Encounterlogs
Konstantins Odd Encounter Sr Rachel 240701
Konstantin finds himself reluctantly deciding to "help" a seemingly disturbed woman he encounters on Elm Street. After a short exit from a building, he returns with a pillowcase, methodically abducting her with an alarming lack of gentleness. His actions are depicted with a chilling pragmatism, as he threats the woman with death to ensure her compliance as he navigates her towards the Warden's woods, away from any potential witnesses. Konstantin's gruff exterior is contrasted with his internal monologue, revealing a complex character grappling with his own motivations and the grim realities of his actions. The woman, for her part, displays a fragile, disturbed mind fixated on counting bricks, offering little resistance but a haunting vocalization of her need to count.
As the story unfolds, Konstantin's journey with the woman takes a more descriptive turn with vivid portrayals of the physical and emotional toll their interaction incurs. He delivers her to a mysterious institute with the hope of her receiving some form of treatment, albeit with a darkly pragmatic view of her chances for significant improvement. The narrative sharply illustrates the depths of human neglect and the starkness of their realities within the fantastical setting. Ultimately, the story concludes with Konstantin departing the institute, eager to distance himself from the ordeal he just facilitated, reflecting on the unsavory aspects of his actions with a cynical note on human connections and the grotesqueness of his recent undertaking. This encounter leaves a powerful impression, not only of Konstantin's character but also of the bleak undertones that permeate the narrative landscape.
(Konstantin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Jun 30 2024]
On Elm Street
It is morning, about 85F(29C) degrees,
Well she's gone and made him commit now. He's made up his mind to 'help' her, and this is Konstantin we're talking about. A moment ago he was about to tell her to do one and leave her to it, but something else is on his mind. Maybe he thinks he might find a little catharsis, here. He back into the building, face set with purpose.
He returns, a minute or so later, with a pillowcase in one hand. He searches for the woman until he can spot her again, tip tapping her way across the bricks of the building. Konstantin bides his time, scanning the surrounds and keeping his distance. When he coast is clear, he snaps into action; it's not so far to the institute and perhaps people see 'headcases' from the clinic within outside sometimes. Easy to explain if he is challenged.
He steps up behind her, moving slowly to avoid scuffing his feet against the ground and alerting her, before tossing the pillowcase over her head and drawing it tight in his left hand. His right hand hooks behind her right arm and grips her left forearm near the elbow tightly. For a man trying to 'help', he isn't being particularly gentle, his fingers digging in. He wrenches her half off her feet immediately, taking advantage of the waif's degraded physicality to begin spiriting her away across the road, wasting no time in manhandling her towards the Warden's wood. Once among the trees, he needn't worry about witnesses any longer.
"Shut the FUCK up or I will KILL you", Konstantin barks into her ear, reassuringly.
Konstantin, Konstantin, Konstantin. The second time you have done this in a couple of weeks. You really need to work on your pickup technique.
Konstantin, Konstantin, Konstantin. The second time you have done this in a couple of weeks. You really need to work on your pickup technique (preferably one not involving bags)
She doesn't make it very far before Konstantin returns. Remember that she's counting EVERY brick, so she only makes it about ten feet, or three metres (you're welcome). It turns out that this woman's very, very human, and entirely without any particular redeeming abilities. Not even a lick of magic.
When Konstantin tries to abscond with her, she puts up a fight, sure, but with the amount of force of a butterfly beating its wings. "I have to count," she says from within the bag. "I have to. I have to count."
By the time they're in the trees, the thick foliage, branches, and shadow concealing them from view, she's a broken record. "I have to," she insists over and over. Konstantin's removing her from her life's work. "He needs me to."
God, that stench is rank. There's an acrid tang of ammonia, sharp at biting, that claws at the senses. It's intermingled with something sour and rancid, a pungent reminder of days and nights spent without cleansing. To top it off, there are notes - Konstantin's about to become a connoisseur of odors - of a salty, sweaty musk. This woman is a specter of her own neglect.
Kill her?
She might have died on her own by now, but...
...Sanctuary. If this were someone else's doing, she'd have had to stop for food, at least. Water. Nothing but the bare necessities, though. That's a punishment in and of itself, to be reduced to the bottom of the hierarchy of needs.
Poor Konstantin. He's going to be left with a souvenir when this is done and over with. That jacket's going to need some intense dry cleaning - and who knows, in Haven, if there's one adequate enough?
Actually, hm. There has to be. Enough unsavory business goes on here that that kind of thing would make a killing.
Konstantin has certainly engaged in plenty of unsavoury business, and his jacket is no stranger to a little grime here and there, but this is a special kind. It's pretty foul; the dress caked in it. Still, he presses on. He slows down a little as he enters the woods so as to avoid tangling his or her ankles in tree roots or foliage underfoot now that the threat of discovery by the natural world is over with. He marches her through the trees to the buildings in front, giving her a firm shake whenever she gets a little loud and hissing; "What you need to do is shut the fuck up!"
He trudges to the left, then, taking her towards the entrance of the institute grounds and the clinic proper beyond.
Piss/sweat stench or not, he's dirtied himself already, may as well see it through. Hopefully the institute will be able to give her enough of a zap to allow her to function atleast slightly more healthily while she goes about her eternal tasking.
They step into the Institute. Luckily, it's a Sunday morning, so there aren't students milling about. They're probably off at that beach volleyball hullabaloo. The only person present is a receptionist who, honestly, doesn't seem to give a damn what's going on. This is Haven, and what's more, these school grounds are the site of many a mysterious occurrence. That being said, what's NOT normal is the way the smell fills up the room, made a thousand-fold worse in the heat.
