Interlude: Pain O'Clock
Prok
Go play Star Fetchers
- Location
- Scotland
"'llo, there!"
Marcel Blaine looks down from his vantage point on the cart, over his horses and down to the man walking along the side of the road. The lantern light is dim, especially out here in the forest, but he can make out some details of the stranger.
"Marcel, don't, you know it's not safe to pick up hitchhikers-" his lovely wife Judith says, squeezing her husband's hand. She sits with her legs splayed, heavy with their third child, and Marcel couldn't help but feel a little guilty for stressing her like this.
The man turns, shifting his waist-length blond hair out of the way with a hand, revealing just how rail-thin he truly is. He looks up at Marcel with a lazy smile, two bright blue eyes peering out from the thin curtain of hair that he didn't quite manage to clear away.
He can't quite pin down why, but Marcel suddenly feels like the wisest action is to either stay perfectly still or work the horses into a frenzy and try to outrun him.
Then the man's smile widens, his eyes brighten, and the feeling passes, so quickly and completely that he begins to wonder if he'd imagined it.
"Hello. On your way to Vale, too?" the man asks, his voice quiet and polite.
"Mhm. Got wares to sell, 'nd I'm dropping t'children off at a boarding school."
Marcel becomes rapidly aware of shifting from the back, and soon after, a head pops up to see who her father is talking to.
"Hi mister!" his eldest, Melissa, says, waving a hand rapidly at the stranger. "Your hair is pretty."
The man chuckles, waving back.
"Thank you, I do try to take care of it," he says, and Marcel swears he can see the slightest tinge of pink around his ears at the compliment.
"Marcel," Judith whispers.
He turns to look at her and is somewhat surprised to see concern instead of disapproval.
"He doesn't have any shoes," she says after a moment. "His feet must be raw."
Marcel turns again, watching the man as he chats away with his children, and realises his wife is right- the man is barefoot. His feet look relatively unharmed, though, is the odd thing.
"'Ere, bit odd going barefoot, no? These roads might just be dirt, but they'll tear yer feet up just the same after a while."
The man's eyebrows rise before he looks down at his feet.
"Ah, yes, my last pair gave up a while back. A particularly nasty gravel patch just tore straight through the soles, I'm afraid. No big loss, though- they were just a pair of old trainers I bartered for."
Marcel turned to his wife, and a silent conversation ensued. All paranoia on Judith's part had long since been smothered by a certain duty of care, and it didn't take them long to figure it would be cruel to let a man grind his feet down making the trip to Vale.
"... Y'know, I've no objection giving you a lift oop road- let ye rest yer feet 'n all."
The man considers it for a moment, judging the shattered moon as it rises over the horizon.
"Hm… how far from Vale are we, anyway?"
"Ooh, 'nother hundred miles and change t'the mountains, at least, then that's a solid twenty miles 'fore you reach the border. Good two, three hundred after that t'city proper. Ain't many villages between here and there either, 'f yer hoping to get ahold of another pair of shoes."
The man blanches slightly at that.
"... Well, it would be rude of me to reject such hospitality. Thank you, mister…"
"Marcel, Marcel Blaine. The little one who should be asleep is Melissa, her brother Peat's been out cold for an hour now, and this one," he pats Judith's stomach gently, "will be Lucius in about a month's time."
"Or Lily if it's a girl," Judith chimes in.
The man smiles.
"Basil. It's wonderful to meet you all."
|||
The ride is quiet but personable, once Basil hops on. Marcel does lament that getting Melissa to sleep will be nigh-impossible, now that she has someone new to talk to. After a few minutes of straining his neck to try and talk to him, Judith takes the reins off him and all but pushes him under the wagon cover to go and talk to him.
Now that he's sat opposite him, and could see the man in more detail by lamplight, Marcel realises that he isn't just thin- he borders on hollow, his chest and stomach almost concave for the lack of anything filling it. He was far too mobile to be starving, though- he didn't have the potbelly of malnutrition, either.
No, he just… looked like a Vacuoni mummy decided to take a walk and update its wardrobe.
"So, Basil- where are you coming from?" he asks, keeping his suspicions to himself.
"Oh, nowhere special, I'm afraid- I do a few circles of the land between Vale and Vacuo every couple years, visiting villages and the like. You know Honeystrand?"
Marcel perks up.
"Aye, I know Honeystrand! Some of t'best honey and wax you'll ever find!"
"Mm, well, that was my last stop."
"What do ye do that needs ye movin' around so often? Huntsman?"
"Doctor, if you'd believe me."
Basil smiles as Marcel stalls for a moment, looking the man over in a new light.
… No, yeah, he could see it. Cut the hair short, button him up, he'd actually look like a fairly respectable member of society. And he does lack the certain… pizzazz that Huntsmen have.
With a shrug, he pulls his pipe from a pocket, fills it with a pinch of cloves and tobacco from his pouch, and, after a glance at Judith, reaches into a much smaller pouch, pulling free a desiccated Gliss shell, crumbling the iridescent carapace into his pipe with a sound like crinkling paper and bells.
Basil raises an eyebrow, a smirk creeping up his face.
