emmettkane
Emmett Kane's Hall
|| Writer (Word Butcher) | Composer (Sound Butcher) | Dieselpunk Enthusiast || PFP courtesy of @daisy-todd
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EL NEGRO
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One time I brought one of my rocks with me on a plane to touch to calm me down during the flight, but it fell out of my pocket on my way back to the bathroom and then as soon as i realized this they actually announced âdid anyone loseâŚâŚ . A rockâ over the loudspeaker system.
When I went up to claim it the plane man, clearly unable to throw off the shackles of his training in the procedure of asking for peopleâs full names and birthdates when they come to claim wallets, said âwait no, first tell me what color it is so I know itâs really yoursâ
He seemed to realize this was stupid directly after saying it and kind of smiled like to make it a joke but the joke was on him bc I Described the fucking rock to him for like 30 solid seconds
âŚanyway. that was an interaction I had once
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You think they'll let me drink the stuff in the lava lamps?
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My coworker Mike just started cracking up. Informed us someone was trying to make a test Outlook group at work and seems to have accidentally made it a real Outlook group.
Everyone added to the group is named Mike.
Creator of the group isnât online yet but the Mikes are coming online in droves.
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slapping modeling clay around blindly without thought or purpose, i look down and find a perfectly sculpted replica of myself seated at a table with a lump of modeling clay before me, similarly shaped into a still smaller instance of the same scene. and i am afraid to look up
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youtube
NEW LENA RAINE MUSIC JUST DROPPED!!!
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i took elvish in school and i fucking hated it. the teacher was like 700 years old and he'd like take us on field trips to sit on the banks of babbling brooks and watch the fall of sunlight through the leaves. my friends in spanish class were like conjugating verbs and shit and meanwhile i was in an old-growth forest being overcome with awe at the sight of a majestic stag. like uhh yeah mr autumnheart when are we gonna learn like any grammar "listen to the murmur of the wind in the treetops, and you shall find the grammar you seek" like fuck dude your pedagogy leaves much to be desired
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You ever go to tell a lighthearted joke at the expense of a friend but then accidentally savage them like a starving wolf on a lame deer?
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Iss. 8:
Terror On The Block!
The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenantâs military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.
Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual alreadyâŚ
---
It rains.
For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.
A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.
âA miracle by any other name,â the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.
He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old theyâve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.
There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase âDet. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unitâ. It is covered in dust.
The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.
A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, âhangs out at warehouse 9, block 3â.
âPeace Corps,â he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.
He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at itâs center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.
âItâs a terrible day for rain,â Fred murmurs. âBut not for everyone.â
---
It rains.
A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.
A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.
Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and heâs soaked by the time heâs fully across. The door isnât shut all the way, itâs cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.
The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.
The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.
Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isnât as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.
Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.
He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. âStep back and put your hands behind your head.â
The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. âWhat do you want,â he groans, his expression fearful. âI donât have anything left to take.â
Fred answers, âI want to know whatâs in the suitcase. It seems to me that youâre attempting to dispose of something.â
âDispose of something?â the man whines. âPeople burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? Itâs garbage, not a crime.â His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something thatâs harder to read, calmer.
Fred takes a few steps forward and says, âIf itâs just trash, then you wonât mind if I take a look, just to make sure?â
The man doesnât answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.
He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.
There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.
Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.
He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.
His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.
The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.
Fred doesnât lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. âWere you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?â
The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, âYes, no, and I donât know.â
âWhat do you mean by that?â
The man grits his teeth, âFirst: I used to be, second: I donât know of any others in the city, and third: I donât know if theyâve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.â
Fred tilts his head slightly. âWhat for? Crack too many skulls?â
The man laughs at that, then winces. âNo, but thatâs a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldnât believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didnât turn into a good man, butâŚwellâŚâ He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, âI couldâve been worse.â
The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his targetâs face.
The wounded man asks, âWhat happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?â
Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, âLost it to the same folks.â The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, âLook, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why donât you come with me, sort things out?â
The manâs eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. âIâm sorry, I really am, but there are sins you canât atone for, things that nobody can atone for.â He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.
Frederick fires on reflex.
The object falls to the ground.
Itâs an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.
Itâs a terrible day for rain.
---
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Iss. 8:
Terror On The Block!
The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenantâs military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.
Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual alreadyâŚ
---
It rains.
For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.
A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.
âA miracle by any other name,â the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.
He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old theyâve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.
There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase âDet. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unitâ. It is covered in dust.
The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.
A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, âhangs out at warehouse 9, block 3â.
âPeace Corps,â he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.
He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at itâs center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.
âItâs a terrible day for rain,â Fred murmurs. âBut not for everyone.â
---
It rains.
A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.
A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.
Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and heâs soaked by the time heâs fully across. The door isnât shut all the way, itâs cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.
The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.
The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.
Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isnât as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.
Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.
He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. âStep back and put your hands behind your head.â
The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. âWhat do you want,â he groans, his expression fearful. âI donât have anything left to take.â
Fred answers, âI want to know whatâs in the suitcase. It seems to me that youâre attempting to dispose of something.â
âDispose of something?â the man whines. âPeople burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? Itâs garbage, not a crime.â His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something thatâs harder to read, calmer.
Fred takes a few steps forward and says, âIf itâs just trash, then you wonât mind if I take a look, just to make sure?â
The man doesnât answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.
He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.
There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.
Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.
He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.
His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.
