This is a popular prompt, apparently! I hope no one minds me getting in on it too. (Content warnings for, uh, zombies? and injuries/blood, and brief mentions of suicide.)
--
It’s been two hours since you left the liquor store; for every achievement you’ve been hit by another setback, and the image of broken bottles and splintered shelves hangs heavy in your mind like the clouds gathering ominously above the downtown skyline. Turning your coat collar up and glancing over your shoulder at the quiet street, you slip through the door of one of the more discerning of the city’s shady waterholes, surreptitiously bolting it behind you.
Lalonde’s at the bar, of course, one leg tangled over the other as though to root her to the stool, a half-empty martini glass in her hand. The bartender is presumably occupied elsewhere; you glance through the door into the back room and see a few heavy-set people huddled in a corner, but apart from that the place is empty. Convenient.
You lean insouciantly against the bar next to her, your arms folded across your chest. “Maybe I’ve got a job for you,” you tell her.
Roxy tilts her glass back and forth, her head on one side as though she’s not even registered your presence, and then downs what’s left of it in one. You raise your eyebrows. She spins the barstool to face you, swaying slightly, one hand braced on the bar and the other splayed across the trilby motif on your coat pocket, and says, “Hit me.”
“Lester’s missing,” you say, deadpan, “and his shop’s completely fucking wrecked. The fuzz says it’s suicide. He drank himself crazy, destroyed his storerooms, and offed himself afterwards. Something about the unbearable pressures of a life of ignominy.”
She frowns. “Bullshit. Lester was the comfortablest ignormin- ignor- crook I ever met.”
“Exactly. So I went and checked it out, and I found this.” You pull the clear plastic wallet out of your coat pocket and drop it on the bar in front of her. It’s cold as death, which is pretty appropriate- hasn’t got any warmer for being a couple of layers of fabric away from your skin. If you thought more about that it might make you a little uncomfortable, but you’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Roxy leans over it, squinting. “Is that a fninger?”
“Something like that.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Out the back of Lester’s storeroom, kicked under a shelf. The back door was pulled off its hinges, covered in dirt, and the dust on the floor was full of bootprints. The cops got there before me, Rox, and I’m pretty sure they’re covering up something big. But I guess they missed this one.”
She reaches inside her skirt pocket, drops an assortment of instruments onto the table. Pushing out of the way a petri dish and what looks like a pH scale, she pulls on a pair of white latex gloves and peers through a magnifying glass at Exhibit A., decomposing human digit, biting her lip thoughtfully.
“This is old,” she says, turning it over. “Like… weeks, months dead? Maybe. Seriously old. And there’s dirt on it, kinda clay dirt they have north-west of town. But wet. New dirt, hasn’t died- dried, yet. Like someone’s exum- ex, uh- dug it up.”
“North-west,” you say quietly, “is where the cemetery is.”
You’re about to formulate another hypothesis when the finger starts wriggling.
Roxy yelps, jumps backwards in alarm, overbalances off the barstool- you catch her, but she’s dropped the finger and it’s hit the floor, dragging itself along like a jointed caterpillar, trailing grave mud behind it.
“What the actual fucking fuck,” says Roxy, steadying herself against the bar, her eyes wide. The finger’s flopping more like a fish than a worm, now, towards the door to the back room—
A horrible possibility occurs to you, and you don’t have time to verbalise it, because the heavy-set people you noticed sitting in the other room earlier are stumbling through the doorway, filthy and moaning, and one of them only has half a face.
“Oh, hell”, you murmur under your breath, taking in the torn, mud-spattered clothing, the decaying skin, limbs bent at unnatural angles, ripped and bloodless wounds, red-stained mouths.
You reckon you know what happened to Lester.
They’re slow, though, and still across the room from you. Your mind catches up to the situation, notes pedantically that maybe calling them people was incorrect, but the last thing you want to get into now is a discussion with yourself on the nature of human identity. You adjust your glasses.
“You up for a fight, Lalonde?” you ask, reaching behind your head to pull your sword from its harness at your back (if you’ve learnt one thing in this line of work, it’s that you can hide anything under the right trenchcoat).
“Like you even need to ask,” she says. You can hear the grin in her voice. When you glance over, she’s emerging from under the bar, locking the clip into an assault rifle that she’s slung over her shoulder. Christ, are you glad to have her around at times like this.
