Post by Death Incarnate on Mar 22, 2016 7:23:21 GMT -6
NOTE: Some of these events take place before Breakthrough 41 (see "Boundaries That Never Existed" for further details.)
February 26th, 2016, 12:02am
Police Department - Malibu, California
Office of Detective Jason Mulholland
The desk lamp only offers dim illumination for the young detective as he sifts through folders full of pictures and printouts, a half-empty mug of what was once hot coffee set beneath the weak bulb. Steam no longer rises from within and it's impossible to tell how long that's been the case. To his credit, despite the late hour, Jacob doesn't look all that tired. But then, his intensity is well-known both among his fellow boys in blue and certain...more infamous sorts. Tossing the last of the pictures from the most recent file onto the desk, Mulholland puts his hands to his face, fingertips rubbing into his eyes. The desk clock, at a glance, tells him all he needs to know.
"Tomorrow already...Hugo's gonna eat me alive."
Chuckling dryly to himself, he starts putting the media strewn about his cluttered desk back into its appropriate receptacles when his phone rings. Not his desk phone, however, but the cell precariously perched atop the mound resting within the desk's 'In' basket. Grabbing it, he doesn't bother glancing at the ID before dotting the screen with his thumb.
"Mulholland."
"Detective, this is Captain Hobart down at California State Prison in Lancaster..."
Right away, Jacob's expression tightens and any fatigue the coffee of old didn't cure was eliminated in a blink. His hand noticeably tightens around the phone.
"...we have a situation regarding two inmates." The captain pauses for a moment, then continues. "The ones you wanted us to keep special tabs on."
"A situation? That tells me jack, captain. What's going on?"
There was more edge than necessary in Jacob's voice, but he was well beyond caring already. If something had happened concerning those three scumbags he'd put away, several heads were going to roll. And if he didn't do something about the situation in a hurry, more people than that would be in danger. Putting the phone on speaker, he got up from his chair and grabbed his holster and jacket, sliding them on in that order while the ill-at-ease captain began to explain.
"Gregory Gaines is dead. Word reached us several minutes ago, as well, that Benson Thatcher escaped from the prison vehicle transporting him to San Quentin."
Jacob paused at the mention of the death of Gaines, but only briefly. From his expression one would think he didn't care all that much that the man was now a corpse. But at the mention of Thatcher being on the loose, he froze as if dropped in the middle of a katabatic ice storm. He stared at the phone, halfway into his jacket. It wasn't until Hobart spoke up again...
"...detective?"
"I'm sorry, it just sounded to me as if you said that Benson Thatcher was in the goddamn wind. Did I mishear you by any chance?"
"No, sir."
"When did the transport leave Lancaster, captain?"
Another brief pause, then...
"Three in the afternoon."
"It's a six-plus hour drive from Lancaster to San Quentin. You said you got this news a few minutes ago?" Even when speaking quietly and with a controlled tone, Jacob wasn't hiding the fact that he was utterly seething with fury. Without waiting for Hobart to respond, he continued on. "And by any chance is there news of Michael Milton?"
"As soon as we found Gaines I personally had him moved to protective custody."
Snorting irritably, Jacob picks up his phone and takes it off speaker.
"Well, hallelujah for small favors," Not sounding as though he were in a joyful mood despite the comment, Mulholland continues pressing. "Who was in charge of the guard detail this evening, Captain?"
"Sergeant Miles, detective."
"I want him and every guard on his detail waiting for me when I get to Lancaster, Captain. I'm hoping you got on the horn with the locals the moment you heard about the escape?"
"Soon as I heard, yes."
The detective takes a slow breath. It wouldn't do him any good to get all heated up about this before he even got there and saw the scene with his own eyes. And the captain seemed as though he were doing all that he could in the situation. "I don't need to be giving this guy hell. He's probably caught it already." Jacob thought to himself.
"Good man. Don't let anyone touch that crime scene till I get there, captain. No press, no locals...nothing. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'll be there in an hour."
Hanging up, Jacob puts the phone in his pocket and, still behind his desk, presses his palms against it. Leaning forward, he takes a few deep breaths, trying to cleanse himself, to find a calming center in the maelstrom. Raising back up, he stares at the darkened ceiling for a moment, shaking his head.
