[STC] Dirty Business (Anton)

[Nira'lia]

512 Summer 13th It was the first time Nira’lia was in the hospital at such late time. The twenty-third bell of the day had just been rung. Her boss, Irene, had left the place entrusted to her. Seeing that there were not a lot of patients, and that Alvadas seemed relatively safe these days, the Konti didn’t mind. Most of the beds were empty and the few patients had already drifted off to sleep. It was eerily quiet. The only sound that filled the air was a lone and mournful tune being played. It was the sound that guided people to the hospital, and its tune always filled Nira’lia with a sense of dread. It was such a sad sound, and it seemed to never end. The Konti used to think that it was Irene who played the tune with her flute, but even if the lady wasn’t around, the song still played. The doors to the hospital suddenly opened, and Nira’lia turned around to take a look at who it was. She was already a bit sleepy and tired, and she rubbed her eyes to get a better look. It was a man, and he was practically keeling over. There was a trail of blood behind him. In a panic, the Konti ran over to him and saw the numerous wounds and bruises on his arms and torso. There was a gashing cut across his torso, and his clothes were drenched with blood and sweat. Nira’lia had no gloves on and it was evident that she had no time to get them. Without thinking twice, she put her hands on his shoulders to support him. And the most gruesome vision she had ever seen flooded before her eyes. There was a man laughing madly, and there were unmoving bodies around him. When she was back in the present, Nira’lia gaped at the man. Her throat felt dry, as if she couldn’t believe what she had seen. But she was only a healer and it wasn’t her job to judge people. Rak’keli’s blessing also forbid her from doing so. “Can you stand up?” she asked the dying man. That was when she heard the wheezes that took the place of words. He was unable to speak, and his throat was swollen and bruised. Whoever had done this to him had made sure to keep him from screaming. With much effort, she helped him up, and led him over to one of the beds.

[Anton]

"I-I'm sorry. He escaped."

"No, he didn't."

"Huh?"

"Did I stutter, squirt? A repetition, then: No, he didn't."

"I don't get it. He clearly-"

"Your blunder does not matter. Your methods, while void-challenged and needlessly sloppy, do not matter. What matters, though, is the report I have to file to the High Hand. Do you know which one I work for, Squirt? Do you know which one WE work for? Old Raiza would have been a transfer I'll be more than willing to accept to get away from this one. OLD. RAIZA. Ponder that one for a chime."

"But the-"

"No. Not this time, Antonnius Arrius. I talk. You listen, and listen well: You are a Silencer of Alvadas. You swore an oath to this city and Ionu, and by that oath, YOU will fix this. Discretely. You've lost the luxury of an open execution this time. Lose the uniform too. When I write that tediously inane report, it will go on the lines of: 'HE DIED. WITHOUT INCIDENT.' Do you understand me, Mr. Arrius?"

"...Yes."

"Sir."

"Yes, Sir."

"Ionu's mercy is in city rotation close by, but it won't be for a few more chimes. Creepy building. What you did to him probably drew it here. I suggest you hurry. Change out. I'll comb the streets, you take the healing centre. You will go in as a civilian, as a boy requiring treatment for your arm - How did you even get that? - and should you find him, short of more causalities, you will do whatever it takes to ensure that petchin' leecher dies. And Anton?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Void him. Quick and simple, this time. Flair and ego and dramatics are for speakers and children - You have not sunk so low to be the former and you don't get to be the latter. Not now. Not on duty. Not while you serve the Trickster's city. You think he deserved worse, so you got creative - No. Every time a marked walks away from a silencer, he takes a chunk of the terror we instill from us. And when people see us not as monsters lurking in the shadows, but people - FALLIBLE people - then...No matter. I want this clean. Now is not the time for making examples, not the messy kind, anyway. Are we clear?"

A pause.

"He did something. You saw the bodies. I don't know what he did, but he did it."

"Kill those men, yes. Murderers murder. It's what they do."

"Not them only. He did something to her too. He did something to her and I don't think she's gonna be alright."

Another pause.

"Go. We have your job to do."

...