Because whatever’s going on-- well, you’re pretty sure this is only the beginning.
FILL: Team Dave<3Rose<3Terezi
--
It’s been two hours since you left the liquor store; for every achievement you’ve been hit by another setback, and the image of broken bottles and splintered shelves hangs heavy in your mind like the clouds gathering ominously above the downtown skyline. Turning your coat collar up and glancing over your shoulder at the quiet street, you slip through the door of one of the more discerning of the city’s shady waterholes, surreptitiously bolting it behind you.
Lalonde’s at the bar, of course, one leg tangled over the other as though to root her to the stool, a half-empty martini glass in her hand. The bartender is presumably occupied elsewhere; you glance through the door into the back room and see a few heavy-set people huddled in a corner, but apart from that the place is empty. Convenient.
You lean insouciantly against the bar next to her, your arms folded across your chest. “Maybe I’ve got a job for you,” you tell her.
Roxy tilts her glass back and forth, her head on one side as though she’s not even registered your presence, and then downs what’s left of it in one. You raise your eyebrows. She spins the barstool to face you, swaying slightly, one hand braced on the bar and the other splayed across the trilby motif on your coat pocket, and says, “Hit me.”
“Lester’s missing,” you say, deadpan, “and his shop’s completely fucking wrecked. The fuzz says it’s suicide. He drank himself crazy, destroyed his storerooms, and offed himself afterwards. Something about the unbearable pressures of a life of ignominy.”
She frowns. “Bullshit. Lester was the comfortablest ignormin- ignor- crook I ever met.”
“Exactly. So I went and checked it out, and I found this.” You pull the clear plastic wallet out of your coat pocket and drop it on the bar in front of her. It’s cold as death, which is pretty appropriate- hasn’t got any warmer for being a couple of layers of fabric away from your skin. If you thought more about that it might make you a little uncomfortable, but you’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Roxy leans over it, squinting. “Is that a fninger?”
“Something like that.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Out the back of Lester’s storeroom, kicked under a shelf. The back door was pulled off its hinges, covered in dirt, and the dust on the floor was full of bootprints. The cops got there before me, Rox, and I’m pretty sure they’re covering up something big. But I guess they missed this one.”
She reaches inside her skirt pocket, drops an assortment of instruments onto the table. Pushing out of the way a petri dish and what looks like a pH scale, she pulls on a pair of white latex gloves and peers through a magnifying glass at Exhibit A., decomposing human digit, biting her lip thoughtfully.
“This is old,” she says, turning it over. “Like… weeks, months dead? Maybe. Seriously old. And there’s dirt on it, kinda clay dirt they have north-west of town. But wet. New dirt, hasn’t died- dried, yet. Like someone’s exum- ex, uh- dug it up.”
“North-west,” you say quietly, “is where the cemetery is.”
You’re about to formulate another hypothesis when the finger starts wriggling.
Roxy yelps, jumps backwards in alarm, overbalances off the barstool- you catch her, but she’s dropped the finger and it’s hit the floor, dragging itself along like a jointed caterpillar, trailing grave mud behind it.
“What the actual fucking fuck,” says Roxy, steadying herself against the bar, her eyes wide. The finger’s flopping more like a fish than a worm, now, towards the door to the back room—
A horrible possibility occurs to you, and you don’t have time to verbalise it, because the heavy-set people you noticed sitting in the other room earlier are stumbling through the doorway, filthy and moaning, and one of them only has half a face.
“Oh, hell”, you murmur under your breath, taking in the torn, mud-spattered clothing, the decaying skin, limbs bent at unnatural angles, ripped and bloodless wounds, red-stained mouths.
You reckon you know what happened to Lester.
They’re slow, though, and still across the room from you. Your mind catches up to the situation, notes pedantically that maybe calling them people was incorrect, but the last thing you want to get into now is a discussion with yourself on the nature of human identity. You adjust your glasses.
“You up for a fight, Lalonde?” you ask, reaching behind your head to pull your sword from its harness at your back (if you’ve learnt one thing in this line of work, it’s that you can hide anything under the right trenchcoat).
“Like you even need to ask,” she says. You can hear the grin in her voice. When you glance over, she’s emerging from under the bar, locking the clip into an assault rifle that she’s slung over her shoulder. Christ, are you glad to have her around at times like this.
Because whatever’s going on-- well, you’re pretty sure this is only the beginning.