An Unexpected Ally (Disaster in Progress)

Honestly, I was surprised they had picked me for this mission. I'm not the most... trustworthy person, shall we say? But when the breeze from the ever-present forest gently ruffles my midnight locks, a part of me is secretly content they sent me out here. Not because it means they're learning to trust me, no. But because it gives me time to get away.

Once I've discerned that the alleyway is secure, I lightly hop down from my perch on the roof, ignoring the tingle in my joints as I land. Stonework under my feet has long since been faded and worn to the point of decrepidity, dangerous holds jutting out like grasping hands awaiting to pull you flat on your face. Bricks are damp with condensation of the earlier morning's mist, clinging to the flaked red walls that have been untouched by midday's sun. Streetlamps flicker out of sight, casting shadows along the floors; puppets who have lost their puppeteers.

The night air is crisp and cool; what it should be. So far we have been giving very little respite from the constant thunderstorms that always hammer the lower districts without end, and I'm just happy not to be soaking wet for a change. I used to like the rain, but now it reminds me of something I'd rather forget.

An unbidden sigh escapes from my lips as I remember the girl with the same name who I'd killed mere hours ago. But she had wanted it, that was a mercy killing. I had held her as she died, even delivered her warm corpse to her mother. My deed was done. Then why couldn't I get her face out of my mind?

A sudden noise pulls me out of my reverie, and I focus on the figure moving in. Lean and obviously alert, he carries with him the slight breeze of boy and spice. Must be the one I'm supposed to meet, but should wait just to make sure. He stills as his head swivels around to my direction. Then, he calls out the requested greeting before demanding; "Who's there?"

That voice.

I recognize that voice. He was there, this morning. When I killed Rain. He took back her wallet. Even now I still have his dinky little signature in my pocket.

So I leisurely emerge from the gloom, tilting my head slightly that captures the moon in my eyes, making them glow a dull yellow. Upon view of his face; lips laced with cruelty turn into an amused smirk and the bouncing shadows play on the side of my cheek to make them flicker like the reflection from a fire. The slightest hint of teeth are visible as I chuckle lowly and the sound reverberates through the narrow alleyway, thrumming deep in my chest like a secondary heartbeat.

It's strange, really, what karma can throw your way. Seems trust might potentially be a problem in this assigment, if there's any to start. My swords shift silently when I cross my arms under my chest and lean on one leg, hip cocked in a picture of sultry indifference.

"Why hello, Jones." I purr, taking out his signature and flicking it where it ricochets off his chest and onto the damp ground. The corners soak through, before it seeps slowly to the middle where his scrawled initials fade from view, plastering itself onto the stone where all ink disappears from sight. "I do believe we've met."

(OOC: And it begins. Just something to say, your signature: It's supposed to say 'rogue', not 'rouge'. 'Rouge' means red in French. )

(OOC: Ooooh, plot twist! Good job. And did I have fun with that post or what? )

My head is filled with a velvety darkness I try to avoid whenever possible, but it seems I have fallen asleep. Clandestine black that comes under the allure of innocence but instead hides something much more sinister, the stuff that forms the backdrops of dreams you don't want but receive regardless. This time, there are no demons. No nightmares. What?

You stir. I try to zone in on the voice, the sound of sandpaper being scraped along the surface of my mind. It sounds so evil, yet like it belongs here. A paradox of right and wrong, both held within the same space. The beast that lives inside of me chuckles; a cruel sound with no hint of mirth.

Things scuttle at the edges of my vision; warped servants with twisted maws and hollow hearts. They crawl up the walls, surrounding me and moaning terror - despite the fact that I am blind in this hell I know they wait. I attempt to shift my six foot plus frame away from the source and the things that cry loss and heartache to whoever may listen, but moving hurts. Everything hurts. A muffled cry of pain, and the demons whisper amongst themselves, excited by my struggle. Reflected back at me I can see nothing but two pools of malice that gleam with cold light.

I... what? What happened? From the shadows it emerges; a rough figure of a man with sickly gray skin and veins of sludge visible through his rice paper flesh. His mouth holds no teeth but now it is simply a line, closed and missing lips. Its eyes are cruel and blank - a wet popping sound whenever a foot is lifted. I cringe despite myself. Strangely, it doesn't attack.

You were tricked. Ambushed. You are now unconscious. Knowing this I try to get up, but my physical body doesn't respond. It seems whatever got me, got me hard.

Where am I? It reaches out long, bony fingers. I flinch back from the questing digits, but he is not to be ignored. My heels scrape in the disgusting soft floor - the same consistancy of flesh - in an effort to escape, but the clawed nails draw ever closer.

That is a story you must weave for yourself. They touch my forehead and I shiver violently, feeling as if something was ripped from me and cast aside. A big hole is torn in my mind and I'm left with an innate sense of emptiness and longing for something I don't know but desperately need. Awaken.

At once I'm back in the real world, eyes taking the dim glow of a single lightbulb overhead. My wrists burn from being trapped above me, and there is a dull pounding in my head from the chemicals I can still smell. Chloroform? Yeah, probably. There is an unearthly pulsing in my throat, and I know the monster is looking through my eyes. Yet, it is not bloodthirsty tonight. Merely curious. Strange. Flicking my eyes over without moving, I spot Jones in the same position next to me. Slumped and clearly out of it, seems I need to stall for time.

Then there is a man in my space, a little overweight with a perverted sneer I don't like in the slightest. There is a knot in his nose from undoubtedly being broken and not setting properly and his hair hangs in greasy rags around his shining face, with crooked teeth and small, squinted eyes. Though the chloroform still lingers I can smell his stench in waves, and try to scoot away from him to no avail.

"Hey pretty girly," he cooes close to me, raising a fat finger that reminds me disturbingly of a worm before a bird swallows it whole. "You a bit cold?" Then I did indeed notice a draft, curling around my brozen legs. Simply by shifting my body I figure out that I've been stripped down to the bare essentials; which, are indeed bare. Nothing but several rolls of bandages strategically placed on my body by myself earlier separates me and the damp prison air. My stitches already ache from the moisture, but I don't dignify him with a reply.

"I could warm you up real quick." As a reply I spit in his face. The saliva slides down his forehead just to creep into his eyes, making his right palm fly up in a pained attempt to get rid of the offending liquid. Enraged, he backhands me; my head jerks to the side with a sharp crack. Hidden beneath locks of fallen hair, I smirk, glad with one small victory. "Bitch." He mutters, tracking just out of site, no doubt to keep an eye on us in our cells.

The monster murmurs in approval, and there is a sudden rush of strength that fills me with reckless abandon and egotistical courage.

With a more detailed glance around I realize that we're most probably somewhere underground; the walls are hard and rocky as is the ground, and the air is thick with water. The stones behind my back are damp and cool, and I can already feel myself shivering by the way I have to clamp my jaw to avoid my teeth from chattering. My arms are bound with a type of thick rope above my head, bound to the wall from a metal loop. Fingertips have already begun to fade, the numbness surely a bad sign. With longing I realize that my gear is probably with the disgusting guard. Shifting sends tongues of fire up my legs, and I strangle a muted gasp when my ankle does an involuntary twitch. Still, I manage to turn and repeatedly poke my companion with a foot.

"Jones." I hiss. "Jones, wake up."