Eldritch Asylum
obsidian-fox and Xylix
(alpha)
Started: August 31, 2005
Last Update: December 6th, 2005
Disclaimer: Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.
Eldritch Asylum may be archived.
Summary in Brief:
In Chapter Four, Ranma was tested for magic by Ethan Fulke and Walter Waldgrave from the Ministry. Ranma proved to be a witch by accidentally enchanting a wall in the Granger household. On the next day, Ranma left to Diagon Alley. There, Ranma purchased supplies and gifts, including omnioculars for Kathryn. Ranma met Harry, whom she convinced to help purchase a gift for Hermione. Ranma also met three nasty girls at Madam Malkins who threatened to keep Ranma out of school if she so much as touched them, an angry Lavender Brown who used a massive, magical height advantage to assault Ranma with little success, and a man in purple pajamas who could make a good living as a used car salesman.
In Chapter FiveRanma regaled Kathryn and Audrey with stories and gifts from Diagon Alley. Kathryn quickly discovered the tracking and slow-motion features of her new omnioculars, and targeted them at Ranma. Shortly after gift distribution, Arnold Peasegood and Abigail Clearwater from the Ministry of Magic arrived to fix the wall magically enchanted the previous evening. However, they also had a second goal: obliviate the Muggle girls. After all, Muggles aren't supposed to know about magic or its connection to the Granger girls. It's the law! Hermione acted in what she believed to be everyone's best interest by preventing Ranma from interfering with the Ministry officials and their duties.
Hermione's controversial act sparked a heated argument between the sisters. Ultimately, Ranma stomped out of the house, leaving to a seedier sector of London to think and vent... violently. Ranma's choice of venting activity, fighting shadows, ended with a blow to her head. Ranma then awakened to a dream-like state wherein a stranger in white discussed epistemology and solipsism while consuming a golden apple.
While Ranma was away, Kathryn decided to find Ranma and provide some emotional support... not even Kathryn was clear on her exact purpose or method; she is rather impulsive. While Kathryn would normally never have any hope of finding Ranma, this time Kathryn utilized those omnioculars which, conveniently, were still tracking Ranma in slow-motion. So the girls followed Ranma... and followed... and followed. Unfortunately, they could only barely keep up with the slow-motion vision of their more agile friend. The sun eventually set on their travels, and they found themselves walking alone in the dark through the seedier parts of London, jumping at rats and shadows. As they finally approached Ranma's location, they were assaulted by three teenage boys.
Ranma, upon finally escaping that dream-like state, heard commotion from a nearby alley. It was already too late to save Kathryn from critical injury – she was buried under a pile of broken glass. Upon investigating, Ranma only found Audrey under assault. Ranma immediately leaped to the surface, landing on one boy's head and smashing his jaw into the asphalt. Shortly thereafter, the other two boys fled with mortal wounds... but it turns out that the enemy wasn't mortal. The third boy gave Ranma considerable trouble before revealing himself to be a vampire... then seconds later he was dust.
During the conflict, with Audrey's aid, Ranma managed stabilize Kathryn's life and reduce the bleeding. The two girls called an ambulance. All they can do now is wait... and hope.
Author Notes:
Last chapter was rather cerebral and symbolic with the two major thinking scenes plus a verbal debate. Based on reviews, reader reaction to this was rather poor; apparently, our audience doesn't enjoy that genre quite so much as we authors do. (- sigh -) However, you may take heart that we won't be doing it again. In the future, we shall endeavor that no two, long, primarily mind-walk-style sections fall in a row and ensure that such sections don't encompass more than one-third of any chapter. This should reduce their chunkiness to help you swallow them more smoothly.
As stated before, this is the last pre-Hogwarts chapter.
Chapter Six: Gutted
You shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh.
– Pat Benatar, Hell is for Children (1953- )
August 1993
-oOo-
Audrey leans against a wall in the sterile hallway and struggles with her sling, attempting to adjust its strap to a position that chafes less with each movement. Her efforts knock her crutch free, and it begins to fall away. Lunging desperately, she grabs for it... but it escapes, clattering off the white, linoleum floor. Trying to regain her balance, she twice hops forward on her right foot, but she continues to fall. Without thought, she sets her left leg down; the impact is jarring. She gasps. With stability returned, she gingerly shifts her weight off her throbbing left ankle and reaches down to pick her crutch off the floor.
Whoosh! Surgical scrubs and white shoes whisk across Audrey's vision – an attractive, black woman swiftly donning a pair of latex gloves. Her surgeon's mask sways against her neck, and her gusting wake carries the sterile scent of sanitizing soap. The doors at the end of the hall slam open to her passing, and she vanishes behind them. Above those doors hangs a sign, red and white under fluorescent lights, declaring the area beyond to be A&E – Accident and Emergency.
Audrey rises and begins a shuffling gait onwards, carefully supporting herself with her crutch. She only takes a few steps down the hall before it widens into a waiting area. On a bench against the nearest wall, Ranma sits, fidgeting nervously, eyes glued to the A&E doors. Across the room sits a college-age boy squeezing an injured finger within a bloody, white cloth. Audrey sets her crutch against a low table, and takes a seat next to Ranma.
"Is she going to be okay," she asks with a hush, finally drawing Ranma's attention.
"Of course not!" Ranma snaps.
Audrey quails away. She slowly directs her eyes to the A&E doors, saying nothing more.
After a moment, Ranma breaks the silence. "Sorry," she says. "It's just that... dammit, they wouldn't listen to me! I told them...-" Ranma trails off.
"Told them what?" Audrey asks, turning towards her friend.
Ranma releases an aggravated sigh. "I told them not to use those electric paddles. She was still breathing! Her heart was still beating! She was just slowed down, in stasis." Ranma stands and starts pacing. "They could have killed her. When they used them, she started bleeding again – all of her wounds, all at once. I was...- For a moment, I was sure she would die. They don't know how pressure points interact with those things. I don't know how pressure points interact with those things."
"Defibrillators," Audrey corrects.
"Yeah, those things," Ranma repeats, flopping back upon the bench.
For a while, the air is dead. The girls sit silently, watching the wide double doors. Several times, those doors open and doctors pass between them. After ten minutes, the college boy is called away. After twenty, Ranma fidgets uselessly in her seat, and, eventually, time shreds even Audrey's patience.
"What exactly did you do for Kathryn?" she inquires.
Ranma stares down at her hands as she answers, "Beyond bandaging and direct pressure, I used those pressure points... the ones I learned from that free research project in anatomy. They were supposed to slow her vitals, slow blood flow to her limbs, and bring her to a feign-death slumber. I wasn't... I'm not even sure if they worked right. I've never used them before, and I only got a D on the project."
"I'd say they worked," Audrey replies, placing her free hand atop one of Ranma's own. "I could hardly tell she was breathing. And you saved her, Ranma. She... she only made it to the hospital because of you."
Ranma continues to stare downwards, this time at the hand Audrey offers. Stiff bandages wrap Audrey's splinted wrist – cold, dry, hard... offering small comfort.
Audrey forces a smile and continues, "Besides, you received a low grade only because you limited yourself to just one source: journals from Ono Tofu in Japan. It didn't help that the teacher couldn't read the source, or that the subject isn't accepted in western medicine, or that you found those journals on the Internet."
"Perhaps," Ranma replies sullenly.
"Hello, ladies," a new, tired voice calls. "Have you heard anything about Kathryn?"
Audrey glances up to see Officer Jon Hurst standing in the waiting area.
"No," Ranma answers curtly.
The police constable frowns grimly. "I've contacted your homes," he states after a moment. "Gareth and Elinore are out searching, but Hermione tells me they've been calling back every half hour or so. The others will be here ASAP. Meanwhile, would you two like something to drink? Juice, perhaps?"
"Yeah, I'll take a juice," says Ranma.
"I'd like some hot tea, please," Audrey requests politely. "If that's possible."
"That won't be a problem," Jon answers. Then he turns and walks away, swift and silent as a whisper over a lake.
Audrey and Ranma fall back into quiescent stillness returning their eyes to the A&E doors.
One minute passes, then another.
A doctor dashes down the hallway. A bleeding patient – a boy their own age – flies in on a wheeled gurney escorted by the doctor and two emergency medical technicians who loudly discuss the boy's condition in the appropriate jargon while applying an oxygen mask to his face. The trio and the boy vanish between the double doors below the red and white sign. Seconds later, a family files into the waiting room: a man, a woman, and a young girl no older than five or six. They stand across the room, holding the girl close. The child stares at Audrey, eyes wide with curiosity. Soon, a doctor arrives, the same one who intercepted the EMTs, and approaches the family. The parents' eyes shine with hope, but a few solemn, silent words turn it to grief. A few tears trail down the father's face. The mother shudders and starts crying into her hands. The child tugs at her mother's shirt. "Mommy? Mommy, what's wrong? Daddy?" she asks, her shrill voice crossing the room. The father lifts the child into his arms, wrapping her in a tight hug, then speaks softly into her ear. The girl's face contorts and she begins to wail a shrieking, piercing cry of anguish. The father glances over at Ranma and Audrey, then carries his daughter from the room. The doctor walks slowly away, his message delivered.
Audrey sniffles. Tears drip from her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, and pool at her chin. Her left arm rises to scuff a few away, lightly wetting the dry bandages, but when she lowers it the tears continue to flow.
"What's wrong?" Ranma asks, leaning forward into Audrey's blurring line of vision.
"It's just...- hic! It's just...- hic!" Audrey starts. She wipes at her nose and sniffles roughly. "That could have been Kathryn!" she wails. She sobs and buries her eyes in the crook of her arm.
Ranma uncertainly, tentatively, places a hand upon Audrey's shoulder. After several seconds, she slides it across, pulling Audrey into a loose, one-armed hug.
Audrey lunges forward, wrapping her good arm around Ranma's waist. She cries into Ranma's lap.
Ranma looks down stiffly then hesitantly pats Audrey's back. "It will be alright."
Audrey wails loudly and pulls closer, and Ranma cringes in panic.
"It- It- It's all my fault," Audrey cries. "I should have stopped her."
Ranma begins to respond, then hesitates, and finally closes her mouth without answering. Instead, she gently massages Audrey's shoulders.
"When...- Hermione told us." Audrey sniffles and peers upwards with puffy red eyes. "After you left, Hermione told us. She told us about witches and magic. Kathryn... hic!-... after that fight, she wanted to find you...- hic!- ...tell you we're alright. I should have stopped her. I could have stopped her. It's...- it's all my fault."
"It isn't your fault."
"It is my fault. It was late. If I refused to follow, she wouldn't have left."