"A man's allowed his vices, aye?" Marcel whispers conspiratorially.
"I'm in no position to judge," Basil whispers back like he's sharing a secret of his own.
The end of the pipe disappears somewhere under his beard, as he pats himself down for matches. After a moment, he grumbles, bushy monobrow turning down in a confused scowl.
"Allow me," Basil says, moving forward and holding up a hand for him.
Marcel looks at him in confusion, before his new friend's arm was suffused in a pale reddish-brown light- like baked clay. After a moment, the light shifted up to his hand, thickening and brightening into a ring around his splayed fingers, before he snaps his fingers and-
A flame winked into existence, flickering in the air like the last embers of a coal fire, but stable. Marcel gapes for a few moments, before seeing the strain on Basil's face and quickly lighting his pipe.
The light fades, and the fire gutters out, only just surviving in the cloves, Gliss, and tobacco.
"... That's… one helluva trick you've got there, Basil. And that were Aura jus' now, too- I thought you weren't a Huntsman?"
He takes a puff of his pipe, waving away the spiralling, indigo smoke of the Gliss before Judith could notice. The sudden brightening sensation, and the slight shimmer in his eyes, was damn relaxing after a day of staring at a horse's arse.
Ah… he almost misses smoking them straight from the shell on the Menagerie coast. Almost.
Basil smiles.
"I'm a doctor first and foremost- that doesn't mean I can't da-haah-bble," he says, before covering his mouth as he yawns. "Beg pardon. It's been quite a long day with very few breaks."
"Oh, of course- I won't keep you up any longer. I'll get you a blanket, it's to be cold tonight."
"That would be wonderful."
Soon enough, Basil was handed a well-padded blanket, and a small throw pillow to rest his head on.
"You get some rest, alroight?"
"I will- oh, one thing. I've been told that I'm, quite a fitful sleeper- mumbling and the like. So if you hear anything like that, don't worry too much about it."
"Oi've been sleeping next to a pregnant woman on and off for the past seven years, I'm sure ye sleep like a baby compared to that."
An annoyed "Oi!" rings out from the front of the wagon.
Marcel snickers at his wife, before wishing Basil goodnight, and leaving him to dream.
|||
The walls are white. Painfully so- bleached into sterility, then bleached some more, as if trying to leech the last of the soul from the stone. Even the grout holding the tiles on has been painted an almost radiant white, and above, a fluorescent light flickers, bathing the room in a sickly green glow and a buzzing hum that rattles in the back of your skull.
There is nothing natural about this place.
Behind you, behind a thin glass screen and rows of cheap plastic seats, fused to metal bar jutting from the ground, and extending deep into the darkness, filled with an impassive audience- dozens of people in the light, thousands in the darkness beyond, all staring with silent indifference at the scene in front of them.
In front of you, a chair you'd hoped to never see again- all ancient wood and leather straps, a medical face mask dangling limply to one side, a canister peeking out from just behind. The light flickers for a moment, and the chair is no longer empty.
"Hello, baby."
The voice is quiet, throaty- a low croon from the crook of your neck, and it still sends shivers down your spine, breeds desires you'd thought dead long ago.
"Why do you keep lying to yourself about this?"
A smile tugs at your lips, fighting against a grimace and stinging tears.
"It's a terrible habit, I know," you manage to croak out.
She smiles, and your heart flutters like it did the first time you saw it.
"Back to Vale, then? After so long?"
"Why not?
For a moment, all you can see sitting there instead is Ada, not as she was, but as you imagine her after 7 years to grow- tall, willowy, her hair still kept long enough to reach her waist. The difference between the two is so subtle you barely notice the change, until you see the bloody wound where her left eye should be.
"Ah," Ada-Not-Ada says, "looking for a replacement?"
"Nobody could replace you. Nobody could try."
"You did."
"I am a tribute to you," you correct her.
She smirks.
"She certainly couldn't replace me, either way. You know, you claim to be a tribute, and yet you refuse such an important aspect of me."
The light flickers, the scene shifts. The mask is gone, replaced by a large, metal cylinder placed against the back of her skull, and you know that you cannot move to save her-
"Don't lie to yourself, Boriah. I died screaming."
The charge goes off with a deafening sound and a flash of light that quickly consumes your vision whole.
And behind it all- screaming.
|||
You wake with a start. The screaming persists, and you realise that it is real- it is present.
Male. Female. Something deeper, animalistic- not done in fear.
Grimm.
You're up in a flash, moving towards the front of the wagon so fast that minor pieces of tchotchke are dragged with you in your wake, before dragging your body over the top of the seats and immediately spotting the attackers.
It's a smorgasbord- six Grimm, three Beowolves, two Boarbatusks, and at the helm of the group- looming above the humans all thick leather, thin bones, and a disturbingly, almost-human face, a caricature of the high-cheekboned noble, mouth full of needlepoint teeth.
Vampyr.
It stares at Marcel, on the ground- one leg is slowly turning purple and swelling, it seems he's broken his tibia- while Judith places herself between her husband and the monsters, brandishing the riding crop like a sword.
