride had been moderately quiet-- save for the calm, sedate melodies of the elevator's loudspeakers, juxtaposed with the rattle of gunfire from outside and the occasional stop. Nemo's pair of captives had not said anything. Even when they had a chance to escape, to break free of his tenuous posturing over them, they had not acted-- they remained paralyzed by the power he possessed, the threat of a bullet ending their lives. His fingers tightened and loosened around the pistol, feeling its contours and the molded plastics comprising its grip. It was liberating-- after so much time spent in captivity, now he was in control. He was in control.
"Well." He said. "The two of you might be here a while. I'm, ah, a bit curious about the two of you. And--"
Nemo paused. A smile reflexively cracked across his face, a gloved hand pushed the handgun's slide back against the receiver, a new slug entered the pistol's chamber. For all of his politeness and diplomatically veiled niceties, a veneer of menace was plainly evident.
"--I don't think either of you are in a position to say no to any questions I may have." Nemo finished. His focus shifted, the predatory gaze adjusting between scrutinizing the alchemist and appraising the factory worker standing opposite her.
The heel of leather boot scuffed against the elevator's carpeted floor.
"R-right, yeah. We tell the person we know nothing about our life stories. Just a bit hypocritical, isn't it?" Elise said. Whatever elements of her face weren't left obscured were contorted into an deadened, irate glare. Her posture had shifted-- she was standing perpendicular to the floor, her muscles held taut and seemingly ready to strike. The facade of refinement Nemo possessed was not an affectation the alchemist had made any attempt to replicate.
Nemo responded with a halfhearted, almost casually disinterested shrug. "You act like there's some great mystery to you, miss Pestarztyn. There's a lot you let on, whether you admit to it or not. Your attire, your posture-- you're hiding something, now, aren't you." He replied.
Nemo couldn't help but pace from side to side, alternating a half-step from one end of the cramped car to the other. Strumming against his pistol, gently tugging at his gloves, straightening out his collar-- his hands were everywhere, constantly in motion. Not a fidgety, nervous motion, no-- a careful, methodical, precise motion, every action engineered to the designs of an inscrutable greater agenda.
"You're hiding something. Something underneath the mask, the armor and the overcoat, no doubt the pretensions of helping others. You're insecure, off-balance, aren't y--"
"Oh, and you aren't hiding something-- underneath those gloves, maybe?" Elise spat back, brusquely interrupting his self-indulgent tirade. Only a small part of her kept her from making a desperate attempt at his life, held herself back on the increasingly-thin pretense of self-preservation.
Her face angled itself downward. Beams of stale, clinical light glinted off the glass inserts of her goggles. "I've dealt with more frightening things than you. More frightening things than a escaped bedlamite like you. Just because that corpse-harridan daughter of a dead-walker didn't mention you doesn't mean the rest of us are an open book." Her stare only intensified the vitriol lacing her words.
"Well, we're angry now, aren't we, miss Pestarztyn? I don't need to be your enemy, Elise, I really don't-- heck, I could be the perfect gentleman if you merely gave me the opportunity." Nemo said. His hands-- those careful, methodical, precise hands-- returned to their resting point around the gun, the dull glint of obsidian menace was plainly laid manifest.
"But you aren't giving much of an opportunity in the matter, now, are you."
"Elise, please. He has a gun, he could kill both of us. P-please, just listen. We-- we can get out of this, okay?" Blake spoke up. He had only barely overcome the deadening, overwhelming shock of being close to confronting his own mortality; his conviction was weak and faltering.
"Yes, Elise. Why don't you listen to our friend Blake, here? Sure, I'm unpredictable, spontaneous, alive-- but I'm not a cruel man. Not unless I have to be, and no one here wants that, do we?"
Blake gulped, nodding an assent. His eyes briefly flitted across the carpeted floor, taking note of the half-empty bottle of conflagratory arcana. Licks of flames rotated and whorled their way through the liquid, producing an alien orange glow as they twisted and writhed-- eager to consume, eager to burn.
"Only one person dies. This place gets replaced with another. I'm willing to gamble my life, Nemo, tell me if you can say the same." She said. The stretch of her leather gloves as individual fingers curled into unified fists was barely audible, yet still perceptible to the elevator's occupants.
"Mmhm. Quick to give up on that 'civic duty' of yours, miss Pestarztyn? Willing to give up on those standing obligations?"
A pause. Only the background murmur of loudspeaker-piped music pacified the tension.
"Are you willing to die knowing you never truly completed your life, Elise Pestarztyn."