"Sir," she'd begun calling after him. "Please close the door when you exit--..." No, never mind. Don't close the door. My God. The AC can get lost, for all she cares, as long as it takes that rancid stench with it. She puts her hand over her nose and shuts up. How nice if Konstantin's hostage would do the same.
Anyway, it's no matter. They make it through the previously pristine hallways to where the colored lines delineating the clinic entrance are.
There are orderlies all about with clipboards and white jackets and faces that scream 'sure, we'll help - maybe.' One of them pauses in their busying about to direct Konstantin to where intake is.
"Down the hall, to the left, if you're looking for dropoff."
He gives the woman a once-over.
Yeah. Whatever assessment he's made about what she's here for holds.
No time is wasted. The less time spent in the midst of the wreck's miasma the better; every second is an assault against his person. Konstantin blanks the receptionist on account of her being absolutely unimportant and useless to him in the present moment, instead veering north towards the clinic itself. A nod to the orderly that directs him to the proper location; the man's experience letting him know what Konstantin is very obviously here for. There's no doubt about it really, people don't tend to bring filthy street rats in for a quick fleshforming-powered boobjob and lip filler.
Relinquishing his grip on the neck of the pillowcase, he leaves it hanging over her head loosely. If she tilts forward and it falls of, it's no big problem at this point, and just his right arm's grip on both of hers is enough to keep her in line as he soldiers on towards her destination.
He turns and shoves the door open into the intake bay as instructed, looking for the nearest medical professional to bother.
"This one is hypnotised. Counting bricks like a Upir. Blast it down enough for her to wash herself atleast; she's fucking disgusting". With a shove, he transfers her to the nearest orderly. "People were starting to notice", Konstantin adds. The clinic probably needs a reason to care.. and that lie is one. Hopefully it'll atleast get her the bare minimum of psychic medical attention.
Truly, an altruist. What a hero. A gentleman. What has Rachel done to him?
Turning back towards the street, he leaves at a brisk pace, wanting to put as much space between him and the vile wretch as possible.
"Fucking women."
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
Like a fairy-tale tower, the aged windmill looms overhead, a pleasantly historical sight among the gnarled surrounds of Haven's forests. The well-tended lawns speak of civilisation and serenity, juxtaposing the malign depths of the dark depths of the wood. In the distance, the soft roar of the tide's ceaseless assault upon the land whispers past the foliage in a constant reminder of the world beyond this quiet arboreal oasis. The weather sits at a warmer-than-comfortable 31 degrees C (the unit of temperature measurement used by the civilised portions of the world), and whatever hint of a breeze can penetrate the canopy of the surrounding tree-cover deeply enough to reach the ground and wash through the clearing provides a delightful cooling relief.
Rachel hears, in the distance, the occasional rustle of leaves, the chirruping of a songbird amongst the branches here and there, and the creaking of grasshoppers among the grass where it grows tall at the meeting of the lawns and the wood.
someone Idyllic, really, if not for the reasons Rachel finds herself here. Many would figuratively kill to call this spot home. Some have.
Her quiet moment among the tranquil greenery here is interrupted, however, by a sound altogether foreign to the natural orchestra of fauna and flora. A crash in the distance and the splintering of wood. Her acute senses allow her to pick out the sound of an engine struggling thereafter as the driver of the now stationary vehicle desperately attempts to wring some movement from the machine. It brays three times, like a wounded animal's final shrieks, before giving out. 'Thunk', a door thrown open, just as the scent of filthy black oil-smoke catches in her nostrils, painting the picture of a figure stumbling from a burning wreck.
Bang, Bang. Rachel could be forgiven for thinking it the sound of the engine attempting to start up again and backfiring twice had it not so recently just signalled its own demise. The shots ring out and birds take flight nearby, their aforementioned song quieting as they flee to join the wide-winged seagulls high above.
Another engine, fainter, approaches and then cuts. This time without the cacophony of disaster.
Muffled shouting from there, and the sound of a frantic escape from further left; the pursuers and pursued fleeing from Haven southwards right along the road past the windmill. Feet pound earth, thud thud thud, the leading figure the only one that she can pick out with any consistency in those moments where they align with more sparsely-grown corridors amongst the trees between them. There is little care given to trip-hazard or preserving the natural beauty of the forests, nor the concealment of their presence from the infamously formidable (super)natural denizens of the woods; this person is concerned only with placing more distance between those themself and those that trail behind.
It's a hunt, for the most dangerous of prey, and it sounds like the quarry's time grows short.
More footprints as the predatory party draws in. Less frantic, but just as dedicated to task; they crush through the undergrowth with heavy footfalls and malign purpose. Knocking old rotten branches and waist-high shrubbery aside in passage, they bear down upon their unfortunate victim. The guns are silent for a short while as the dense vertical muddling of treetrunks provides shelter to the panicked escapee but eventually the chasers have their chance and loose more slugs.
Krak, Krak, Krak! - low calibre, three shots in quick succession. The slugs cut through foliage like lancets through skin, the first two burying themselves in ancient wood with a wet thunk. The third makes itself heard loudly a second time, striking what sounds like rock, ricocheting off into the forest nearby to bother the now-alert wildlife in some other direction.
