Yaaay, an update, and it took me only what, half a year? ...Holy shit, it's really been six months... welp, it's settled, I am just awful. Why do you guys put up with me?
Okay seriously, I am so sorry to keep you waiting for so long. Thing is, after I posted the two chapters in August I just fucked around and didn't write anything substantial, and then the new semester started and I got completely overwhelmed and am only now coming to writing on a regular basis.
Well, I hope you can forgive me my awful, awful update timers, and we can get to what I actually posted. I really hope you guys will enjoy this and that it won't disappoint you after all that wait. As always, I am open to feedback, positive or negative.
Thank you and have fun,
With regards,
Rhinne, the Avatar of Procrastination
P.S. Uhm, I don't know if this will come off wrong, but looking at the views on individual chapters, I kinda noticed that the Chapter 15 has about 3x less views than what is my average and since I posted it simultaneously with the Ch. 16, I kinda thought whether there is this slight possibility that some of you may have skipped it. If so, I would suggest to read it as, because while I can admit there's not terribly much of interest there, there are a few plot relevant things in there. And if that is not the case and I'm just making a fool of myself, please disregard this whole paragraph.
Aftermath
Her shirt lay discarded on the floor, crumpled and forgotten, a silent memento to a wonderful mistake. Anderson stood by an open window, forearms resting on the windowsill, droplets of acidic rain bursting against her bare skin. With a soft hum she ran her fingers down her throat and collar-bone, retracing the marks Dredd left behind.
Darkness clung to her frame like second skin, undiluted save for the few spots where hazy colourful lights from billboards outside managed to pierce the inky black air. Some time ago the storm must have hit a power line, blowing the energy supply for the Block. Secondary generator kicked in, restoring air filtration and other vital processes, but light in homes wasn't important enough commodity to redirect power that way. Or at least, not as important as advertisement lighting. Anderson shook her head and returned to gazing into the endless black veils pouring from the sky, or at least pretending to do so.
She felt herself suspended in a strange state of dichotomy, muscles sore and tired, and yet full of energy, longing to run, dance and touch, mind whipped into razor-sharp clarity, but unfocused, still reeling from the aftershocks of her climax. Letting out a deep shuddering breath she made an attempt to steady herself and bring back at least a semblance of calm.
Dredd's presence manifested as a change in mood of the room. With a warm smile settling on her lips Anderson shifted her posture, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
He was striking, she had to admit. Physically attractive, yes, but to reduce him to merely that would be a disservice. Moving with the powerful steady grace of a pride leader, victor of countless fights, he was like a natural force clad in flesh. And still in that moment he was almost achingly human, holding two steaming cups of tea and dressed in loose sweatpants, showing more modesty that Anderson had bothered with.
When he stepped closer, the faint light from outside fell onto the labyrinth of scars that covered his body. With a small smile Anderson recalled how she had made an attempt to trace, caress and taste every single one of them. With a mere thought she again felt her tongue slide across a knife scar with jagged edges, knotted mass of tissue left behind by a bullet, a too smooth, almost alien plane of flesh where an injury has been covered with a skin graft. Under her fingertips the phantoms of his skin flared alive again, bringing back the purely tactile sensation of her hands running from his collar-bone to the thin patch of hair that started just below his navel.
He came to stand next to her and handed her one of the hot cups, which she accepted with a half-laugh, half-snort from the back of her throat. She was well aware of the standard post-coital cigarette, but post-coital cup of tea was something entirely different. But she knew better than to comment on it and sipped the beverage, burning her tongue as a karmic punishment for laughing.
Dredd slowly ran his hand down the landscape of her back, fingers splaying over the small bumps of her spine, tracing the contours of her shoulder-blades and she melted under his touch. His movements were calm and deliberate, and yet she could feel his tenseness, sense the hearth that galloped beneath his ribcage. With a soft sigh she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling a little portion of the tension disappear.
Setting her teacup on the windowsill, Anderson lifted her head and met Dredd's eyes. He held her gaze, outwardly solemn and detached, feigning indifference while his mind rebuilt the barrier she weathered away. With a smile gracing her features she rose to her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He responded, pulling her closer, the cup in his hand warming her shoulder-blade.
When they pulled away, Anderson caught a glimpse of the relentless hungry specter within him, part of humanity long thought subdued, forgotten, eradicated, the one part of him that didn't mind her intrusion into his life. He brought a hand to her face, cupping her cheek, thumb tracing her bottom lip. She smiled against his touch, just the tiniest hint of sadness in it, and mirrored his action, guiding her fingertips along the outline of his jaw.
Silence stretched between them, comfortable and yet stifling somehow, a sense of creeping unease slowly bubbling up around them, the rising waters of rational thought gradually cutting off their air supply. A dull ache pulsating somewhere beneath her ribcage, Anderson hesitantly reached out with her mind, tasting the disquiet in her partner, touching the surface of war within him. With its icy claws the merciless irrefutable truth settled between them: Neither of them could afford this.
She let her her hand dip from his face to his chest, steady heartbeat drumming against her fingertips like a metronome. Her own heart was beating a rapid painful tattoo into her ribs, bloodstream poisoned with the knowledge that the next word spoken would be the death sentence. They were at a stalemate, damnatus and executioner, the roles yet unassigned and so filled by both, standing against the inexorable tide of reality that would inevitably tear them apart.
She expected him to be the voice of reason and deliver the mercy shot, to sever the ties that stretched between them in one precise surgical cut. But he remained silent, fingers lost in her hair, movements tinged with stubborn determination as if he was trying to hold on just a little while longer.
