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PFM - Joran snippet/loose scenes
🕑 Added 2022-12-08 16:29:34 +0000 UTC#1
The throbbing pain suspends any words of protest you might have uttered otherwise. Stunned, you hold onto the swig of air you sucked in through your teeth - it just might be your last.
Down on your knees in a perverse sort of prayer, you stare up at the barrel of the gun. The air stings, forcing a layer of tears to envelop your sclera. In your mind at once a million words and a dooming silence that screams ‘it’s over’ and ‘I told you so,’ in a voice you’d do anything to hear laugh at you again, but the gun unloads and—
It’s quick. A discharge. A flicker of black and Marco's hand is brushed aside. The bullet strikes the wall. Before it ricochets, the same arm that's just been extended before you is folded in half. Outwardly.
There's a crack - Marco's scream is drowned under the increasingly loud bass - and a shuffling of shoes as your savior comes fully into view. Another crash, then silence.
Marco sinks to the ground, knocked out cold. Above him stands a man, clad in a black suit, with perfectly polished dress shoes and black designer glasses neatly placed in the pocket of his vest.
He winces a bit as he regards first his creased jacket, second the slumped body, now more inconvenienced than regretful. After a quick look down the narrow corridor, he pushes open the closest door and drags Marco inside by the scruff of his shirt.
You’re too dazed, after staring death right in the eyes, to do more than exhale, blinking at the door opening and closing in short succession.
The man from the dream reappears, scrutinizing you fleetingly, apparently satisfied with what he sees. There’s something familiar in that gaze, something all agents seem to share, a certain detached perspicacity that comes with experience.
He turns to leave, just like that, with no explanation, no word edgewise, and you almost let him go, but the shock clears enough for you to rasp out, “Why did you help me?”
You didn’t forget. He’s the one who hunted you like a rabbit through the winding streets of Elazar. He was the one invading your dreams, toying with your head.
For a moment you’re not sure whether he’ll answer or not. He does, though without fully facing you. “I’m paid by the hour.”
His voice is more pleasant than you’d expect it to be, not at all cold and rigid, but not honeyed either, something between derisive and indolent. He takes in your silence patiently, as though your reaction is predictable, before huffing out something that might as well be a laugh.
“There’s no bonus per person caught. And,” he adds, when you remain mute, “you have friends willing to spend a lot for me to keep my eyes closed.”
“Does Laurent—” Ah, a slight twitch to his lips. Not Laurent, then.
Still, Joran grins in a way that carries a subtle dare, the ‘tell him and see what happens’ that contrasts with the easy way he carries himself. A wolf hidden amidst a flock of sheep. Perhaps he’s worse than the weapon he helped you evade, if only because people tend to be volatile when you jeopardize their safety.
“Don’t get me wrong, I might be well compensated for the trouble you’re causing, but there’s no price that can’t be outbid.”
“What if I rat you out?”
“To whom? Fortin?” He laughs, this time completely relaxed, as if he doesn’t even consider that a threat. “You think she’ll believe you? And even if, let’s say, she even lets you talk, between you and me, who do you think she’d choose? I do so much for them, do you think they can discard me? No, they can’t. I could burn this whole building to ashes, and they’d pardon me. They can’t afford to let me go.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Goes with the job.”
“So what, if the SPD gives you a raise, you'll sell me out?”
“If it's a decent rise.” His tone is light, but he doesn't seem to be joking. He only observes calmly as you push yourself upwards, propping yourself against the wall as your jello legs refuse to hold you up. “What? Not scared yet?”
“Oh, terrified,” you drone, scrunching your nose. Now that the adrenaline is fading, your body zaps back, zeroing on the esthesis. Sweat, perfume, booze. Now also that sickening scent of decay. “Pretend I'm running away crying.”
“I'll do that,” he says idly. It seems as though he intends to add more, but he stops himself on an exhalation. When he moves, though it's in the opposite direction, your frame freezes visibly. “Now you're scared? I was just leaving.”
“Don't mind me, then.”
This time, your snark brings a flat laugh out of him, even if he shakes his head right after. You don’t expect goodbyes - it would be strange in this scenario, wouldn’t it - and you don’t receive any. He pivots, and when you realize that the way he's taking leads nowhere else than a dead end, you feel your mouth twitch.
Even as your limbs become sturdy once more, you linger in place. You can’t deny yourself the satisfaction of seeing that fucker’s face when he retreats. But minutes tick, and your patience runs thin.
Retracing his steps, you take the last turn - barely a couple of steps - and find a bare wall with no other means of escape.
A right magician, huh? You always knew the SPD was a fucking circus.
#2
When you rouse, the bedsheets are soaked with sweat. Your heart bangs against your chest, rapidly, as though you’ve been just fleeing. But you are safe. You were just asleep.