The chase draws near enough to Rachel for her to hear breaths, now. Maybe only a hundred or so meters away. She could remain quiet, she could duck into the windmill or hide among the twisted roots and lower limbs of the trees to observe. What's to say the chase wont draw them her way, however? What if the quarry finds their own bolthole to curl up in, leaving the trigger-happy pursuers with no choice but to scour the surrounding area for their mark.. or some other likely victim. She could always flee; there's nothing tying her here physically but is Rachel ready to take on the dangers of the wood alone? The stories of those caught and dragged away by the forest's inhabitants are far from pleasant; tales of gnawed limbs, preternaturally fast rot turning flesh to sloughing sludge, and frogspawn finding its way into warm wet cavities where no god ever intended it to.
What'll it be, Rachel What roll of the dice will she choose? To investigate? To cower? Or to flee into the shadowed undergrowth opposite.
Like a fairy-tale tower, the aged windmill looms overhead, a pleasantly historical sight among the gnarled surrounds of Haven's forests. The well-tended lawns speak of civilisation and serenity, juxtaposing the malign depths of the dark depths of the wood. In the distance, the soft roar of the tide's ceaseless assault upon the land whispers past the foliage in a constant reminder of the world beyond this quiet arboreal oasis. The weather sits at a warmer-than-comfortable 31 degrees C (the unit of temperature measurement used by the civilised portions of the world), and whatever hint of a breeze can penetrate the canopy of the surrounding tree-cover deeply enough to reach the ground and wash through the clearing provides a delightful cooling relief.
Rachel hears, in the distance, the occasional rustle of leaves, the chirruping of a songbird amongst the branches here and there, and the creaking of grasshoppers among the grass where it grows tall at the meeting of the lawns and the wood.
Idyllic, really, if not for the reasons Rachel finds herself here. Many would figuratively kill to call this spot home. Some have.
Her quiet moment among the tranquil greenery here is interrupted, however, by a sound altogether foreign to the natural orchestra of fauna and flora. A crash in the distance and the splintering of wood. Her acute senses allow her to pick out the sound of an engine struggling thereafter as the driver of the now stationary vehicle desperately attempts to wring some movement from the machine. It brays three times, like a wounded animal's final shrieks, before giving out. 'Thunk', a door thrown open, just as the scent of filthy black oil-smoke catches in her nostrils, painting the picture of a figure stumbling from a burning wreck.
Bang, Bang. Rachel could be forgiven for thinking it the sound of the engine attempting to start up again and backfiring twice had it not so recently just signalled its own demise. The shots ring out and birds take flight nearby, their aforementioned song quieting as they flee to join the wide-winged seagulls high above.
Another engine, fainter, approaches and then cuts. This time without the cacophony of disaster.
Muffled shouting from there, and the sound of a frantic escape from further left; the pursuers and pursued fleeing from Haven southwards right along the road past the windmill. Feet pound earth, thud thud thud, the leading figure the only one that she can pick out with any consistency in those moments where they align with more sparsely-grown corridors amongst the trees between them. There is little care given to trip-hazard or preserving the natural beauty of the forests, nor the concealment of their presence from the infamously formidable (super)natural denizens of the woods; this person is concerned only with placing more distance between those themself and those that trail behind.
It's a hunt, for the most dangerous of prey, and it sounds like the quarry's time grows short.
More footprints as the predatory party draws in. Less frantic, but just as dedicated to task; they crush through the undergrowth with heavy footfalls and malign purpose. Knocking old rotten branches and waist-high shrubbery aside in passage, they bear down upon their unfortunate victim. The guns are silent for a short while as the dense vertical muddling of treetrunks provides shelter to the panicked escapee but eventually the chasers have their chance and loose more slugs.
Krak, Krak, Krak! - low calibre, three shots in quick succession. The slugs cut through foliage like lancets through skin, the first two burying themselves in ancient wood with a wet thunk. The third makes itself heard loudly a second time, striking what sounds like rock, ricocheting off into the forest nearby to bother the now-alert wildlife in some other direction.
The chase draws near enough to Rachel for her to hear breaths, now. Maybe only a hundred or so meters away. She could remain quiet, she could duck into the windmill or hide among the twisted roots and lower limbs of the trees to observe. What's to say the chase wont draw them her way, however? What if the quarry finds their own bolthole to curl up in, leaving the trigger-happy pursuers with no choice but to scour the surrounding area for their mark.. or some other likely victim. She could always flee; there's nothing tying her here physically but is Rachel ready to take on the dangers of the wood alone? The stories of those caught and dragged away by the forest's inhabitants are far from pleasant; tales of gnawed limbs, preternaturally fast rot turning flesh to sloughing sludge, and frogspawn finding its way into warm wet cavities where no god ever intended it to.
What'll it be, Rachel What roll of the dice will she choose? To investigate? To cower? Or to flee into the shadowed undergrowth opposite.
Rachel was crouching by the flowerbeds, plucking a few choice peonies. Idyllic indeed. One might think, were they unaware of her circumstances, that she were leading a perfectly happy life with nothing more important to do than to make floral arrangements.
The sudden smell of smoke already has her pausing. The door slamming shut sees her putting the flowers down. The gunshots - now she stands.
Most reasonable would be to barricade herself within the windmill. The door itself is no impenetrable gate, but whomever gives chase might not have the time or reason to break in. Certainly, they're not looking for her - or one would hope not.
Reasonable, however, doesn't suit Rachel. Too often does her curiosity lead to recklessness, and recklessness to danger. This is another such instance. Around the bend of the windmill, she presses herself to the stone, so that it'd be possible to see her, but only if prey and predator stop running long enough to check.
The danger closes as Rachel indulges in the same reckless curiosity that saw her drawn into the world of the supernatural and the Hand, and subsequently contract after vicious contract. Ragged breaths close. Towards the Windmill - the only noteable landmark nearby - and to Rachel.