"Kathryn does what Kathryn does," Ranma says. "You couldn't have stopped her. Besides, if anything, it's my fault. I shouldn't have left... not when you were sleeping over, not after what happened, not when you were worried about me."
"It's not your fault!" Audrey exclaims, rising in her seat to meet Ranma's eyes. She rubs her runny, itchy little nose across the bandages on her forearm.
Ranma smirks. "You could have not followed. I could have not left in the first place. If it isn't my fault, then how can it be yours?"
Audrey gazes at Ranma for several long seconds, as though about to speak, but in the end she simply lies against Ranma. She places her head upon Ranma's shoulder and breathes softly across Ranma's neck. Her occasional sniffles become less frequent.
"I'm glad you killed him," Audrey utters quietly, her whispered words caressing Ranma's ear.
"Hmm? Killed who?" Ranma asks.
Audrey shifts a bit to gaze into Ranma's blue eyes. "The vampire, of course. Who else?"
"Well, technically, the vampire was already dead."
Audrey glowers petulantly, then settles against Ranma once again. "Well, I'm glad you made him deader. He deserved it for hurting Kathryn. They all do."
Ranma frowns a little, then relaxes. "How did you find me, anyway?" she asks.
"Well, Kathryn found those omnioculars were still tracking you around corners in slow motion. After that, it was a simple matter of taking a bus and a train... and a lot of walking."
Ranma nods thoughtfully. "So, where are the omnioculars, anyway?"
Audrey sits up suddenly, withdrawing from Ranma's arms. "You don't have them?" she demands.
Ranma shakes her head.
Audrey groans, sinking into her seat. "Hermione's going to kill us. They must have been left where Kathryn and I were attacked."
"So, you were attacked?" Jon asks suddenly, stepping around a corner and handing the girls their drinks. He sets a thermos on the table. "I was going to ask about that. Assault and battery should be reported to the police... especially when it's this severe."
Audrey gazes into her mug and takes a sip of her lukewarm tea. She frowns at the cup then glances back at Jon.
"I'll get the process started. You'll have interviews tomorrow," the man continues.
Ranma grimaces, then gulps down her bottle of juice and thumps it on the table. "I'd rather not," she grumbles.
"I must insist! The law -" Jon starts.
"- is remarkably ineffective at preventing crime," Ranma finishes acerbically, her gaze drifting to the A&E doors.
Jon looks hurt, but quickly hides it. "There are places the law cannot reach – places where a smart copper wears his armor and carries a gun, Ranma. The ambulance found you in one of those places," he intones.
Ranma sighs then turns to face the middle-aged officer. "When I'm gone, at school, will you watch out for Kathryn and Audrey?"
Something dark flickers across Jon's irides. "If that is your wish," he states ceremoniously.
"Thanks," Ranma answers. "Then I suppose I'll go to that interview."
Jon takes a moment to refill Audrey's cup from the thermos. Audrey takes a sip, then blows gently across the rim before sipping more.
Hustle and bustle, footsteps and indistinct voices fill the hall as another family approaches. "I'd like to see Kathryn, now. Is she-" "Don't ignore me! If our daughter has any serious injuries -" "I'm sorry, sir, but I -" "- with that Keynes girl filling Audrey's head with such silly ideas, I swear -" "- the surgery is still ongoing, but we do believe -"
The group bursts into the room, sandy-haired Mr. Keynes in the lead accompanied by a very harried looking nurse, both being heckled by Mr. and Mrs. Knight.
"- you'll be seeing us in court, you and that Granger family," Mr. Knight finishes, glaring at Mr. Keynes's back.
Audrey turns away in shame.
"Don't look away from me, young lady!" Mrs. Knight snaps at her daughter. She takes a moment to gaze at Ranma, and her eyes narrow dangerously. Then her attention whips back to Audrey. "What were you thinking, wandering around at night? You could have ended up like that Keynes girl!"
"Ah, Audrey! You are doing alright, yes? No serious injuries?" Mr. Knight asks, rushing up to investigate his daughter. "You've been crying."
"I'm fine," Audrey answers churlishly, jerking her hand from her father's. She grabs her crutch and stands awkwardly.
"Don't talk to your father like that," Mrs. Knight chides. "Do you have everything? Because we're leaving immediately. We do have an appointment in the morning, you know – an important client."
Audrey offers Ranma a small smile, but it wilts away with a glance at the A&E doors. "Goodnight, Ranma," she says softly. "I'll see you tomorrow." Then she turns on her crutch and moves unsteadily towards the corridor, passing near Mr. Keynes.
Mr. Keynes addresses her quietly, "If you need someone to pick you up in the morning-"
Mr. Knight growls fiercely, "If you think I'm going to put my daughter in your hands-"
Jon interrupts, "She must be brought to the station in the morning for statements. I'm willing to pick her up at, oh, seven... if that won't interfere with your appointment."
Mr. Knight pauses, taken aback, then nods. "As you say, officer. Do you need the address?"
"I have it," Jon answers curtly, looking vaguely annoyed.
Mr. Knight doesn't seem to notice; he just nods and prods his daughter onward, accompanied by his wife.
"Goodnight, Mr. Keynes. Goodnight, Officer Hurst," Audrey calls to the two remaining adults. Then she disappears around a corner.
-oOo-
Thump. Thump. Two bound and broken boys strike the ground in a groaning heap – one with spiky blue hair and crimson eyes, the other a burly bloke with eyes of a more golden hue.
The blue-haired boy lifts his throbbing jaw off the unforgiving, concrete surface and gazes bleary-eyed at the scene before him. He lies on the floor of a warehouse; the area is surrounded by crates of supplies, piles covered in tarps, and forklifts. A ceiling mounted crane hangs above. Ahead of him stands a man with long, silver hair, a longer gray coat, and considerable poise discernable even though his back is turned to the boy. Beyond him,two men rapidly unload sloshing, malodorous containers from the back of an ugly green truck, and another is removing the tarps from a supposed pile of crates in a corner to reveal a trio of sleek, black vans.
Crunch! A booted heel stomps the boy's jaw painfully back into the floor, abruptly eliminating his view.
"I found these two shits," the owner of the boot announces, grinding his heel further into the blue-haired boy's neck. His voice is deep, harsh, abrasive. "They've been drinking and walking the streets, and they've been in a scrap... even before I got to them." He sneers with disgust, and a quick glance from his coal black eyes pins the burly boy in place. He then turns back to the man of silver and gray. "I couldn't find the pierced fool."
"Thank you, Nathan," replies a smooth, strong voice. The speaker turns; silver hair twirls around his waist, and his gray eyes drop to address the boy beneath Nathan's heel. "So, what did you find so pressing that you felt the need to excuse yourself from the mission?"
"... girl ... redhead ..." the blue-haired boy chokes, clawing at Nathan's heel.
The burly boy giggles insanely, only to receive a swift kick to the chin. He shuts up.
"You were distracted by a girl?" the silver-haired man asks lightly. "I'm afraid that isn't sufficient excuse for your... failures. Nathan, kill them."
"Gladly," Nathan says, lifting a large, shiny, custom chrome and stainless-steel Smith and Wesson Model 629 .44 Magnum revolver from under his coat. He swings out the cylinder and rapidly removes two bullets, leaving the other four in place. With deft fingers, he reloads the gun using fresh bullets from his pocket. Finally, he spins the chamber and grins.
The burly boy scrambles to his feet and scampers towards the warehouse exit. Nathan levels his gun. BANG! The large boy stumbles forward, almost falling. Then, slowly, his hand rises to his forehead. He dabs at it with his fingers, and they come away carrying blood and a grayish ooze. He stares at the substance for a long moment before bringing his hand closer to his mouth. He sniffs the substance, then licks it clean. With shining eyes of golden brown, the boy begins to cackle madly. BANG! He flops to the ground, landing in a growing pool of his own blood.
The massive revolver swings downwards, and the blue-haired boy stares up the barrel with widening eyes. He struggles harder, shoving and shifting, but all his efforts earn is another harsh application of foot to face.
"Only four bullets left," Nathan taunts. "This is the time to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky?" He begins pulling the trigger. The hammer rises... gradually. "Well, do ya, punk?"
"Stop!" a new boy shouts, rushing into the area. He has curly black hair, wide green eyes, and a t-shirt emblazoned with the words Spurs and To Dare is To Do. He appears very much out of place in a warehouse full of goons involved in obviously criminal activities.
Nonetheless, Nathan pauses, gun half-cocked.
"Michael," asks the silver-haired man. "What seems to be the problem?"
"You're killing my friends!" Michael shouts.
"Yes. I can see how that might disappoint you. However, they have failed me in a most grievous manner. Do you wish to make excuses for them? ... again?"
Michael is flustered for a moment, but quickly shakes it off. "Punish them if you must, uncle. Just don't kill them!"
Gray eyes flash silver. "I grow tired of punishing your toys, Michael. They lack discipline, yet you refuse to control them. As such, they are useless to me." He gazes for a moment at the men working behind him, then his attention slides back to Michael. "... worse than useless, really, as they still have the power to reveal our operations."
"They've caused no harm, uncle," Michael counters. "I know your plans didn't depend on them... or me. They never do." He stares at the floor, then raises his eyes in challenge. "Maybe if you gave us something real to do-"
"I like reliable people, Michael," the man interrupts. His hand sweeps across the goons performing menial work in the background. "My plans rely only on those who have proven themselves reliable. You and your friends are not reliable." His neutral gaze darkens with a subtle frown. "You are, at the moment, a disgrace to our exalted line. You squander your gift on degenerates and incompetents who waste immortality in a drug-induced haze and burn all their power on foolish displays. That neither you nor they can be bothered to aid in my business, yet insist on living at my expense, is... unacceptable."
Michael's eyes rake the floor. His arms and shoulders tremble and tense.
"However," the gray-coated man continues, "since you are the last scion of my beloved sister, I'll respect your wishes and leave their discipline to you. You are yet a child, and I shall give you time to grow into a man. But know this – I won't extend such amnesty to your friends. If they fail me again, they will be annihilated."
"It won't happen again," Michael mutters.
"Ensure that it doesn't," the silver-haired man replies summarily, turning towards the main warehouse door.
"Well," Nathan growls, lifting his foot off the blue-haired boy's neck. "I guess you are lucky."
The blue-haired boy breathes deeply, stress fading from his frame. He adjusts his jaw back into place, and begins to sit up – BANG! – he crashes back to the ground. A new bullet wound sizzles and smokes in his shoulder, and ashen necrosis spreads slowly around it. The boy clutches at the wound, grits his teeth, and hisses, trying desperately to not scream.