In the end, it was Anderson to speak first. "You know, I actually like my job." she said with a mirthless smile, wrapping her arms around him, because even though she intended to cut them apart, she didn't want to let go.
He regarded her with a stoic, guarded mien and so with a deep breath, she continued. "And... I have come to like you too. Maybe more than that." she exhaled, making an effort to keep her voice calm and level, and not succeeding, her voice breaking at the last words. She mustered a smile at the truth. The nuclear blast of carnal desire seared away the petty infatuation, morbid curiosity, the excitement of daring to fall for him, and left behind something deeper, raw and bleeding, something she never intended to lay bare, or even admit existed.
He tensed up, waiting whether she would demand that he reciprocates. She had no such intentions. With a sigh she placed her fingers over his lips and rested her forehead against them. Whatever he could say would not make the next sentence any easier or harder to speak.
"And I don't think the two are compatible." she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
They fell into silence once again, the last sentence lingering in the air around them. After what felt like eternity Dredd closed his fingers around her wrist and moved her hand from his mouth. He let go and cupped her chin in his hand, making Anderson look him in the eyes. Still cupping her chin, he leaned to her, resting his forehead against hers. "We are Judges, first and foremost." he stated, his voice low, but firm, a ghostly and lingering at the end of the statement.
Anderson let out a deep cleansing breath, letting go of her tension, submitting to the inescapable course of reality. "And this was just an interlude." she whispered against his skin.
She woke up alone, not that she expected differently. A look at the clock showed that it was a little after seven, testament to bio-rhythm drilled into her by her line of work. With a soft groan Anderson brushed loose strands of hair from her face and rolled on her back and let out a deep breath.
"Why do I do this to myself?" she sighed and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes crawled out of the bed.
Chilly air washed over her bare skin as the sheets slipped off of her and she shuddered at the prospect of sneaking around the apartment retrieving her gear. But just as she was mustering strength for the awkward encounter with the flat's inhabitant, she noticed a pile of her belongings haphazardly thrown over the end of the bed. She let out an audible sigh of relief and began to get dressed, fully aware that the inevitable awkwardness merely got postponed by the two minutes it took her. With her gear re-equipped sans one lost sock, Anderson ran a hand through her tangled hair and walked over to the living room.
Dredd was already awake and dressed in uniform, much to nobody's surprise. He was pacing back and forth, reading something off a dataslate, absent-mindedly tapping fingers against his thigh. Then he noticed her and all the motion ceased instantly.
For a moment the world held its breath like a diver does before plunging into icy waters below, the two Judges eyeing each other with a mixture of wariness and anticipation. Then Dredd offered a miniscule nod and Anderson answered in kind, a tiny half-hearted smile curving her lips for just a fraction of a second. Again she ran a hand through her hair, taking a deep breath, and nodding towards Dredd's dataslate.
"Anything interesting?" she asked, faking a neutral, strictly professional tone. A small voice inside her asked why she opted for such an obvious cop out, but she silenced it with the simple fact that there just wasn't anything else to talk about, which, in a way, was even the truth.
Dredd handed her the tablet, shoulders squared, just the slightest hint of something between longing and animosity traceable in the movement. "It's starting at 9." he said, not illuminating the situation in the slightest and with the tablet safely deposited in her hands, he stepped back. The walls around his mind were back in full force, perhaps even stronger, a clear indicator that he wanted to keep her at an arm's length in both literal and metaphorical sense.
Anderson skimmed through the data, raising her eyebrows at the lack of tangible information. There were few curt clear orders given, but not a glimpse of larger picture. The intent of the Hall was clear: minimize the impact any leaked information would have on the entire operation. It was by no means a wrong course of action and the fact that nor even Dredd was given any additional info only attested the commitment to the plan. Which invited the question whether her reading instructions meant for someone else didn't go completely against that.
When she pointed that out, Dredd only shrugged. "You're on my team. This is inconsequential." he clipped with sharp edge of finality in his tone.
Nodding curtly, Anderson cleared her throat. "Well then, I better get going." she uttered and moved to hand back the dataslate.
Dredd met her half-way, taking the tablet into one hand, the other reaching out in a jerky, half-realised movement. For a moment Anderson thought he might actually touch her, but then he reined himself in and retracted the hand, fingers curling into a fist, knuckles white.
She offered him a something akin to a smile, though the pain she couldn't keep from seeping through rendered it hollow. "See you on the battlefield, then." she said, cutting her tongue on such inexpressive words. As she was turning away she caught a shadow of an expression pass his face out of the corner of her eye, a look that she couldn't really place, nor did she want to. It was heinous that she found comfort in his pain, but it did make things easier to bear, if only marginally.
She opted for a jog to reach the Hall, as it wasn't too far away from her location and offered few moments to clear her head. Once she reached her destination she made her way to the Quartermaster's office to have a new Lawmaster issued. After an endless, draining discussion with an elderly Judge, who refused to see that after catching a missile and smearing the rest of her bike on the highway she really needed a new one, Anderson finally got the permit to retrieve her replacement vehicle.
Immediately after escaping the bureaucratic hell, Anderson set out to reach the meeting point for her team, a creeping feeling that she would be late spurring her on. She raced on the highway, gently breaking in her new mechanical steed, getting used to its quirks and kinks. The simple act of driving and enjoying the speed at which the world ran by helped shed some weight that she wouldn't admit lingered in her heart. She was well aware that this was just another cop out, a way to suppress the things bothering her, but she didn't really care.