A figure bursts from the treeline, hurtling across the grass with a limp. The ferrous scent of his fresh blood carried by the breeze makes clear the reason for his struggling movement; a shot has grazed his right thigh and hobbled him.
Laughter in the distance. A cheer; with feminine pitch. Two or three, Rachel could likely estimate from the beating of bootheels in dirt, approach shortly behind.
The wounded man careens to the right as his wounds start to get the better of him and he sounds out a whimper, falling head-over-heels across the flowerbed Rachel tended not half a minute prior. He considers stopping and allowing whatever harm the chasers intend for him but his instinct spurs him on once he draws a couple of lungfuls of vital oxygen. Pants planted, he forces himself up to all fours with a whimper, and he struggles forward in a crawl at first and then a staggering lurch of a jog. His upper body sways to and fro as he moves, trying to cut around the side of the windmill, but a stone at the border of the path snares his toe and condemns him to his fate. He falls hard.
The man's eyes, then, fall on Rachel. He looks young; only in his early twenties. His features are youthful and soft, his form hale but not tremendously muscular. He isn't an overt combatant by any means but he has the vitality to press on through the wound and exhaustion, possibly a tell of some supernatural bent. HAD the vitality, that is.
His lower lip quivers as he stares at her like a deer in the headlights. Is she one of them? Will she deal the final blow before celebrating with her colleagues chasing behind him? Will she leave him there to be taken to save her own skin? It'd be reasonable.
Behind, only moments away, the hunters split and spread to breach the border of the lawn. Two of them, Rachel can tell with certainty now. A brief silhouette amongst the trees reveals a man in possession of a pump-action shotgun. The smell of gunpowder drifts on the wind.
"Please..", whimpers the youth. He has nothing else.
They're in the shadow of her keeper's house. He, as most of the locals know, doesn't brook weakness - or if he does, it's to take advantage. Rachel pauses. She wastes precious time. On her person is nothing. No gun, no knife. They're unnecessary when, usually, even the supernatural give this area a wide berth.
Shit.
She zips toward the door. It'd look like she was abandoning him if it weren't for the fact that after she yanks the front door open, she LEAVES it ajar. Just a crack. Up to this man whether he grabs the opportunity for escape. Everyone helps themselves, here in Haven, lest they remain victims.
What awaits inside?
Not whomever she lives with, perhaps, if all the chaos so close to his front lawn doesn't draw him out.
A sob as she leaves. The lad curls into a ball as his pursuers tromp across the grass and the flowerbeds, quickly falling upon him. Around the side of the windmil, the door rests open a crack, Rachel's escape having been out of their view. The man reaches their quarry first, carrying his shotgun at low-ready as he comes to a halt on the path a few feet away. Surveying the quivering lad, he shakes his head and snickers. "Too fuckin' easy."
"The salt-shot worked!", the other calls out. Rachel might catch with a glance out the door or a window as the figure rounds on the victim a little further from the house, stood out on the lawn, a woman holding a machinepistol. Both figures wear lightweight bulletproof vests with pouches of ammunition, grenades, tasers at their hips, and easily accessiable zip-cuffs. It isn't long before they move to put them to use, the woman moving forward as the man stands on watch, dropping a knee onto the cowering youth's back to flatten him out before wrenching wrists into position to be cuffed.
A two-part zipping sound that Rachel knows all too well claims the younger man's freedom; she's somewhat familiar a man that indulges in similar pursuits.
"We got him", the man speaks into a radio affixed to the upper-portion of his vest, "Bring up the truck."
The woman steps back, then, and sweeps her eyes about the area. Her grin falters a little as the notes the open door, and then looks up towards the windmill thoughtfully. Out of towners, perhaps? Just brave? Locked in on the hunt too much to notice where they are? She looks back to the door again, mulling the opening.
Rachel's just beyond that door, out of direct view. They wouldn't see it, but she has the heel of her hand on her chin, her fingers over her mouth. She squinches her eyes shut. There's another moment of exceptional indecision and then she strides out, banishing all traces of concern from her face.
The neutral she wears comes from the very same man to whom our narrator vaguely alludes. Thank you for providing a good model.
"You're on Inigo property," she says on a bored drawl. As soon as the sunlight hits, she pulls her sunglasses off from where they're clipped on her top and slides them into place - ha, as if that's the reason she'd do that.
"We don't take kindly to trespassers." They also don't take kindly to impersonation, but perhaps in this case she'd be excused.
The Inigo name goes far. They own the town, so unless, yes, they're particularly out-of-the-loop foreigners, they'd have some sense that there's danger afoot. They aren't the only predators to be on the hunt.
At the movement, the barrel of the Mossberg sweeps up towards the door, the male kidnapper shouldering his weapon with practiced speeed. The woman, hopping back from her charge, reaches for the machinepistol slung against her chest but doesn't quite go as far as raising it from where it sits.
The name gives credence to the claim. Even these two seem to know that; briefly pausing.
The two consider Rachel, and then look to eachother, sharing a moment's thought. The woman takes initiative, motioning with her free hand to the whimpering abductee, and the man clicks the safety into place on his weapon and strides forward, removing his right hand from the trigger and stock of his weapon to reach down for the lad's bound wrists. He wrenches him up from the ground onto his knees painfully, elliciting a yelp, before tugging him then onto his feet.
"Yeah? Inigo.. right. We're just leavin', miss. Sorry about the noise." There's a little skepticism. It's a bold claim to make, and perhaps they aren't aware of who owns the property, but the name alone slows them down. There is also the matter of Rachel being visibly of Asian descent. The interloper plays the middle ground; acquiescing without giving up her hard-earned spoils.
