Possession
Dedicated to rainy-chan
"Damnit."
Inappropriate or not, it summed up the situation quite accurately. Ash
dropped to one knee, placing his right hand palm down on the ground for
support. The Glock 20 that he had been clenching so tightly in his
sweat-dampened palm now rested against the cool concrete of the rooftop.
His fingertips gently cupped the cool metal edge of the grip, as if for
comfort. The twin of the firearm, however, hung over Ash's left shoulder,
the barrel still bleeding its mournful wispy light gray smoke.
Being a private supernatural investigator had few assets. Well, besides
the fact that it made for some particularly inventive pickup lines...
Needless to say, due to some rather disturbing incidents that had occurred
years and years ago, he always carried a healthy supply of firearms on his
person... Hell, he even slept with the Glocks clutched close to him. Misty
was always teasing him, saying that it was only because he couldn't get a
girl that close to him. Heh, if she knew half of the lovely things that had
oozed, thumped and whomped near him, she'd realize that his half-insane
paranoia was completely justified.
Ash was sweating bullets. Doing the best to keep his cool, collected
composure, sure, but failing miserably. Sweat dripped from his forehead,
plastered his black hair to his head. Damn, he was exhausted.
But resting for even a moment spelled slow, lingering, painful death for
him. And, for Ash, his own survival was paramount. The very top priority
on his list. No, it wasn't for any sweet, dutiful reason either -- he was
just acutely aware that being quite alive was probably more pleasant than
dead.
Well, he didn't know for sure, it was just that it had always been his
assumption that if dying was all that great, people would spend more time
jumping in front of oncoming trains...
Being half-eaten while still alive by your best friend didn't really
rest with him too well, either. First a great deal of unwelcome advances
and then the lovely death threats. What the hell had gotten into... well,
that was kind of irrelevant. Screwit.
Although he had done his best to stay completely alert while catching
his breath, he had caught flickering shadows out of the corner of his eyes,
shadows whose shape and proportion made him unwilling to turn around. While
his better sense told him that running like hell would be his wisest option
right now, he resisted the animal panic that overtook his body.
Well, it seemed like just holding fast was a great choice! Nothing
whatsoever happened... he had just been feverishly imagining the flitting
shapes. Must've been a trick of the sunlight -- it obviously wasn't what he
thought it was. Well, obviously it couldn't be what he thought it was: he
wasn't even completely sure what he thought it was. He was in the midst of
congratulating himself on making a wonderful decision that would lead to his
ultimate better welfare -- deciding what alcoholic beverage would best suit
his needs tonight -- when he realized he was screwed.
As he watched, petrified, his crouching shadow elongated and stretched,
the extension outlining the body of a rather attractively proportioned young
woman. The form itself was familiar to him, but the motion with which her
shadowy form swaggered toward him was totally unlike Misty...
Right now, he reasoned, would probably be a lovely time to be on his
not-really-all-that-merry way. But happily enough, he seemed to have gone
into a semi-paralytic state... not all that unusual. The various mental and
physical trauma he had put himself through in the last forty-five minutes or
so had reduced him to a quivering mess. He could handle that. But now
prolonged stress combined with the short respite he had taken caused him to
go tense, as he was now. Shoot.
Well, he could always try talking his way out of this wonderful little
situation he had going here...
"Ah... Misty, don't you think we could, ahhh, talk this over a stiff
drink??"
More soft, barefoot steps preceded a calm answer. Somehow, though,
Misty sounded... different.
"I told you... I'm not your 'Misty'... and since you won't have me, I guess
I'll settle for a nice drink... and perhaps some 'soul food'..."
Well, except for that last irritatingly random bit, things seemed to be
shifting to his favor...