Nathan smugly holsters his gun. He turns away and joins the man of silver and gray, ignoring Michael's glare as the boy rushes to help his friend. Instead, he directs his attention to the wide warehouse doors.
SCREEECH! Thump-bump! A black, armored transport screams through the entrance, careening directly over the burly-boy-bump in its path. A cop's face slams against the front windshield as the vehicle groans to an abrupt halt and stares into the warehouse with dead, glazed eyes. The driver-side door swings open, and stiletto-heeled, black leather boots clack against the concrete. Click-clack, click-clack. Long, slender legs in smooth, black stockings bear a buxom brunette into view with a sultry strut. She wears a short, shiny, black leather skirt and a matching jacket over a lustrous, frilly, pearl-white blouse. Around each thigh, an an elastic black strap holsters a GLOCK 18 fully automatic pistol with extended clip. A short-bladed wakizashi in a decorative scabbard is mounted at her hip.
The woman stops in front of the silver-haired man and gazes up at him expectantly with pale white skin, bright red eyes, and full, pouty lips.
"I trust everything went well?" he asks.
"Of course," she answers with a high, ice-cream and bubblegum voice. She flashes a broad smile and a well manicured hand brushes through her straight, raven black hair, allowing the strands to fall smoothly into their pageboy cut. "Do you ever expect anything less from me?"
"Your reliability is exceeded only by your exuberance, Mary," the man replies smoothly. "When I grant you freedom in approaching the task, I do have cause to worry. Perhaps I should rephrase my question: Are any of my men still alive? and should I be expecting SO19 at our door?"
Nathan chuckles, and Mary casts him a dark glare. Before she can answer, however, another armored transport rolls in, accompanied by a crappy looking four-door. Several men step out of the vehicles, and soon join the other goons in rushing about – cutting open the armored trucks with plasma torches and splashing noxious fuels over the four-door before tossing the remainder of the container through the window. The cop's corpse is just left in place as it receives its own splashdown.
"Does that answer your question?" Mary asks, casually brushing a piece of lint off her jacket. "I managed to keep it quiet."
"This time," Nathan snorts.
"Excellent," states the man in gray. "You've done well, Mary. Shall we see what we have?" He asks the latter as several goons begin to pull heavy cases from the trucks and drop them to the concrete.
Mary's eyes light up like Christmas as she quickly opens a case and lifts out a pair of P90 submachine guns. Nathan and the man in gray, however, continue to survey their spoils, finally stopping behind the second of the stolen transports. Inside, stacked bricks of drugs create a wall as wide and tall as the vehicle carrying it.
"Nice, ain't it?" Nathan quips.
"Yes," the silver-haired man replies. "It's good to have it back."
-oOo-
It was a nasty morning, starting off with a light drizzle, a touch of chill, and some stomach searing fast food slammed down with bad coffee. The call directed him to a run-down sector of London occupied only by rats and squatters, as if there's a difference. They didn't tell him more than that. They didn't have to. He deals with only one sort of crime – the violent sort. Probably some fool, just days from death by any measure, got himself stabbed and bought an early ticket out. It wouldn't matter here. Lives don't matter here. Nevertheless, the Criminal Investigation Department wants him to look into it.
As he drives to the site, the rising sun carries promise of a hot, muggy day.
A groan rises from his left, and he glances over to see his partner, Ken Brady, fumbling through the glove box... probably looking for the aspirin, as though the boy didn't consume the last of it weeks ago. Ken deserves it, coming to work with a hangover. He's useless anyway; all he can ever do is flash his badge and perfect teeth and bag another dame.
As he parks near the site, alarm bells ring in his head. A dumpster sits at the front edge of an alley, a structural beam juts from a shattered window across the street, and all his instincts tell him that this will be an interesting case. He steps out of the car and instantly feels nauseous; the whole area stinks of the exposed dumpster, and clouds of tiny flies buzz about over a broken bag oozing noxious fluids. However, he focuses himself. He's handled week-dead bodies. He can handle a little garbage. He's in his element.
He lifts a thirty-five millimeter camera to his eye, and a couple quick flashes capture the scene. A few more focus on the readily available details. Blood is everywhere: a wide, dried pool sits near broken glass panes at one side of the alley; small, bloody shoe-prints are clearly visible, as though a child danced through blood in front of the dumpster; tiny spots of of the thick red fluid dot the asphalt, crossing the street and begging further investigation; and at two places, blood splatter-paints the walls like grotesque abstract art. To him, every drop of blood carries meaning, telling him what happened and in what order... body blows, stomps, small cuts that dribble, a victim fleeing across the street, a victim cut and dying on the asphalt... at least two people did the bleeding. However, blood isn't the only detail that captures his attention. He dons some gloves and lifts a green glass bottleneck, noting that its surface is neither grimy nor worn. It's new, speckled with only a few drizzle-spots from the early morning weather. He drops the object into a plastic bag, resolving to check it for fingerprints.
He pockets the camera and squats near the wide, dried pool of blood. Somebody was lying here with several bleeding wounds; the dancing footprints are likely of the same blood, and thus were made afterwards, while it was still wet. His gaze drifts momentarily to the grimy glass panes, shattered, pieces scattered as though from an impact – a possible cause of injury? He'll need to analyze it for blood. He'll need to analyze everything for blood; it's all over the place. He'll need his kit. He calls to his partner, "Ken, get the kit!"
"Get it yourself, Miles. I'm busy."
Miles glances back to find Ken, the useless bastard, standing a safe distance from the dumpster while holding a roll of yellow tape in one hand and a donut in the other. Little red cones already dot the perimeter. What does the fool think he's doing? There's no traffic. There's nobody around. There's no man or woman in the whole damned sector that would see the tape as an obstacle. "Ken, get the effin' kit!" he growls.
"Okay, okay! Fine! What's your problem?" Ken asks, heading to the car. He returns a minute later. "Here's your bloody kit."
Miles takes samples, scraping dried blood into little plastic tubes and marking the location. He then continues searching the scene, stepping into the alley behind the dumpster. What he finds arrests his attention – ash, blood, burnt leather, and charred wood lie in a scattered pile at the center of the alley.
Squatting near that pile, Miles pinches some ash and rubs it between his fingers; it is dry and fine, but pasty, retaining faint moisture from the earlier drizzle. He sifts through the ashes then lifts out a darkened piece of glass with smooth, rounded edges... one of many buried within.
Miles's considers the artifact. The fire had to be hot, very hot, hot enough to melt glass... but brief – the glass isn't warped; it's flat, and just as thick as the broken panes at the mouth of the alley. How could such a fire be created? and why? He glances at the burnt leather, and eyeballs the pile, judging its size. Could it have been a body? That the ashes lie atop the blood indicates they arrived after the bleeding, and the burnt leather aids the hypothesis. But it would take an incredibly stupid criminal, or one with a very impressive flamethrower, to cremate a corpse at the crime scene. Just in case, he sweeps a handful of ash, burnt leather, and glass into a plastic bag.
"At least we know we're the first ones at the scene," Ken declares, interrupting Miles's ruminations.
Miles turns to see his partner dropping something into a plastic bag. Before he can ask, Ken tosses it to him. Inside, Miles sees the severed tip of a tongue of a length just over the width of his thumb. Embedded within it is a golden stud, and crawling at the edges are hundreds of tiny, white larvae. He's rather impressed that Ken picked it up. Whoever lost the tongue was certainly in a fight against a superior foe. One doesn't sever one's owns tongue on accident; it would take a sharp and unexpected blow to the jaw. And, judging from the shape of the cut, that is clearly what happened.
"The gold in that would keep you on Happy Meals for a week," Ken explains. "Think we could get some good dentals?"
Miles grunts noncommittally, neither answering his partner's question nor informing him of the discovery's actual significance. The question is foolish, anyway – even if the maggot-ridden meat could provide good dental evidence, simply searching for suspects with a sibilant hiss would be far more profitable.
Miles turns back to the alley to search for more clues, and a glint grabs his eye. An obscured edge of buried brass glitters under broken glass, catching the rising sun and sending brilliant rays his way. He quickly approaches the pile at the mouth of the alley, and carefully retrieves the item – a pair of brass binoculars with an unusual number of knobs. The left front lens is cracked and the leather strap broken.
"Mrs. Scarlet, with heavy brass binoculars, in the alley," quips Ken.
Miles stares at his partner – a hard, disapproving glare – and professionally resists the urge to tell Ken to get a Clue. He begins lifting the binoculars to his eyes when a low rumble reveals a sleek, black sedan rolling to a stop just outside the red cones.
A squat, balding man wearing a nice, navy blue suit and slacks steps from the vehicle, carrying himself with a quiet dignity. An old scar, wide and deep, runs across the man's larynx and throat... a knife wound, no doubt. The man's eyes dance across the scene... a detective? No. He is unconcerned with the blood, the rotting garbage, the anomalies of the scene, and his eyes linger on windows, entrances, exits, and rooftops. His face reveals nothing, but he walks like a warrior. He's seen it before... scenes like this. He's a veteran. He's a spook.
"Detective Sergeant Long, Detective Constable Brady," the man says with a distinctive, raspy voice, stepping across the police line without a shred of concern. "My name is Hanz Schuart. I'll be handling the investigation from here."
"Under what authority?" Miles challenges.
Rather than answering directly, Hanz hands Miles a folder.
Miles opens it, and the first page confirms his suspicions. MI5. The CID won't be happy. He snaps it shut with a growl. He doesn't need to see more. He glances up, about to speak, and sees Mr. Schuart peering through the brass binoculars with an enormous grin on his face – the first facial expression Miles has seen on the man.
Damn, he hates spooks.
"Ken, get in the car!" Miles orders, stomping his way back to the cheap police vehicle before Mr. Schuart confiscates the rest of the evidence.
Moments later, Ken is seated and the car is on the road. A peek in the rear view mirror shows Mr. Schuart gazing at a length of pole embedded in the wall above the alley, then gleefully returning his eyes to the brass binoculars.
"MI5?" Ken asks, flipping through the folder. "Can they even do that?"
"They can once they slap Top Secret across it. Of course, they can't prosecute, but with a few stamps and signatures, they can shut an investigation down."
Ken shrugs, closes the folder, and lies back lazily. "Oh well," he says. "Less work for us."
Miles ignores Ken's crappy attitude and continues driving.
A call to the office on the car's cell and a few discrete questions indicates that Mr. Schuart and his associates haven't yet delivered any orders to CID headquarters. According to his contact, two witnesses of the violent crime – Audrey Knight and Ranma Granger – are currently being questioned at a local police office. There is nothing to do but drive.