She was the last to reach the rendezvous point, though she still managed to come before the time they were supposed to set out, which was at least some consolation. Their task was simple and straightforward, to the point where Anderson felt insulted that she and Dredd were given such a mundane part to play. As a part of small strike-force were they supposed to assault, deactivate and the hold a radio tower that was airing an encrypted, unknown frequency believed to be the way of communicating between the individual centres of Bob's machination. Well, perhaps she wasn't being exactly fair, after all they were expected to pretty much cut off the communication between an entire slew of sectors, still, this wasn't the place where the main bulk of action would be taking place and that aggravated her. And from the more-pissed-off-than-usual scowl Dredd wore and the overly curt instructions he gave out, she could tell that he shared her sentiment.
Another thing that worried her was the size of their force. Besides her and Dredd there were eleven other people, none of which Anderson knew of was on first name basis, though that was probably just a personal gripe and had nothing to do with the competence of the Judges. But rather that the familiarity or lack thereof, the number was the reason for her unease and not because of any superstition. Thirteen seemed simultaneously too many and too few to take down Robert, should he decide to thwart such a, in comparison, miniscule operation.
In such case Anderson would have wished to have at least hundred men at her disposal, hoping to reach the point where Bob would no longer be able mind-control them all and someone would have the chance to take him out. At the same time, if such thing came to pass, she wanted to be the only one present, negating any collateral damage and being the only one to bear the fruits of her inevitable failure. Ultimately, thirteen was the perfect number for Bob to control and turn against each other at the mere thought.
But strangely, nothing like that came to pass, in fact, the tower capture went irritatingly easy. Sure, there were some hiccups here and there and they still faced more than ten their numbers of armed enemies, but in narrow corridors of the radio station that advantage accounted for little and in less than two hours, the strike force accomplished the first half of its goal.
Immediately upon finishing the objective, Anderson contacted the Hall, demanding to be assigned on another task and was promptly denied her request. After only narrowly avoiding being dishonorably discharged for screaming down, insulting and threatening her superior officers and pretty much anyone who happened to cross her path, the Judges accompanying her were very calmly informed that should she attempt to leave her assigned post they had not only the permission, but an order to shoot her. When confronted with the muzzle of Dredd's Lawgiver Anderson finally stepped down with bared teeth.
She didn't long to earn decorations or play hero, but the thought that somewhere else Bob was picking apart other Judges and putting them through hell unimaginable frayed at her nerves. She did not have the misplaced sense of self-importance to think she alone could turn the tide of battle, but if nothing else she would be able to offer some support. The inability to put her abilities to good use combined with the informational deprivation left her tense and irritable, like a spring wound up too tight. Or maybe she was just lying to herself and her motives were selfish, not like she could deny a desire to escape Dredd's presence.
As much as she wanted to believe that they could carry on without hang-ups or bitterness, she was not optimistic enough to do so. At first they managed to remain civil and professional, fighting alongside each other with impeccable precision and efficiency, but as soon as the fighting stopped, first cracks appeared on the surface. Tension, built in equal parts of longing and restraint, a few brief glances exchanged when they thought the other wouldn't notice, the offhand word here and there. Creeks and rivers that slowly poured into a sea of frustration, that would sooner or later inevitably warp their relationship beyond recognition, leaving behind only resentment and animosity. In the end Anderson breathed a sigh of relief when after two unbearable weeks, Dredd's demand to be reassigned was sanctioned, leaving her in charge of the defense of the radio station.
For the next three months Mega City One turned into a battlefield. Burning industrial complexes belched ash and soot into a bruised sky and the com network overflowed with messages, some level and curt, others hectic, punctated by gunfire. The situation peaked at a stalemate, both sides hemorrhaging more lives that they could sustain, reports of new weapons and mutated atrocities coming in every hour of every day, though slowly but surely the scales seemed to be tipping in favor of the better organized forces of the Hall. Then, right on daybreak of the fourth month of the conflict the real war began.
A horrifying amalgamation of howls, cries and mad laughter echoed through the com, a terrified voice stammering something about mass hysteria, sudden suicides and madness. Before the words -mind control- were even mentioned, Anderson was already speeding down the highway to the epicentre of the insanity, the CVC mining company. Right when the first of the tall chimneys came into her view, she heard a high pitched whine and three deadly sleek forms of a fighter-jets, carrying the golden eagle on their wings flew overhead to the factory. In the next second the world was set aflame.
Anderson stopped her Lawmaster and silently watched the destruction, unable to suppress a shiver as she watched flames dancing over the remains of a once gigantic complex, the chilling realisation of Hall's plan catching up to her. It was hauntingly callous and simple; wait until Bob strikes at any place at any time and then blow it to hell. A wave of revulsion ran down Anderson's spine as she realised that her own advice to keep it simple may have contributed to this plan that involved sacrificing their own forces in pursuit of victory. By all means it should have been cathartic for Anderson to witness Bob's utter annihilation, but she felt nothing of the sort, instead experiencing a sense of incompleteness, her inner voice stating adamantly that this wasn't over.
But it was the straw that broke the camel's back. What little actual coherence and organization Bob's forces maintained until then suddenly vanished. Havoc broke out amongst the mutants, troops turning on themselves, committing mass-suicides in the bizzarest ways possible, or just wandering aimlessly like sheep without a shepherd. In just seven hours after the destruction of the mining company, Bob's war was a thing of the past.
Well, not entirely. In the aftermath of the conflict between Bob and Hall, new ones sprung up, sweeping over the City like a tidal wave. Block-wars long thought buried and forgotten, flared up with new horrifying ferocity. Dictators, spiritual leaders, religious zealots of one kind or another rose to power, declared wars, crusades and coups, and in lifespan of a dayfly fell again, many of the western sectors plunging into chaos. The industry quaked and trembled as corporate sharks tore themselves apart and in their death throes fed flesh and blood to new contenders, millions of people losing their jobs, homes and lives in the aftermath.
