Women On The Floor


abby_icon.gif cardinal_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif pearl_icon.gif

Scene Title Women On The Floor
Synopsis And the men standing. Where in Pearl isn't really dead, Deckard finally gets to be in Abby but not how he wants to be, and Cardinal? Cardinal's just have a really bad month. The Fleshwork really earns it's name tonight.
Date July 1, 2009

The Fleshwork

The interior of the tattoo parlor is brightly lit, full of cases of body jewelry, stainless steel, and semiprecious stones for the construction of custom jewelry and body mods. Along the painted walls are huge racks of flash, and wall mounted portfolio books for each of the seven artists who rotate through the establishment. Everything is done in black, bright green, chrome, and natural wood (floor). A small aisle between two counter leads into the back, where six tattoos stations are lined up, three on each side. Each is flanked by a huge wall mirror with bulbs ringing them, like an old Hollywood style hair salon. Custom painted skateboards adorn the walls of the tattoo area, most of them featuring skulls, bleeding hearts, and skeletons in a Dia de los Muertos motif.

The blood leaving Pearl's body has slowed to a very sluggish ooze. Not that it's likely anyone's noticed, what with the horror of her being dead. She'd like to think it's a horror. Really, it's probably just a mild inconvenience. Goddamn you, you better be mourning, wonder boy! So help me…

Outside the tattoo parlor, the brothel is still burning. In this, it matches the hatred that's smoldering in a certain thief's heart, more fuel poured upon a metaphorical fire that's been getting fed quite often recently.

There's blood staining one of the countertops, upon which Pearl's body's been laid out - neatly, if not ceremoniously. A chair that was tossed into the waiting area is next to the counter, and Cardinal's seated in it slumped forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands cradling the gun that did so little good out on the street. He's just sort of staring at it, right now, expression neutral, somewhat flatly unreadable.

He forgot to lock the door, fortunately.

Deckard doesn't bother knocking.

He slams through the door unannounced and uninvited, ash grey suit coat slapping wet against the brighter blossom of blood through the soot-smudged white dress shirt beneath. He's lost his tie somewhere along the way, is bleeding from his head and does not look happy to be here. Here in the tattoo shop, here in the Rookery, here on Staten Island. Here on Earth.

Abby's being pulled along with him, somewhat upright, sweater tied around her waist and pressure put where Flint's managed to heal some, but not all. Red bleeds onto white, in her hair, her hands, jeans. Everywhere. Her bag drags behind her, snagged around a foot on purpose since she's not about to carry it. "Gotta get it all out. Can't go to hospital. Report gunshots" She's shocky pale, shaking, on her feet enough, looking decidedly in a fair amount of pain. You would be too if you had a handful of buckshot wedged in a kidney and other vital organs.

"This is Staten Island," Cardinal's voice is quiet as the door opens; he doesn't bother to look up from the gun in his hands as they enter, despite the jangling of the bells upon their arrival in the establishment, "There aren't any hospitals. Or police, for that fuckin' matter. You two gonna live?"

"Unfortunately." Probably. Wiry hair matted to the side of his head, Flint shuffles Abby in ahead of himself so that he can close the door after them both, long face pale and drawn in the clear spaces between smears of black and red. Both hands rake the kind of incriminating clawmarks investigators dream about across everything they touch, from the door to the waiting room chair he swings around to block it off for anyone else who might follow their example. Clinic's closed. "I think we need to cut her open." 'Her,' being Abigail, who Deckard neglects to acknowledge is standing right there within arm's reach. He kicks the chair in a little more, back jammed up under the door handle as he reaches to flick a knife off his belt and…notices Pearl laid out on the counter like a fresh cut slab of steak. Just as bloody and just as dead.


His eyes check back to Cardinal and he stands up a just a little straighter, recovering the extra half inch of his person that he tends to lose to all the slouching he does. Awkward.

Cut her open. It makes her stomach roil and if she hadn't already lost it already, she might on the floor. Pearl is noticed far quicker than Deckard does and instead of moving back to one of the tattoo stations and laying down so he can do just that, cut her open enough to fish around for the pellets, she stands still as well. Forget the knife in Flints hand. Pearl, someone who obviously meant something to Cardinal is dead. "Richard. I'm sorry"

"Yeah." The gun's old. There's faint scratching along the grip, maybe hash marks made by the previous owner. There's soot darkening the metal, now, from the fire - the same blackness that's staining his cheeks and clothes. Cardinal turns it over, again, and then his newly-regrown hand reaches over to click the safety into place, taking it from the other hand and holstering it under his arm. "Yeah. Okay."

A push up from the chair, a gaze as walled as Jericho sweeping over the ex-healer to gauge the severity of the damage. Then he nods, turning to push past the counter, "There's some liquor downstairs. It'll dull the pain. I'll be right back."

Squeeze out a tear, bitch. Pearl may be deadish, but her cells are still going, knitting her body, starting with her heart. It doesn't beat, but you can't see through it anymore. Not that… anyone might be checking. The soft tissue closes as well, skin already healed closed. The bone, fragmented a little in places, is harder, takes longer. All of this takes place under the leather of her vest, silently, of course. Unnoticed.

Deckard doesn't apologize. S'probably better left to Abby anyhow. He's busy looking vaguely hangdog now that he's gone and barged in on Cardinal having quiet time with a corpse, the knife in his hand clicking and flicking open only once the Shadow Man has made mention of the potential for booze.