Throughout the rough traffic, Ken bumps buttons on the wireless. Bad British morning shows and advertisements dominate the airwaves.
The police station is its usual quagmire of red tape and reports and busy bureaucrats applying pencil to paper. A secretary rises to greet Miles and inquire of his business as he enters. He deals with the nuisance and fills out the requisite paperwork, once glancing up with a pang of envy as a small band of uniformed constables – the true soldiers of the force – is simply nodded through. He had once done such work, but it seems a lifetime ago.
"So you're here to see the children?" the secretary asks, glancing at the paperwork.
He grunts acknowledgment and collects directions. A quick glance shows his partner is hard at work... turning his charm against a female police officer. Miles departs without him, thankful that he doesn't have to convince his partner to leave.
He finds the children sitting in a quiet, comfortable office, being interviewed by a young, accommodating officer who is, no doubt, wearing kid's gloves as thick as the children are small. He scowls. Great. They've had full opportunity to build a collaborative story, probably filling in the gaps with the officer's help. So much for finding inconsistencies.
He takes a moment to examine the girls through the glass window.
The taller of the girls is a brunette, her brown hair held back by a pink banana clip. She has a heart-shaped face, little ears that poke through her hair, and soft, hazel eyes that remain fixed on the officer. A crutch sits at her side, and her opposite arm is in a sling. She's quiet and cautious, speaking only a little, mostly to clarify statements that the redhead doesn't hesitate to confirm. It will be difficult to get anything out of her. If pressed, she'll just clam up... or, worse, cry.
The other is a redhead wearing a solid blue blouse and slate gray slacks that provide stark contrast with her thick, waist-length braid that is held and adorned with a few white ribbons. She answers the officer's questions with a few curt statements and a surly attitude, obviously reluctant to be there and unafraid to express it. Suddenly, she turns and glares at Miles with such intensity that he falls back a step, giving him the impression of a wild panther, bound only by her own will – a disconcerting feeling when invoked by a child. Her gaze calms slightly, and she turns away, but not before Miles memorizes her visage – she is Japanese, with attractive, cerulean eyes that carry a primal, preternatural power.
... a blue-eyed, Asian, redheaded child. Miles's eyes narrow. It's her, the murderer of Thomas Price, the assailant of Jack Morgan and Dirk Ratcliffe, and the vigilante savior of William Kuiper. It has to be her. There can't possibly be many blue-eyed, Asian, redheads of her age in the whole world, much less in London. Further, Dirk and William both quoted her as having unusually intense eyes... and her face is a dead match for the old police sketches.
Swiftly, Miles opens the door and barges inside. "I am Detective Sergeant Long, CID," he says, flashing a badge. "I'll be taking over this interview. I'll start with the redhead." He gazes for a moment at the young officer, then suggests, "Why don't you take the other girl to the police artists and see if you can get a picture of the assailant's face."
The young officer looks a bit miffed, but he helps the injured child to her feet. "Assailants' faces," he mutters, emphasizing the plural. "There were three of them." The door closes behind him.
Miles turns to gaze at the redhead and finds her eyes once again fixed on him, an annoyed expression on her face.
"I am not going to repeat myself," the girl states irritably. She folds her arms across her chest to make the statement final.
"I'm sure we'll find something else to talk about," Miles grumbles, taking a moment to sit across from her. He picks up the officer's notes, written in a fine script he only wishes Ken had mastered, and, to the child's growing irritation, begins reading.
"If you're just going to sit there and read, I'm leaving," she states after a minute.
Miles sets the pad down with a disappointed frown. "You are Ranma Granger, age eleven, correct?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Miles gazes at young Miss Granger for a moment, schooling his features. Her attitude belies a casual arrogance and a contempt for authority. Eleven. Why couldn't she have been twelve? But she's eleven, which means she was nine when she killed the fourteen year old boy, Thomas Price... below the age of criminal responsibility. She's untouchable in any real sense, and that only serves to make her arrogance more irritating. However, she's a killer... and after taking one life, it's easy to take another. With eyes like hers, there can be little doubt that Thomas Price is merely one in a chain of such incidents.
Could this case be such an incident? It fits the profile. She saved Audrey Knight and Kathryn Keynes just as thoroughly as she saved William Kuiper; one child is in the hospital and the other is carrying a crutch. Further, at least one of the assailants was bleeding heavily – the notes only account for Kathryn's bleeding. Finally, Ranma seems very uninterested in aiding the police in capturing the assailants. Perhaps she feels that justice has already been served.
"According to the notes, you fought off the three assailants. Tell me, how did you manage this?"
"I've already answered that one," Ranma replies.
"Yes. I see your answer here. Martial arts. What level of martial arts does it take for an eleven year old girl to fight off three adult males without apparent injury?"
Ranma gives the question a little thought. "Are they armed?" she asks.
"You tell me," Miles states.
Ranma turns to gaze at Miles. "If you're talking about last night, it would take my level."
Miles considers her wording. Last night, eh? So there may have been other such nights. He reaches into his pocket and grips a pair of coins, noting that the action doesn't escape Miss Granger's eyes. "What is your level?" he asks.
Ranma merely smirks.
"Catch!" Miles shouts, whipping his hand out and flinging the two coins semi-randomly in her general direction. He winces a little, seeing one flying for her face and the other headed almost beyond her reach. He had meant to aim a coin at either side of her head.
As the coins approach her, Ranma doesn't even seem to react, her arms still folded across her chest. Then, with a vague flicker, her hand appears before her face, the two coins situated at either side of her middle finger. Her elbow rests casually on her other arm. Slowly, still smirking, she lowers her hand and pockets the coins. "You'll owe me lunch, too, if you keep me here much longer," Ranma says.
Miles stares for a while longer before wracking his brain back into action. That was... amazing... no, terrifying. There is no way that three adult males could stop her. "What school of martial arts do you practice? Who is your teacher? And do you have an official martial arts ranking?"
Ranma ponders over this a bit, as though reminiscing. Finally, she answers, "I'm self taught."
Miles narrows his eyes. She's lying. Nobody gets that good, self taught, especially not at her age. But she might have reason to hide her school and teacher. Anybody who would teach this child must be at least as shady as she is. He is tempted to make a statement regarding her level, but decides to not put her on the defensive before getting more information.
"Before you arrived at the scene, what were you doing in the area?" Miles asks, redirecting the conversation.
"None of your business," Ranma answers flatly.
"We'll see about that," Miles mutters. "From where did you approach the scene, and what did you see?"
Ranma narrows her eyes suspiciously, but answers, "I saw Audrey on the ground, being attacked, and I jumped right in."
"Perhaps I wasn't being clear. From where did you approach the scene? From which direction?"
Ranma considers this carefully. "I heard a commotion in the alley to the west of me, thus I approached from the east."
"Did you encounter any obstacles to entering the alley?"
"No."
Miles smiles a little, taking a few notes. "Tell me, were the assailants armed?" he asks.
"Yes."
Miles resists the urge to grit his teeth. "With what?" he demands.
"Do you want me to include weapons of opportunity?" Ranma asks helpfully.
"No," Miles says. From what he saw, there were plenty of weapons of opportunity.
"Well, the burly boy had a knife, and the boy with the spiky blue hair was carrying a pistol."
Miles's eyes widen; there had been no sign of weapons fire at the scene, but a gun definitely changes the situation. "Did he fire the gun?" he asks.
"Yeah. He struck one of his allies," Ranma says with a dry chuckle. "Didn't kill him, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?" Miles asks casually.
Ranma doesn't reply.
Miles writes it down, and glances at the other notes. "So, were any of the assailants seriously injured?"
Ranma frowns a little. "Getting shot doesn't count?"
"Where did the shot land?"
"I didn't have a clear view of where the shot landed, but somewhere in his chest."
Miles considers this. A bullet wound to the chest couldn't possibly account for the variety of blood stains on the various walls, ground, and dumpster. "Please describe the injuries sustained by the assailants," he requests.
"Why are you focusing on those monsters?" Ranma demands tempestuously. "Who cares if they were hurt?"
Monsters... so they don't count as human in her mind. Miles gazes at the girl for a long moment before finding an answer that won't raise her suspicions. "Knowing the injuries of the assailants may aid in their capture."
"I doubt it," Ranma grumbles.
"And why is that?" Miles asks, interested. Did she already kill them?
"They are far beyond anything you can touch."
"I see," Miles replies darkly. "Still, I'd appreciate it if you describe their injuries."
Ranma answers cautiously. "The burly boy was shot by the blue-haired boy, and the blue-haired boy was stabbed with the burly-boy's knife. Obviously, it wasn't too severe in either case, since they were able to flee the scene."
"And the third boy?" Miles prods. "The one wearing -" he glances at the notes "- black leather and lots of piercings?"
Ranma visibly grimaces. "... umm... He, um... I knocked him unconscious before taking care of Kathryn, and he was no longer there when I left the scene."
Miles gazes at Ranma for a long moment. Her carefully worded answers still don't account for all the blood, and they leave plenty of room for a pile of ash. Thinking of which, he reaches into his jacket and removes a plastic bag filled with ash, burnt black leather, and glass. "Are you sure he was no longer there?" Miles asks, placing the small bag on the table and paying careful attention to Ranma's reactions.
Ranma's eyes widen briefly, then narrow, then finally calm. She glances back up at him, her features more guarded than before. "I've made my statement."
"What do you think the chances are that, if I have this examined in a lab, it will come up as human remains?" Miles asks, shaking the bag. "I've been to the scene, Miss Granger, and nothing you've said accounts for all the blood I saw."
Ranma's visage darkens. "Are you accusing me of something?"
Miles pauses for a while before answering calmly. "You do realize that, at your level, your hands qualify as deadly weapons, do you not? Even without a formal ranking, any martial artist can testify to your skill."
"I'm allowed to defend myself and others!" Ranma sputters. "Besides, one of them had a gun!"
"The pierced boy didn't have a gun," Miles counters. "You didn't specify him as having any weapons at all."
"He was wielding weapons of opportunity!" Ranma yells. "This is stupid. I did what was necessary to defend my friends. I'm not on trial here. Since you don't have anything useful to ask, I'm leaving!" Ranma stands and stomps out of the room.
Miles gazes after her for a moment longer. He's satisfied. It was a profitable interview. If the results come back positive from the lab, he'll prosecute... well, after he figures out how the hell she burned the body. With a smile, he collects up his notes and evidence, then stands and turns to the door.
And there, with a presence that barely registers, stands Mr. Schuart.
"Fancy bumping into you, here," the man rasps with a thin smile. "You will, of course, be handing me all your evidence and notes, including your film and all records of the interview."