"That's good. Why don't we just drop by my house, help ourselves to the
contents of a few bottles, get some carryout and talk --"
Ash cut his monologue short as he felt the not-Misty's body press gently
against his back. Well, under other circumstances, he probably wouldn't be
worried quite as much as right now. His unaldulterated fear was probably
due to the fact that as soft and yielding as her stomach and chest felt
against him, he couldn't ever remember anyone (especially the girl who was
currently not-Misty) feeling so... cold. But it wasn't cold for the sake of
being cold, it was more of a vacuous lack of warmth.
Lack of anything, actually. Like there was just an absence of anything,
matter or energy, occupying the Misty shaped space behind him. It
chilled him, chilled him to the marrow. Aside from that, he didn't like
it, either.
Similarly, her breath as she whispered softly into his ear was just as
horrifyingly devoid of warm life.
"... yes, I'll drink your living blood, and feast upon your immortal
soul..."
Oh crap. That certainly wasn't the answer he was hoping for. Ash's
eyebrow twitched slightly, and on a sudden impulse he feathered the trigger
of the left-hand Glock.
The silencer took care of any sound, but the snap-shot spattered Ash
with gobs of dark blood, chunks of gray brain matter, and slivers of
white bone.
Hopping to his feet and spinning around triumphantly, Ash surveyed his
handiwork, feeling the disgustingly cold blood drip down his hair and back.
Carefully blowing the smoke away from both barrels -- left side then right,
he holstered them.
At one time the guns had been concealed by his trenchcoat, but the
Misty-thing had shredded the coat with her surprisingly sharp
fingernails, rendering it pretty much useless. So he had ditched it while
fleeing. Damnit, he ran through more coats that way...
Well, this wasn't all that bad. Since it really wasn't Misty, like the
thing had said, there was no problem here. This was just probably some
demon assuming her form, or something. Scanning the dead body again,
something glittering momentarily caught his eye. Crouching down with both
knees bent, Ash plucked at his sticky shirt while examining the shiny
object. Upon closer inspection, it was a familiar gold bracelet about
the wrist of the not-Misty... Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn. Damn.
It couldn't be. Heh, it couldn't actually be her. Maybe it was just
conveniently some other girl who looked exactly like her, and wore an
identical bracelet with the same inscription, and had the same name and...
damnit. This was just totally lovely.
He was a P.I. of sorts, so he did pack a license to kill. Plus the ten
nine-inch scratches that criss-crossed his chest were evidence enough of her
homicidal intent... well, maybe not that alone, but the finger-marks where
she had attempted to actually rip his heart out of his ribcage should
convince anyone of her badness. Ah, on second thought, more like she nearly
did perform the lovely deed -- had he not literally blasted her off of him
with the Glock, he'd be dead. Of course, there was no logical explanation
for any of it. Nothing. Hell, even the fact that he stopped and tried to
talk her out of brutally murdering him in an excessively messy fashion, that
showed the inherent lunacy here.
Waaahh, this was just one giant amalgamation of insanity. Actually,
thinking about the insanity made Ash feel that he seriously needed a stiff
drink. Thinking about needing a drink convinced him he also needed a
companion for that drink... and while he drank himself into a stupor, he'd
hafta try to... try to... try to... fill out the damn paperwork... If this
situation got any more twisted, he swore to himself that he'd probably have
to spatter his own brains all over the rooftop.
Now he had worked himself up so much, he'd probably need another drink.
Or two.
... Or three. Yup, that ought to do it. Turning away from the bloody
mess that had once been a girl. A really nice... what was he saying? An
attractive girl, to say the least. A girl he wouldn't have minded getting
to know better... waitasecond. There was something so incredibly wrong
about what he was just thinking to himself. Fantasizing about a dead girl
who was pre-mortem his best friend/rival's girlfriend was just a bad, bad,
bad thing. That called for another drink, at very least, and perhaps
another drink, and maybe some hentai. Heh, actually his description of what
he'd need to set himself straight again sounded exactly like a typical
weekend at Brock's.