Then he snatches up the half-empty mug and hurls it like a bullet, the porcelain smashing against the wall and falling in pieces to the floor, faded brown liquid dripping down at a slower pace. Snatching up his keys, Mulholland storms out of his office and, in turn, out of the station. The view stays on his empty office and the stained wall as an engine roars outside, said noise becoming softer as it speeds away from the lot.
March 18th, 2016, 10:51pm
General Motors Centre - Oshawa, Ontario, Canada
Locker Room
Right away the scene is peculiar, not for she whom it involves, but her state of being at that moment. Emma, despite her chaotic nature, does have a few rituals and routines she engages in, one being long, hot showers immediately after her matches. In her mind, she’s washing the scum and germs from her flesh that her opponents applied merely by being close to her in that ring. Then it was into clean attire with every scrap of her ring gear sequestered until it could be cleanses as thoroughly as her own body. Tonight, however, was a different tale.
Emma sat motionless on the bench, head lowered and tri-colored hair forming a curtain blocking her face. Mesh-covered arms and black-wrapped hands were held beneath her, in her direct line of sight, with every finger twitching or trembling. The rest of her was stock still, a forced state if the tightness in her shoulders were to tell the tale. Breakthrough had seen the progression of her fellow Horsewomen via victory over Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves, something that put pride in Death Incarnate’s black heart. And to hear the tale, they would attempt another victory at Nothing Else Matters against the teenyboppers holding the tag straps. Not for the gold, because perish forbid...but it was an opportunity to make a statement.
Yet she would make no such statement. Loss between the ropes was a wine of a rarely-tasted vintage for Emma, but not one alien to her senses. The names that had sent her down in defeat were few, but save for one their accomplishments stood well. Champions current and former to the last name. And each time, she rose again and laughed...right in the faces of those who claimed victory, reminding them that slowing isn’t stopping, that the revolution would not be stalled. Regardless of match or participants, Emma would power through and refuse to let the loss eat at her.
Until tonight.
”Mistake? Yes.” The dark-haired woman whispered softly to herself. ”Intentional? Don’t know.” For all the world it sounds as if two are speaking instead of one. ”Punishable?” There is no answer to the one-word query at first save for Emma’s hands to clench so tight her skin is both white and red from the wrappings and the pressure of her grip upon nothing. ”Forgivable?”
Her hands open, tremulously, then drop limply between her parted legs, lowering as her head likewise does. A small knock comes echoing through the room as War steps from the hallway, a stern yet soft look on her face. Without a word, the woman suspended last time she stood in these halls walks across the room and kneels at Death’s feet. Looking up at her lover, Joanna took her naked hands and folded them over Emma’s, the two shared a moment, one still in ring gear ready to tear a hole through the world, the other dress in jeans, combat boots, and a shirt to represent their ride.
”Don’t go there, Goldie. I’m here and that place is dark. Come to my light, come to my warmth.”
Emma barely seems to feel the touch, to recognize the presence of her partner. Eventually reality falls into place around her, her head lifting. The gesture is only noticeable by the shift of her black hair with the cobalt and indigo strands running through it. But it falls apart enough for Joanna to see her icy blue eyes, to see a startling amount of fury behind them. Perhaps even enough to make the similarly-named Horsewoman, Talon, pause.
”What...did you do?”
Scoffing at the question Joanna leans up just enough to run her hand through the hair of the tightly-wound Visionary. Joanna shakes her head back and forth a bit before suddenly and unexpectedly grabbing Emma’s left hand and placing it on her throat.
”Set you up to really express yourself. But it really depends on to what are you referring to? What did I do….to get here, to pull you away from that place, in general, tonight? There are a lot of questions in that one question, Goldie…”
Further response was cut off by the sudden tightening of Emma’s hand, so delicately placed at Joanna’s throat by War herself. Black nails dig into warm, inviting flesh, Death’s grip squeezing a half-drawn breath until it can neither enter nor escape. Emma’s voice is a rasping, trembling whisper.
”I…had...that miserable whelp. One of their precious symbols was set to crumble and weep, dashing their false hopes a little more, pulling the caul from their eyes a little further…”
Standing swiftly, fluidly, Emma is now looming over Joanna, glaring down at her.
”What...did...you…DO?!”
Joanna looks down and nods, to what we’re unsure. But her shiftness and not only break the cold grip of Death but also of looming over the woman taller than her with just a stare. The air around thick with suspense as Joanna’s aura clashed with Emma’s.