She's only alive because it amuses the Vampyr. You have to believe that because the alternative is that a heavily pregnant woman has been fighting off this many Grimm by herself with a riding crop, and that's just a little terrifying to consider.
You launch yourself into the group at speed, your nigh-weightless body serving you well as you grab one Beowolf by the scruff of its neck and drag it into the forest. You easily flip and plant your feet in the ground, imparting your momentum into the Grimm, so it can impart its momentum into that tree.
The Grimm splatters into a cloud of smog on impact, its bone armour and mask shattering against the surrounding forest, the memories of the sounds deafening in the following silence.
You turn to see the rest staring at you, the remaining Beowolf and Boarbatusks in rage, barely showing the intelligence needed to assess a new threat. The Vampyr… looks at you in curiosity. Like a child trying to figure out what its new toy can do.
Well, if little Timmy wants to play so badly-
"Judith," you say, calmly, flaring your Aura as brightly as it can go, the best threat display you can manage, "get your husband, and get to safety. Stop the bleeding, and I'll help him when I'm done."
The Vampyr's head twitches to one side, a frankly disturbing motion, so focused on you that it ignores Judith hauling Marcel off, struggling the entire way.
You don't break eye contact. Whoever breaks first, loses, and Grimm don't need to blink.
Then again, neither do you.
It feels like minutes pass. Hours, even- all while waiting for the husband and wife to disappear behind the wagon.
"Papa!" you hear a young boy's voice say, hurriedly hushed.
The Vampyr breaks first.
In seconds you're on it, driving an Aura-coated spear hand into its throat- at least, that was the plan, before it brought one of the leathery folds under one arm up, blocking the strike and entangling your arm in the suddenly loosened skin.
It probably didn't expect your arm to suddenly become soft, malleable, easily pulled from the underside of its folded wing before it could properly grapple you in place. While you're doing that, you drive a foot into the neck of a Beowolf as it sprints past, trying to go for the family you're protecting, killing it with a strained yelp, then stepping onto its body just in time to plant your other foot on the ground and flip the overgrown dog into the Vampyr's face, letting it burst into a thick cloud of choking smog- hopefully blinding it as much as it would blind you.
You hop backwards and attempt to circle the creature, to the part unprotected by limbs and wings and large sharp teeth.
It cottons on and blasts you in the face with the last of the smog by using its wings like a massive leather fan. You stumble back, eyes and nose stinging, only just leaning back in time to dodge the flash of white claws aimed for your face.
This isn't working- your Semblance doesn't work on Grimm flesh, and without it, you're just punching a sheet of loose leather. You need something sharp.
For a moment, you consider a pair of your ribs sharpened to stakes. Then, you spot the pair of Boarbatusks quietly slinking towards the family you've been trying so hard to keep alive. One rounds the corner of the cart, and the screaming begins anew.
"Oh no you don't-" you growl, twisting on one heel and launching yourself towards the pair.
You land on the rear one, not weighing enough to topple it through sheer physics alone. Instead, you flatten your hands, let skin and flesh ripple and bones grow soft, and slide them under its mask. The creature goes berserk as you pull this way and that, trying to work the mask free from its head, but no matter what it does, it can't buck you off while you try to wrench its face off- which is exactly what you do to force it to gore its partner, again, and again, and again, until it just collapses into a pile of decaying Grimm.
Your fingers curl up, finding tiny holds in the texture of the mask's underside, before you heave, wiry muscles straining as you rip it from the Boarbatusk's face with a sound of snapping tendons and screaming pig. You jam the tusks down into its neck, then leap off and leave it to die to its wounds, only just whirling around in time to raise the mask and halt a strike from the Vampyr.
If that had hit, your heart would be in its hand right now.
You stare once more, watching its eyes and spotting the flicker of discomfort in there. It has never faced anyone who would rip a Grimm's mask off to use as a weapon. You think it doesn't like that idea.
You think that scares it.
Good.
You respond by attacking with the mask, driving the razor-sharp tusks into the thick leather of its wings when it attempts to block out of instinct, tearing it in three like you're using a pair of novelty scissors.
The Vampyr screams in pain, flailing away before you can finish the job and separate the wing from its arm entirely- you press the advance, forcing it… back… into the deep, dark woods…
You realise your mistake a second too late, watching in curious horror as it steps into a shadow.
It does not step out again.
Straining your ears, you cease breathing, listening to the forest, for the rustle of leaves, the ragged sound and acrid stench of Grimm breath- for movement unaccompanied by a heartbeat.
You hear four humans behind the cart, and one foetus, the former rapid, thready, one struggling badly with incredible pain, while the latter couldn't care less about everything that's happening.
In the forest… birds, no longer roosting, but alert, looking for threats to them and their children. Any larger animals had long since fled, and the land-based ones were safe in their burrows.
You swallow. You feel the mask in your hands growing frail- it may last longer than the rest of a Grimm, but it's still from a Grimm. It's not exactly something you're versed in judging, but you imagine it has maybe a minute before it's useless as a weapon- 90 seconds before it completely crumbles into dust.