Could've married in. Unlikely, but possible. A ring isn't visible - although, Rachel's in athletic wear, so that could be forgiven, too. "Yeah," she cuts in coolly after that initial question. Of course they're trespassing, her tone tells them. To even hesitate to kowtow is an offense. "Solomon's upset." Namedropping. Purposeful. "He'll want recompense."
That - that's believable. He'd have the arrogance to demand it. "Or you could gamble." She's not showing her hand. "Drive away..." She waves her hand in the vague direction of the winding road. "And see if he lets it slide." The implication is that he very much wouldn't - but hey, in either case, the Inigos would get their fill. It can either be one person now, or all three later.
She pulls the age old trick. She begins to walk away, back toward the house.
"Wait!"
It works. She plays it perfectly, and they take note.
The womans hands are up now, palms-out, her weapons sitting against her abdomen dangling on its sling. A gesture in search of peace. "Look, Hey, we're not here to make trouble. Just doing our jobs. How about we forget this; we can.. we'll leave quick. No more problems. We'll even let the rest of the crew know not to come to this side of town."
They're asking for permission, suddenly, rather than brushing her off. Even a significant monetary payout isn't worth making powerful enemies in a town like this; it might be them wearing plastic bracelets next.
The woman's eyes flit aside to the bound lad, held upright now by the man who has come to a halt, watching Rachel's back as she leaves. It's unspoken, but the question hangs in the air.
Can we keep him? Puhleeeeaaaassse?
Rachel turns, just enough to hear the woman out. After the last sentence, she looks, if it were possible, even more unimpressed. They're boring her to tears. How dare they waste more of her time? "That's what you were meant to do in the first place."
"Look, hey." She lifts a hand in dismissal. "Roll the dice. I don't care either way. He favors tribute," she tells the two. That's directed at the boy. "But I get it. You two have to eat, too." It sounds like she's relegating them to the status of 'poor.' If they have to scrabble for spoils so meager, surely they're part of the peasantry.
"I have work to do," she tells them. She checks her phone. Tsk. Look at the hour. It's so very late. "Up to you."
No hesitation. Message recieved. You got it, boss.
The lad's whimpering stops as he figures out what's going on, looking up through his curly blond fringe towards Rachel with reddened teary eyes. The warming heat of his despair dulls a little for her as he feels salvation nearing.
"Gah!", he whines, as he is tossed bodily into the grass beside the path. The male captor might do as he is told, but he doesn't have to be happy about it. He turns and tromps off, back towards the path as an engine rumbles closer in the distance, nearing the property along the road.
The woman is a more tactful; perhaps in possession of a more refined and well considered desire to survive unmutilated. "No, no. It's yours", she begins, lowering her hands and stepping towards her ex-quarry. She slips a knife from a thigh-sheathe, quickly slicing apart the zipcuffs with a flick of the blade, before backstepping across the lawn and sliding the weapon away. She shows her hands again, palms-out towards Rachel as though she's backing away from a rabid animal about to strike. The moment she feels she has reached a comfortable distance, she spins and runs to chase after the bulky male.
Immediately, the youth breaks down into tears. His desire to be held is palpable to the dual-blooded 'Inigo'. He makes an effort to crawl a little towards her ankles, reaching towards her to steal a touch of his savior but he collapses halfway there amongst the grass. His exhaustion gets the better of him, for the moment. "Th-thankyou.. thankyou so much miss.. thankyou", he blubbers, tears streaming down his face as reality sets in.
"Good choice," Rachel says after their turning backs.
It's a little thing, easily missed, but she doesn't say 'you're welcome' to the woe-begotten boy. Instead, she tells him, "Come inside," with a ring of supernatural authority. "You should get off your feet." Reasonable - the first time she has been in the last hour. He IS hurting, if he's been shot. Of course, that's probably something she prefers. There's a spring to her step as she takes her own advice, heading in.
It's not so foreboding, the interior of the windmill. It's open concept, modern, with a kitchen to die for with all the right equipment. That's where she goes first. It's in her nature to play caretaker, perhaps, and to feed whomever she might.
What she pulls out, though, is a can of Sprite. With her back to him, she pours into a glass.
His hearing would have to be phenomenal to catch another vial being uncorked. His instinct would have to be even better to realize that that soft drink isn't quite so soft at all.
She passes the glass to him. It's topped with crushed ice. How thoughtful, how kind of her, to consider the heat.
Her sunglasses come off.
"Here. Drink."
He struggles to his feet. He has to get on them to get inside to get off them, first. His movements are shaky and it is a struggle for him to make the journey but he joins her inside eventually. The woman said it; Salt-shot. His wounds are painful and bloody but ultimately not permanently damaging. Hurts like a bitch though.
He finds a chair upon entry and drops down into it with a whimper. His blond curls hang around his neck, parted in the middle with a few dangling stray infront of his eyes, unseated by the assault on his person. He follows along, out of gratitude, fear, and his innate angel-blooded desire to please.
His hearing is, at present, not being employed nearly actively enough to catch any of that. He is simply exhilerated to be alive. The glass is accepted with a warm smile and a thankful nod, desperately appreciative of Rachel's generosity both outside and inside of the building.
Chug, chug, chug. He'd been running for a while, he's parched.
Rachel's face presents compassion. She even touches the boy's shoulder: it's alright, you're safe, you're in good company.
Tick, tick, tick goes the clock. In the time that elapses - some tens of minutes - Rachel says little of herself. She asks little of him. Those in the know would understand. She doesn't want him to endear himself to her. Easier if she never comes to understand him at all.