The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.
Fred doesnât lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. âWere you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?â
The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, âYes, no, and I donât know.â
âWhat do you mean by that?â
The man grits his teeth, âFirst: I used to be, second: I donât know of any others in the city, and third: I donât know if theyâve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.â
Fred tilts his head slightly. âWhat for? Crack too many skulls?â
The man laughs at that, then winces. âNo, but thatâs a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldnât believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didnât turn into a good man, butâŚwellâŚâ He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, âI couldâve been worse.â
The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his targetâs face.
The wounded man asks, âWhat happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?â
Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, âLost it to the same folks.â The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, âLook, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why donât you come with me, sort things out?â
The manâs eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. âIâm sorry, I really am, but there are sins you canât atone for, things that nobody can atone for.â He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.
Frederick fires on reflex.
The object falls to the ground.
Itâs an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.
Itâs a terrible day for rain.
---
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Iss. 8:
Terror On The Block!
The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenantâs military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.
Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual alreadyâŚ
---
It rains.
For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.
A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.
âA miracle by any other name,â the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.
He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old theyâve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.
There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase âDet. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unitâ. It is covered in dust.
The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.
A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, âhangs out at warehouse 9, block 3â.
âPeace Corps,â he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.
He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at itâs center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.
âItâs a terrible day for rain,â Fred murmurs. âBut not for everyone.â
---
It rains.
A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.
A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.
Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and heâs soaked by the time heâs fully across. The door isnât shut all the way, itâs cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.
The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.
The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.
Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isnât as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.
Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.
He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. âStep back and put your hands behind your head.â
The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. âWhat do you want,â he groans, his expression fearful. âI donât have anything left to take.â
Fred answers, âI want to know whatâs in the suitcase. It seems to me that youâre attempting to dispose of something.â
âDispose of something?â the man whines. âPeople burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? Itâs garbage, not a crime.â His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something thatâs harder to read, calmer.
Fred takes a few steps forward and says, âIf itâs just trash, then you wonât mind if I take a look, just to make sure?â
The man doesnât answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.
He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.
There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.
Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.
He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.
His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.
The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.
Fred doesnât lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. âWere you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?â
The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, âYes, no, and I donât know.â
âWhat do you mean by that?â
The man grits his teeth, âFirst: I used to be, second: I donât know of any others in the city, and third: I donât know if theyâve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.â
Fred tilts his head slightly. âWhat for? Crack too many skulls?â
The man laughs at that, then winces. âNo, but thatâs a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldnât believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didnât turn into a good man, butâŚwellâŚâ He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, âI couldâve been worse.â
The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his targetâs face.
The wounded man asks, âWhat happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?â
Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, âLost it to the same folks.â The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, âLook, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why donât you come with me, sort things out?â
The manâs eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. âIâm sorry, I really am, but there are sins you canât atone for, things that nobody can atone for.â He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.
Frederick fires on reflex.
The object falls to the ground.
Itâs an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.
Itâs a terrible day for rain.
---
First
Prev
Next
6 notes
¡
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Text
Iss. 8:
Terror On The Block!
The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenantâs military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.
Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual alreadyâŚ
---
It rains.
For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.
A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.
âA miracle by any other name,â the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.
He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old theyâve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.
There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase âDet. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unitâ. It is covered in dust.
The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.
A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, âhangs out at warehouse 9, block 3â.
âPeace Corps,â he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.
He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at itâs center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.
âItâs a terrible day for rain,â Fred murmurs. âBut not for everyone.â
---
It rains.
A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.
A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.
Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and heâs soaked by the time heâs fully across. The door isnât shut all the way, itâs cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.
The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.
The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.
Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isnât as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.
Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.
He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. âStep back and put your hands behind your head.â
The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. âWhat do you want,â he groans, his expression fearful. âI donât have anything left to take.â
Fred answers, âI want to know whatâs in the suitcase. It seems to me that youâre attempting to dispose of something.â
âDispose of something?â the man whines. âPeople burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? Itâs garbage, not a crime.â His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something thatâs harder to read, calmer.
Fred takes a few steps forward and says, âIf itâs just trash, then you wonât mind if I take a look, just to make sure?â
The man doesnât answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.
He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.
There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.
Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.
He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.
His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.
The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.
Fred doesnât lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. âWere you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?â
The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, âYes, no, and I donât know.â
âWhat do you mean by that?â
The man grits his teeth, âFirst: I used to be, second: I donât know of any others in the city, and third: I donât know if theyâve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.â
Fred tilts his head slightly. âWhat for? Crack too many skulls?â
The man laughs at that, then winces. âNo, but thatâs a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldnât believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didnât turn into a good man, butâŚwellâŚâ He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, âI couldâve been worse.â
The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his targetâs face.
The wounded man asks, âWhat happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?â
Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, âLost it to the same folks.â The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, âLook, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why donât you come with me, sort things out?â
The manâs eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. âIâm sorry, I really am, but there are sins you canât atone for, things that nobody can atone for.â He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.
Frederick fires on reflex.
The object falls to the ground.
Itâs an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.
Itâs a terrible day for rain.
---
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Night Vale had some of the BEST one off quotes that would just suckerpunch you in the chest leave you breathless
Like the one that stuck with me was this one:
"when a person dies and no one will miss them, the mourning is assigned to a random human. This is why sometimes you just feel sad."
It's been almost 11 years... It haunts me in a good way
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