That Vampyr better turn up fast, or you're up a very brown creek without a paddle, think, think, agh you're not a Huntsman you don't know how to deal with specific Grimm-
The look the Vampyr had on its face flashes through your mind. That look of boredom, the way its head tilted in curiosity- the way it refused to move until you broke eye contact with it.
You're no Huntsman, but you know of the Vampyr. How it toys with people- killing them one mouthful of blood at a time. So high and mighty, so easy to manipulate by just dangling its addiction in front of it and challenging its pride.
You almost empathise.
Rushing back towards the caravan, towards the guttering light of the lanterns, you turn, take a deep breath, and then take your shot in the dark.
"COWARD!" you roar. "COME ON OUT HERE, YOU MUST BE PARCHED. AND WHAT'S STANDING BETWEEN YOU AND FOUR FREE MEALS? AN 80-POUND MAN USING A GRIMM MASK AS A WEAPON. YOU'RE PATHETIC! YOU WANT BLOOD SO BAD!?"
You twist the mask, and grab the razor-sharp tusk, dragging it across your palm and slicing it open. You pull it free, watching blood begin to well up and stream down towards your wrist. Holding it out, you hear a rustle in the nearby trees- you feel the eyes on you.
One last push.
"Come get it."
It launches from the shadows, all former poise and grace completely gone- it is an animal now, nothing more. Whatever light had been on upstairs has now shattered in its socket.
The sheer speed with which the Vampyr moves barely leaves you enough time to register that an attack is happening. Reflex alone saves you, bringing the Boarbatusk mask up just in time for it to shatter in two blocking the first attempt to punch your heart out. Shifting your grip, you place your thumbs through its eyeholes, hands wrapping around the thinner edge of the mask- now you actually have weapons.
Neat.
You use the tusks like claws, hooking the Vampyr's wrists and redirecting them, pulling its arm this way or that and exposing either wing or chest to a slash or gouge, slowly whittling it down to nothing.
At first, you fear it's not going fast enough, but then it makes a mistake- it tries to kick you away. It happens fast enough that you can't dodge, so you just soften the flesh and bone around your stomach, letting its foot sink in up to the ankle.
It's not a pleasant feeling, having someone else's foot inside you, especially as it shifts around while the Vampyr tries to compensate for its lost balance. Before it can either pull itself free, or push you to the ground, you place the tusks around its ankle, and with a yell of exertion, cut its foot off.
You stumble back, as does it, and take the opportunity to extract your prize before it disintegrates completely, releasing gods know how much smog into your body. The Vampyr falls on its back, screaming in pain. Liquid smog spurts from onto a nearby patch of grass, quickly evaporating and leaving behind dead, blackened greenery in its stead. Taking as deep a breath as you can, you walk towards the Grimm as it scuttles back, its movements getting sloppier as it continues to lose blood-equivalent until you're close enough to slam a foot down on its chest.
"I am tired, I am angry, I have a godsbedamned hole in my gut, you are not getting away now just to come back and annoy me later-"
Placing the tusks on either side of its shoulders, the sharp points digging into the back of its neck, the Vampyr appears to realise what you're doing. It makes a noise that may actually be some attempt at pleading for its life.
You walk away from its body as it slowly disintegrates, its head slowly rolling into the ditch you kicked it towards, and finally get a chance to check on the Blaine family.
"Everyone alright?" you ask casually, to the sound of screams.
Perhaps you're more tired than you thought because it takes a moment to realise that they're not screams because of Grimm, or, you doing your thing, but they're screams for you. This is particularly confusing because you can't think of any reason for-
You look down.
… Ah.
"Sorry, sorry-" you say, dipping back behind the other side of the cart and, ah, adjusting yourself.
The skin's a little thin, here and there, but it's certainly passable for an unharmed human. Walking back around, Judith stares at you in mild confusion, now that there's no gaping hole where your midriff should be. You ignore her, staring at Marcel's leg- it's truly ballooned out now, and turned a shade of purple you more associate with plums than anything.
"Doctor," he says, voice shaky but still keeping some kind of humour to it. "Anything you can do?"
You kneel next to him, and carefully check the leg for deformities- no open wound, which is good, it appears to be a closed fracture. Silver linings, you suppose.
"I can help you, but, er, you should probably put the children back to bed. It's not going to be a pretty sight."
Judith begins to bustle, herding Peat and Melissa back into the cart, leaving you and Marcel alone.
"So, Mr Blaine- do you trust me, as your doctor?"
He laughs.
"En't like ah've much choice, izzit? It's you, or Judith and a bunch of old rags."
"We all have choices to make," you say, smiling gently at him. "It seems to be a complete fracture, but it shouldn't be displaced, I don't think- so long as you get some medical attention, you'll be in quite a bit of pain, but ultimately fine. Otherwise, I could use my Semblance on you, and get you back on your feet in a few days."
"What's t'downside?"
"About 10 minutes of incredible pain, because I don't have access to any anaesthetics. You'll feel every second of me rooting around in there."
Marcel takes a moment to think, then slowly nods his assent. You smile and make your own choice.
"Deep breath, now."
You drag a finger down the front of his calf, splitting the skin and flesh, revealing the bone.