Attempting to put all thoughts of how he had harbored a massive crush on
Misty through his mid-teens out of his mind, Ash staggered near-blindly
toward the rooftop exit. A cool breeze tugged at his blood-sodden shirt,
making it sticky and chilly. The setting sun highlighted his disgusting
messy state, warming his back just enough to remind him that the rest of his
body was freezing to death.
As he walked, Ash watched his elongated shadow spatter black blood,
wondering if he should stop by a hospital. He had survived worse than
this, but it would be good to have a record for evidence... smirking and
leering slightly, he realized that he'd also appreciate some sympathy from a
Joy right now....
Damnit, what WAS with the perverted thoughts right now?!? First Misty
and then Nurse Joy...
Mentally he tacked another drink onto his list. If he accidentally
thought of anything else ecchi, he'd probably drink himself into a coma...
but that wouldn't be so bad, on second thought. Drinking, that is.
Thoughts of consuming obscene amounts of alcohol were interrupted by a
loud sickening slurping noise coming from behind him. Probably it was just
the corpse doing some kind of disgusting post-mortem corpse-ey thing, but
holding the same job as Ash did, it was just common sense to jump several
feet into the air when an apparently dead thing made the slightest noise.
Ash recovered quickly, snapping his Glocks back into a ready position as
he swiftly spun on his heels to face the corpse. The scene that awaited him
was fascinating. Completely disgusting, repulsive, and pretty much any
other word that described something this hideous -- but oddly hypnotizing.
Eyes glued to the mass of dead... dead-ness, he watched a gob of
puttylike flesh coalesce and amalgamate at the base of the neck -- there
wasn't really any 'head' left to speak of -- and expand and collect itself
there.
After a few minutes, it had reached a size nearly paralleling the
head he had destroyed quite recently. Undulating in an excessively nasty
fashion, the collection of flesh began to form itself into a crude imitation
of Misty's head.
Over a span of minutes, it gradually refined and evolved into a near
perfect -- no, totally perfect, recreation of Misty's pretty head.
The imitation, however, lacked the shock of orange-red hair and,
sickeningly, any eyes whatsoever. Self-conscious, the not-Misty drew her
hands to her face, momentarily obscuring it from view. When the she
returned her hands to her sides, it was as if nothing had happened...
almost. True, her cute little nose ('nother drink) and infinitely kissable
lips ('nother 'nother drink, damnit) were restored to the perfect...
perfectness that they once had been ('nother 'nother 'nother drink -- gonna
be sloshed), but her eyes...
Her eyes. Misty's eyes. They were covered in filmy mucus, partially
obscuring their true nature, but Ash could still tell.
He could tell that they weren't her eyes. They were the exact same
shade... they were the exact same shape, they were just like her eyes, but
they weren't her eyes.
No, something lost and sad, mourning and bestial swam in these eyes.
Something he had never seen in Misty. No... the eyes were so very almost
familiar, not-quite but almost... almost familiar. He had seen them before,
briefly... but where?
While Ash racked his memory for a suitable answer, the familiar shock of
orange hair flopped over the not-Misty's face, obscuring one eye as it
always used to -- the hair seemingly exuded from her scalp in seconds.
Starting to stride toward him, not-Misty blinked, clearing the film from her
eyes. Dropping both Glocks right where he stood, Ash made a valiant effort
to blink back tears.
It was just too surreal. This had to be a dream or something... even
with his extensive firsthand experience of a hell of a lot of paranormal
activity, he knew that your best friend's girlfriend getting possessed,
trying to kill you, dying, then coming back to life, was just something that
didn't happen. It went against the fundamental laws of the universe, or
something. It just didn't happen. These things just couldn't happen.
And why, damnit, why?!? If this was actually going to happen -- and
bend every known rule of reality as it is known -- why did it have to happen
to him in particular? This was just far too much for him. Just as the
not-Misty's hand reached out to touch his cheek he bolted. Flew to the
door and half-ran-half-fell down the first flight of stairs, taking the
rest at a bound.