Anton had never seen Huntell so agitated before. So angry. So full of righteous authority. The contrast with his usual easy-going approach was so terrifying jarring that Anton's role in their little man-and-child dynamic was warped into that of a meek child taking orders from a demanding father. How many times more would he see this side of Huntell, he wondered. How many more things would set him off like this?

One time too many, he believed.

Amazingly, he wasn't as bitter about it as he thought he would be. In fact, he could even empathize, if not quite sympathize, with Huntell's anger.

He felt the exact same way. No, what he felt was stronger.

For completely different reasons.

Reasons that may or may not be in the castle-like building before him.

Reasons that would cease to be reasons anymore, when he was done with them.

As he took a step forward...

The building disappeared.

Just like that. Vanished.

Ordinarily, he might have panicked. Ordinarily, he might have thought and tried and tested and asked. But today, in silent rage, he found clarity. And clarity found the obvious answer to his problem in echos of what Huntell said.

What you did to him probably drew it here

He stared at his right arm, still pumping out tiny trickles of blood from the shallow knife wound, and took a deep, deep breath.

Whatever it took...

For a moment, he thought about projection. He thought about what it meant to him.

And when the moment passed, he whipped out his hunting knife, and tore the wound right open.

He must have squealed because his mouth was open. He must have starting crying abit, because his eyes were starting to get wet. He must have been bleeding, and because his arm throbbed and burned and something too sluggish to be water found it's way down from the stab point to his clothes.

He waited.

Then he didn't.

"Not enough?" he screamed at everyone and no one. "Okay."

The knife came down again.

And again.

Steel into flesh, flesh into steel.

Redder and redder with each and every subsequent strike.

As he raised the knife again, as he brought up that red piece of steel to invite another piece of pain into his world, the building then materialized back into view, as if urging him to put down his knife and stop.

Okay, then. Apology accepted.

He tossed the knife to the ground.

Anton then tried for a look that matched what a lost child, alone in the streets, with the clothes on his back and a hurting arm that wouldn't stop dripping red.

He tried.

And as anger and desperation and the gnawing fear that this just wouldn't work out boiled in him, he realized he didn't really need to.

He opened the door. The song was, in gentler terms, most unwelcome.

"Hello?" He called out, clutching at his red-colored hand, honestly shocked at how raw his voice sounded. "Hello? Somebody? It hurts! It really hurts and I need help."

[Nira'lia]

The Konti had managed to lead the injured man to an empty bed. She took of the blood-drenched rags that he called his shirt and discarded them. When she looked behind them, she saw the disturbing trail of blood that followed their footsteps. All the while, the morose tone of the hospital’s song continued to play, and a faint, odd sound accompanied it. Curious, Nira’lia though. Perhaps the song changed according to the mood? He seemed ready to pass out any time now, but he was struggling to keep awake. His every breath was a wheeze, the kind that accompanied damaged vocal cords. At this point, Nira’lia saw the pierced wound on his throat. It wasn’t lethal, and she couldn’t tell if it was on purpose, but it did its job of keeping him quiet. ‘Mother Rak’keli…’ she prayed in desperation as she examined the extent of his injuries. ‘Help this man, please.’ With a wet cloth, she cleaned his wounds. Now and then she dipped the cloth in a pail filled with a herbal concoction. The scent of medicine was in the air, along with the stench of blood. Her eyes were in panic as she saw the amount of blood he had lost. Nira’lia had no idea if he would make it through the night, but she hoped, she wanted him to. The Konti was still disturbed by the vision. The image of those dead bodies was plastered to her mind as she helped the man. The strange, faint sound that accompanied the music continued to play, making Nira’lia uncomfortable. To keep her mind off things, the Konti started to hum along with the hospital’s original tune. She thought that would make her feel more at ease, but instead the man stirred uncomfortably, as if in pain. The Konti frowned… was she that bad at music? She supposed it was terrible to make even more noise, so she stopped. When she was done, she discarded the cloth to the pail. Its concoction was now scarlet from the numerous times she dipped the cloth back in it. After bandaging him up, the Konti shut her eyes in another prayer. She felt Rak’keli’s power course through the mark in her shoulder. Nira’lia couldn’t heal wounds this deep, but she could purify them—make sure they wouldn’t turn into an infection. That would at least help, and give him a fighting chance. In the middle of her prayer, she heard the doors to the hospital open again, and there was a child’s voice. Concerned at the intensity of panic in his voice, she stood up and almost tripped on her own feet. She could hear some of the other patients stirring, and she just hoped they wouldn’t get up and add more mayhem. Nira’lia circled around the beds and chairs, and avoided stepping on the blood on the floor. And by the entrance, she saw a young boy—a young, skinny boy with a bleeding hand. The Konti went to him as fast as she could and held out her hand, urging him to let her examine him. Fortunately, she was wearing her gloves now—she couldn’t bear to see any more visions, disturbing or not. “What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was shaky and perturbed. “And what happened? Let me see.”