To his absolute credit, Marcel doesn't scream once while you work.
Marcel Blaine looks down from his vantage point on the cart, over his horses and down to the man walking along the side of the road. The lantern light is dim, especially out here in the forest, but he can make out some details of the stranger.
"Marcel, don't, you know it's not safe to pick up hitchhikers-" his lovely wife Judith says, squeezing her husband's hand. She sits with her legs splayed, heavy with their third child, and Marcel couldn't help but feel a little guilty for stressing her like this.
The man turns, shifting his waist-length blond hair out of the way with a hand, revealing just how rail-thin he truly is. He looks up at Marcel with a lazy smile, two bright blue eyes peering out from the thin curtain of hair that he didn't quite manage to clear away.
He can't quite pin down why, but Marcel suddenly feels like the wisest action is to either stay perfectly still or work the horses into a frenzy and try to outrun him.
Then the man's smile widens, his eyes brighten, and the feeling passes, so quickly and completely that he begins to wonder if he'd imagined it.
"Hello. On your way to Vale, too?" the man asks, his voice quiet and polite.
"Mhm. Got wares to sell, 'nd I'm dropping t'children off at a boarding school."
Marcel becomes rapidly aware of shifting from the back, and soon after, a head pops up to see who her father is talking to.
"Hi mister!" his eldest, Melissa, says, waving a hand rapidly at the stranger. "Your hair is pretty."
The man chuckles, waving back.
"Thank you, I do try to take care of it," he says, and Marcel swears he can see the slightest tinge of pink around his ears at the compliment.
"Marcel," Judith whispers.
He turns to look at her and is somewhat surprised to see concern instead of disapproval.
"He doesn't have any shoes," she says after a moment. "His feet must be raw."
Marcel turns again, watching the man as he chats away with his children, and realises his wife is right- the man is barefoot. His feet look relatively unharmed, though, is the odd thing.
"'Ere, bit odd going barefoot, no? These roads might just be dirt, but they'll tear yer feet up just the same after a while."
The man's eyebrows rise before he looks down at his feet.
"Ah, yes, my last pair gave up a while back. A particularly nasty gravel patch just tore straight through the soles, I'm afraid. No big loss, though- they were just a pair of old trainers I bartered for."
Marcel turned to his wife, and a silent conversation ensued. All paranoia on Judith's part had long since been smothered by a certain duty of care, and it didn't take them long to figure it would be cruel to let a man grind his feet down making the trip to Vale.
"... Y'know, I've no objection giving you a lift oop road- let ye rest yer feet 'n all."
The man considers it for a moment, judging the shattered moon as it rises over the horizon.
"Hm… how far from Vale are we, anyway?"
"Ooh, 'nother hundred miles and change t'the mountains, at least, then that's a solid twenty miles 'fore you reach the border. Good two, three hundred after that t'city proper. Ain't many villages between here and there either, 'f yer hoping to get ahold of another pair of shoes."
The man blanches slightly at that.
"... Well, it would be rude of me to reject such hospitality. Thank you, mister…"
"Marcel, Marcel Blaine. The little one who should be asleep is Melissa, her brother Peat's been out cold for an hour now, and this one," he pats Judith's stomach gently, "will be Lucius in about a month's time."
"Or Lily if it's a girl," Judith chimes in.
The man smiles.
"Basil. It's wonderful to meet you all."
|||
The ride is quiet but personable, once Basil hops on. Marcel does lament that getting Melissa to sleep will be nigh-impossible, now that she has someone new to talk to. After a few minutes of straining his neck to try and talk to him, Judith takes the reins off him and all but pushes him under the wagon cover to go and talk to him.
Now that he's sat opposite him, and could see the man in more detail by lamplight, Marcel realises that he isn't just thin- he borders on hollow, his chest and stomach almost concave for the lack of anything filling it. He was far too mobile to be starving, though- he didn't have the potbelly of malnutrition, either.
No, he just… looked like a Vacuoni mummy decided to take a walk and update its wardrobe.
"So, Basil- where are you coming from?" he asks, keeping his suspicions to himself.
"Oh, nowhere special, I'm afraid- I do a few circles of the land between Vale and Vacuo every couple years, visiting villages and the like. You know Honeystrand?"
Marcel perks up.
"Aye, I know Honeystrand! Some of t'best honey and wax you'll ever find!"
"Mm, well, that was my last stop."
"What do ye do that needs ye movin' around so often? Huntsman?"
"Doctor, if you'd believe me."
Basil smiles as Marcel stalls for a moment, looking the man over in a new light.
… No, yeah, he could see it. Cut the hair short, button him up, he'd actually look like a fairly respectable member of society. And he does lack the certain… pizzazz that Huntsmen have.
With a shrug, he pulls his pipe from a pocket, fills it with a pinch of cloves and tobacco from his pouch, and, after a glance at Judith, reaches into a much smaller pouch, pulling free a desiccated Gliss shell, crumbling the iridescent carapace into his pipe with a sound like crinkling paper and bells.
Basil raises an eyebrow, a smirk creeping up his face.
"A man's allowed his vices, aye?" Marcel whispers conspiratorially.