Inevitably, he begins to dose off. It's no easy drop-off. It'd be quite clear that something's wrong, from how fast the darkness approaches. "Just say 'yes,'" would be the last thing that he hears. "It's easier." It's the only kindness she'll do him.
When he slumps, she catches him. It's hard - very, very hard - for her to tow him up the stairs, but bit by bit, she does it, dragging him by the arms. They go into an unremarkable bedroom, and from there, to a very remarkable attic.
At its center is a desk, upon which the surface is riddled with scratches, blood indelibly sunk into its grain. There are ritual implements everywhere. An inverted pentacle, painted. She drags him in, then closes the door behind him.
The lock clicks.
There's no need to bind him; he's never getting out again. If he manages in body, he won't in mind or spirit.
When she finishes up, she flees down two flights of stairs, into a sparse, but well-maintained bathroom. Her stomach heaves up all of its contents.
As the story unfolds, Konstantin's journey with the woman takes a more descriptive turn with vivid portrayals of the physical and emotional toll their interaction incurs. He delivers her to a mysterious institute with the hope of her receiving some form of treatment, albeit with a darkly pragmatic view of her chances for significant improvement. The narrative sharply illustrates the depths of human neglect and the starkness of their realities within the fantastical setting. Ultimately, the story concludes with Konstantin departing the institute, eager to distance himself from the ordeal he just facilitated, reflecting on the unsavory aspects of his actions with a cynical note on human connections and the grotesqueness of his recent undertaking. This encounter leaves a powerful impression, not only of Konstantin's character but also of the bleak undertones that permeate the narrative landscape.
(Konstantin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Jun 30 2024]
On Elm Street
It is morning, about 85F(29C) degrees,
Well she's gone and made him commit now. He's made up his mind to 'help' her, and this is Konstantin we're talking about. A moment ago he was about to tell her to do one and leave her to it, but something else is on his mind. Maybe he thinks he might find a little catharsis, here. He back into the building, face set with purpose.
He returns, a minute or so later, with a pillowcase in one hand. He searches for the woman until he can spot her again, tip tapping her way across the bricks of the building. Konstantin bides his time, scanning the surrounds and keeping his distance. When he coast is clear, he snaps into action; it's not so far to the institute and perhaps people see 'headcases' from the clinic within outside sometimes. Easy to explain if he is challenged.
He steps up behind her, moving slowly to avoid scuffing his feet against the ground and alerting her, before tossing the pillowcase over her head and drawing it tight in his left hand. His right hand hooks behind her right arm and grips her left forearm near the elbow tightly. For a man trying to 'help', he isn't being particularly gentle, his fingers digging in. He wrenches her half off her feet immediately, taking advantage of the waif's degraded physicality to begin spiriting her away across the road, wasting no time in manhandling her towards the Warden's wood. Once among the trees, he needn't worry about witnesses any longer.
"Shut the FUCK up or I will KILL you", Konstantin barks into her ear, reassuringly.
Konstantin, Konstantin, Konstantin. The second time you have done this in a couple of weeks. You really need to work on your pickup technique.
Konstantin, Konstantin, Konstantin. The second time you have done this in a couple of weeks. You really need to work on your pickup technique (preferably one not involving bags)
She doesn't make it very far before Konstantin returns. Remember that she's counting EVERY brick, so she only makes it about ten feet, or three metres (you're welcome). It turns out that this woman's very, very human, and entirely without any particular redeeming abilities. Not even a lick of magic.
When Konstantin tries to abscond with her, she puts up a fight, sure, but with the amount of force of a butterfly beating its wings. "I have to count," she says from within the bag. "I have to. I have to count."
By the time they're in the trees, the thick foliage, branches, and shadow concealing them from view, she's a broken record. "I have to," she insists over and over. Konstantin's removing her from her life's work. "He needs me to."
God, that stench is rank. There's an acrid tang of ammonia, sharp at biting, that claws at the senses. It's intermingled with something sour and rancid, a pungent reminder of days and nights spent without cleansing. To top it off, there are notes - Konstantin's about to become a connoisseur of odors - of a salty, sweaty musk. This woman is a specter of her own neglect.
Kill her?
She might have died on her own by now, but...
...Sanctuary. If this were someone else's doing, she'd have had to stop for food, at least. Water. Nothing but the bare necessities, though. That's a punishment in and of itself, to be reduced to the bottom of the hierarchy of needs.
Poor Konstantin. He's going to be left with a souvenir when this is done and over with. That jacket's going to need some intense dry cleaning - and who knows, in Haven, if there's one adequate enough?
Actually, hm. There has to be. Enough unsavory business goes on here that that kind of thing would make a killing.
Konstantin has certainly engaged in plenty of unsavoury business, and his jacket is no stranger to a little grime here and there, but this is a special kind. It's pretty foul; the dress caked in it. Still, he presses on. He slows down a little as he enters the woods so as to avoid tangling his or her ankles in tree roots or foliage underfoot now that the threat of discovery by the natural world is over with. He marches her through the trees to the buildings in front, giving her a firm shake whenever she gets a little loud and hissing; "What you need to do is shut the fuck up!"
He trudges to the left, then, taking her towards the entrance of the institute grounds and the clinic proper beyond.
Piss/sweat stench or not, he's dirtied himself already, may as well see it through. Hopefully the institute will be able to give her enough of a zap to allow her to function atleast slightly more healthily while she goes about her eternal tasking.