The elevator had stopped. A mechanical, hollow ring accompanied the scrape of metal as the doors opened. Nemo whirled around-- this was as far as the elevator could take him, the abruptness of his arrival to the destination he had decided on at a moment's whim startled him for a fraction of a second.
Elise sprung into action, grabbing the crossbow off of the floor, rotating her grip of the weapon around. Both arms gripped the weapon and gave a forceful shove-- slamming the weapon against Nemo, transmitting a violent force from her arms to the durable, worn wooden stock to the man's momentarily-unprepared body. The wet crunch of the collision was dulled only by the bruising of flesh, the brief whoosh of breath expelled as one combatant adjusted to his spasming diaphragm.
Nemo flew forward as he collapsed, his brief journey ending as he collided against the hard tile of a sterilized hallway. Winded, surprised, but alive, he twisted around, leveling the handgun he still held onto. Hammer swinging forward, striking against primer, smokeless powder igniting and forcing a copper-plated round forward-- all of these happened in rapid succession, as his finger twitched and curled against the trigger. Three rounds rang out.
And then a wall of fire sprung forth, the remainder of Blake's potion colliding against tile. The entrance was obscured by flames, rising in a defiant phalanx, a stalwart inferno of devouring embers. Neither side could see through the malevolent glow of the pyre.
The doors closed. The elevator continued its ascent. Blake yelped in pain, crimson blood running freely from the bullet-wound now adorning his hand.
"Shit. One second, lie down." Elise commanded. Her gloved hands immediately went for one of the packs attached to her coat, withdrawing a piece of cloth and a pair of bottled liquids. The stoppers on both were quickly removed-- one was poured onto the cloth, the other thrust into Blake's intact hand.
"Drink. Don't let the liquid sit in your mouth for too long."
Blake complied, the pain of his wound distracting from any worries that the alchemist could have been attempting to poison him. Her gloved hands gripped the ointment around him, pressing the ointment into the site of the wound. The feeling of relief was almost immediate-- bullet fragments seemingly reversed their course, torn flesh remolded and sutured itself shut. As quickly as the pain was gone, the bullet's piercing reduced to a quickly-cleaned dry smear of blood, his eyes widened with a new shock.
"Elise, that was supposed to be as far as this elevator could go. Why are we still going up?"
The elevator ride had been moderately quiet-- save for the calm, sedate melodies of the elevator's loudspeakers, juxtaposed with the rattle of gunfire from outside and the occasional stop. Nemo's pair of captives had not said anything. Even when they had a chance to escape, to break free of his tenuous posturing over them, they had not acted-- they remained paralyzed by the power he possessed, the threat of a bullet ending their lives. His fingers tightened and loosened around the pistol, feeling its contours and the molded plastics comprising its grip. It was liberating-- after so much time spent in captivity, now he was in control. He was in control.
"Well." He said. "The two of you might be here a while. I'm, ah, a bit curious about the two of you. And--"
Nemo paused. A smile reflexively cracked across his face, a gloved hand pushed the handgun's slide back against the receiver, a new slug entered the pistol's chamber. For all of his politeness and diplomatically veiled niceties, a veneer of menace was plainly evident.
"--I don't think either of you are in a position to say no to any questions I may have." Nemo finished. His focus shifted, the predatory gaze adjusting between scrutinizing the alchemist and appraising the factory worker standing opposite her.
The heel of leather boot scuffed against the elevator's carpeted floor.
"R-right, yeah. We tell the person we know nothing about our life stories. Just a bit hypocritical, isn't it?" Elise said. Whatever elements of her face weren't left obscured were contorted into an deadened, irate glare. Her posture had shifted-- she was standing perpendicular to the floor, her muscles held taut and seemingly ready to strike. The facade of refinement Nemo possessed was not an affectation the alchemist had made any attempt to replicate.
Nemo responded with a halfhearted, almost casually disinterested shrug. "You act like there's some great mystery to you, miss Pestarztyn. There's a lot you let on, whether you admit to it or not. Your attire, your posture-- you're hiding something, now, aren't you." He replied.
Nemo couldn't help but pace from side to side, alternating a half-step from one end of the cramped car to the other. Strumming against his pistol, gently tugging at his gloves, straightening out his collar-- his hands were everywhere, constantly in motion. Not a fidgety, nervous motion, no-- a careful, methodical, precise motion, every action engineered to the designs of an inscrutable greater agenda.