Dedicated to rainy-chan
"Damnit."
Inappropriate or not, it summed up the situation quite accurately. Ash
dropped to one knee, placing his right hand palm down on the ground for
support. The Glock 20 that he had been clenching so tightly in his
sweat-dampened palm now rested against the cool concrete of the rooftop.
His fingertips gently cupped the cool metal edge of the grip, as if for
comfort. The twin of the firearm, however, hung over Ash's left shoulder,
the barrel still bleeding its mournful wispy light gray smoke.
Being a private supernatural investigator had few assets. Well, besides
the fact that it made for some particularly inventive pickup lines...
Needless to say, due to some rather disturbing incidents that had occurred
years and years ago, he always carried a healthy supply of firearms on his
person... Hell, he even slept with the Glocks clutched close to him. Misty
was always teasing him, saying that it was only because he couldn't get a
girl that close to him. Heh, if she knew half of the lovely things that had
oozed, thumped and whomped near him, she'd realize that his half-insane
paranoia was completely justified.
Ash was sweating bullets. Doing the best to keep his cool, collected
composure, sure, but failing miserably. Sweat dripped from his forehead,
plastered his black hair to his head. Damn, he was exhausted.
But resting for even a moment spelled slow, lingering, painful death for
him. And, for Ash, his own survival was paramount. The very top priority
on his list. No, it wasn't for any sweet, dutiful reason either -- he was
just acutely aware that being quite alive was probably more pleasant than
dead.
Well, he didn't know for sure, it was just that it had always been his
assumption that if dying was all that great, people would spend more time
jumping in front of oncoming trains...
Being half-eaten while still alive by your best friend didn't really
rest with him too well, either. First a great deal of unwelcome advances
and then the lovely death threats. What the hell had gotten into... well,
that was kind of irrelevant. Screwit.
Although he had done his best to stay completely alert while catching
his breath, he had caught flickering shadows out of the corner of his eyes,
shadows whose shape and proportion made him unwilling to turn around. While
his better sense told him that running like hell would be his wisest option
right now, he resisted the animal panic that overtook his body.
Well, it seemed like just holding fast was a great choice! Nothing
whatsoever happened... he had just been feverishly imagining the flitting
shapes. Must've been a trick of the sunlight -- it obviously wasn't what he
thought it was. Well, obviously it couldn't be what he thought it was: he
wasn't even completely sure what he thought it was. He was in the midst of
congratulating himself on making a wonderful decision that would lead to his
ultimate better welfare -- deciding what alcoholic beverage would best suit
his needs tonight -- when he realized he was screwed.
As he watched, petrified, his crouching shadow elongated and stretched,
the extension outlining the body of a rather attractively proportioned young
woman. The form itself was familiar to him, but the motion with which her
shadowy form swaggered toward him was totally unlike Misty...
Right now, he reasoned, would probably be a lovely time to be on his
not-really-all-that-merry way. But happily enough, he seemed to have gone
into a semi-paralytic state... not all that unusual. The various mental and
physical trauma he had put himself through in the last forty-five minutes or
so had reduced him to a quivering mess. He could handle that. But now
prolonged stress combined with the short respite he had taken caused him to
go tense, as he was now. Shoot.
Well, he could always try talking his way out of this wonderful little
situation he had going here...
"Ah... Misty, don't you think we could, ahhh, talk this over a stiff
drink??"
More soft, barefoot steps preceded a calm answer. Somehow, though,
Misty sounded... different.
"I told you... I'm not your 'Misty'... and since you won't have me, I guess
I'll settle for a nice drink... and perhaps some 'soul food'..."
Well, except for that last irritatingly random bit, things seemed to be
shifting to his favor...