"I'm in no position to judge," Basil whispers back like he's sharing a secret of his own.
The end of the pipe disappears somewhere under his beard, as he pats himself down for matches. After a moment, he grumbles, bushy monobrow turning down in a confused scowl.
"Allow me," Basil says, moving forward and holding up a hand for him.
Marcel looks at him in confusion, before his new friend's arm was suffused in a pale reddish-brown light- like baked clay. After a moment, the light shifted up to his hand, thickening and brightening into a ring around his splayed fingers, before he snaps his fingers and-
A flame winked into existence, flickering in the air like the last embers of a coal fire, but stable. Marcel gapes for a few moments, before seeing the strain on Basil's face and quickly lighting his pipe.
The light fades, and the fire gutters out, only just surviving in the cloves, Gliss, and tobacco.
"... That's… one helluva trick you've got there, Basil. And that were Aura jus' now, too- I thought you weren't a Huntsman?"
He takes a puff of his pipe, waving away the spiralling, indigo smoke of the Gliss before Judith could notice. The sudden brightening sensation, and the slight shimmer in his eyes, was damn relaxing after a day of staring at a horse's arse.
Ah… he almost misses smoking them straight from the shell on the Menagerie coast. Almost.
Basil smiles.
"I'm a doctor first and foremost- that doesn't mean I can't da-haah-bble," he says, before covering his mouth as he yawns. "Beg pardon. It's been quite a long day with very few breaks."
"Oh, of course- I won't keep you up any longer. I'll get you a blanket, it's to be cold tonight."
"That would be wonderful."
Soon enough, Basil was handed a well-padded blanket, and a small throw pillow to rest his head on.
"You get some rest, alroight?"
"I will- oh, one thing. I've been told that I'm, quite a fitful sleeper- mumbling and the like. So if you hear anything like that, don't worry too much about it."
"Oi've been sleeping next to a pregnant woman on and off for the past seven years, I'm sure ye sleep like a baby compared to that."
An annoyed "Oi!" rings out from the front of the wagon.
Marcel snickers at his wife, before wishing Basil goodnight, and leaving him to dream.
|||
The walls are white. Painfully so- bleached into sterility, then bleached some more, as if trying to leech the last of the soul from the stone. Even the grout holding the tiles on has been painted an almost radiant white, and above, a fluorescent light flickers, bathing the room in a sickly green glow and a buzzing hum that rattles in the back of your skull.
There is nothing natural about this place.
Behind you, behind a thin glass screen and rows of cheap plastic seats, fused to metal bar jutting from the ground, and extending deep into the darkness, filled with an impassive audience- dozens of people in the light, thousands in the darkness beyond, all staring with silent indifference at the scene in front of them.
In front of you, a chair you'd hoped to never see again- all ancient wood and leather straps, a medical face mask dangling limply to one side, a canister peeking out from just behind. The light flickers for a moment, and the chair is no longer empty.
"Hello, baby."
The voice is quiet, throaty- a low croon from the crook of your neck, and it still sends shivers down your spine, breeds desires you'd thought dead long ago.
"Why do you keep lying to yourself about this?"
A smile tugs at your lips, fighting against a grimace and stinging tears.
"It's a terrible habit, I know," you manage to croak out.
She smiles, and your heart flutters like it did the first time you saw it.
"Back to Vale, then? After so long?"
"Why not?
For a moment, all you can see sitting there instead is Ada, not as she was, but as you imagine her after 7 years to grow- tall, willowy, her hair still kept long enough to reach her waist. The difference between the two is so subtle you barely notice the change, until you see the bloody wound where her left eye should be.
"Ah," Ada-Not-Ada says, "looking for a replacement?"
"Nobody could replace you. Nobody could try."
"You did."
"I am a tribute to you," you correct her.
She smirks.
"She certainly couldn't replace me, either way. You know, you claim to be a tribute, and yet you refuse such an important aspect of me."
The light flickers, the scene shifts. The mask is gone, replaced by a large, metal cylinder placed against the back of her skull, and you know that you cannot move to save her-
"Don't lie to yourself, Boriah. I died screaming."
The charge goes off with a deafening sound and a flash of light that quickly consumes your vision whole.
And behind it all- screaming.
|||
You wake with a start. The screaming persists, and you realise that it is real- it is present.
Male. Female. Something deeper, animalistic- not done in fear.
Grimm.
You're up in a flash, moving towards the front of the wagon so fast that minor pieces of tchotchke are dragged with you in your wake, before dragging your body over the top of the seats and immediately spotting the attackers.
It's a smorgasbord- six Grimm, three Beowolves, two Boarbatusks, and at the helm of the group- looming above the humans all thick leather, thin bones, and a disturbingly, almost-human face, a caricature of the high-cheekboned noble, mouth full of needlepoint teeth.
Vampyr.
It stares at Marcel, on the ground- one leg is slowly turning purple and swelling, it seems he's broken his tibia- while Judith places herself between her husband and the monsters, brandishing the riding crop like a sword.