”What YOU would have in my shoes.”
”You presume!”
Her grip disengaged by Joanna’s sudden, responsive motion, Emma did not seek to retake it for whatever reason. Instead, she locked eyes with War, seething furiously. Joanna shook her head and spread her arms inviting Emma to look around as well as giving her an opening.
“NEVER! You are split, you are fragmented, you are unworthy and unable to finish what WE started. You’ve let fear grip you and are lashing out to gain control. I’m here EMMA, I’m right here in front of you going NOWHERE.”
Joanna’s words are harsh and hit like the hammer she hardly ever is seen without. As each word falls from her lips Joanna inches closer until her nose is pressed against Emma’s and her full being is swallowed down Emma’s throat.
”Who are YOU to tell me what I am?! Your past is just that: the past! Mine seeks to eat me alive, yet here I stand...fighting our fight, pushing forth with our mission...while YOU sit and watch!”
There was no shying away. Worse, there was no one else there. If this degenerated into bloodshed again…
”I am the one that knows Emma better than Death does.”
Joanna doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch, she stands her ground and illuminates the simple truth she sees. Anger continues to well up within Emma for several moments, coming to a point where her right arm tenses as if to lash out at Joanna...before it falls lip and Death’s expression becomes a cold, emotionless mask.
“No...I don’t think you do.”
Even her tone is quiet and flat. She turns and moves to walk past Joanna.Joanna lowers her head and arms as Emma moves to leave. Her hands ball into fists at her side as she takes a deep breath in.
”Yes I do, but you are not Emma. Emma is a being that can stand alone, that wants to laugh as she crushes skulls underneath her boots. You are the thing before Emma, the woman that is lost, the woman that was taken.”
Stopping for a moment, Emma lifts her head but doesn’t look back.
“I’m no one.”
Joanna lets out a scream that would wake even the dead and before Emma can turn around Joanna has pulled her legs out from under the Nihilist and as Death falls to the floor Joanna is following suit fists already raining down upon her lover. Wholly unprepared for the assault and still smarting from her match over an hour ago, Emma has little defense for Joanna’s assault. She’s soon wavering in and out of cognizance, on the verge of being unconscious. Her eyes are heavily glazed and her expression is one of stark confusion...the kind one might expect from someone with far less than a necessary level of mental faculty.
And moments after, she’s unconscious.
The Warchild finds the sense to stop once she realizes that Emma is no longer conscious. Battered, bruised and bloody, Emma lays as still as her namesake while Joanna, still perched atop her, takes out her cell phone and makes a call.
”Doll, call Shields. It’s what we were afraid of. We need to ‘fix’ Goldie before we lose her forever.”
”’Fix’...Joanna, what happened?” Eleanor’s voice is immediately fearful, harried. ’Let me talk to her. Is she there?”
”She’s indisposed. Just do what I say. Then come pick us up from the arena.”
Not wasting another word, War hangs up, then rises and moves to the nearby bench. She sits and stares at the unconscious Emma in silence. Her hand shakes with the need to do something, to unleash all the emotion inside her unstable head, but her eyes are full sorrow and pain. Looking down, she sees her red hands before looking away, disgusted. Barely above a whisper, Joanna speaks to the otherwise-empty room.
”The headstone that did this to her will know only War. And torture will be a welcome vacation from my intentions.”
Fade to black.
February 26th, 2016, 1:17am
California State Prison - Lancaster, California
Rec Yard
Grisly. That was the only word for it.
Several guards stood in the currently well-lit recreation yard of the prison, one in particular looking rather put-out at the situation and another looking tense yet solid. From one of the sturdy basketball goals hung a man who at one point might have been handsome. Judging by what of his appearance hadn’t been marred by violence and death, he was likely in his early-to-mid-50s and in decent physical shape. However, being hung from the neck has a way of affecting one’s visual appeal, and Gregory Gaines was no exception.
Jacob Mulholland had been staring at the breeze-swayed corpse for the better part of three minutes before he gestured to one of the local officers who’d arrived not a minute after he. Both gesture and order were curt, quiet.
”Cut him down and get him to the hospital for an autopsy. I want everything they can tell me about what happened to him on my desk by noon tomorrow.”