"That's good. Why don't we just drop by my house, help ourselves to the
contents of a few bottles, get some carryout and talk --"
Ash cut his monologue short as he felt the not-Misty's body press gently
against his back. Well, under other circumstances, he probably wouldn't be
worried quite as much as right now. His unaldulterated fear was probably
due to the fact that as soft and yielding as her stomach and chest felt
against him, he couldn't ever remember anyone (especially the girl who was
currently not-Misty) feeling so... cold. But it wasn't cold for the sake of
being cold, it was more of a vacuous lack of warmth.
Lack of anything, actually. Like there was just an absence of anything,
matter or energy, occupying the Misty shaped space behind him. It
chilled him, chilled him to the marrow. Aside from that, he didn't like
it, either.
Similarly, her breath as she whispered softly into his ear was just as
horrifyingly devoid of warm life.
"... yes, I'll drink your living blood, and feast upon your immortal
soul..."
Oh crap. That certainly wasn't the answer he was hoping for. Ash's
eyebrow twitched slightly, and on a sudden impulse he feathered the trigger
of the left-hand Glock.
The silencer took care of any sound, but the snap-shot spattered Ash
with gobs of dark blood, chunks of gray brain matter, and slivers of
white bone.
Hopping to his feet and spinning around triumphantly, Ash surveyed his
handiwork, feeling the disgustingly cold blood drip down his hair and back.
Carefully blowing the smoke away from both barrels -- left side then right,
he holstered them.
At one time the guns had been concealed by his trenchcoat, but the
Misty-thing had shredded the coat with her surprisingly sharp
fingernails, rendering it pretty much useless. So he had ditched it while
fleeing. Damnit, he ran through more coats that way...
Well, this wasn't all that bad. Since it really wasn't Misty, like the
thing had said, there was no problem here. This was just probably some
demon assuming her form, or something. Scanning the dead body again,
something glittering momentarily caught his eye. Crouching down with both
knees bent, Ash plucked at his sticky shirt while examining the shiny
object. Upon closer inspection, it was a familiar gold bracelet about
the wrist of the not-Misty... Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn. Damn.
It couldn't be. Heh, it couldn't actually be her. Maybe it was just
conveniently some other girl who looked exactly like her, and wore an
identical bracelet with the same inscription, and had the same name and...
damnit. This was just totally lovely.
He was a P.I. of sorts, so he did pack a license to kill. Plus the ten
nine-inch scratches that criss-crossed his chest were evidence enough of her
homicidal intent... well, maybe not that alone, but the finger-marks where
she had attempted to actually rip his heart out of his ribcage should
convince anyone of her badness. Ah, on second thought, more like she nearly
did perform the lovely deed -- had he not literally blasted her off of him
with the Glock, he'd be dead. Of course, there was no logical explanation
for any of it. Nothing. Hell, even the fact that he stopped and tried to
talk her out of brutally murdering him in an excessively messy fashion, that
showed the inherent lunacy here.
Waaahh, this was just one giant amalgamation of insanity. Actually,
thinking about the insanity made Ash feel that he seriously needed a stiff
drink. Thinking about needing a drink convinced him he also needed a
companion for that drink... and while he drank himself into a stupor, he'd
hafta try to... try to... try to... fill out the damn paperwork... If this
situation got any more twisted, he swore to himself that he'd probably have
to spatter his own brains all over the rooftop.
Now he had worked himself up so much, he'd probably need another drink.
Or two.
... Or three. Yup, that ought to do it. Turning away from the bloody
mess that had once been a girl. A really nice... what was he saying? An
attractive girl, to say the least. A girl he wouldn't have minded getting
to know better... waitasecond. There was something so incredibly wrong
about what he was just thinking to himself. Fantasizing about a dead girl
who was pre-mortem his best friend/rival's girlfriend was just a bad, bad,
bad thing. That called for another drink, at very least, and perhaps
another drink, and maybe some hentai. Heh, actually his description of what
he'd need to set himself straight again sounded exactly like a typical
weekend at Brock's.
