The rain came down, washing over the rooftops and down into the gutters to gurgle to ground, slipping and splashing a wet, wobbly wassail to the distant crackle of gunfire. San Paro's voice, San Paro's song.
From amidst her nest of crates and boxes, the girl emerged to cant an ear to the cacophony. Then she was gone, scuttling into the dark between the raindrops.
It had been a long day, but the nice thing about even the longest days was that they ended. Or if they didn't end, at least you got to take a nice, long break to catch your breath before plunging your hand back into the thresher. To be fair, it was really quite unreasonable for him to believe these things, but to be fairer? He had to, or he would go mad. So he put away his guns (most of them), and switched off his radio, and went to the parking garage to fetch his car, to go home.
She was there with him, though he could not see her. He looked around, but she looked away behind the walls between them. He felt, but he could not know. Later, they would say it hadn't been wise of him to leave the station in uniform. It made him a target, yes it did, but they didn't know that wasn't why she found him.
Sometimes, things just happen that way.
Time stopped as he opened the door of his car, and saw her opening the door of his car. She smiled across the console, over the shifter as she crept like cold time across the seats. He reached for a weapon, any weapon, but it was too late. The moment had passed, and time raced forward like sunlight across a mirror.
The radio clicked on, propelled into action by her passing. It wailed softly, the police band's laments.
There was pain, a deafening crack in his ears that drowned out the background stutter of gunfire and rain. His skull cracked, like lightning upon the pavement. He tried to shout, but the air was already gone, shoved from his lungs by the weight of her. Her knees pressed into him. Her fingers gripped his throat.
She said "Hello."
He said "Hhrk-"
She said "Fear not?"
He said "-nk?!-"
She pulled the holdout pistol from his coat, where the radio whispered and bitched about things happening right here, so very far away. The grip was smooth, but tight, bound like a lover in electrical tape. His vision filled with the barrel, asking "Why are you afraid?"
He struggled, but he did not answer. He had nothing but shock, rage and vitriol to offer her. It blurred together into a slurry of vulgarity and terror transmuted into empty hate.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun barked, jerking in her grip (like a lover bound by electrical tape), it's voice swallowed by distant thunder.
The end.
For one man, anyway.
See? she thought.
The nice thing about even the longest days is that they do come to an end.
But hers was just beginning.
She heard it on the wind, carried by thunder and staccato violence. In the wail of sirens, the laughter and pain.
She heard it on the radio, in APBs and the police band's laments.
"Hello, Dog."
~~~~~
I've been searchin' in sectors, both private and dark,
With the eye of a witness, silent and stark.
Seen everything, that goes on in the night.
Things that are twisted, and hide from the light.
The things that live under the rock and the stone,
Flesh like a fever on a platter of bone.
Blacker than blackness, whiter than white,
Things that live only on the edges of sight...
~Mickey Hart's Mystery Box, Only the Strange Remain
From amidst her nest of crates and boxes, the girl emerged to cant an ear to the cacophony. Then she was gone, scuttling into the dark between the raindrops.
It had been a long day, but the nice thing about even the longest days was that they ended. Or if they didn't end, at least you got to take a nice, long break to catch your breath before plunging your hand back into the thresher. To be fair, it was really quite unreasonable for him to believe these things, but to be fairer? He had to, or he would go mad. So he put away his guns (most of them), and switched off his radio, and went to the parking garage to fetch his car, to go home.
She was there with him, though he could not see her. He looked around, but she looked away behind the walls between them. He felt, but he could not know. Later, they would say it hadn't been wise of him to leave the station in uniform. It made him a target, yes it did, but they didn't know that wasn't why she found him.
Sometimes, things just happen that way.
Time stopped as he opened the door of his car, and saw her opening the door of his car. She smiled across the console, over the shifter as she crept like cold time across the seats. He reached for a weapon, any weapon, but it was too late. The moment had passed, and time raced forward like sunlight across a mirror.
The radio clicked on, propelled into action by her passing. It wailed softly, the police band's laments.
There was pain, a deafening crack in his ears that drowned out the background stutter of gunfire and rain. His skull cracked, like lightning upon the pavement. He tried to shout, but the air was already gone, shoved from his lungs by the weight of her. Her knees pressed into him. Her fingers gripped his throat.
She said "Hello."
He said "Hhrk-"
She said "Fear not?"
He said "-nk?!-"
She pulled the holdout pistol from his coat, where the radio whispered and bitched about things happening right here, so very far away. The grip was smooth, but tight, bound like a lover in electrical tape. His vision filled with the barrel, asking "Why are you afraid?"
He struggled, but he did not answer. He had nothing but shock, rage and vitriol to offer her. It blurred together into a slurry of vulgarity and terror transmuted into empty hate.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun barked, jerking in her grip (like a lover bound by electrical tape), it's voice swallowed by distant thunder.
The end.
For one man, anyway.
See? she thought.
The nice thing about even the longest days is that they do come to an end.
But hers was just beginning.
She heard it on the wind, carried by thunder and staccato violence. In the wail of sirens, the laughter and pain.
She heard it on the radio, in APBs and the police band's laments.
"Hello, Dog."
~~~~~
I've been searchin' in sectors, both private and dark,
With the eye of a witness, silent and stark.
Seen everything, that goes on in the night.
Things that are twisted, and hide from the light.
The things that live under the rock and the stone,
Flesh like a fever on a platter of bone.
Blacker than blackness, whiter than white,
Things that live only on the edges of sight...
~Mickey Hart's Mystery Box, Only the Strange Remain