The life for Judges changed, and not for the better. To combat all the uprisings, Block-wars and new crazes, while also compensating for the lives lost in the fight against Bob, the twelve hour shifts became sixteen hours, the sixteen hour ones lasted twenty-four, the free day they were granted every two weeks was scrapped altogether. Rookies were thrown into the pandemonium to sink or swim and where Judges ran short, the auxiliary staff were sent out as support. They were being worn thin, only a matter of time until they would succumb to the constant fatigue. Even after six months after Bob's defeat the City was far from returning to normal, or at least the standard kind of insane.
Which was why Anderson found herself wondering why she, after an already draining shift, even bothered letting Ruby call off a mob from lynching an exemplary specimen of human scum she would execute anyway. She aimed her gun at the perp that cowered at her feet, readying herself to turn it on the amassing mob, wondering whether she would have the stomach to shoot with Hi-Ex into them, should they decide to collapse on top of them. She really hoped, it wouldn't come to that.
"Uhm... so, again, let's just all take a deep breath. We can sort this out, I'm sure." said the redhead nervously, trying her best not to let the crowd intimidate her. A bottle flew past her head and shattered nearby, cheap liquor and glass shards glittering in the weak orange glow of public lighting. "Hey! Stop that!" Ruby shouted, the surprise giving her voice a little bit of an edge.
The Hall was pretty quick to put Ruby to good use. As Anderson later came to know, while the conflict between Bob and the Hall raged, Ruby was already undergoing the steps to become a useful member of the auxiliary staff. Though it wasn't without hiccups, because as if turned out, Ruby was a miserable shot, a lousy close-combat fighter and over-all not very motivated to inflict pain onto others. The opposite turned out to be more up her alley and in the end she bartered to complete advanced medical and basic combat training instead of the opposite. Anderson then took over and gave her some pointers on using her powers, shaping her into a decent pathokine, though the compulsion-side of things was still somewhat lacking. After being definitively deemed competent and loyal enough, Ruby was let loose on the City, proving to be an useful mediator in conflicts where there was still hope for a peaceful outcome, showing an ability to get along with anyone, thanks to and despite her powers.
Ruby was in middle of another monologue to try to calm down the bloodthirsty crowd, occasionally interrupted by curses or calls for vengeance. She fidgeted nervously with her hair, or tried to bite her nails and speak simultaneously, but other than that she seemed to keep her nervosity mostly in check. It amused Anderson that someone with the potential to command masses with a single word could be such a bad public speaker.
The crowd bristled and took a step towards the three figures, Anderson hissing a curse through her teeth. She was hesitant to aim her gun at the approaching mass of bodies as that would surely escalate the situation, and after a twenty-nine hours in the field she really didn't have the emotional capacity to try to defuse the situation non-violently. And since calling the mob a few choice words and giving them detailed instructions on which body parts to crawl up probably wasn't the best way to calm them down, she decided to let Ruby do the talking.
The young mutant let out a strangled squeak and raised her hands in front of her chest in a subconscious defensive gesture as the mob stepped closer again. "Okay, okay, okay, just stop right there, alright? And put down that knife... sword... long pointy thing you're holding, it's really far too big and kind of terrifying. So just stay where you are, we got this, really." she spoke in high-pitched staccato, stumbling over her words in an effort to keep the raging mass of people at bay. The tide of bodies, furious faces and raised knifes wavered a little then stopped.
A tangible wave of relief washed over everyone, courtesy of Ruby, and the redhead continued with a little more confidence. "Thank you, now, look, I get you, believe me, I do. You think I'm on the side of the child molester here?" she asked, throwing a look full of contempt and hatred at the man curled by Anderson's feet. "Of course I'm not. If I could, I would be right there with you, probably mounting his head on a pike. But, you can't kill him, it's a crime, we would have to arrest you... or you know, she would." Ruby jerked her head at Anderson. "So just, stop. Go home to your families, it's done, he will never get out, I promise you." Ruby finished her speech, a subtle caress of warmth washing over the back of Anderson's brain, a common after-effect of the young mutant's powers.
The crowd lingered a while longer, rage and bloodlust still permeating the air, but the emotions slowly ebbed to an acceptable level and the mob started slowly dispersing, offering curses as parting gifts. Only few individuals remained, the ones that wore the deepest scowls, teeth bared in hatred and pain that could never be quelled by mere words.
A wet sucking sound came from the bloodied mouth of the perp skulking next to Anderson let out a sigh of relief as he heard his would-be executioners leave. With wind wheezing through the gaps where his teeth had been he slowly rose his head, blood, tears and snot forming a disgusting warpaint on his face. Anderson preventively fixed her mind to his in case he decided on something stupid like trying to escape, but he just watched the remaining people, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. His eyes glossed over a matronly woman leading away a boy of maybe nine years, an arm protectively held around the child's shoulders.
Something dark and vile twitched in the deepest corner of the perp's mind, the image of a small pale corpse strung-up spread-eagled in his room flashing before his eyes for just a micro-second.
"Oh, fuck this." Anderson growled, the scene branded into her brain with white hot iron. "For your crimes I sentence you to death." she clipped coldly and when the man turned his head to her, his eyes widening in terror, liberated the thoughts from the confines of his brain.
The shot cracked in the narrow streets like thunderstrike and echoing between the neighbouring Blocks. The remainders of the lynch mob, less than fifteen people, scooted closer, looking to confirm the death of the "Lurker" as they dubbed him. Satisfied with the sight of the man's headless body they began to leave one by one, some content with his demise, some cursing his too easy of a death. Nearby, supporting herself against a wall, Ruby was purging the contents of her stomach for the fourth time in one night.