-oOo-
A small patrol car rolls to a stop in front a massive, multi-story hospital. Surrounding it are grassy grounds, rolling hills, and sparse trees – a private park holding the city at bay. Patients in walkers and wheel chairs chat quietly with nurses and family; some stay in the shade, avoiding the summer sun, but others move about despite the oppressive heat.
The vehicle's driver-side door opens and out steps a uniformed constable. The officer moves to the rear door and opens it, releasing his passengers. First is a brown-haired girl, injured and carrying a crutch and a newspaper, whom he helps to her feet. Shortly thereafter, a redhead slides out the same door.
"So, are you going to tell me about the interview before I leave?" Police Constable Jon Hurst asks of his young charges.
Ranma sends the man a brief, harsh glare, then turns away. "I don't want to talk about it," she grumbles.
"The first officer was really nice," Audrey says. "But I don't know about the detective who took over Ranma's interview."
"Interview?" Ranma laughs bitterly. "Try interrogation."
Jon frowns. "What's this?" he asks. "They were supposed to only be taking statements."
"Whatever," Ranma snorts. "I'm never doing that again."
Jon gazes at her for several seconds, looking concerned, but doesn't say anything.
Audrey lifts her arm out of Jon's and supports herself fully on the crutch. "Thanks for dropping us off."
"Anytime," Jon replies with a smile. "Be sure to let me know how Kathryn's doing, alright?" He steps back into the patrol car and rolls away, waving back at the kids.
The two head into the hospital, stopping at the receptionist's desk. They quickly learn Kathryn's room number and that they have been specified on the list of allowed guests. Minutes later, they are peeking through the door.
Kathryn's room is barren, filled only with the soft, regular beep of Kathryn's heart monitor, and the low rushing sound of air gushing through a breather. Large machines and monitors surround her bed. A golden apple sits, abandoned and out of place, atop a flat metal surface, and a pole supports an IV drip. In a chair drawn to Kathryn's bedside sits the tall, sandy-haired Mr. Keynes, like one more fixture in the room.
Mr. Keynes tiredly turns to face the children in the doorway. Sandy stubble and baggy eyes give him a ragged look. "Hey," he drones. He tries to offer a smile but only manages a grimace.
The girls shuffle into the room, squeezing up near Kathryn.
Their friend lies there, quiet and pale. Her hair is shaven away, and a thick layer of gauze is taped over her left eye. Her mouth and nose are covered by a mask attached to the breathing apparatus. The extent of her other injuries is hidden beneath the hospital blanket.
"How is she doing?" Audrey asks softly.
"She's..." Mr. Keynes's eyes fill with tears, and he attempts to blink them away. "They took her leg, and she's paralyzed from the waist down. She'll never walk again. I can't imagine it. She was always filled with life, bursting with energy, running, jumping, and hopping around. When- When she wakes up, how will I face her? How will I tell her that she won't ever walk again?"
Ranma stares at the blankets where Kathryn's knees should be, but the crumpled sheeting hides that which was taken. Then she glances up at the gauze over the left side of Kathryn's face. She takes a shuddering breath and turns to Mr. Keynes. "What-" she chokes. "What about her eye?"
Mr. Keynes merely shakes his head, watery eyes never leaving his daughter.
Ranma takes another wracking breath; her whole body quivers. Her lower lip trembles. Tears trace her cheek and trickle from her chin, splattering against the linoleum floor. She grabs the bed to support herself. "I-" she starts with a shaky voice. "I'm sorry. This-" She swallows and continues. "- is all my...- all my fault. If I hadn't moved her- If I hadn't used a tourniquet- If...-"
A large, warm, masculine hand covers her own. "We can't worry about all the what ifs."
Ranma continues to take several, deep, shaky breaths, and eventually calms down. She wipes a few tears away with her wrist.
Audrey shifts a bit, still standing with her crutch. "Do you know when she'll wake up?"
Mr. Keynes, again, shakes his head. "She's in a coma. She could wake up tomorrow. She could wake up next week. She could wake up next month. But they tell me that it is more likely that she'll wake up earlier."
The three of them continue to stare at Kathryn in silence. Then, once again, Audrey shifts, trying to find a comfortable position on her crutch. Mr. Keynes turns to look at the injured girl, as though noticing for the first time, then immediately stands.
"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Please, take my seat," he says, helping Audrey into the chair.
"Thanks," Audrey says. "But are you sure you'll be okay?"
"Yeah, you look like hell," adds Ranma.
"I'll be fine," Mr. Keynes replies, taking Audrey's position at Kathryn's bedside.
"No, you won't. Go get some sleep, Mr. Keynes," insists Ranma. "Kathryn would be mad at you."
Mr. Keynes yawns loudly, patting his open mouth. "Perhaps you are right," he says. "I'll go find a bench to lay upon." He trudges out of the room.
The children resume their quiet vigil. But other than the steady beat of the electrocardiogram, the slow, rhythmic hiss of the breathing apparatus, and the still form of comatose Kathryn, there isn't much to see. Ultimately, Ranma moves to lean against a wall and shoves her hands into her pockets.
She isn't sure how long she stood there, hands twiddling absently, before she found it – creased and crumpled, a piece of paper pulled from a bulletin board only two days ago. It is a flier. Above and center, abstract caricatures of a boy and a girl dance on skates. Below, bold letters proudly proclaim a paired skating event with a moderate cash prize. It is scheduled for the twenty-eighth. Now it will never happen.
Angrily, Ranma crushes it in her hand, squeezing the flier into a tiny, malformed ball. Then – thwam! – Ranma turns and slams her hand into the wall. Shattered fragments and dust from the destroyed concrete block rain to the ground. With a soft thump and a long sigh, Ranma rests her head against the painted surface.
"Are you okay?" Audrey asks.
"I'm just... frustrated," Ranma answers, pushing herself away. She turns to see an open newspaper in Audrey's lap. "Anything interesting?"
Audrey blinks, then lifts part of the paper, offering it to Ranma. "The front page story is interesting."
Ranma plucks the paper from her friend's hand, turning it to the front page.
Weapons and Drugs on the Streets! – London, 20 August 1993 – Weapons and drugs seized in customs last week were stolen during transport last night. The officers in charge of the transport are missing in action and presumed dead. There are still no details on how the heist was accomplished, and no witnesses are forthcoming. The load contained military weapons and explosives in addition to over 1000 kilograms of cocaine, with an estimated value of £80 million (GBP). "This is a tragedy," declares Deputy Commissioner Wallace. "I find it terrifying that our officers will have to face criminals armed with cop-killer bullets, grenades, and even RPGs. This is evidence that we must further reduce arms control restrictions on the police to better combat this growing and increasingly dangerous criminal element." The Home Office-
"Well," Ranma drawls, lowering the paper. "Last night really gutted, didn't it?"
"The night before a prolonged stay at a hospital usually does," a voice answers flatly, but not from the direction Ranma expected. Standing in the doorway is a heavyset, middle-aged woman dressed as a nurse. She stares momentarily at the fist-sized hole in the wall, then turns back to the kids. "You two will have to shoo while I get my work done."
The nurse stands aside, allowing the children to file into the hall. There, stepping out of the elevator, they see the familiar figures of Gareth, Elinore, and Hermione.
"I didn't think you'd make it until this evening," Ranma says, joining them.
"We're on lunch break. We thought we'd stop by, see Kathryn, then take you girls out for lunch," Gareth replies.
"That will have to wait for later," Audrey says. "A nurse is with Kathryn now."
Ranma's stomach growls. "Lunch ain't waitin' for later."
"- isn't -" Gareth and Hermione correct, simultaneously.
"I guess we'll have to see Kathryn later," Elinore says. "For now, let's eat. I believe I saw a nice diner on the way here."
The group makes their way to the car and then to the diner. Along the way, Ranma and Audrey answer questions regarding Kathryn's condition. Soon, they are seated, and food is on the way.
"Ranma, I..." Hermione trails off and bites her lower lip. She hands Ranma a sheet of folded parchment.
"What's this?" Ranma asks curiously, opening the letter.
"I sent a letter to St. Mungo's," Hermione explains. At Ranma's blank look, she glances both ways then hisses, "- the wizard's hospital for magical maladies and injuries. I tried to make a case for a vampire attack. This is their response."
Ranma only vaguely heard the last half of what Hermione had to say, already reading the letter.
20 August 1993
Dear Miss Granger,
While your concern for your Muggle friend is admirable, there are no reports from the Ministry of vampire attacks on Muggles. The Ministry assures us that all vampires in Britain are well under control, and that such an event is impossible. In accordance with our regular policy, we cannot accept Muggle patients without explicit Ministry approval.
Thank you for your inquiry,
Jeanne Greengrass
Secretary
St. Mungo's Hosptial for Magical Maladies and Injuries
"Well under control," Ranma growls, fuming, absently crumpling the parchment between her hands. "What a bunch of-... crud."
Hermione snags the letter from her sister and attempts to smooth out the wrinkles. "Don't destroy the letter!" she chastises. "It might be useful."
"If you say so," Ranma replies, bitterly.
Hermione looks stricken. "I did my best!" she cries.
Ranma glances up, and offers her sister a half smile. "Sorry, 'neesan. I'm not mad at you. It's just... everything."
Audrey quietly asks to see the letter. As she reads it, her own features darken, but she folds it nicely and returns it with a silent Thank you. A waitress approaches, carefully balancing all five orders on her arms. The food is swiftly set in its proper place. They begin to eat.
Ranma suddenly looks up from her meal, and blinks at Hermione. "'Neesan, did you just let Audrey read something associated with the wizarding world?"
"Don't talk about it in public!" Hermione hisses, glancing around self-consciously. "And yes, I did let her read it. There's no point in hiding it from her, especially after having to explain everything to her all over again last night. Besides, it's not a textbook or anything."
Ranma looks puzzled, then her eyes brighten. "Oh, that's right! They were obliviated last night."
"Don't tell me you forgot!" Hermione screeches indignantly.
Eyes from the surrounding tables fixate on an abashed Hermione, who slowly settles back in her chair. Elinore makes a few placating gestures, and, eventually, they turn away.
"Oh, yes," Elinore says, turning to the younger of her daughters. "Two letters arrived for you this morning, too."
"You picked those up?" Hermione asks curiously.
"I thought she might like them," Elinore replies, pulling a pair of letters from her purse and handing them to Ranma, who is busy chewing a mouthful of food.
Ranma swiftly opens the letter one-handed, taking another bite with her opposite hand. The letter is short, crude, and to the point. The blanks are filled with a rough hand.