They step into the Institute. Luckily, it's a Sunday morning, so there aren't students milling about. They're probably off at that beach volleyball hullabaloo. The only person present is a receptionist who, honestly, doesn't seem to give a damn what's going on. This is Haven, and what's more, these school grounds are the site of many a mysterious occurrence. That being said, what's NOT normal is the way the smell fills up the room, made a thousand-fold worse in the heat.
"Sir," she'd begun calling after him. "Please close the door when you exit--..." No, never mind. Don't close the door. My God. The AC can get lost, for all she cares, as long as it takes that rancid stench with it. She puts her hand over her nose and shuts up. How nice if Konstantin's hostage would do the same.
Anyway, it's no matter. They make it through the previously pristine hallways to where the colored lines delineating the clinic entrance are.
There are orderlies all about with clipboards and white jackets and faces that scream 'sure, we'll help - maybe.' One of them pauses in their busying about to direct Konstantin to where intake is.
"Down the hall, to the left, if you're looking for dropoff."
He gives the woman a once-over.
Yeah. Whatever assessment he's made about what she's here for holds.
No time is wasted. The less time spent in the midst of the wreck's miasma the better; every second is an assault against his person. Konstantin blanks the receptionist on account of her being absolutely unimportant and useless to him in the present moment, instead veering north towards the clinic itself. A nod to the orderly that directs him to the proper location; the man's experience letting him know what Konstantin is very obviously here for. There's no doubt about it really, people don't tend to bring filthy street rats in for a quick fleshforming-powered boobjob and lip filler.
Relinquishing his grip on the neck of the pillowcase, he leaves it hanging over her head loosely. If she tilts forward and it falls of, it's no big problem at this point, and just his right arm's grip on both of hers is enough to keep her in line as he soldiers on towards her destination.
He turns and shoves the door open into the intake bay as instructed, looking for the nearest medical professional to bother.
"This one is hypnotised. Counting bricks like a Upir. Blast it down enough for her to wash herself atleast; she's fucking disgusting". With a shove, he transfers her to the nearest orderly. "People were starting to notice", Konstantin adds. The clinic probably needs a reason to care.. and that lie is one. Hopefully it'll atleast get her the bare minimum of psychic medical attention.
Truly, an altruist. What a hero. A gentleman. What has Rachel done to him?
Turning back towards the street, he leaves at a brisk pace, wanting to put as much space between him and the vile wretch as possible.
"Fucking women."
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
Like a fairy-tale tower, the aged windmill looms overhead, a pleasantly historical sight among the gnarled surrounds of Haven's forests. The well-tended lawns speak of civilisation and serenity, juxtaposing the malign depths of the dark depths of the wood. In the distance, the soft roar of the tide's ceaseless assault upon the land whispers past the foliage in a constant reminder of the world beyond this quiet arboreal oasis. The weather sits at a warmer-than-comfortable 31 degrees C (the unit of temperature measurement used by the civilised portions of the world), and whatever hint of a breeze can penetrate the canopy of the surrounding tree-cover deeply enough to reach the ground and wash through the clearing provides a delightful cooling relief.
Rachel hears, in the distance, the occasional rustle of leaves, the chirruping of a songbird amongst the branches here and there, and the creaking of grasshoppers among the grass where it grows tall at the meeting of the lawns and the wood.
someone Idyllic, really, if not for the reasons Rachel finds herself here. Many would figuratively kill to call this spot home. Some have.
Her quiet moment among the tranquil greenery here is interrupted, however, by a sound altogether foreign to the natural orchestra of fauna and flora. A crash in the distance and the splintering of wood. Her acute senses allow her to pick out the sound of an engine struggling thereafter as the driver of the now stationary vehicle desperately attempts to wring some movement from the machine. It brays three times, like a wounded animal's final shrieks, before giving out. 'Thunk', a door thrown open, just as the scent of filthy black oil-smoke catches in her nostrils, painting the picture of a figure stumbling from a burning wreck.
Bang, Bang. Rachel could be forgiven for thinking it the sound of the engine attempting to start up again and backfiring twice had it not so recently just signalled its own demise. The shots ring out and birds take flight nearby, their aforementioned song quieting as they flee to join the wide-winged seagulls high above.
Another engine, fainter, approaches and then cuts. This time without the cacophony of disaster.
Muffled shouting from there, and the sound of a frantic escape from further left; the pursuers and pursued fleeing from Haven southwards right along the road past the windmill. Feet pound earth, thud thud thud, the leading figure the only one that she can pick out with any consistency in those moments where they align with more sparsely-grown corridors amongst the trees between them. There is little care given to trip-hazard or preserving the natural beauty of the forests, nor the concealment of their presence from the infamously formidable (super)natural denizens of the woods; this person is concerned only with placing more distance between those themself and those that trail behind.
It's a hunt, for the most dangerous of prey, and it sounds like the quarry's time grows short.
More footprints as the predatory party draws in. Less frantic, but just as dedicated to task; they crush through the undergrowth with heavy footfalls and malign purpose. Knocking old rotten branches and waist-high shrubbery aside in passage, they bear down upon their unfortunate victim. The guns are silent for a short while as the dense vertical muddling of treetrunks provides shelter to the panicked escapee but eventually the chasers have their chance and loose more slugs.
Krak, Krak, Krak! - low calibre, three shots in quick succession. The slugs cut through foliage like lancets through skin, the first two burying themselves in ancient wood with a wet thunk. The third makes itself heard loudly a second time, striking what sounds like rock, ricocheting off into the forest nearby to bother the now-alert wildlife in some other direction.