Only one person besides Anderson and Ruby remained, a middle-aged man with the heavy-set, bulky figure of a manual labourer. He came to stand almost right next to the smear of blood, bone and brain matter, a cigarette held in his thick calloused fingers. For a while he said nothing, just glaring at the remains with unfathomable hatred and pain, then, releasing a cloud of smoke that smelled like cheap tobacco and burnt rubber, he cleared his throat. "Spitting on a corpse, is it a crime?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"Yes," Anderson answered, "And for that matter, so is smoking outside of Smokatoriums." she added blankly, though she had no intention of fining a man who had just lost a child.
The man just looked at her with tired, dead eyes and took a drag, nodding once, but not moving away from the corpse. "Bastard." he growled and ashed his cigarette above the perp's body.
Anderson lifted a corner of her mouth in a hollow smirk and sighed. Turning her head slightly she very slowly and very thoroughly rubbed her aching eyes, actually enjoying the soothing sensation. She heard the man clear his throat and a then wet smack. When she opened her eyes, he was already walking away, shoulders squared, lighting a new cigarette as he went.
Without throwing another glance at the headless corpse Anderson contacted the Control to report a body for Resyk. Shifting her attention to the redhead, who currently tried to look as inauspicious as humanly possible, Anderson couldn't help but let out an amused snort. "Ruby," she started. "Wipe you mouth."
Ruby pulled a face of pretend surprise, but when Anderson turned to walk away, quickly wiped the spittle into the sleeve of her jacket. "It's the nerves... and guts." she shrugged apologetically and caught up to Anderson. "So, when does your shift end?" she asked.
Rubbing her eyes again, Anderson sighed. "Five hours ago."
"And when's the last time you have eaten?" Ruby pried, a habit she adopted after Anderson once made an offhand remark about eating about three times a week and subsiding the rest of the time on sheer willpower and the occasional protein bar.
That question actually made Anderson stop and try to remember. "Erm... Monday? Or maybe it was Sunday..." she answered at last.
Ruby let out an exasperated sigh. "Uh-huh, it's Thursday now. So, what about pancakes?" she asked.
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "It's also three in the morning. Are you sure... oh what am I saying, there's never bad time for pancakes." she smirked.
Ruby grinned in response and quickly located the nearest diner. It was a tiny, old place, though reasonably well-preserved. The booths were decrepit and stained with fluids Anderson didn't want to identify, but the bar was actually fairly clean and the stools didn't disintegrate when sat on.
Once the two women ordered their breakfast food and coffee from a waitress, who was about as pleasant as one could expect at three in the morning, Anderson yawned and stretched, cracking her joints, while Ruby curled up on a chair, one leg folded under her, the other dangling. Supporting her head with one arm, Anderson waited for her coffee to arrive and, mixing in a dose of sugar just short of being lethal, downed the black scalding brew in one gulp.
Ruby, blowing her cup to cool it, tilted her head in mild bewilderment. "What's your throat made of?" she scoffed and took a loud slurp of coffee, hissing when she burned her tongue.
"Mostly scar tissue." Anderson deadpanned.
The redhead shook her head and continued to cautiously sip her liquid energy. "Oh, by the way, what now? Do you wanna take some more cases, or just go home?" she asked.
Anderson huffed and shook her head. "Nah, my next shift starts in what, two hours? I might as well save me the driving and go do some of my personal stuff" she shrugged.
"So, you still looking for Bob then, huh?" Ruby commented, shifting around on the chair in discomfort. Her tone had the familiar tinge of tentative concern that Anderson regularly got when she told someone she believed that Bob survived the complete obliteration of the CVC. Though Ruby gave her at least the benefit of a doubt. "Found something new?" the redhead asked.
It was Anderson's turn to shift around. "Well, there's the seedy underbelly of pit fighting, they seem to be going strong, so I suppose their supplies haven't gone away. And then I found this guy-"
Fortunately, her explaining that she really still had nothing tangible to show for was cut short by their food arriving. Only when Anderson looked at the golden-brown flaps of fried dough, slightly burnt on one side, did she realize how long it was since she ate something that wasn't cardboard-tasting protein bars or dry tasteless TV Dinners dug up from the darkest corner of her fridge. The heavenly smell of burnt oil and processed sugary syrup was enough to almost bring tears to her eyes, her freshly awoken stomach voicing its opinion with the roar of a hundred-headed beast. Without speaking a word she wolfed down the pancakes, having to remind herself between bites that loud moaning was not the public-approved accompaniment to eating.
Ruby, who barely started on her first pancake, watched her with a taken aback expression and then wordlessly transferred half of her plate onto Anderson's. Receiving no thanks except for a grunt of happiness, the redhead fidgeted with her fork. "Hm, do you know how long it takes from here to Hall by bus?" she asked and when Anderson questioningly rose an eyebrow, elaborated further. "Have to be at the office at seven. Wanna know if I'll be late."
"Moonlighting?" Anderson mumbled between bites.
"More like daylighting, but yes, have to pay for therapy somehow. Besides, I really enjoy it. Not the paperwork, but the people are nice." Ruby shrugged and took a bite of food and almost immediately, with her mouth still full, made a sudden excited noise and hastily washed the pancake down with coffee. "Oh, I almost forgot. Me and the kids from the office are having a movie night this Saturday. We're watching some old horror movies and even Harris said he would come by after his shift, so if you're free..."
Anderson smiled at the extended invitation, but shook her head. "Sorry, but I think I'll pass. I would be no fun, would probably fall asleep the second I sat down. Besides, with my line of work, I don't think horror movies will do much for me." she explained apologetically.