It might have been a nightmare. Perhaps you were falling again. All you can remember is that man. His brown, almost black eyes peering at you from above the thick rims of his designer sunglasses, and his voice, a tad too dry to be smug.
“Sometimes the only way out, is in. Remember, [Morren]? The only way out?”
Is in.
#3
At least thirteen dead bodies lay on the floor of the storehouse. Perhaps more, if you count the torn limbs scattered every which way, but you won't be the one working on the puzzle.
The sight is one thing, but the smell— The cadavers are at least a week old. The meat and viscera stored in warm, enclosed space has long since begun to rot.
You can’t really fight it, not with your affliction. You take a quick step back, slamming a hand over your mouth and nose, but nothing can block the stench that already wormed its way into your nasal passages.
Joran, still standing a step ahead of you, only sighs. There’s a tell-tale click as he folds his sunglasses, hooking them over the neckline of his shirt. Then his voice resounds, echoing in the empty of any furnishing room.
“Make my day, why don’t you.”
“What?” you mumble through your fingers, trying not to breathe, and ending up gagging regardless.
That seems to rouse the agent, reminding him of your presence. He turns towards you, and you don’t flatter yourself thinking that he’s seriously concerned. “Are you going to throw up?”
When you make a noise you hope he can interpret as ‘most likely,’ he pulls out a small, glass container from the pocket of his jacket, uncapping it easily with just his thumb and forefinger. You don’t let him ask if you want the suppressants before you tear them out of his hands, swallowing two of them dry.
It’s the good stuff - the effect is staggering, near instantaneous. For a moment, you can’t smell anything at all. Even the residual scent of peppermints you chewed on earlier evaporates. When your senses of smell and taste return, they are muted, barely detectable.
“Thanks,” you croak, returning the container to Joran. Or trying to, seeing as he’s already turned back, staring at the bodies or in their general direction with an empty gaze.
Either distracted by his thoughts, or sensing your reluctance, he mutters “Keep it,” as he ignores your outstretched hand in favor of searching through his jacket. Whichever it is, you keep the pills. Even if he got them prescribed for free, you know how much they’d cost otherwise.
The monetary silence is broken by a sound of low whistling. Joran’s attention drifts off as he retrieves a pair of black, latex gloves that he then promptly dons. The tune, as always, scratches at your brain, but you can never place its origin.
Makes a move as though to approach the closest corpse, Joran halts suddenly, the tune and his steps both. “You’re still here?”
“Uh?” Honestly, sometimes it feels as though you’re having two different conversations, half of which he spends in his own head. “Was I supposed to leave?”
He blinks. Other than the slight confusion in his eyes, his face is perfectly motionless. As with most of the agents you’ve come to know over the months, his default expression is rather severe, especially without the dark glasses obscuring a portion of it.
“I’ll have to call a DS... Then again, you are already acquainted.”
Oh. You only know one Death Speaker, so it’s not hard to suss out the lead. “I thought he’s off duty?”
Joran huffs a quick, diverted sound. When you keep staring at him, he relents. “No one’s ever off duty.”
“But don’t you have other Death Speakers around?”
“In Elazar? A dozen, or so. But that’s for the whole city.”
“That’s... not a lot?”
“There’s what, statistically, a murder happening every three minutes? And you need at least one per team, two is ideal to ‘minimize the risk of deception’. That’s for cases in which the perpetrator is not evaluated as afflicted.”
“What if they are?”
“Then the DCJS calls the SPD.” With that, Joran reaches for his cell phone. Ah, so the conversation’s over, huh.
With nothing better to do, you look around idly, trying to limit your linear perspective to the ceiling and the upper walls - the only points of the room that are still mostly clean.
When the first dial tone resounds, Joran throws you a look over his shoulder. This time is more teasing than surprised. “He’s not going to give you a ride home, if that's what you're hoping for.”
“What?”
“I’m throwing hints that you should go. You’re still, technically, on our wanted list.”
“Flavio wouldn’t sell me out.”
“But Flavio won’t be coming alone.” Joran grins when you stiffen. “That’s right, run along. I’m not being paid to stall them.”
“Bastard,” you spit, though surprisingly without any real heat. It’s not like it was your idea to come here. Well, maybe it was. Nonetheless, you break into a jog, reaching as far as to the door before Joran’s voice reaches you, absentminded and echo-y.
“And take your friend with you.”
“Huh?” You spin around, not sure if you heard that right, or if it was even directed at you. It seems so, seeing as Joran is kneeling next to a cadaver. The hand holding a cell phone only just now rises to his ear. Aside from the dead mercs, there’s no one here. “Very funny,” you mumble, pushing the door open. Now you’ll really have to sprint.
* The tune Joran whistles is from a song from a telenovela Colton plays around the bar when Alan’s around. Reed hated it at first, but he also picked up on it, humming it when he cooks or does the dishes.