[Anton]

Over the years living in the depths of the Womiyu, Anton's imagination had strove to fill in the blanks in the places where experience should have dwell; pieces of colourful fiction thrown in with flimsy facts to create the little world in his head: Knights wore helmets because they couldn't stand the sun. Archers used bows because birds stole their swords when they weren't looking. Porcupines ate lions and drank from the blood of chipmunks. And so on and so forth. He had grown out of much of the make-believe, but a few little pieces still stood rooted and strong, mingled in as if they were pure, undeniable truth. For instance, he was still of the opinion that those that worked at the hospital tended towards the fat, unattractive, and charmless.

So imagine his surprise when the woman who greeted him was, well, none of that.

For a moment, he just stared at her. For a moment, he forgot what he came here for, forgot pain, and just looked up at her with big, brown eyes filled with wonder, his mouth gaping slightly, taking in the truth of her: Pale skin, her lush blonde hair, her light, blue eyes, her scales, her-

Her scales?

What did they call them again? Kontak? Konga? Kondenial?

And even then, even the knowledge that she wasn't human, didn't detract from her beauty.

He had a sick feeling in his stomach about this.

"Anton," He cursed himself even as he said it. He should have opted for a alias. The anger returned with that little disambiguation, as hot as ever, and it was then that he remembered what he was supposed to be, and his tone grew frantic again. "They had a knife and the others pinned me down and the big one...the big one...Please fix it, miss. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."

It rang hollow in his own ears. Unconvincing. He could only hope she didn't feel the same way.

[Nira'lia]

She was definitely not convinced. There were numerous stab marks on his hands. The damage was gruesome and evident, and he spoke of people who pinned him down and had a knife. The wounds were knife wounds, yes, but it made no sense to her—why would they pin him down and stab his hand over and over again? “You don’t have to beg,” the Konti said with an assuring grin. “This is what we’re here for. Can you put pressure on it, please? Okay, let’s go.” If he was lying, she had a way of finding out. Fortunately for him, even if it didn’t make sense, the Konti didn’t think it really mattered at the moment. “Here, follow me, Anton,” she said with a gesture. Nira’lia led him to one of the beds and asked him to sit down. She excused herself to look for what she needed to patch him up. Before she returned to him, she made sure to take a peek at the man who had arrived before the boy. She was relieved to see that his condition seemed to be stabilized. The Konti returned to Anton. She had bandages, suturing materials, and medicinal water with her. Dragging a seat across the floor, she took a seat in front of him and asked for his hand again. “Do you feel faint? And what happened…? Are you in danger?” She dipped a cloth in the strange smelling water and wiped the blood off his hand. This allowed her to see the wounds, and she blinked at their cleanness, as if he hadn’t struggled at all. The Konti wondered if there was something going on in at streets of the city. First there was the mute, dying man—now there was this mysterious child.

[Anton]

Anton just continued staring at her, trepidation seething away at him as she took in what he said. For a few brief moments, he almost expected her to explode at him, called him out on his lie, and attempt to throw him out into the streets untreated. He honestly didn't want to think what he would do then. Would the mission stay strong and on course, regardless of the obstacles? Or would he simply defer?