Ruby offered an understanding smile and nodded. "Okay, but the next time when we do rom-coms, you have no excuse."
Letting out a short laugh, Anderson raised her hands in defeat, but before she could answer, a bell above the diner door rang as a figure stepped through the door.
Turning her head slightly Anderson eyed the person with the regular amount of caution and scrutiny. The new arrival turned out to be a middle-aged man with gaunt cheeks, his face set in a haunted, tired expression. He wore a brown jacket with a hood pulled over his eyes over what seemed to be a stained and torn lab-coat and he had a travel bag slung over his shoulders. Though Anderson couldn't really place him, he was oddly familiar and so she discreetly checked his mind.
She let out a small hiss as a wave of revulsion ran through her. The entire structure of the man's thoughts was wrong, disjointed and decrepit, like a machine that was smashed into pieces only to be patched up with string and paper into barely functional state, always teetering on the brink of disrepair. In his head fragments of memories mixed with the flashes of reality in a manner that wasn't just abnormal, but fundamentally broken, as if his entire being was a crudely stitched-together abomination, sustained only by thick bulging veins of fear and guilt.
Whether he sensed her intrusion or it was some kind of a tick the man suddenly flinched and looked straight at the Judge, revealing his identity. The shambles of his mind flared alight as they regurgitated the images ingrained in them. Anderson saw herself through the grainy feed of a security camera fighting the misbegotten creations he had helped bring to life, whirling in a dance of death like a blood-drenched Fury.
For a heartbeat Anderson and doctor Johnson stared at each other in disbelief and shock. Then, as if a metaphorical starter pistol had been shot, they burst into action. The doctor bolted to the door, in the fit of adrenaline almost ripping it from its hinges, and sprinted into the streets.
Throwing over her chair Anderson darted behind him and leapt through the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ruby send her a quick wave and a smile, the redhead not bothering to even try and follow, since the last time she did, it had gotten her lost in the sewers under sector 113.
With fierce determination Anderson ran after her target, excitement setting her insides aflame. It was ironic that six months of scouting the City and reading the reports on Bob until she knew them by heart, would lead to nothing, only to stumble upon her biggest chance to get to him by pure coincidence, but she wasn't one to complain.
Johnson sprinted through the streets trying to shake her off in a series of maze-like side streets, though he didn't seem to understand who he was up against. Life a she-wolf would stalk her prey by scent, Anderson latched onto the man's broken mind, following it like a shiny unwholesome beacon. The streets they ran through got progressively darker and more deserted, the pavement becoming a patchwork of used needles, broken glass and blood.
A howl of terror ended the chase and when Anderson emerged into yet another narrow dank street she found Johnson on his knees in front of a dead end, his shoulders slouched and trembling. Cautiously drawing her gun should he opt for a surprise attack, Anderson stepped closer to the doctor. As he heard her approaching he scrambled to his feet and turned to face her, backing away to the wall that cut off his escape until his back was pressed against it.
"Leave. Me. Be." Johnson forced through clenched teeth, his speech chopped-up and distorted as his mind struggled to formulate coherent thoughts.
"I have a few questions first." Anderson responded, lowering her gun for a second.
Which was the moment Johnson decided to try and make a break for it. He attempted to dash past her, but before he managed to take more than a step, Anderson gripped him by his shoulders and slammed him back against the wall, pressing her forearm against his trachea to dissuade him from trying that again.
"As I said, questions first." she growled at the man, who looked at her with wild eyes, one of his pupils constricted to a dot, the other dilated until almost no iris was showing.
He struggled against her grip, air rattling in his throat. "Let. Go. Need to. Run away." he wheezed out, panic lending his words a sense of urgency.
"Are you running away from Bob?" Anderson asked and received a nod in return. She couldn't help but let out one pent-up breath and smile grimly, her suspicions finally confirmed. "Why?" she inquired further.
"He's mad. Killed them. All. Wanted me. To. Continue working." the doctor hissed, his mind bleeding out images of his cherished ones, doctor Rosenbers with her black-rimmed glasses and a sardonic smirk, B-15, an experiment he became fond of and lastly, but accompanied by most grief, the face of a twelve year old girl with clear black eyes, five of them, and small furry chelicerae growing over her upper lip.
Anderson frowned as a suspicious thought entered her mind. "How did you run away? Doesn't he have a kill switch on you?" she asked, her mind already bracing for the possibility that she just mindlessly ran into a trap.
Johnson cautiously reached up, his hand trembling, and pulled back the hood that covered his head. In stunned surprise, Anderson choked and inched away from the man.
His scalp was shorn save for a few islands of brittle hair, scratches that barely stopped bleeding criss-crossing the bruised scabbed skin. When his head caught the meager light of the one functioning flickering street light a few glints ran across his skull. The reflective spots were the ends of horseshoe nails driven into Johnson's head, blood and pus leaking from the wounds and creating dried scaly patches. A single image tumbled from the doctor's brain: standing in front of a mirror driving the nails into very precisely picked and marked spots, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he destroyed his brain.
"Y-You lobotomized yourself." Anderson stammered.
A muffled sound of feet clattering on broken glass could be heard, but Anderson didn't pay attention, instead closely watching the mutilated man. "Where is he now? What is he planning?" she asked, her voice barely betraying the mixture of determination and aggression she felt.
This time Johnson didn't answer, just frowned and shook his head, fingers flexing into claws.
Anderson growled. "Tell me. I will rip his throat out with my teeth." she pushed, but received nothing in return. As much as she didn't want to dive into the doctor's dilapidated consciousness, but she saw no other way.