The officers muttered assent before moving about the grisly task along with the EMTs arriving in their wake. Jacob, at that point, turned on the guards standing nearby. To see him now would give no indicator of the rage that boiled over at his office just over an hour ago. He was as cool and collected as could be, or at least as much so as he ever got. Jacob was a hothead but as it seemed to help his work rather than hinder it, no one considered it a flaw.
”Sergeant Miles,” Mulholland began, hands dug into the pockets of his jacket. ”how did this happen?”
”Guess he pissed someone off in the yard.”
Murmurs sounded behind Miles, most coming from his guard detail. The man himself didn’t look smug so much as bored, but it could be taken either way. Mulholland stared at him for a moment before responding.
”Is that an official account, Sergeant?” Smiling slightly, a bit of mirth rippling behind Miles among his men, Jacob steps forward. ”Because I’m pretty sure that yard time is supervised, isn’t it? Can’t just let these maniacs run roughshod. Maybe you can try again. With a LOT more detail.”
”Can’t see everything going on here at every waking moment, detective. And if you got me and my men out of bed after midnight for some bullshit Q&A session…”
”You got a family, Miles? Kids? A little girl, maybe? I bet some of your men do.” Jacob turns toward the other guards, some of whom are nodding, others answering quietly. Then he returns his attention to Miles. ”This guy swinging from the goal post? He was gonna help us keep one of his partners from doing damage to someone else’s children. The same partner who’s now in the wind. That makes this…” He gestures with some anger. ”...a royal fuck-up. So you need to shit-can the attitude and tell me what the fuck happened here last night. Or else.”
The detective waits expectantly as one of the other guards moves to speak up, only to be quieted by a glare from Miles, who’s wearing an arrogant little smile on his drawn face.
”Or else what? You think you can just walk in here and throw orders around, asshole?”
”Don’t do this the hard way, Sergeant.”
”That a threat, detective?”
”It’s a warning. One way or the other, at this point, you’re going to be on a very long ride to Malibu to speak with myself and some of my associates pertaining to possible charges against you,”
”Like hell I’m going anywhere at this hour.”
”So you’re resisting arrest, then.” Jacob said mildly while unbuttoning and removing his jacket, tossing it aside. ”Your incompetence led to a man being killed in the yard and another escaping a transport. Two very dangerous men, one of whom is most likely going to be after the people who escaped him. That’s on your head, Miles. I’ll say it one more time: don’t do this the hard way.”
The Sergeant looks at the detective as though he’s crazy, chuckling and shaking his head.
”You ain’t got nothin’ on me, cop. And as for not doing this the hard way, well, if you think I’m going anywhere except back home, you’re out of your mind.” Miles retorts disdainfully as Jacob calmly removes his badge, something that gets the guard’s attention. ”Fuck you think you’re doing?”
The point bears stating again: Jacob takes his work seriously and the case involving the corpse and the escapee was one that he put a lot into. One that, now, was far from settled again. Couple that with there being lives on the line once again and having a smart-ass, almost-a-cop guard talking shit and, well...no one was surprised, nor should they have been, when Jacob cracked Miles in the jaw with a right hand.
The guard staggered as the guard detail behind him started going a little crazy. Miles fired back with a right of his own but it didn’t have the effect of Jacob’s. The detective was on him in a moment, knocking him to the broken pavement of the basketball court and pummeling him a few times before being thrown off. Miles got back up, wiping some blood from his lip with the back of his hand and charged Jacob, knocking him into the chain-link fence.
They went on this way for two very long minutes until Jacob ran Miles nose-first into the goal post, then hit him with another right that knocked him to the ground again. Walking over to his discarded jacket, spitting out some blood en route, he picked up his badge and put it back on before dragging Miles to his feet and shoving him against the fence, handcuffing him none-too-gently.
”Gonna be a long night, Miles. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Jacob herds the half-conscious guard to one of the local cops and shoves him against the side of their car.
”I don’t want him bleeding in the back of my car. Follow me back to Malibu so I can put him in a nice quiet cell to think about how he fucked up tonight.”
The local doesn’t have a retort. He does as asked while Jacob walks back to his car. We cut to a few hours later, showing Jacob sitting in his office again, still dabbing at a few wounds on his face from the impromptu fistfight as he makes a call. The sun hasn’t even thought about coming out yet as the other side starts to ring, a groggy, sleep-thickened female voice answers just as we fade to black.