Her answer spared him the trouble of one. He was safe. For the moment.

At her request, he followed behind her, hand gripped firmly over his not-so-little wound, and found himself seating on a bed. She had left, then, and he considered starting his search there and then, jumping off the bed. He would see his hand fixed first; even he knew walking around with that dripping thing was going to leave very visible, red-hued signs that he was scurrying about.

But the man...

Could wait, he told himself. At least awhile longer. If he was even here.

And it was just as well that he stayed put. She was back as quickly as she had left, with her tools in hand.

And a second round of questioning.

"No," Wait. He needed to stay, needed to linger around long enough to search the place, at the very least. He was quickly learning that his drive and his anger did not come close to equating a pre-rehearsed story and the half-decent lying skill needed to pull it off. "I mean, yes." he corrected hastily. "Yes. There's a ringing in my head and it won't stop. It's making me feel funny." He made a little gesture at his hand, feeling pretty stupid all the while.

And the lies piled up. One at a time. Brick by brick.

Soon, he would build a wall. Then a rampart.

And by the end of it, his very own castle of deceit.

Hooray.

But did he dare to hope that it would even hold?

"I'm...I'm not too sure. There was these group of boys. Big boys. They liked to push me and the other kids around. T-they found a knife and I think one of them said they wanted to test it out and..." He flinched as the cloth touched his hand, closing his eyes and biting down on his upper lip.

"Am I safe here?" He said in a small voice. "I'll be safe here, right?"

[Nira'lia]

“A ringing in your head…? If you have a migraine, I can get rid of it quickly. It’s no problem. And, yes, you’ll be safe here. People don’t go here to hurt others,” replied the Konti. And, unknown to her, her words were laden with much irony. “But… you don’t seem to be dazed, so I don’t think you lost that much blood. That’s good.” With a wince, she looked at his wounds more closely. The stab wounds were so deep, and she admired the child for holding it together this much. She was done cleaning his wound, and she discarded the cloth and reached for a needle and some thread. The curved, surgical needle pierced his skin. She worked with grace and gentleness, but the pain that accompanied each prick of the needle couldn’t be avoided. The needle went in and out, and the thread followed it. She worked on each wound, her eyes focused on the task at hand. “If you feel safer staying here for the night, then you should… but this is serious. Something has to be done about it. Where are your parents?” It took her a while to finally close up the numerous wounds. She eyed him closely as she set her tools aside. Her gloves were dirtied with the child’s blood, so she took them off. “You can stay here,” she repeated. “But I won’t be able to keep you company because I have to watch over another patient. Would that be alright with you? Will you be okay on your own?” Aside from ‘watching’ over the other patient, she also wanted to know what had happened to the dying man. She wanted to know more about what she had seen, wanted to figure out if it was safe even keeping him in the hospital. She also wanted to know who those unmoving bodies had been. There was also another problem. When she had touched the dying man, she had felt the eerie and gruesome happiness… she felt the lust that he had for more death. Her Konti gift was a curse; it placed her in the shoes of those she touched. And when the intensity of their emotions was too much, it took a place in her soul as well. Nira’lia was confident she wouldn’t act upon the bloodlust, but that didn’t mean she welcomed it, no matter how faint and mundane. It disgusted her to have such thoughts. She needed to figure out how to push the thoughts away.

[Anton]

People don’t go here to hurt others...

For once, it clicked.

And the details followed one after another, like a sequence of neatly tumbling dominoes:

A bitter, miserable chuckle, quickly hidden behind a hand-covered mouth and a most sudden coughing fit.

A question; questions, in fact, coming out of the blue in an attempt to know and to divert and to fill the silence between her inquiries and his own painfully hollow acting: "Why do you have scales, miss? What's your name? How old are you? What are those for? Why are some big and some small and why don't boys have them?"

His good hand was pointing at her chest.

A realization: That the experience of being mauled and burned and all sorts of hurt, in fact, make the prospect of a needle invading his flesh any less intimidating. It came down to a thing of control, he guessed: You could toss the enemies into the void, but you couldn't do the same to the lovely blond-haired healer. Perhaps, he just wasn't holding the needle.