She dove into the dark decrepit corners of his desiccated mind, her phantom self writhing painfully in the unwholesome environment. Johnson knew what she was doing and she was not welcome, barbed jagged barriers springing forth from his tormented subconsciousness. But she doggedly pressed on, feeling the blood vessels in her nose burst, the coppery taste of blood lingering on her tongue. Once in a while she found thought of some usefulness in the wreckage, the image of Bob on an operation table, one clawed hand smashed to a pulp and both of his legs broken, the smell of sweat and excrement as Johnson supervised the last remnants of Bob's mutant forces, the sound of Bob's whisper that promised the worst torture if he didn't go through with his newest plan.
The sounds of multiple footsteps were closer now, accompanied by the sound of sporadic gunfire and something that sounded an awful lot like an explosion. Anderson hissed and attempted to extend her mind to check but found that with every inch she covered outside, she lost more ground in Johnson's head. With an irritated huff she decided to hope for the best and sunk back into the doctor's head. He stopped resisting her prying, instead retreating into the darkest corners of his mind and growling like an abused animal.
A new, bizarrely distorted image floated in front of her eye, a four-storey derelict building decorated in Corinthian style, a calligraphic F painted neon pink mounted above the front entrance. Another image followed, an innocuous door at the back of the complex, hidden behind an aged moth-ridden tapestry.
Anderson's breathing quickened, she knew the complex. "Fantasia." she hissed between her teeth, a feeling of elation bubbling in her stomach.
Then Johnson started screaming and clawing at his head. With a surge of rabid strength the doctor threw Anderson off him as he trashed around, his fingers digging into the flesh of his scalp. Anderson only watched as he ripped one of the nails from his skull and threw it to the ground. The smell of burnt meat rose to the air and in the dark, the nail on the ground glowed a bright orange, the remnants of flesh on it searing in the heat.
Anderson whipped around and sat a cluster of figures emerge from the same street she came from before. One toppled to the ground as its chest erupted into a fountain of blood and entrails, a tall armoured shape of a Judge barging in behind them, followed by more figures that were trying to take him down. Another figure, a head shorter that any of its companions, though unmistakably in charge, rose hands in the air, fingers curled into an intricate rigid gesture. A wave of heat extended from the small form and in the next second its fingers were aflame, the pyrokine launching a fireball at the Judge fighting nearby with just a flick of a wrist.
By that point Anderson was already shooting. Her first round was aimed at the pyrokine, but one of the other figures shoved one of his own allies in front of the barrage, saving the mutant's life. Suddenly Anderson was faced with the pyrokine's undivided attention. In an instant the handle of her Lawgiver shone white-hot, searing into her palm's flash through the composite that should have protected it. In a purely instinctive primal reaction Anderson flinched and dropped the gun, hissing in pain as the glove's material rubbed against the burn.
Seeing her disarmed and in their eyes vulnerable, some of the pyrokine's men decided to take her on, only to be unpleasantly surprised. Sidestepping a clumsy blow aimed a little too high, Anderson drove her elbow into the first man's face, watching him go down, blood streaming from his broken jaw. Dodging a knife blow she gripped her assailant's arm and broke it at the wrist, before turning around and hurling the man into another of her attackers, sending them tumbling into a heap of tangled limbs. Absent-mindedly she noted that none of them save for the pyrokine seemed to be mutants, at least not visibly ones. A quick brush against their minds confirmed that they were regulars, a small mercenary band that was promised untold amount of money if they managed to keep a certain pyrokine alive and well. Apparently the sum was big enough to warrant sacrificing their men in droves. After all, the less survived, the less there were to demand their share.
Foreseeing an attempt to bash her head in with a crowbar, Anderson ducked and glimpsed another fireball, this time directed at her. She leapt sideways, watching as the flames engulf her attacker, his screams echoing in the narrow street. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the other Judge shoot another one of the mercenaries and then throw a glance at her, their eyes meeting in the midst of the mayhem.
Anderson cursed and rammed her knee into someone's guts with a lot more anger than she usually reserved for such actions. Of course, it was Dredd, of course. Because the universe couldn't just leave her well enough afflicted with feelings towards the other Judge, it had to taunt her as well. The universe was a dick.
Her grumpy thoughts were interrupted, or rather redirected, when a fireball licked her elbow, sending out a lance of pain up her arm. Anderson hissed and jerked away, only to slam into a mercenary, immediately receiving a direct to her ribs. Another blow to her side forced her to back away even further, her attacker arming for another blow without Anderson managing to muster a counterattack. Distraught and out of rhythm, she was driven back against the wall, struggling to find her footing, letting herself be surrounded.
A man swung at her head and she dodged backwards, or at least attempted to. Her back hit the wall and in the next second the blow she tried to avoid connected, a red flare of pain exploding before her eyes. With one eye blinded by blood pouring from a split brow, Anderson prepared to retaliate against her opponent, who was aiming for her head again. But the blow never connected, her assailant suddenly lacking any interests besides the blood gushing from a gunshot wound in his throat.
Biting back another curse Anderson sent a curt nod to her savior, hint of resentful gratitude traceable in the movement. Capitalizing on the tiny breathing room gained, she pounced on the nearest mercenary, liberating few teeth from his jaw. A round from a Lawgiver echoed in the dark followed by a piercing wail. Anderson threw off a mercenary that tried to trap her in a bear hug and turned to investigate.
The pyrokine was on his knees, hands clenched in front of his chest, but he composed himself with admirable speed and scrambled to his feet, raising his fingers to the night's sky. Blood was gushing from his mangled right hand, all fingers save the thumb torn off, no doubt the only thing Dredd managed to hit through the mutant's meat shield.