"You're hiding something. Something underneath the mask, the armor and the overcoat, no doubt the pretensions of helping others. You're insecure, off-balance, aren't y--"
"Oh, and you aren't hiding something-- underneath those gloves, maybe?" Elise spat back, brusquely interrupting his self-indulgent tirade. Only a small part of her kept her from making a desperate attempt at his life, held herself back on the increasingly-thin pretense of self-preservation.
Her face angled itself downward. Beams of stale, clinical light glinted off the glass inserts of her goggles. "I've dealt with more frightening things than you. More frightening things than a escaped bedlamite like you. Just because that corpse-harridan daughter of a dead-walker didn't mention you doesn't mean the rest of us are an open book." Her stare only intensified the vitriol lacing her words.
"Well, we're angry now, aren't we, miss Pestarztyn? I don't need to be your enemy, Elise, I really don't-- heck, I could be the perfect gentleman if you merely gave me the opportunity." Nemo said. His hands-- those careful, methodical, precise hands-- returned to their resting point around the gun, the dull glint of obsidian menace was plainly laid manifest.
"But you aren't giving much of an opportunity in the matter, now, are you."
"Elise, please. He has a gun, he could kill both of us. P-please, just listen. We-- we can get out of this, okay?" Blake spoke up. He had only barely overcome the deadening, overwhelming shock of being close to confronting his own mortality; his conviction was weak and faltering.
"Yes, Elise. Why don't you listen to our friend Blake, here? Sure, I'm unpredictable, spontaneous, alive-- but I'm not a cruel man. Not unless I have to be, and no one here wants that, do we?"
Blake gulped, nodding an assent. His eyes briefly flitted across the carpeted floor, taking note of the half-empty bottle of conflagratory arcana. Licks of flames rotated and whorled their way through the liquid, producing an alien orange glow as they twisted and writhed-- eager to consume, eager to burn.
"Only one person dies. This place gets replaced with another. I'm willing to gamble my life, Nemo, tell me if you can say the same." She said. The stretch of her leather gloves as individual fingers curled into unified fists was barely audible, yet still perceptible to the elevator's occupants.
"Mmhm. Quick to give up on that 'civic duty' of yours, miss Pestarztyn? Willing to give up on those standing obligations?"
A pause. Only the background murmur of loudspeaker-piped music pacified the tension.
"Are you willing to die knowing you never truly completed your life, Elise Pestarztyn."
The elevator had stopped. A mechanical, hollow ring accompanied the scrape of metal as the doors opened. Nemo whirled around-- this was as far as the elevator could take him, the abruptness of his arrival to the destination he had decided on at a moment's whim startled him for a fraction of a second.
Elise sprung into action, grabbing the crossbow off of the floor, rotating her grip of the weapon around. Both arms gripped the weapon and gave a forceful shove-- slamming the weapon against Nemo, transmitting a violent force from her arms to the durable, worn wooden stock to the man's momentarily-unprepared body. The wet crunch of the collision was dulled only by the bruising of flesh, the brief whoosh of breath expelled as one combatant adjusted to his spasming diaphragm.
Nemo flew forward as he collapsed, his brief journey ending as he collided against the hard tile of a sterilized hallway. Winded, surprised, but alive, he twisted around, leveling the handgun he still held onto. Hammer swinging forward, striking against primer, smokeless powder igniting and forcing a copper-plated round forward-- all of these happened in rapid succession, as his finger twitched and curled against the trigger. Three rounds rang out.
And then a wall of fire sprung forth, the remainder of Blake's potion colliding against tile. The entrance was obscured by flames, rising in a defiant phalanx, a stalwart inferno of devouring embers. Neither side could see through the malevolent glow of the pyre.
The doors closed. The elevator continued its ascent. Blake yelped in pain, crimson blood running freely from the bullet-wound now adorning his hand.
"Shit. One second, lie down." Elise commanded. Her gloved hands immediately went for one of the packs attached to her coat, withdrawing a piece of cloth and a pair of bottled liquids. The stoppers on both were quickly removed-- one was poured onto the cloth, the other thrust into Blake's intact hand.
"Drink. Don't let the liquid sit in your mouth for too long."
Blake complied, the pain of his wound distracting from any worries that the alchemist could have been attempting to poison him. Her gloved hands gripped the ointment around him, pressing the ointment into the site of the wound. The feeling of relief was almost immediate-- bullet fragments seemingly reversed their course, torn flesh remolded and sutured itself shut. As quickly as the pain was gone, the bullet's piercing reduced to a quickly-cleaned dry smear of blood, his eyes widened with a new shock.
"Elise, that was supposed to be as far as this elevator could go. Why are we still going up?"