A little whimper. Guess why.

And then...

Where are your parents?

A piece of deceptive brilliance, unintentional as it may be, and ironically, genuine: He simply ignored her, in the same way he had been ignoring that question for so many years. He didn't look at her for awhile after that.

But it only lasted as long as the mention of the other patient. The only other patient.

A thought, then: He was an idiot.

A flash of vibrance and sound, then another, and another: The opening of his auristic eye. But not to glean insight, as he has often used it as such, but to offer barebones perception, to seek. She was, likely, the only healer in the building. There was only one other patient. The remaining aura...

There. Faint through distance, but there.

That fact alone comforted him. He could very well be at the end of his hunt.

"I don't want to be alone," he said in a quiet voice. "Please take me with you. I'll be good!"

[Nira'lia]

The kid had no answers for her, though he had so many questions. “I have scales because I’m a Konti, and my name’s Nira’lia. I’m thirty-two and these… uh… ” She ignored his other questions. He’d learn about them in his own time. That didn’t hide the awkwardness. Was this kid messing with her? When they were done asking each other questions that got nowhere, he pleaded with her not to leave him behind. The Konti blinked and stared at him with concern. He was a good actor, and she was gullible, and he was going to get what he wanted without much effort. Nira’lia felt sorry for him. The fact that he refused to talk about his parents, or anything else about him, seemed to tell her that he had nowhere else to go. “Alright!” she said cheerfully. The Konti pat his back and gestured for him to follow her. “You can keep us company!” And by ‘us’, she meant herself and the patient she was going to watch over. Tentatively, she led him towards the dying man. They passed on a few other empty beds on the way, and nothing but the sound of their footsteps and the morose song were the only sounds that could be heard. When the Konti couldn’t take the silence anymore, she started to hum along with the odd tune. When they finally got to the bed where the dying man laid, Nira’lia turned to Anton. “Don’t be frightened, okay? He’s in a bad state, and…” She didn’t know how much a child could take. Nira’lia had to remind herself that he had wanted this—that he had asked to come along. Sighing, she urged him forward and dragged two chairs into the room. One for the child and one for her. The man lay in his bed, fighting for his life. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I have no idea what happened to him…” said Nira’lia. “I have a way of knowing if I wanted to, but I’m wondering if I even want to know.”

[Anton]

And through his auristic sight, the man's prone, battered form was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

Not physically, of course. On the level of meat and bones and blood and all things real, it was utterly repulsive. The details came to him as the auristic focus grew stronger, grew more sure of what it was reading, allowing him to catalogue his handiwork piece by piece: The wind-cut gash on his torso, and beyond that and spreading up to both his arms, the large, continuous cluster of bruises caused by concussive water balls. The throat was the hallmark of it, of course, the prized gold bangle amidst the silver, but there was no magical background to that injury.

Just hard angles on the cold, unforgiving wall. A very accidental application of basic physics. And alot of adredaline.

But the beauty of it...

The beauty of it came from circumstance; of bad things happening to bad men, of the certain knowledge that every case the silencers left Alvadas improved, and that those who suffered under those who inflict suffering would, in turn, suffer for their crimes.

Justice.

Pure, simple, and blazing. Like the fever the man was steadily building up.

And yet...

There was something off about his aura.

Perhaps this was just how sick people felt?

Off.

He snapped his auristic sight shut. It took more out of him than he expected.

"He looks horrible," Anton said quietly, for he feared anything louder would betray something in his voice. "Absolutely horrible. And ain't that just a shame?"

He kept his smile deep inside his mind, even as he realized he might have overstepped just a tensy tiny bit.

And it promptly faltered when she said she could.

Big, pale Nira'lia. Blonde hair. Nice and sensitive. Age of a hag but looking far younger - Excessive ingestion of medicine or Kontiness?. Chronic hummer. Overly Forceful back patter. Good with a needle.

Master information seeker apparent.

"How would you know?" he asked, not turning to look at her, still staring quite intently at the man. "Is is some sort of Konti thing? What's a Konti, anyway?"