”You are aware of the time, Detective, yes?”
February 26th, 2016, 12:02am
Police Department - Malibu, California
Office of Detective Jason Mulholland
The desk lamp only offers dim illumination for the young detective as he sifts through folders full of pictures and printouts, a half-empty mug of what was once hot coffee set beneath the weak bulb. Steam no longer rises from within and it's impossible to tell how long that's been the case. To his credit, despite the late hour, Jacob doesn't look all that tired. But then, his intensity is well-known both among his fellow boys in blue and certain...more infamous sorts. Tossing the last of the pictures from the most recent file onto the desk, Mulholland puts his hands to his face, fingertips rubbing into his eyes. The desk clock, at a glance, tells him all he needs to know.
"Tomorrow already...Hugo's gonna eat me alive."
Chuckling dryly to himself, he starts putting the media strewn about his cluttered desk back into its appropriate receptacles when his phone rings. Not his desk phone, however, but the cell precariously perched atop the mound resting within the desk's 'In' basket. Grabbing it, he doesn't bother glancing at the ID before dotting the screen with his thumb.
"Mulholland."
"Detective, this is Captain Hobart down at California State Prison in Lancaster..."
Right away, Jacob's expression tightens and any fatigue the coffee of old didn't cure was eliminated in a blink. His hand noticeably tightens around the phone.
"...we have a situation regarding two inmates." The captain pauses for a moment, then continues. "The ones you wanted us to keep special tabs on."
"A situation? That tells me jack, captain. What's going on?"
There was more edge than necessary in Jacob's voice, but he was well beyond caring already. If something had happened concerning those three scumbags he'd put away, several heads were going to roll. And if he didn't do something about the situation in a hurry, more people than that would be in danger. Putting the phone on speaker, he got up from his chair and grabbed his holster and jacket, sliding them on in that order while the ill-at-ease captain began to explain.
"Gregory Gaines is dead. Word reached us several minutes ago, as well, that Benson Thatcher escaped from the prison vehicle transporting him to San Quentin."
Jacob paused at the mention of the death of Gaines, but only briefly. From his expression one would think he didn't care all that much that the man was now a corpse. But at the mention of Thatcher being on the loose, he froze as if dropped in the middle of a katabatic ice storm. He stared at the phone, halfway into his jacket. It wasn't until Hobart spoke up again...
"...detective?"
"I'm sorry, it just sounded to me as if you said that Benson Thatcher was in the goddamn wind. Did I mishear you by any chance?"
"No, sir."
"When did the transport leave Lancaster, captain?"
Another brief pause, then...
"Three in the afternoon."
"It's a six-plus hour drive from Lancaster to San Quentin. You said you got this news a few minutes ago?" Even when speaking quietly and with a controlled tone, Jacob wasn't hiding the fact that he was utterly seething with fury. Without waiting for Hobart to respond, he continued on. "And by any chance is there news of Michael Milton?"
"As soon as we found Gaines I personally had him moved to protective custody."
Snorting irritably, Jacob picks up his phone and takes it off speaker.
"Well, hallelujah for small favors," Not sounding as though he were in a joyful mood despite the comment, Mulholland continues pressing. "Who was in charge of the guard detail this evening, Captain?"
"Sergeant Miles, detective."
"I want him and every guard on his detail waiting for me when I get to Lancaster, Captain. I'm hoping you got on the horn with the locals the moment you heard about the escape?"
"Soon as I heard, yes."
The detective takes a slow breath. It wouldn't do him any good to get all heated up about this before he even got there and saw the scene with his own eyes. And the captain seemed as though he were doing all that he could in the situation. "I don't need to be giving this guy hell. He's probably caught it already." Jacob thought to himself.
"Good man. Don't let anyone touch that crime scene till I get there, captain. No press, no locals...nothing. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'll be there in an hour."
Hanging up, Jacob puts the phone in his pocket and, still behind his desk, presses his palms against it. Leaning forward, he takes a few deep breaths, trying to cleanse himself, to find a calming center in the maelstrom. Raising back up, he stares at the darkened ceiling for a moment, shaking his head.
Then he snatches up the half-empty mug and hurls it like a bullet, the porcelain smashing against the wall and falling in pieces to the floor, faded brown liquid dripping down at a slower pace. Snatching up his keys, Mulholland storms out of his office and, in turn, out of the station. The view stays on his empty office and the stained wall as an engine roars outside, said noise becoming softer as it speeds away from the lot.
