Prompt: Inconsistencies

Words: 495

The inconsistency I'm writing this about is that Ira doesn't kill Elsa, rather he takes her to the sewers. This goes against the fact that he has decided to kill everyone in order to save them from the world's evil. I figured part of the reason he saved her was that they had probably met, and she was nice to him, or at least, treated him like a human being.

Sitting in Dr. Fontaine's waiting room, Ira gulped. He hadn't been to a psychiatrist before, and feared that the doctor would deem him a lost cause.

A door opened, causing Ira to stand quickly.

Elsa held the door open with one hand. "Go right ahead, Dr. Fontaine would like to speak to you next."

Ira stood transfixed for a moment. Apart from Courtney, very few people acknowledged him, or, much less, gave him common courtesy. Yet, this woman was holding open a door for him.

He passed her with a nod, assuming she was Fontaine's secretary. This assumption dissipated, however, when he noticed the puncture scars on her arm as she took her hand from the door.

Their interactions in the following weeks were minimal, and Ira admitted his conversational skills were a little rusty. "You're not from around here, are ya?"

Elsa's eyebrow rose in amusement. "You do not sound like you are, either."

Ira shrugged. "Ain't got nowhere else to go. I lost my family, and the guys," he sighed, "They don't talk to me anymore, 'cept Courtney."

"Why here, then?" She asked.

"Got let off at the dock here. Can't really see going back to Oklahoma when no one's there. I enlisted to serve my country, 'least, that's what I thought. I think now I just did so I could find somewhere I belonged."

"This Courtney, though," Elsa pointed out, "He's someone you belong with, yes?"

He kneaded his hat between his hands. "Courtney's gone to some big fancy school. Okie white trash like me ain't welcome there."

Elsa smiled in a self-deprecating manner. "You have a leg up on me. I can't be taken anywhere, really, except for the stage."

"Stage?" He repeated. "You're an actress?"

"A singer," she clarified.

Ira, curious, asked, "Do ya know any country?"

"I'm sorry, but my specialty is jazz."

Ira smiled. "Oh, that's all right. I'd love to hear ya sing one night."

Elsa smiled sadly. "I'm afraid the owner wouldn't allow it."

Ira, deflated, shuffled his feet. "It's a fancy club, huh?"

Elsa nodded gravely, but reconsidered. "Perhaps one day I could sing for you."

Hogeboom waved a hand. "I 'ppreciate the effort, but you don't have to. Some of us folk just don't get the fancy things in life."

XXXXXX

Elsa, shivering, curled her legs in close to herself. Ira patrolled quietly about her, his flamethrower drawn. In this dingy sewer, she felt hunted and terrified, just as she back in Germany.

"Mr. Hogeboom, I still owe you a song," she began carefully after finding her words again.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Miss Lichtmann, but I don't deserve one."

Turning back to look at her, he revealed an utterly miserable expression. Elsa held out her scarred arms.

Ira looked away. "You gotta live. You gotta sing, and make the world pretty again," his voice faltered as he examined his flamethrower, "After I save everyone from its ugliness."

Elsa dropped her arms, defeated.