Alcohol will dull the pain. She doesn't want to dull it, she doesn't even want to be awake when they start fishing around in her. She's rather it be a hospital, or even Sonny who does it but he's playing Sonny right now and not Sal and so Abigail looks away from the dead body that is supposed to be pearl to Deckard, steeling herself for her pained words. "You need to knock me out Flint. I don't wanna be awake when you cut me. You need to really knock me out, I promise I won't be mad at you"

Thump thump thump. Downstairs, Cardinal goes, in search of liquor or other illicit pharmaceuticals. At least it's giving him something to do, and focus on, rather than simply sit and wait for that fuse to run out.

Pearl, in the mean time, hasn't even had time to cool. Her body is still warm to the touch, though pale and motionless. That's a lot of blood to produce. Her cheeks slowly take on that slight flush of life as her heart begins, once again, to slowly beat. The tattooist's chest is a massively sore zone, but her brain hasn't caught the clue train just yet.

Dude, if you find the pot, YOU LEAVE THE POT. It's hydroponic and ridiculously expensive. There's a huge stash of various liquors in the kitchen, and very little food. Don't look in the box under the bed.

Knife jutting out of the clasp of his right hand like — well — like a knife, Deckard looks more like a serial killer than he does a healer. His bones jut under wiry muscle and blood saturated cloth; his eyes are chilly and distant, dumb with blood loss, among other things, while he studies her. "Whatever we do…I'll fix it." Okay? Okay.

In a normal person, there would probably be a little voice to let them know that this is a bad idea, maybe with some kind of list or diagram to explain why. As in, why he shouldn't curl his left hand into a white-knuckled fist, pause awkwardly, and then belt Abby in the side of the head with it. But Deckard hasn't been normal for some time, and that's precisely what he does.

Who better if you can't get a real doctor than the guy who went pilfering organs from people to do what they're going to do? "I know" Abby manages to breathe out, shutting her eyes so she can't see what she knows is coming. He's knocked her out before, and that's when she was healthy save for a bruised ass. "I trust you"

So she doesn't see the fist coming, can feel her head snap to the side, the flash of numbing pain and nothing. She crumples, heading for his feet, hands falling from where she was keeping the sweater to her side. Another scream cut off before it can fully be heard. The blonde is down for the count, exactly how she preferred it.

Something audibly breaks downstairs. Well, that can't be good.

If that was Pearl's crappy furniture made of crates, you are in for it, buddy! The heart rate increases, and circulation is re-established. A single breath is softly taken, and then the pain hits. Pearl rolls over slightly, over stresses the counter, and the glass shatters with a sharp crack. Her body falls face down onto the floor.

One stud move and Deckard's got Abby on her back and Pearl on her face, both on the floor, neither in a position to really complain about it. Stock still, Deckard stares dimly at this latest development. Not that he walked over there and checked her pulse or anything, but…!

"Hey, Richard!" His voice is like cardboard raking rough over wood down the stairs, pitched as loud as he dares without drawing in undesired attention from the outside, "Your girlfriend's corpse is moving."

There's a quiet pause while he takes this in on his own for a few seconds longer, then it's back to scooping Abby up off the tattoo parlor floor so he can drag her back to an unoccupied tattoo table and slice her open with a switchblade. Does it get any more romantic than this, really?

Pearl might be inclined to insist she is not a girlfriend, but her nose is broken, thank you. Now that has to heal. Goddamn it. Someone roll her over.

The thump of boots on the stairs ends with one hand curving to the doorway, and Cardinal's head making its appearance, a bottle of scotch hanging from his other hand. There's a little more red circling his eyes there, but the only person present is Deckard, who presumably knows the Man Code well enough not to comment on it. The counter's broken. "…the fuck are you doing out here?"

Pearl is still, face down on the floor. You know, it looks a lot like Deckard leaned on the counter, broke it, then dropped the body off. Gosh. What was he doing?

Unconscious Abby held in his arms like a particularly blonde and bloody sack of corn, Deckard opens his mouth to bite something off all in a rush, teeth bared and eyes cold. Except then he notices the redness, and opts instead to look elsewhere instead for half a beat before he resumes carting his charge off into a room with a door on it. "She didn't want to be conscious so…" mumblemuttergeneralizedincoherence. He steps around a chair, glances sideways at Pearl, and can only shrug on his way to maneuvering himself out of sight, girl, knife and all. "Creepier things have happened."

The counter, the corpse, are regarded for a long moment. As is Abigail's unconscious form. Then Deckard, the latter with a hint of suspicion stirring around the edges of the facade of flat, neutral emotion that Richard's currently using to desperately keep himself from completely falling apart after the events of the past month. "Fine." He steps over the threshold from the back, heading over towards the counter, "Use the tattooing chair, there's… sterilization shit around if you need it, I think. I'm going to… take her downstairs."

Well, it's not like they can call the morgue.

Pearl was sort of knocked unconscious again with the blow to the head. She's breathing, barely. But that might not even be obvious. Her nose, however, is bleeding. Hey, you need circulation for that.

Of course, Cardinal is not exactly in any state to think about things like circulation and breathing, given that he's not all that great at first aid to begin with. So he doesn't even notice that she's spontaneously returned to life as he kneels down beside the body, carefully sliding his arms beneath her and hauling her up from the floor with the slightest of grunts. Could've stood to eat a few less twinkies somewhere along the line, maybe.

Then, down the stairs. At least she can lay in state on a bed. Or what passes for her bed, anyway.

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