Attempting to put all thoughts of how he had harbored a massive crush on
Misty through his mid-teens out of his mind, Ash staggered near-blindly
toward the rooftop exit. A cool breeze tugged at his blood-sodden shirt,
making it sticky and chilly. The setting sun highlighted his disgusting
messy state, warming his back just enough to remind him that the rest of his
body was freezing to death.
As he walked, Ash watched his elongated shadow spatter black blood,
wondering if he should stop by a hospital. He had survived worse than
this, but it would be good to have a record for evidence... smirking and
leering slightly, he realized that he'd also appreciate some sympathy from a
Joy right now....
Damnit, what WAS with the perverted thoughts right now?!? First Misty
and then Nurse Joy...
Mentally he tacked another drink onto his list. If he accidentally
thought of anything else ecchi, he'd probably drink himself into a coma...
but that wouldn't be so bad, on second thought. Drinking, that is.
Thoughts of consuming obscene amounts of alcohol were interrupted by a
loud sickening slurping noise coming from behind him. Probably it was just
the corpse doing some kind of disgusting post-mortem corpse-ey thing, but
holding the same job as Ash did, it was just common sense to jump several
feet into the air when an apparently dead thing made the slightest noise.
Ash recovered quickly, snapping his Glocks back into a ready position as
he swiftly spun on his heels to face the corpse. The scene that awaited him
was fascinating. Completely disgusting, repulsive, and pretty much any
other word that described something this hideous -- but oddly hypnotizing.
Eyes glued to the mass of dead... dead-ness, he watched a gob of
puttylike flesh coalesce and amalgamate at the base of the neck -- there
wasn't really any 'head' left to speak of -- and expand and collect itself
there.
After a few minutes, it had reached a size nearly paralleling the
head he had destroyed quite recently. Undulating in an excessively nasty
fashion, the collection of flesh began to form itself into a crude imitation
of Misty's head.
Over a span of minutes, it gradually refined and evolved into a near
perfect -- no, totally perfect, recreation of Misty's pretty head.
The imitation, however, lacked the shock of orange-red hair and,
sickeningly, any eyes whatsoever. Self-conscious, the not-Misty drew her
hands to her face, momentarily obscuring it from view. When the she
returned her hands to her sides, it was as if nothing had happened...
almost. True, her cute little nose ('nother drink) and infinitely kissable
lips ('nother 'nother drink, damnit) were restored to the perfect...
perfectness that they once had been ('nother 'nother 'nother drink -- gonna
be sloshed), but her eyes...
Her eyes. Misty's eyes. They were covered in filmy mucus, partially
obscuring their true nature, but Ash could still tell.
He could tell that they weren't her eyes. They were the exact same
shade... they were the exact same shape, they were just like her eyes, but
they weren't her eyes.
No, something lost and sad, mourning and bestial swam in these eyes.
Something he had never seen in Misty. No... the eyes were so very almost
familiar, not-quite but almost... almost familiar. He had seen them before,
briefly... but where?
While Ash racked his memory for a suitable answer, the familiar shock of
orange hair flopped over the not-Misty's face, obscuring one eye as it
always used to -- the hair seemingly exuded from her scalp in seconds.
Starting to stride toward him, not-Misty blinked, clearing the film from her
eyes. Dropping both Glocks right where he stood, Ash made a valiant effort
to blink back tears.
It was just too surreal. This had to be a dream or something... even
with his extensive firsthand experience of a hell of a lot of paranormal
activity, he knew that your best friend's girlfriend getting possessed,
trying to kill you, dying, then coming back to life, was just something that
didn't happen. It went against the fundamental laws of the universe, or
something. It just didn't happen. These things just couldn't happen.
And why, damnit, why?!? If this was actually going to happen -- and
bend every known rule of reality as it is known -- why did it have to happen
to him in particular? This was just far too much for him. Just as the
not-Misty's hand reached out to touch his cheek he bolted. Flew to the
door and half-ran-half-fell down the first flight of stairs, taking the
rest at a bound.
