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| Scene Title | A Cautionary Song, Part II |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | And they throw her thirty dollars and return her to the harbor where she goes to bed, and this is how you're fed. |
| Date | January 24, 2009 |
???
It's no warmer underground than it was at the peninsula. The drive was a long one but uneventful, and now, well… there are stairs, and darkness, and it's still cold. Hands clutch Cecile's arms roughly, her wrists still caught behind her back in handcuffs, a blindfold wrapped over her eyes as she's manourvered down, down, down. It's awkward, at best, one of the men leading her down cursing roughly when he stumbles with her down a step.
"You can take the damn thing off," Logan's familiar voice murmurs somewhere in front of her, apparently leading the way, and a rough hand undoes the knot of the blindfold, catching her hair roughly but all the same, she is at least permitted that.
Once upon a time, the decrepit hollow that Cecile finds herself in might have been an asylum, or perhaps a prison — too much time has passed for her to know for sure, but the hallway's gutted interior alternates between dark and light as the fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker and crackle, making it difficult to make out much more than the stretch of ruined concrete unfolding in front of her, interspersed with dark puddles of stagnant water and coppery-coloured stains. Paint peels and flakes off the walls, so damaged by years of excessive weathering that it's impossible to guess at its original shade.
At the end of the hall by a set of warped steel doors sits a tall, broad-shouldered man in a sharply-tailored suit, bright blue eyes standing out against the shadows he surrounds himself with. An old assault rifle sits across his lap, its leather strap dangling stiffly over one knee. Muldoon offers Logan and Cecile a small smile that curls at the corners of his mouth, rising to meet them as they approach. "You're losing your touch," he observes in a quiet voice, too soft to echo like Logan's does in spite of the passageway's narrow walls and precariously low ceiling. "Just the one?"
Though she isn't gagged, Cecile is wise enough to keep her mouth shut even once her sight has been returned to her. That is not to say that she does not communicate. Her dark eyes are bright despite her dirty face and wide with fear. What has transpired so far has left her without any sort of idea as to what might happen to her. She does not struggle in the rough hands that hold her, but she does make it clear with tense muscles that she is not content.
When they reach the end of the wretched hallway and the armed, suited man stands to recieve them, Cecile's heart pumps faster still against her thin ribcage, pounding her in her ears. Her nostrils flare with one breath after another, and she grits her teeth, determined not to cry.
Logan has shed his coat and gloves, revealing a shirt of the designer kind tucked into pressed slacks, boots beneath that slightly too scuffed and old to fit in with the rest of his immaculate attire. He still has his lupara, resting in a relaxed hand and pointed down towards the stained cement floor. "We had two. Actually." His tone is light, head tilting a little. "The other one bled out." He casts a glance over his shoulder towards one of the men keeping a grip on Cecile, an accusing look. Back to Muldoon, he adds, "Maybe next time, we should take him for walks, no?" The gun in his hand swings towards the steel doors in indication as to whom he means.
The light, casual tone is lost, abandoning facetiousness as he's wont to do when the business end of things is apparent on the horizon. His voice takes on a cold tone, one far more natural for him. He steps aside, gestures for the two guards to bring her forward a little further, as if for inspection. Logan looks at her now, without really seeing her, searching her face for something beyond the apparent fear. "Found her in Brooklyn. No one's gonna miss her, just like you want
"You noted, I hope, the difference between this one—" Muldoon's eyes sweep across Cecile's form but his chilly gaze does not linger any longer than necessary. "And our blonde friend down at Old Lucy's?" One gloved hand reaches up, closes around the heavy latch that holds the doors in place, then turns, slowly, releasing the locking mechanism with a foreboding thunk that reverberates through the building.
Cecile's face is a strong one, or it would be if she weighed a bit more. Her eyes in particular hold a fiery quality, though it has been doused somewhat by the sheen of tears. Those tears break with Logan's proclamation. She's not coming out of this alive. All thoughts of the other, perhaps more fortunate victim of these two men and even the mystery of the one who avoided them entirely are pushed out of Cecile's mind by this fact. She swallows, using all her strength to push saliva down her tight throat.