You, Ranma Granger are hereby summoned to court to defend yourself against the charge of misdemeanor assault . You are to proceed to Courtroom Seven on 20 August 1993 at 9:30 am . You have the right to summon witnesses in your defense. You have the right to speak in your own defense. You have the right to obtain representation. Your presence, however, is not required; the court will continue even in your absence.
(undersigned)
Rupert Lyons 20 August 1993
Ranma scowls and pushes the letter to the center of the table, then shoves a great deal of food in her mouth and opens the second letter.
20 August 1993
In the case 19930820-7-1, you, Ranma Granger, have been convicted of misdemeanor assault against the persons of Anise Larkspur, Camassia Oleander, and Jonquil Rosier. The court has issued the following punishments:
(1) A penal fee of 15 Galleons shall be paid to the court by 20 September 1993.
(2) You shall issue a formal, written apology to each of the offended parties and in duplicate to the court by no later than 20 September 1993.
In addition, you have been placed on probationary status. Any future reports of misconduct on your part will be thoroughly reviewed and may result in sanctions such as suspension from Hogwarts.
(undersigned)
Rupert Lyons, Court Scribe
Benjamin Frederick Oleander, Presiding Judge
Ranma slowly puts the second letter down.
"What's this about?" Gareth asks somberly, lowering the first letter.
Ranma makes a show of pointing out her puffed up cheeks, full of food. Meanwhile, Hermione snags up the two letters. As she reads, she casts dark, suspicious, scrutinizing glances in Ranma's direction.
Gareth continues to gaze evenly at Ranma. "I'm waiting."
Ranma swallows and mutters her explanation. "At Diagon Alley, three b-... pompous, pure-blood girls were blocking my path, insulting my Muggleborn heritage, and refusing to move." Ranma wipes her mouth with her napkin. "So, I firmly but gently moved them out of my path."
"This is absurd!" Hermione exclaims, tossing both letters back to the center of the table. "I only received the first letter a little after nine, and the judge is related to one of the plaintiffs!"
Gareth frowns and picks up the second letter.
"This should be illegal! It's an abuse of the court system!" Hermione rants.
Audrey giggles and glances at Elinore. "Hermione seems more upset than Ranma."
Ranma sighs. "I just don't have the energy for it anymore."
"- a violation of civil rights! a miscarriage of justice!"
"Hermione," Elinore commands, "calm down."
"What I can't believe is that I have to apologize to them," Ranma grumbles.
"You will apologize," Gareth declares sternly, "and you'll make it, at least, look sincere. We'll also have to pay the fine. Be careful around those girls in the future."
"Of course," Ranma says. "I'm not stupid."
Hermione stares at Ranma in disbelief. "I can't believe you'd do that! How can you apologize and not be sincere about it?"
Ranma gazes quizzically at Hermione. Eventually, she answers. "Believe me, it's a lot easier in writing. I have lots of experience through Mr. Ogden."
Hermione's expression takes an aspect between confusion, disbelief, and horror. "They taught you to lie in school!"
Ranma shrugs, Elinore stifles a laugh with her hand, and Gareth transforms a stiff glare into a deep breath and looks at his watch. "We have to go," he says. Soon, they are on their way to the hospital, where Ranma and Audrey are dropped off with a few parting words.
Once again, the two girls visit the receptionist, registering their names, then step into the elevator.
Minutes later, the girls are at Kathryn's side. Audrey is reading her newspaper, and Ranma fumbles through her pockets, eventually pulling out a random textbook. She scowls down at the cover of Chemistry, then eventually opens to a bookmarked page; redox reactions assault her mind, and she slumps to a seat on the floor.
Audrey giggles. "It only helps if you study before the test," she says.
"There's always the rematch."
"Are you planning to take the GCSE again?"
Ranma puffs a sigh, blowing away a lock of hair. "Probably not." She snaps the book shut and lays down, slipping it under her head as a pillow.
"It's nice to see you can get some use out of that book," Audrey utters before returning to her newspaper.
Ranma gazes lazily at the ceiling, making out patterns in the pits. Her eyes drift across the room, settling on a golden apple – abandoned, out of place, and sitting atop a machine just beyond her reach. She stares at it. She imagines it in her mouth – crisp, tart, and honey-sweet... enough to make her salivate. Slothfully, she lifts a hand in its direction, willing it to come to her, to roll off the counter and into her hand. It doesn't budge. Grumbling a little, she sits up and grabs it, then lies back down.
She takes a bite. Crunch! The taste... the taste is even better than she imagined, a perfect blend of sweet and sour, but not so strong as to overwhelm. Juices dribble down her chin, and she rolls the apple's crisp flesh within her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.
She swallows.
Suddenly, the apple is slick and slimy, oozing in her palm, twisting between her fingers, and wriggling up her wrist. She looks at the apple and drops it, recoiling in horror. Hundreds of maggots crawl on every surface of the sickly, rotting flesh, and half-eaten worms pour from where she bit.
The taste and texture transform in her mouth, blood and rot, coating her tongue and palate, inescapable. Noxious vapor joins the flavor. Stomach surging, she scrambles to her knees; she tries to vomit, but only heaves.
She stumbles, dizzily.
The room rotates 'round and 'round, spinning, smearing, twisting away. Dark pits dance across the ceiling, growing brighter, growing distant. And the world falls down...
Ranma blinks, staring upwards at the night sky. Uncountable stars light the heavens, shining magnificently in Winter constellations. A dark shadow sweeps across a half-moon rising in the East.
She stands in a snowy glade, surrounded on all sides by coniferous forest. A freezing wind whistles through the trees, carrying icy particles. Ranma unconsciously pulls her cloak tighter and tightens her hood around her ears. She turns to her left and sees an odd pair of boulders sitting one atop the other at the edge of the glade, half-covered in snow. She trudges past them.
Hoot! Hoot! An owl calls softly through the night.
She breathes the scent of evergreen and frozen earth and exhales drifting puffs of white mist. Her feet lead her unerringly into the forest, over a fallen tree bridging a half-frozen stream, and around a strange and beautiful formation of crystals, jutting from the ground. A flash of white dashes across her vision and vanishes into the shadows. She passes under ropes of dangling ivy and through a thicket of shrubs. And she continues...
As she walks, the moon rises, the sounds of forest creatures slowly diminish, replaced by a low chant, and she feels a warm breeze drifting from ahead. She moves forward. The forest opens into a vast clearing, and in the center is a brilliant light. It swallows her vision.
"Ranma," a voice calls softly.
"Ranma, you need to wake up," the voice insists.
Ranma feels someone nudging her, and she mumbles incoherently, blinking her eyes open.
Audrey is standing above her, rocking Ranma with a foot. "The nurse is here," she says. "We need to move so she can work."
Ranma groans and stands, then frowns, searching left and right. "Where's the apple?"
"What apple?"
-oOo-
Dear Jonquil Rosier,
It has been brought to my attention that I have been charged and convicted of misdemeanor assault for actions on the date of 19 August 1993. Unfortunately, I couldn't make it to court, having received notice of my court date and notice of my conviction at the same time. As deemed by the court, I must offer official apology to you and the other offended parties. Here it is:
I'm sorry for my behavior. It was inappropriate. In the future, I will be sure to show the correct amount of restraint. Should such an encounter happen again, it will go nothing like it did before.
Your efforts remind me that there are always consequences for actions, especially those intended to harm. It would be wrong for anybody to escape justice. You set a shining example by taking action to ensure those consequences are delivered. I will endeavor to follow your example; I am confident that I will be inspired to righteous action by your presence.
Sincerely,
Ranma Granger
"So, what do you think?" asks Ranma, leaning over Audrey's shoulder.
"It seems... vaguely threatening," Audrey answers, handing the letter back.
"Ah, but is it accusably so?
Audrey considers it. "... No, I don't believe it is."
"Then it's perfect!" Ranma exclaims.
Whipping out a fine fountain pen – a parting gift from Mr. Ogden – the redhead rapidly transcribes several copies of the apology by hand, labeling a letter to each girl and providing duplicates for the court. For any other child, this would be an onerous task. For Ranma, it is a labor of mere minutes that produces results in her usual, impeccable script. As an afterthought, she makes an additional copy for herself; this apology had taken several hours to craft, and it might be useful as a template in the future.
The room is larger, with a broad window facing the park outside. Kathryn lies peacefully in her bed, breathing naturally, without assistance from any machines, though an IV continues to sustain her.
As usual, Audrey sits at Kathryn's side. Gone is her crutch and sling, and in their place a pile of books sits under her chair. Lifting the top one into her lap and opening it to a bookmarked page, she begins reading aloud, in a soft voice, to Kathryn.
Nearby, Ranma stoops over a small table, scratching madly at the parchment with her Parker 51. Shoved to one side is a mishmash of cards and candies, and a vase totters dangerously at the edge – gifts left by cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and acquaintances.
It has been a week and other visitors have come and gone with vaguely worded well-wishes and promises to return when she wakes. Ranma and Audrey, however, spent most of their time at Kathryn's side. They found ways to occupy themselves, with Audrey reading softly to Kathryn, and Ranma listening in.
"Done!" Ranma exclaims, absently catching the vase as it falls off the table. After placing her parchment to the side, she begins moving the cards and candies into some semblance of order.
"Has anything ever come of the investigation?" Audrey asks suddenly.
Ranma blinks. "Didn't I tell you? It was shut down, according to Jon."
Audrey's hands tighten around her book, and her soft voice carries an unusually hard edge. "Why?"
"I dunno. What does it matter? It's not like the police could have done anything, anyway... except get killed."
"They shouldn't be allowed to get away with what they've done!" Audrey retorts. "And why did the police shut it down? It's not like they knew vampires were involved; to them, it was just an assault. Do they not care about Kathryn?"
Ranma gazes glumly at the table in front of her, and slowly stands a card on its end.
"Did you say something to the detective?" Audrey asks, frustrated.
A bitter snort erupts from the redhead. "The detective doesn't care about Kathryn or catching the criminal. He was more interested in accusing me of murder."
Audrey's eyes widen, then she scowls. "How can they accuse you of murder? You did the right thing. Those monsters deserved to die. All of them."
Ranma grunts noncommittally, averting her eyes and slowly raising another card on its end.
Audrey takes a long, protracted breath, then gradually releases it. "Do you have any idea why the investigation was closed? Did Jon say anything?"
"All Jon said is that some government guys came in with official papers and shut it down."
Audrey frowns. "Government guys? You mean, like the Ministry?"
"It better not be," Ranma growls, beginning to move things about more roughly. "... not after they refused to help Kathryn."