His breathing laboured and hands trembling, the mutant reassumed the concentration gesture, rather poorly considering his missing fingers, and tried to reignite his flames. A heat wave blazed through the air, then another, and another, but the ignition didn't come, the pyrokine now visibly frustrated. But he kept trying and the temperature steadily rose, at first uncomfortable, painful a few seconds later.
Anderson panted as she deflected a half-hearted blow at her kidneys, and quite half-heartedly herself knocked out her attacker with a hit to the temple. She hissed as the clasps and zippers on her uniform started blazing dull red, burning marks into her flesh, sweat stinging in the wounds. In the rising heat breathing became painful, air burning in the nose and stinging in lungs.
Her eyes darted to Dredd who was still shooting, and despite the blaze a cold shiver ran down her spine. She understood now why their opponents didn't carry firearms. Any lesser weapon would have already exploded, it was only thanks to Lawgiver's superior materials that the ammunition still held.
A man next to Anderson fainted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Another started to rip the clothes from his body in a vain attempt to alleviate the heat. The entire mercenary band was either stumbling around or turning tail, the promised reward not enough to warrant incineration. Only ones that remained standing were the Judges, thanks only to their resilience, and the pyrokine, who seemed completely immune to heat.
Out of the corner of her eye Anderson saw Dredd drop to one knee. She stumbled forward and her body screamed in protest as her muscles constricted in a primal urge to flee. With a curse from between clenched teeth she forced her body to obedience, stilling her trembling. A deep scalding breath later she exploded into action, reaching for her boot and ripping out her knife, the metal searing into her flesh, and throwing it underhanded at the pyrokine.
Her aim was off, and despite throwing underhanded the blade rotated and hit the mutant hilt-first to the jaw, making him stagger. His concentration broken, the temperature immediately sunk tens of degrees and even though he composed himself quickly and resumed his posture, the damage was done, Dredd recovering enough to sent a couple of shots into his head and chest. As the torn and broken body fell to the ground, the world returned to normal.
Suddenly enveloped again by the chilly air Anderson sunk to her hand and knees, swallowing mouthfuls of the cold air. With trembling hand she unzipped her jacket and slipped it off, noting that her skin was a bright shade of pink and sensitive to touch. She scooped up her jacked and picked up her Lawgiver as she walked over to Dredd, who was standing with his shoulders squared, muttering strangled curses to himself.
She came to stand next to the other Judge, offering a nod of acknowledgement, not trusting her mouth to come up with anything sufficient. He paid her little attention, only grunting as a response, and returned to what seemed to be trying to rip open his own hand. Anderson hissed as she saw that to remain shooting Dredd refused to let go of his gun despite the same white-hot handle situation she experienced. The handle of his Lawgiver was deformed and covered by little pieces of molten composite and skin.
Anderson jerked towards him, an impulse that had very little to do with any professional concern for a colleague, but stopped herself short of touching him, fingers curling into fists. She let out a pent-up breath, again cursing the universe and its jokes, before redirecting her annoyance inwards. After all, it has been more than half a year since she last saw him, it should have been enough to rid herself of residual hang-ups.
Dredd let out an impatient growl and locked the barrel of his gun between his teeth, taking in a sharp breath and tearing his hand away, though leaving some pieces of it behind. He let go of the gun in an instant and brought the wounded hand to his chest, only the quick irregular breaths he was taking betraying that it wasn't no big deal. He cut off the rest of his destroyed glove and retrieved medical gel from his belt, applying it to his flayed palm and fingers, face relaxing as the analgesics began to work their magic.
He cleared his throat. "I take we're on the same case again." he stated matter-of-factly.
Anderson huffed and summoned at least a semblance of her professional self. "More of a side project for me. But if you mean finding Bob, then yes." she summarized.
Dredd nodded curtly. "Got something from him?" he asked, nodding to the remains of doctor Johnson.
"Pretty much anything there was to get." Anderson shrugged, but a corner of her mouth lifter as the she-wolf in her smelled its prey again. When Dredd remained quiet, she elaborated further. "As in, I know where to go and what to look for there."
He stayed silent for a few more moments, but when she didn't continue he shook his head. "Then, lead the way." he clipped.
She complied and slipped past him and started rethreading her steps. "I'm parking nearby." she said once they navigated out of the maze of side-streets and received an affirmative hum in response.
As she walked to her bike, well out of Dredd's hearing range, she let out a frustrated groan and rubbed her eyes with her palms. Months before she let go of her bitterness regarding the other Judge, resigning herself to the fact that the both of them were just lonely work-obsessed animals sharing some of that loneliness and it would bring nothing to try and change that, burying herself in her work instead. With a sigh she tried to assure herself that she could focus on her work in this instance as well.
When she mounted her Lawmaster she let out a small laugh. She really didn't like to think that she was full of shit.
Well, I think another round of apologies and clarifications is needed.
I've gotten more than one comment expressing a wish for me to write the more lemony and explicit parts. As you no doubt noticed, that went unanswered. I do apologize for my inability satisfy you in this regard (heh heh), but to be honest I'm pretty sure that creating an engaging, un-cringeworthy sex scene is beyond my writing capabilities, not to mention my comfort zone. The M rating on this fic is because of my love for bloodshed and gore (yep, I have nooo issues at aaall), so I hope you enjoy that and also bitter unfullfilled romance... grapefruit we shall call it. (or is it already a thing? do I even want to know if it's a thing? please don't tell me if grapefruit's a thing.)
Perhaps one day, when I have sufficiently improved my craft and am absolutely sure I can write characters bump-and-grind without making it a cringe-fest, I will give the citrus fruits a try.
Until then, take care.