~*~
March 18th, 2016, 10:51pm
General Motors Centre - Oshawa, Ontario, Canada
Locker Room
Right away the scene is peculiar, not for she whom it involves, but her state of being at that moment. Emma, despite her chaotic nature, does have a few rituals and routines she engages in, one being long, hot showers immediately after her matches. In her mind, she’s washing the scum and germs from her flesh that her opponents applied merely by being close to her in that ring. Then it was into clean attire with every scrap of her ring gear sequestered until it could be cleanses as thoroughly as her own body. Tonight, however, was a different tale.
Emma sat motionless on the bench, head lowered and tri-colored hair forming a curtain blocking her face. Mesh-covered arms and black-wrapped hands were held beneath her, in her direct line of sight, with every finger twitching or trembling. The rest of her was stock still, a forced state if the tightness in her shoulders were to tell the tale. Breakthrough had seen the progression of her fellow Horsewomen via victory over Patrick Jones and Owen Gonsalves, something that put pride in Death Incarnate’s black heart. And to hear the tale, they would attempt another victory at Nothing Else Matters against the teenyboppers holding the tag straps. Not for the gold, because perish forbid...but it was an opportunity to make a statement.
Yet she would make no such statement. Loss between the ropes was a wine of a rarely-tasted vintage for Emma, but not one alien to her senses. The names that had sent her down in defeat were few, but save for one their accomplishments stood well. Champions current and former to the last name. And each time, she rose again and laughed...right in the faces of those who claimed victory, reminding them that slowing isn’t stopping, that the revolution would not be stalled. Regardless of match or participants, Emma would power through and refuse to let the loss eat at her.
Until tonight.
”Mistake? Yes.” The dark-haired woman whispered softly to herself. ”Intentional? Don’t know.” For all the world it sounds as if two are speaking instead of one. ”Punishable?” There is no answer to the one-word query at first save for Emma’s hands to clench so tight her skin is both white and red from the wrappings and the pressure of her grip upon nothing. ”Forgivable?”
Her hands open, tremulously, then drop limply between her parted legs, lowering as her head likewise does. A small knock comes echoing through the room as War steps from the hallway, a stern yet soft look on her face. Without a word, the woman suspended last time she stood in these halls walks across the room and kneels at Death’s feet. Looking up at her lover, Joanna took her naked hands and folded them over Emma’s, the two shared a moment, one still in ring gear ready to tear a hole through the world, the other dress in jeans, combat boots, and a shirt to represent their ride.
”Don’t go there, Goldie. I’m here and that place is dark. Come to my light, come to my warmth.”
Emma barely seems to feel the touch, to recognize the presence of her partner. Eventually reality falls into place around her, her head lifting. The gesture is only noticeable by the shift of her black hair with the cobalt and indigo strands running through it. But it falls apart enough for Joanna to see her icy blue eyes, to see a startling amount of fury behind them. Perhaps even enough to make the similarly-named Horsewoman, Talon, pause.
”What...did you do?”
Scoffing at the question Joanna leans up just enough to run her hand through the hair of the tightly-wound Visionary. Joanna shakes her head back and forth a bit before suddenly and unexpectedly grabbing Emma’s left hand and placing it on her throat.
”Set you up to really express yourself. But it really depends on to what are you referring to? What did I do….to get here, to pull you away from that place, in general, tonight? There are a lot of questions in that one question, Goldie…”
Further response was cut off by the sudden tightening of Emma’s hand, so delicately placed at Joanna’s throat by War herself. Black nails dig into warm, inviting flesh, Death’s grip squeezing a half-drawn breath until it can neither enter nor escape. Emma’s voice is a rasping, trembling whisper.
”I…had...that miserable whelp. One of their precious symbols was set to crumble and weep, dashing their false hopes a little more, pulling the caul from their eyes a little further…”
Standing swiftly, fluidly, Emma is now looming over Joanna, glaring down at her.
”What...did...you…DO?!”
Joanna looks down and nods, to what we’re unsure. But her shiftness and not only break the cold grip of Death but also of looming over the woman taller than her with just a stare. The air around thick with suspense as Joanna’s aura clashed with Emma’s.