Audrey sighs and turns her eyes, surveying the area beyond the window. She watches a murder of crows chase an injured pigeon through the air, returning to the rooftop only after the pigeon has gained sufficient distance.
"... This must be some sort of sick joke."
The mumbled words gain Audrey's attention and she turns to see Ranma scrutinizing one of Kathryn's cards. "What is it?"
Ranma's only answer is to fling the card in Audrey's direction. It tumbles and twirls through the air before sliding to a stop atop her book.
The cover of the card displays a pale, cartoon Dracula with arms raised and fangs bared in the trite yet classical manner. On the inside is a short, unsigned note, printed on a dot matrix and stapled to the card.
Dear Miss Granger:
If you wish to know more, please visit the phone booth at Goodge and Tottenham at 2:00 pm any time this week.
Audrey closes the card.
"What do you think?" Ranma asks.
Audrey glances at the clock then faces Ranma. "Why not go? It's obviously about the vampires."
Ranma shrugs, absently grabbing a box of chocolates left by Kathryn's grandmother and popping one in her mouth. "Might as well," she says through her chewing. Then she stands and heads for the door.
She easily reaches the moderately busy T-section. People flow to and fro, utilizing the nearby Underground. Ranma scratches her head, standing in front of a quartet of bright red phone booths. After a minute, she shrugs and enters one at random.
Almost immediately, the phone rings.
Ranma searches the nearby area and rooftops suspiciously before picking up the phone. "Uh... Hello?"
"Hello, Miss Granger," answers a raspy voice. "I was hoping you would contact me today. I'm glad you finally found my note."
"What's this about?" Ranma inquires.
"We share a mutual set of interests, Miss Granger – in particular, a pair of boys. They were a trio... until last week."
Ranma glances around, again, this time scanning the windows of the building across the street.
"There is no need to be nervous, Miss Granger. I'm not going to harm you."
"Who are you?" Ranma demands.
... Silence ...
For a while, Ranma allows it to hang there. Then she asks, "What do you want?"
"I wish to make a trade, Miss Granger: information for, shall I call it... entertainment?"
Ranma pauses, then grimaces. "Now listen here, buddy -"
"Pardon," the raspy voice interrupts. "I apologize; there seems to be a misunderstanding. By entertainment, I meant a demonstration of your... martial arts prowess. In a practical setting."
"... I'm listening," Ranma replies noncommittally.
"It seems our two mutual friends have a habit of visiting a dance club called The Bottleneck every Tuesday and Thursday night."
Click.
Ranma blinks and slowly returns the receiver to its cradle. She stares at the phone for a while longer, almost expecting it to ring again. Then she turns and leaves the phone booth, muttering, "If he's not gonna tell me what he wanted, then he's not gonna get it."
-oOo-
The Bottleneck – a dance club for vampires. Ha ha ha.
Ranma stands perched upon a building overlooking the rebuilt warehouse carrying that name. He – for Ranma had taken the male form – is dressed in black from head to toe in a loose-fitting garb, looking much like a masked kid-ninja. He absently fingers the four sharpened wooden sticks, torn earlier from a chair found in a dumpster.
Audrey's words return to him. They're monsters. They deserve to die. While we're at home sleeping, they're probably out on the streets hurting more people like Kathryn.
Ranma sighs. Those words fail to relieve his unease. Their deaths wouldn't bother him; if they had been normal humans, they would already be dead. Of course, if they had been normal humans, Ranma would probably be in jail. Even so, it isn't the idea of killing that nauseates him. It's the hunting, the execution, the willful and purposeful intent to murder...
They're vampires, not people.
Can the word murder even apply to a vampire? Audrey says no, but the twisting, sickening feeling in Ranma's gut makes such semantic hair-splitting meaningless.
He wishes Kathryn was awake. She has a way of taking away all the difficult decisions. If she was awake, things never would have gotten this far... or, if they did, he'd feel a whole lot better about it.
Ranma glances at Hermione's watch before dropping it back into a pocket. It's Tuesday... no, Wednesday, September 1st, 12:07 am. He had been sitting there for almost two hours, and in a little under eleven more, he'll be leaving on the Hogwarts express. He'll have to make a decision soon if he wants to get any sleep: go in, or go home.
The bar is closer.
Below, a bored bouncer smokes in front of the Bottleneck, leaning lazily near the doorway. Raucous music blasts through the opening door, and a few patrons trickle out of the dance club.
Ranma leaps to the club's roof and rapidly makes his way to an old trapdoor work entrance he had scoped out earlier. Grabbing the padlock between his hands, he jerks it open, destroying it with relative silence. He waits until he hears the cacophony accompanying another group of leaving patrons, then he quickly opens the trapdoor and slips underneath.
The noise inside is deafening.
The majority of the floor is open, dimly lit, and covered with a light crowd of people dancing, drinking, mingling, and making out. Around the edge of the club are private booths and tables, and at the far end is a well-stocked bar lit with neon lights. Metal stairs rise to the club's VIP room, hidden behind its mirrored panels.
Ranma, himself, stands on a workman's platform, high above the floor. Many of the club's multi-colored lights are accessible from his position, blinding the people below to his presence.
He scans the main floor. Though a few times he sees small baggies and money changing hands, he fails to find his targets. He searches the booths, and stops when he meets a pair of eyes, staring up at him from between the brims of round, yellow sunglasses and a red fedora hat. The tall man wears a matching red trench coat, and is indolently reclined in a corner booth. With large, white-gloved hands, he raises a bag containing a dark liquid in Ranma's direction, then lowers it to take a sip through a straw.
Ranma blinks, then moves on.
He discovers his targets in a booth on a nearby wall. The burly boy is bent over a small mirror and sniffing white dust through a straw. The blue-haired boy is drinking green-bottled beer and conversing with a third boy. The third boy has curly black hair, wide green eyes, and wears a t-shirt with the words Audere est Facere emblazoned in a semi-circle around an image of a football.
Ranma again fingers the makeshift stakes in his pocket, ensuring they are readily available, and slowly pulls one out. He weighs it in his hand, as though weighing a man's life. Then he steels himself. It's time to take action.
A graceful arc carries Ranma to the burly boy, who is conveniently leaned over his mirror. Thunk. The stake tears through the boy's chest, and the force from the blow shoves him into the table. Flames begin to lick up the stake, charring the nearby clothing; the boy's skin rapidly begins to dry, crack, and crumble, flowing like rivers into a rapidly growing pile of ash.
Ranma stares the blue-haired boy into the eye, hand fishing in his pocket for another stake. Behind him, faint sounds of people beginning to yell join the roar of the music. The blue-haired boy backs away, pressing himself against a wall, wide-eyed gaze flickering between his decaying friend and the masked ninja's piercing cerulean eyes.
The second stake comes out.
Yelling something inaudible, the third boy lunges, grappling Ranma's wrist with both hands.
Ranma attempts to shake and jerk his hand free, but the effort is in vain. Resorting to a second tactic, he slams his free fist into the boy's attractive, Italian face. Crunch. The boy's cheek bone collapses under the pressure, but his hands don't loosen in the slightest. Ranma repeats the tactic. Slam! Slam! Slam! It doesn't work, though it leaves the face a bloody mess. Irritated, Ranma jerks the boy from his seat in the booth, reaches over and breaks several of the curly-haired boy's fingers, then kicks him off.
A small crowd is gathering, staring at the spectacle with morbid fascination. Behind them, several suits shove their way forward.
Ranma turns to face his target, only to find the blue-haired boy in the process of leveling his pistol and pulling the trigger. Immediately, Ranma dives to the ground, kicking the table up in the process.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The first two bullets fly directly into the crowd, and the last three tear through the table; splinters rain over Ranma, but the bullets take semi-random paths into the mass.
Crash. A green bottle cracks on Ranma's head, emptying its contents over... her.
The music stops, replaced by the sounds of people screaming, panicking, fleeing. The suits are pulling out their own pistols, and suddenly their paths are free. The crowd retreats like a tide, stampeding towards the exits, leaving their fallen companions behind.
Choosing the better part of valor, Ranma dives around the booth to the other side of the table, efficiently smacking the gun out of the blue-haired boy's hand in the process.
Ranma lifts her sharpened chair-leg.
"Don't kill me!" the blue-haired boy begs pathetically, gazing at her with wide, pitiful, crimson eyes.
Ranma hesitates for only a second, then thrusts her crude weapon forward.
Bang! Ba-bang! Ba-ba-ba-bang! Bang! Bullets begin tearing more holes through the table, this time from the outside. Ranma and the blue-haired boy both gasp in shock as more than one bullet strikes each of them.
The impacts spoil Ranma's aim, and she plants her stake into a lung. Not concerning herself with the failure, she tugs the blue-haired boy around, imposing him between her and the line of fire. The boy jerks from a multitude of shots as the wooden table disintegrates behind him.
Ka-klunk.
A grenade... right at her feet. Ranma allows herself a fraction of a second to stare at it in utter shock, then throws the blue-haired boy atop the grenade and immediately leaps away.
Ka-boom! The explosion is dulled by her improvised meat-shield.
Ranma lands on a table two booths away, and quickly kicks two beer bottles and an ashtray, knocking out three of the seven suits, who are in the process of adjusting their aim. "What kind of dance club is this?" Ranma mutters irritably, reaching into her pockets. She throws one stake, then ano- Wait! Ranma manages to close her hand around Hermione's watch before it escapes and stuffs it back in her pocket. She leaps towards the platform, throwing the last stake...
... and finds herself face-to-barrel with a GLOCK 18. She sidesteps and sweeps the barrel aside just in time to avoid a stream of bullets.
Blocking Ranma's path is a buxom woman wearing leather stiletto-heeled boots, solid black hose, a lustrous black mini-skirt, a matching jacket over a white blouse, and a wide, shit-eating grin. Between her teeth is the pin to the grenade in her left hand. She waggles her eyebrows, then drops the grenade, simultaneously flipping backwards off the platform.
"Ah, shit..." Ranma gripes as the grenade clatters against the metal grating. Then she, too, dives backwards off the platform.
In the air, Ranma spies the sexy psychopath directing a pair of automatic pistols, and soon they are spewing bullets at Ranma. Ranma twists, doing her best to minimize her profile and protect her vitals. Despite her efforts, half a dozen rounds pepper her leg, her hip, and her gut.
Ka-boom! Fragments of grenade and torn metal grating blast into the ground below, and several people collapse. With a shrieking groan and a series of sparks, the supports buckle and the platform begins to topple.
Whump! Ranma lands on her back among a group of people hiding behind a table in a corner booth. A few of them back away, staring at her in abject terror. Ranma scrambles to her feet then stumbles on her injured leg.