"Yes," Logan says, in a slightly clipped manner. Not out of irritation, however, but his gaze goes from Cecile's face towards the door being unlocked, wariness making his jaw tighten and his hand clutch his lupara a little tighter. "But I can also tell the difference between a quick fix and a long-term investment." The scent that leaks into the underground room, as the door is parted a fraction upon the lock's release, is one of old blood, water damage and something starkly human. Logan doesn't step back, exactly, but his weight does rock back to his heels out of instinct.
"Why? Are you thinking about making one?" Hinges groan as the door grinds open and Muldoon brings his rifle up in a defensive gesture, pointing it at the crack that appears along the steel edge as if expecting something to appear in the gap. When nothing does, he wrinkles his nose in obvious distaste, and heaves the door open the rest of the way.
The behavior of the two men sends Cecile leaning back into the third, wishing she were gripped in a different way, or else not at all so that she would be able to run. Instead she straightens a bit and pushes back against the hands that bind her. It's only after a moment that she's able to find her voice, and when she uses it, it is as shaky as it is ragged by the weather, in addition to other things.
"What…what's in there?"
The question directed to him from Muldoon gets only a soft snort from Logan, but no real response, too focused on what's going on to toss back a flippant reply or an affirmative answer. He looks towards Cecile, now, as her ragged voice fills the room with her shaky question, studying her darker eyes for a moment before flicking a glance to the man handling her. A nod, and she begins to be marched forward, handcuffs intact to prevent a last minute struggle to messy to grapple with, towards the shadowed room. Her question is answered, in a sense— by way of demonstration.
Darkness.
Darkness and quite a prodigious smell.
Cecile, though for all intents and purposes alone in the dark, save for the pungent odor, remains handcuffed. She doesn't move an inch once she has been thrust into the room - not even enough to determine if it is indeed a room. It might just be another hall.
Behind her, the groan of metal sliding against itself makes the ground beneath her feet vibrate, locks pushed back into place, sealing the way out. No one has accompanied her, no one intends to, and vacuous silence wraps around her like a blanket.
Then, breathing, thin and reedy, reaches an audible crescendo, and it's not coming from her. There's a shuffle, someone moving, and then what sounds like the wordless murmur of an old man, piteous and pained. Then, the slap of bare foot against tile, once, twice, then more in quick succession— and someone— something barrels into her, uncaring of the pain it would cause either of them.
Cecile is definitely disadvantaged, even if one does not take her physical state into account. She backs up until she can feel the grimy steel against her bound hands, her breathing quick and ragged as the sound of bare feet quickens.
A scream rips through her as she is slammed tighter against the door, two noises that are undoubtedly audible on the other side.
The only weapon the woman has is the knife, unless taken from her, but even if it hadn't been it would be impossible to get to with her hands cuffed behind her. That leaves her feet, clad in boots somewhat large for her. She kicks again and again, but at what she cannot yet be sure.
The kicks land, and for a moment, there's a reprieve in the dark as one booted foot finds a sore spot, forcing whoever this man in the dark is to back up with a harsh gasp. Cecile is left to lean there at the door, in her layered coats and the useless knife on her person, listening to ragged breathing from a throat that might rival hers in unhealthiness. The murmur returns, that strained voice making words that might not be English, but not even be words at all, before strong hands suddenly grip the front of Cecile's coats in the darkness, yanking her down onto tile that, if light had entered the room at all, would prove to be cracked and spattered with a whole manner of fluids. A drain pipe in the center of the room gapes to catch whatever might spill its way today, and if by the sound of fists beating against flesh have anything to say, the digging of claws, of teeth, it will be blood.
Outside, Logan listens to the sounds that come distant through the door, before taking a step for out, a hand up to scratch his slightly unshaven jaw contemplatively. "I might be," he finally says, in response to Muldoon's former question, as he starts to walk away, voice bouncing off concrete. "Really, it depends on what more you have to offer, old chap." His work here is done for the day, however, negotiations set aside as he makes quick work up the stairs. The end may justify the means, but sometimes, the end isn't so pleasant either.
Those coats may serve to stave off cold, but they are useless against such things as fists and claws. Thin beneath them, Cecile's malnourished and drug-riddled body breaks easily, her cries growing louder as she thrashes and kicks in an attempt to gain a few seconds reprieve from the pain.
But it is all in vain.
Soon enough, Cecile's hoarse cries fall silent, replaced instead by the much quieter trickling of blood as it falls from her and across the broken tile toward the drain.
 January 24th: Remove The Cancer From The Soul |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 January 24th: Guns And Bubbles |