”What YOU would have in my shoes.”
”You presume!”
Her grip disengaged by Joanna’s sudden, responsive motion, Emma did not seek to retake it for whatever reason. Instead, she locked eyes with War, seething furiously. Joanna shook her head and spread her arms inviting Emma to look around as well as giving her an opening.
“NEVER! You are split, you are fragmented, you are unworthy and unable to finish what WE started. You’ve let fear grip you and are lashing out to gain control. I’m here EMMA, I’m right here in front of you going NOWHERE.”
Joanna’s words are harsh and hit like the hammer she hardly ever is seen without. As each word falls from her lips Joanna inches closer until her nose is pressed against Emma’s and her full being is swallowed down Emma’s throat.
”Who are YOU to tell me what I am?! Your past is just that: the past! Mine seeks to eat me alive, yet here I stand...fighting our fight, pushing forth with our mission...while YOU sit and watch!”
There was no shying away. Worse, there was no one else there. If this degenerated into bloodshed again…
”I am the one that knows Emma better than Death does.”
Joanna doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch, she stands her ground and illuminates the simple truth she sees. Anger continues to well up within Emma for several moments, coming to a point where her right arm tenses as if to lash out at Joanna...before it falls lip and Death’s expression becomes a cold, emotionless mask.
“No...I don’t think you do.”
Even her tone is quiet and flat. She turns and moves to walk past Joanna.Joanna lowers her head and arms as Emma moves to leave. Her hands ball into fists at her side as she takes a deep breath in.
”Yes I do, but you are not Emma. Emma is a being that can stand alone, that wants to laugh as she crushes skulls underneath her boots. You are the thing before Emma, the woman that is lost, the woman that was taken.”
Stopping for a moment, Emma lifts her head but doesn’t look back.
“I’m no one.”
Joanna lets out a scream that would wake even the dead and before Emma can turn around Joanna has pulled her legs out from under the Nihilist and as Death falls to the floor Joanna is following suit fists already raining down upon her lover. Wholly unprepared for the assault and still smarting from her match over an hour ago, Emma has little defense for Joanna’s assault. She’s soon wavering in and out of cognizance, on the verge of being unconscious. Her eyes are heavily glazed and her expression is one of stark confusion...the kind one might expect from someone with far less than a necessary level of mental faculty.
And moments after, she’s unconscious.
The Warchild finds the sense to stop once she realizes that Emma is no longer conscious. Battered, bruised and bloody, Emma lays as still as her namesake while Joanna, still perched atop her, takes out her cell phone and makes a call.
”Doll, call Shields. It’s what we were afraid of. We need to ‘fix’ Goldie before we lose her forever.”
”’Fix’...Joanna, what happened?” Eleanor’s voice is immediately fearful, harried. ’Let me talk to her. Is she there?”
”She’s indisposed. Just do what I say. Then come pick us up from the arena.”
Not wasting another word, War hangs up, then rises and moves to the nearby bench. She sits and stares at the unconscious Emma in silence. Her hand shakes with the need to do something, to unleash all the emotion inside her unstable head, but her eyes are full sorrow and pain. Looking down, she sees her red hands before looking away, disgusted. Barely above a whisper, Joanna speaks to the otherwise-empty room.
”The headstone that did this to her will know only War. And torture will be a welcome vacation from my intentions.”
Fade to black.
~*~
February 26th, 2016, 1:17am
California State Prison - Lancaster, California
Rec Yard
Grisly. That was the only word for it.
Several guards stood in the currently well-lit recreation yard of the prison, one in particular looking rather put-out at the situation and another looking tense yet solid. From one of the sturdy basketball goals hung a man who at one point might have been handsome. Judging by what of his appearance hadn’t been marred by violence and death, he was likely in his early-to-mid-50s and in decent physical shape. However, being hung from the neck has a way of affecting one’s visual appeal, and Gregory Gaines was no exception.
Jacob Mulholland had been staring at the breeze-swayed corpse for the better part of three minutes before he gestured to one of the local officers who’d arrived not a minute after he. Both gesture and order were curt, quiet.
”Cut him down and get him to the hospital for an autopsy. I want everything they can tell me about what happened to him on my desk by noon tomorrow.”