She's only alive because it amuses the Vampyr. You have to believe that because the alternative is that a heavily pregnant woman has been fighting off this many Grimm by herself with a riding crop, and that's just a little terrifying to consider.
You launch yourself into the group at speed, your nigh-weightless body serving you well as you grab one Beowolf by the scruff of its neck and drag it into the forest. You easily flip and plant your feet in the ground, imparting your momentum into the Grimm, so it can impart its momentum into that tree.
The Grimm splatters into a cloud of smog on impact, its bone armour and mask shattering against the surrounding forest, the memories of the sounds deafening in the following silence.
You turn to see the rest staring at you, the remaining Beowolf and Boarbatusks in rage, barely showing the intelligence needed to assess a new threat. The Vampyr… looks at you in curiosity. Like a child trying to figure out what its new toy can do.
Well, if little Timmy wants to play so badly-
"Judith," you say, calmly, flaring your Aura as brightly as it can go, the best threat display you can manage, "get your husband, and get to safety. Stop the bleeding, and I'll help him when I'm done."
The Vampyr's head twitches to one side, a frankly disturbing motion, so focused on you that it ignores Judith hauling Marcel off, struggling the entire way.
You don't break eye contact. Whoever breaks first, loses, and Grimm don't need to blink.
Then again, neither do you.
It feels like minutes pass. Hours, even- all while waiting for the husband and wife to disappear behind the wagon.
"Papa!" you hear a young boy's voice say, hurriedly hushed.
The Vampyr breaks first.
In seconds you're on it, driving an Aura-coated spear hand into its throat- at least, that was the plan, before it brought one of the leathery folds under one arm up, blocking the strike and entangling your arm in the suddenly loosened skin.
It probably didn't expect your arm to suddenly become soft, malleable, easily pulled from the underside of its folded wing before it could properly grapple you in place. While you're doing that, you drive a foot into the neck of a Beowolf as it sprints past, trying to go for the family you're protecting, killing it with a strained yelp, then stepping onto its body just in time to plant your other foot on the ground and flip the overgrown dog into the Vampyr's face, letting it burst into a thick cloud of choking smog- hopefully blinding it as much as it would blind you.
You hop backwards and attempt to circle the creature, to the part unprotected by limbs and wings and large sharp teeth.
It cottons on and blasts you in the face with the last of the smog by using its wings like a massive leather fan. You stumble back, eyes and nose stinging, only just leaning back in time to dodge the flash of white claws aimed for your face.
This isn't working- your Semblance doesn't work on Grimm flesh, and without it, you're just punching a sheet of loose leather. You need something sharp.
For a moment, you consider a pair of your ribs sharpened to stakes. Then, you spot the pair of Boarbatusks quietly slinking towards the family you've been trying so hard to keep alive. One rounds the corner of the cart, and the screaming begins anew.
"Oh no you don't-" you growl, twisting on one heel and launching yourself towards the pair.
You land on the rear one, not weighing enough to topple it through sheer physics alone. Instead, you flatten your hands, let skin and flesh ripple and bones grow soft, and slide them under its mask. The creature goes berserk as you pull this way and that, trying to work the mask free from its head, but no matter what it does, it can't buck you off while you try to wrench its face off- which is exactly what you do to force it to gore its partner, again, and again, and again, until it just collapses into a pile of decaying Grimm.
Your fingers curl up, finding tiny holds in the texture of the mask's underside, before you heave, wiry muscles straining as you rip it from the Boarbatusk's face with a sound of snapping tendons and screaming pig. You jam the tusks down into its neck, then leap off and leave it to die to its wounds, only just whirling around in time to raise the mask and halt a strike from the Vampyr.
If that had hit, your heart would be in its hand right now.
You stare once more, watching its eyes and spotting the flicker of discomfort in there. It has never faced anyone who would rip a Grimm's mask off to use as a weapon. You think it doesn't like that idea.
You think that scares it.
Good.
You respond by attacking with the mask, driving the razor-sharp tusks into the thick leather of its wings when it attempts to block out of instinct, tearing it in three like you're using a pair of novelty scissors.
The Vampyr screams in pain, flailing away before you can finish the job and separate the wing from its arm entirely- you press the advance, forcing it… back… into the deep, dark woods…
You realise your mistake a second too late, watching in curious horror as it steps into a shadow.
It does not step out again.
Straining your ears, you cease breathing, listening to the forest, for the rustle of leaves, the ragged sound and acrid stench of Grimm breath- for movement unaccompanied by a heartbeat.
You hear four humans behind the cart, and one foetus, the former rapid, thready, one struggling badly with incredible pain, while the latter couldn't care less about everything that's happening.
In the forest… birds, no longer roosting, but alert, looking for threats to them and their children. Any larger animals had long since fled, and the land-based ones were safe in their burrows.
You swallow. You feel the mask in your hands growing frail- it may last longer than the rest of a Grimm, but it's still from a Grimm. It's not exactly something you're versed in judging, but you imagine it has maybe a minute before it's useless as a weapon- 90 seconds before it completely crumbles into dust.