A warm hand catches her shoulder, and Ranma turns to see a young woman with short sandy-blond hair and bright blue eyes, supporting her with a gentle smile.
"Are you okay?" the woman asks.
Ranma nods.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Fifteen bullets perforate the table in under a second.
The woman's head jerks forward, and she falls onto Ranma's shoulder, as though to embrace the child. Ranma almost returns the hug, then notices a wet redness spreading through the woman's hair, centered in the back of her head.
Ranma gently lays her down, then looks around. Two people are clutching at minor injuries, and one man is clasping at his own neck, struggling to breathe as blood pours between his fingers. Turning away from them, she peeks over the table.
Standing in the center of the floor, almost slothfully loading a new clip into her pistol, is the buxom woman in stiletto heels. Behind her, the platform crashes to the ground with a resounding clang, the shattered lights throwing off showers of electric sparks.
Clap. Clap. Clap. "Fabulous! Fabulous! What wonderful entertainment! It's been a long time since I've seen a good, old-fashioned staking! It sends chills down my spine. Impaling has always been one of my favorites." The speaker, the man in the red fedora hat, sweeps his legs off the table and stands.
"Mary," calls a smooth, urbane voice. "Take Michael and leave."
Ranma turns to see a man with long, silver hair and a longer gray coat taking measured steps down the metal stairs that lead to the VIP room. In his left hand, he carries a sword with a golden cross hilt; from pommel to tip, it is almost as long as she is tall.
"Gabriel..." the man in the fedora utters, the single word containing a world of spite. "I see the Vatican still hasn't recovered Laurus et Moeror, though I doubt it's for a lack of trying."
"Alucard," Gabriel replies neutrally. "What an unpleasant surprise. I haven't seen you since I hired the Belmonts in... what was it?"
"The mid eighteenth century," Alucard grates between clenched teeth.
"That's right." Gabriel pauses, as though reminiscing fondly. "Those glory-seeking Belmonts always were eager to test the might of their enchanted blood against yours. I recall relieving them of some rather nice artifacts upon their return." A cursory glance from his gray eyes captures the man's white gloves and the arcane sigils decorating them. "I have heard, however, that it is not the Belmonts but another clan entirely who ultimately choked and collared you. What is it like, being a dog of war for the queen-bitch of the Hellsing family?"
"Same as always, Gabriel..." Alucard says, slowly lifting an enormous handgun from under his coat. "... all that nobility, all that Vatican training, and still no sense of when to shut up. What's it like, being exiled from your old family?"
"It's quite liberating, actually, very unlike being slave to a little girl. Though I must say, you sure do pick them young. How old is she, anyway? Seventeen? Has she asked you to prom, yet?"
"Die," Alucard commands. He lifts his gun and pulls the trigger, sending a massive bullet hurtling from its custom .454 Casull cartridge at almost twice the speed of sound towards Gabriel's skull.
Almost casually, Gabriel plucks it out of the air. Ranma's eyes widen as she absently tears off her second sleeve and begins stripping it into bandages.
"Testy, testy," Gabriel says, rolling the hot bullet between his gloved fingers like soft putty. "Silver, Alucard? You should know such things don't work on me." He drops it disdainfully to the ground.
"Someday you're going to lose that pretty little head of yours."
"Perhaps," Gabriel states easily. "But today is not that day."
Alucard slowly grins in a very evil manner. "Would you care to make a bet?" he inquires. "The Hellsing family has granted me more power than you can possibly imagine."
Gabriel's neutral features falter only faintly. "A bet?" he inquires. "You know I'm not a gambling man, Alucard, and I think you'll find me no easier to kill than last we met."
"We'll see," Alucard says. His sharp, pointy fangs flash white, very pronounced in the dim light. "Releasing control art restriction to level three, level two, level one." His voice is monotonous, and his bright red trench coat fades into darkness as all light is leeched out of his immediate area. "Situation A. The Cromwell approval is now in effect. Hold release until target is silenced." Eyes... hundreds of white, glowing eyes begin to open from within the darkness surrounding him.
Ranma feels something within her surge, violently. Dozens of the eyes suddenly swirl, focusing on her position. ... join us ... Her cold iron amulet heats to scalding against her skin; the feeling immediately dissipates, and the eyes slide away.
Gabriel slashes his sword contemptuously through the air. "Is this the best a hundred years of Hellsing research can do?" he asks. "Chaining one monster within another? I suppose it makes sense, given the Hellsing clan's penchant for making deals with the Devil. Laurus et Moeror will cut you nonetheless."
A booming, hollow laughter emanates from the shadows surrounding Alucard, and they begin to flow, forming random, jagged edges and many-eyed wolfish heads. "One monster, Gabriel? Oh, no, it's so much more than that." And with those words, he rolls forward like a tide of darkness.
Gabriel stands there, calm and unpreturbed, for a moment longer... then he's gone. Silver lines flash through the amorphous, many-eyed blackness, but it merely reforms. Several times, Ranma blinks, as she sees what appears to be multiple Gabriels dashing and attacking from different directions. In return, the shadows lash out, attempting to box the silver blur. Both recoil from or flash around each other's strikes.
Unable to effectively follow the fight, Ranma tightens a final bandage around her thigh and returns to her own situation. She considers the two sharpened wooden table legs in her lap; she vaguely recalls creating them but doubts they'll be of any immediate use – if one can block a bullet, one can stop a stake, and she wouldn't even know where to start finding the heart on the other guy. Regardless, she pockets them.
The regular exits are useless. With her injured leg and without a platform, she can't possibly reach the workman's entrance in the roof. That leaves the main exit and fire exit, both of which would leave her exposed; the idea of gaining the attention of the monsters in the center of the room does not appeal to her.
She turns around. Behind her is the man with the injured neck and bloody hand; he lies slumped to one side, still cross-legged and back against the booth. Ranma crawls past him, then punches the wall. Her fist crushes through dry wall, cork, and fibrous insulation, then stops against steel sheeting with a subdued clang, and she grunts as her punctured gut spasms in response to the abuse. She glances back to see if she gained any unwanted attention, and sees the two surviving occupants watching her warily; as she had done, they are tearing bandages from their own clothing. She peeks over the table.
The fight has ended.
Gabriel is held, suspended in the air, by a mass of shadowy arms. The sword remains in his grip, but his left arm is twisted backwards by no less than four, dark, massive hands. Alucard slowly forms from a cloud of amorphous black, an enormous eye in the center of his chest; his hat is gone and his wild black hair roams free, as though alive. White light shines from a stump where his left arm should be, and many of the once open eyes are blinded by similar gashes carved across his body and the floating black mass.
"As you can see," Alucard says, "Laurus et Moeror doesn't quite hold to its reputation. Now, before I kill you, may I ask to whom you sold Giribadara Asera?"
"Of course not. A good businessman never betrays a contract."
"Good?" Alucard chuckles. "Are you still holding onto delusions from your time as a paladin? I saw no less than forty sales of cocaine tonight, and I wasn't even paying attention."
"I may be a very bad person, Alucard, but I'm a very good businessman," Gabriel replies. "And my time as a paladin doesn't exactly qualify me for any greater titles of goodness. Why, I once burned down an entire village to halt the spread of heresy..." he smiles, almost fondly. "Not that I believe in such garbage anymore."
Alucard saunters around the suspended man. "Well, it's been amusing, Gabriel. However, I must get going, and, as much as I'd like to eat you, I realize that you are a dish that must be savored. So, I'll just have to-"
Gabriel, taking sudden action, bites his own tongue and spits; he looks vaguely irritated as he does so, as though the notion of spitting is so far beneath him as to be vulgar. The silvery spittle and blood strikes the single shadow-hand grappling his right arm and sizzles, causing the dark hand to loosen briefly. That's all it takes. His hand flashes around, and a jet of silver shoots from a jar into Alucard's face.
For a moment, the shadows writhe and become translucent as Alucard recoils in pain. Gabriel falls through the dark mass; his feet touch ground, and he's gone.
The remaining shadows gradually dissipate.
"Unicorn blood..." Alucard seethes, using his remaining hand to wipe the silver sludge from his half-melted face. He slops it onto the floor with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. His remaining eye searches the area before lighting upon the open workman's entrance, above. "... ran away again." A sneer crosses his face, his half-formed lip curling in disgust.
Then Alucard turns his gaze to Ranma, who is busy creeping along the wall towards the main exit in a trite and almost comical ninja style. "Ninja girl!" he calls, striding purposefully towards her.
Ranma freezes, rotating to face Alucard in a protracted, mechanical manner, like a child caught stealing cookies.
The man's large, gloved hand grasps her under her chin and lifts her into the air, eyes to eye with himself. Ranma squirms and struggles, but the fingers are a vice around her jaw. Instead, she is forced to stare into the man's bright orange right eye, the porous mess that was once the left side of his face, and the wide, shark-like grin, wherin every tooth has taken the angular form of a fang.
Ranma panics a little, and her eyes dart around, noting the distance to the relative exits and the tools on the paths that might allow her escape. Her hand, meanwhile, surreptitiously digs into her pocket.
All in a moment, her right hand lashes out, planting a sharpened wooden table leg directly through Alucard's heart, while simultaneously, her left hand grips at his thumb, valiantly straining to slip her fingers beneath it.
Alucard looks down at his chest. Seconds later, his visage gradually rises; though it doesn't seem possible, his grin is even wider. "Ha! Wonderful! You are amusing, Ninja girl," he declares, with a gale of deep, hearty laughter. He glances across the area. "Look! Look around us!"
He rotates her, allowing her to view the devastation. Bodies lie dead or dying on the floor – three under the platform, and two near her initial targets. She sees a few people huddled in corners, hiding in the darkness of their booths. She notices that the suits and their fallen companions are gone. The booth in which she fought the blue-haired boy is an impenetrable mess of splinters and rubble.
"You did this! Isn't it magnificent?" Alucard asks, rotating the masked child to face him.
She tries responding, but finds her jaw pinched tight. She settles for glaring.
Alucard chuckles and drops her to the floor. "Go! Run home, Ninja girl! You wouldn't want to be late for school."
He releases rolling waves of booming laughter as she makes a bee-line towards the exit.
A squat, balding man in a navy-blue suit slides out of the shadows, stopping next to Alucard, who slowly brings his chuckling to a halt.
"I like her," Alucard states.
"I thought you might be interested," the short man's raspy voice replies. "Will you talk to Integra about recruiting her?"
Alucard considers this for a minute. "Maybe," he finally answers. "But, in the mean time, take care she doesn't start chasing after boys, will you?"
Alucard chuckles again at the disturbed look on the bald man's face.
-oOo-
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