The officers muttered assent before moving about the grisly task along with the EMTs arriving in their wake. Jacob, at that point, turned on the guards standing nearby. To see him now would give no indicator of the rage that boiled over at his office just over an hour ago. He was as cool and collected as could be, or at least as much so as he ever got. Jacob was a hothead but as it seemed to help his work rather than hinder it, no one considered it a flaw.
”Sergeant Miles,” Mulholland began, hands dug into the pockets of his jacket. ”how did this happen?”
”Guess he pissed someone off in the yard.”
Murmurs sounded behind Miles, most coming from his guard detail. The man himself didn’t look smug so much as bored, but it could be taken either way. Mulholland stared at him for a moment before responding.
”Is that an official account, Sergeant?” Smiling slightly, a bit of mirth rippling behind Miles among his men, Jacob steps forward. ”Because I’m pretty sure that yard time is supervised, isn’t it? Can’t just let these maniacs run roughshod. Maybe you can try again. With a LOT more detail.”
”Can’t see everything going on here at every waking moment, detective. And if you got me and my men out of bed after midnight for some bullshit Q&A session…”
”You got a family, Miles? Kids? A little girl, maybe? I bet some of your men do.” Jacob turns toward the other guards, some of whom are nodding, others answering quietly. Then he returns his attention to Miles. ”This guy swinging from the goal post? He was gonna help us keep one of his partners from doing damage to someone else’s children. The same partner who’s now in the wind. That makes this…” He gestures with some anger. ”...a royal fuck-up. So you need to shit-can the attitude and tell me what the fuck happened here last night. Or else.”
The detective waits expectantly as one of the other guards moves to speak up, only to be quieted by a glare from Miles, who’s wearing an arrogant little smile on his drawn face.
”Or else what? You think you can just walk in here and throw orders around, asshole?”
”Don’t do this the hard way, Sergeant.”
”That a threat, detective?”
”It’s a warning. One way or the other, at this point, you’re going to be on a very long ride to Malibu to speak with myself and some of my associates pertaining to possible charges against you,”
”Like hell I’m going anywhere at this hour.”
”So you’re resisting arrest, then.” Jacob said mildly while unbuttoning and removing his jacket, tossing it aside. ”Your incompetence led to a man being killed in the yard and another escaping a transport. Two very dangerous men, one of whom is most likely going to be after the people who escaped him. That’s on your head, Miles. I’ll say it one more time: don’t do this the hard way.”
The Sergeant looks at the detective as though he’s crazy, chuckling and shaking his head.
”You ain’t got nothin’ on me, cop. And as for not doing this the hard way, well, if you think I’m going anywhere except back home, you’re out of your mind.” Miles retorts disdainfully as Jacob calmly removes his badge, something that gets the guard’s attention. ”Fuck you think you’re doing?”
The point bears stating again: Jacob takes his work seriously and the case involving the corpse and the escapee was one that he put a lot into. One that, now, was far from settled again. Couple that with there being lives on the line once again and having a smart-ass, almost-a-cop guard talking shit and, well...no one was surprised, nor should they have been, when Jacob cracked Miles in the jaw with a right hand.
The guard staggered as the guard detail behind him started going a little crazy. Miles fired back with a right of his own but it didn’t have the effect of Jacob’s. The detective was on him in a moment, knocking him to the broken pavement of the basketball court and pummeling him a few times before being thrown off. Miles got back up, wiping some blood from his lip with the back of his hand and charged Jacob, knocking him into the chain-link fence.
They went on this way for two very long minutes until Jacob ran Miles nose-first into the goal post, then hit him with another right that knocked him to the ground again. Walking over to his discarded jacket, spitting out some blood en route, he picked up his badge and put it back on before dragging Miles to his feet and shoving him against the fence, handcuffing him none-too-gently.
”Gonna be a long night, Miles. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Jacob herds the half-conscious guard to one of the local cops and shoves him against the side of their car.
”I don’t want him bleeding in the back of my car. Follow me back to Malibu so I can put him in a nice quiet cell to think about how he fucked up tonight.”
The local doesn’t have a retort. He does as asked while Jacob walks back to his car. We cut to a few hours later, showing Jacob sitting in his office again, still dabbing at a few wounds on his face from the impromptu fistfight as he makes a call. The sun hasn’t even thought about coming out yet as the other side starts to ring, a groggy, sleep-thickened female voice answers just as we fade to black.
”You are aware of the time, Detective, yes?”