That Vampyr better turn up fast, or you're up a very brown creek without a paddle, think, think, agh you're not a Huntsman you don't know how to deal with specific Grimm-
The look the Vampyr had on its face flashes through your mind. That look of boredom, the way its head tilted in curiosity- the way it refused to move until you broke eye contact with it.
You're no Huntsman, but you know of the Vampyr. How it toys with people- killing them one mouthful of blood at a time. So high and mighty, so easy to manipulate by just dangling its addiction in front of it and challenging its pride.
You almost empathise.
Rushing back towards the caravan, towards the guttering light of the lanterns, you turn, take a deep breath, and then take your shot in the dark.
"COWARD!" you roar. "COME ON OUT HERE, YOU MUST BE PARCHED. AND WHAT'S STANDING BETWEEN YOU AND FOUR FREE MEALS? AN 80-POUND MAN USING A GRIMM MASK AS A WEAPON. YOU'RE PATHETIC! YOU WANT BLOOD SO BAD!?"
You twist the mask, and grab the razor-sharp tusk, dragging it across your palm and slicing it open. You pull it free, watching blood begin to well up and stream down towards your wrist. Holding it out, you hear a rustle in the nearby trees- you feel the eyes on you.
One last push.
"Come get it."
It launches from the shadows, all former poise and grace completely gone- it is an animal now, nothing more. Whatever light had been on upstairs has now shattered in its socket.
The sheer speed with which the Vampyr moves barely leaves you enough time to register that an attack is happening. Reflex alone saves you, bringing the Boarbatusk mask up just in time for it to shatter in two blocking the first attempt to punch your heart out. Shifting your grip, you place your thumbs through its eyeholes, hands wrapping around the thinner edge of the mask- now you actually have weapons.
Neat.
You use the tusks like claws, hooking the Vampyr's wrists and redirecting them, pulling its arm this way or that and exposing either wing or chest to a slash or gouge, slowly whittling it down to nothing.
At first, you fear it's not going fast enough, but then it makes a mistake- it tries to kick you away. It happens fast enough that you can't dodge, so you just soften the flesh and bone around your stomach, letting its foot sink in up to the ankle.
It's not a pleasant feeling, having someone else's foot inside you, especially as it shifts around while the Vampyr tries to compensate for its lost balance. Before it can either pull itself free, or push you to the ground, you place the tusks around its ankle, and with a yell of exertion, cut its foot off.
You stumble back, as does it, and take the opportunity to extract your prize before it disintegrates completely, releasing gods know how much smog into your body. The Vampyr falls on its back, screaming in pain. Liquid smog spurts from onto a nearby patch of grass, quickly evaporating and leaving behind dead, blackened greenery in its stead. Taking as deep a breath as you can, you walk towards the Grimm as it scuttles back, its movements getting sloppier as it continues to lose blood-equivalent until you're close enough to slam a foot down on its chest.
"I am tired, I am angry, I have a godsbedamned hole in my gut, you are not getting away now just to come back and annoy me later-"
Placing the tusks on either side of its shoulders, the sharp points digging into the back of its neck, the Vampyr appears to realise what you're doing. It makes a noise that may actually be some attempt at pleading for its life.
You walk away from its body as it slowly disintegrates, its head slowly rolling into the ditch you kicked it towards, and finally get a chance to check on the Blaine family.
"Everyone alright?" you ask casually, to the sound of screams.
Perhaps you're more tired than you thought because it takes a moment to realise that they're not screams because of Grimm, or, you doing your thing, but they're screams for you. This is particularly confusing because you can't think of any reason for-
You look down.
… Ah.
"Sorry, sorry-" you say, dipping back behind the other side of the cart and, ah, adjusting yourself.
The skin's a little thin, here and there, but it's certainly passable for an unharmed human. Walking back around, Judith stares at you in mild confusion, now that there's no gaping hole where your midriff should be. You ignore her, staring at Marcel's leg- it's truly ballooned out now, and turned a shade of purple you more associate with plums than anything.
"Doctor," he says, voice shaky but still keeping some kind of humour to it. "Anything you can do?"
You kneel next to him, and carefully check the leg for deformities- no open wound, which is good, it appears to be a closed fracture. Silver linings, you suppose.
"I can help you, but, er, you should probably put the children back to bed. It's not going to be a pretty sight."
Judith begins to bustle, herding Peat and Melissa back into the cart, leaving you and Marcel alone.
"So, Mr Blaine- do you trust me, as your doctor?"
He laughs.
"En't like ah've much choice, izzit? It's you, or Judith and a bunch of old rags."
"We all have choices to make," you say, smiling gently at him. "It seems to be a complete fracture, but it shouldn't be displaced, I don't think- so long as you get some medical attention, you'll be in quite a bit of pain, but ultimately fine. Otherwise, I could use my Semblance on you, and get you back on your feet in a few days."
"What's t'downside?"
"About 10 minutes of incredible pain, because I don't have access to any anaesthetics. You'll feel every second of me rooting around in there."
Marcel takes a moment to think, then slowly nods his assent. You smile and make your own choice.
"Deep breath, now."
You drag a finger down the front of his calf, splitting the skin and flesh, revealing the bone.
To his absolute credit, Marcel doesn't scream once while you work.
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