The chase draws near enough to Rachel for her to hear breaths, now. Maybe only a hundred or so meters away. She could remain quiet, she could duck into the windmill or hide among the twisted roots and lower limbs of the trees to observe. What's to say the chase wont draw them her way, however? What if the quarry finds their own bolthole to curl up in, leaving the trigger-happy pursuers with no choice but to scour the surrounding area for their mark.. or some other likely victim. She could always flee; there's nothing tying her here physically but is Rachel ready to take on the dangers of the wood alone? The stories of those caught and dragged away by the forest's inhabitants are far from pleasant; tales of gnawed limbs, preternaturally fast rot turning flesh to sloughing sludge, and frogspawn finding its way into warm wet cavities where no god ever intended it to.
What'll it be, Rachel What roll of the dice will she choose? To investigate? To cower? Or to flee into the shadowed undergrowth opposite.
Like a fairy-tale tower, the aged windmill looms overhead, a pleasantly historical sight among the gnarled surrounds of Haven's forests. The well-tended lawns speak of civilisation and serenity, juxtaposing the malign depths of the dark depths of the wood. In the distance, the soft roar of the tide's ceaseless assault upon the land whispers past the foliage in a constant reminder of the world beyond this quiet arboreal oasis. The weather sits at a warmer-than-comfortable 31 degrees C (the unit of temperature measurement used by the civilised portions of the world), and whatever hint of a breeze can penetrate the canopy of the surrounding tree-cover deeply enough to reach the ground and wash through the clearing provides a delightful cooling relief.
Rachel hears, in the distance, the occasional rustle of leaves, the chirruping of a songbird amongst the branches here and there, and the creaking of grasshoppers among the grass where it grows tall at the meeting of the lawns and the wood.
Idyllic, really, if not for the reasons Rachel finds herself here. Many would figuratively kill to call this spot home. Some have.
Her quiet moment among the tranquil greenery here is interrupted, however, by a sound altogether foreign to the natural orchestra of fauna and flora. A crash in the distance and the splintering of wood. Her acute senses allow her to pick out the sound of an engine struggling thereafter as the driver of the now stationary vehicle desperately attempts to wring some movement from the machine. It brays three times, like a wounded animal's final shrieks, before giving out. 'Thunk', a door thrown open, just as the scent of filthy black oil-smoke catches in her nostrils, painting the picture of a figure stumbling from a burning wreck.
Bang, Bang. Rachel could be forgiven for thinking it the sound of the engine attempting to start up again and backfiring twice had it not so recently just signalled its own demise. The shots ring out and birds take flight nearby, their aforementioned song quieting as they flee to join the wide-winged seagulls high above.
Another engine, fainter, approaches and then cuts. This time without the cacophony of disaster.
Muffled shouting from there, and the sound of a frantic escape from further left; the pursuers and pursued fleeing from Haven southwards right along the road past the windmill. Feet pound earth, thud thud thud, the leading figure the only one that she can pick out with any consistency in those moments where they align with more sparsely-grown corridors amongst the trees between them. There is little care given to trip-hazard or preserving the natural beauty of the forests, nor the concealment of their presence from the infamously formidable (super)natural denizens of the woods; this person is concerned only with placing more distance between those themself and those that trail behind.
It's a hunt, for the most dangerous of prey, and it sounds like the quarry's time grows short.
More footprints as the predatory party draws in. Less frantic, but just as dedicated to task; they crush through the undergrowth with heavy footfalls and malign purpose. Knocking old rotten branches and waist-high shrubbery aside in passage, they bear down upon their unfortunate victim. The guns are silent for a short while as the dense vertical muddling of treetrunks provides shelter to the panicked escapee but eventually the chasers have their chance and loose more slugs.
Krak, Krak, Krak! - low calibre, three shots in quick succession. The slugs cut through foliage like lancets through skin, the first two burying themselves in ancient wood with a wet thunk. The third makes itself heard loudly a second time, striking what sounds like rock, ricocheting off into the forest nearby to bother the now-alert wildlife in some other direction.
The chase draws near enough to Rachel for her to hear breaths, now. Maybe only a hundred or so meters away. She could remain quiet, she could duck into the windmill or hide among the twisted roots and lower limbs of the trees to observe. What's to say the chase wont draw them her way, however? What if the quarry finds their own bolthole to curl up in, leaving the trigger-happy pursuers with no choice but to scour the surrounding area for their mark.. or some other likely victim. She could always flee; there's nothing tying her here physically but is Rachel ready to take on the dangers of the wood alone? The stories of those caught and dragged away by the forest's inhabitants are far from pleasant; tales of gnawed limbs, preternaturally fast rot turning flesh to sloughing sludge, and frogspawn finding its way into warm wet cavities where no god ever intended it to.
What'll it be, Rachel What roll of the dice will she choose? To investigate? To cower? Or to flee into the shadowed undergrowth opposite.
Rachel was crouching by the flowerbeds, plucking a few choice peonies. Idyllic indeed. One might think, were they unaware of her circumstances, that she were leading a perfectly happy life with nothing more important to do than to make floral arrangements.
The sudden smell of smoke already has her pausing. The door slamming shut sees her putting the flowers down. The gunshots - now she stands.
Most reasonable would be to barricade herself within the windmill. The door itself is no impenetrable gate, but whomever gives chase might not have the time or reason to break in. Certainly, they're not looking for her - or one would hope not.
Reasonable, however, doesn't suit Rachel. Too often does her curiosity lead to recklessness, and recklessness to danger. This is another such instance. Around the bend of the windmill, she presses herself to the stone, so that it'd be possible to see her, but only if prey and predator stop running long enough to check.
The danger closes as Rachel indulges in the same reckless curiosity that saw her drawn into the world of the supernatural and the Hand, and subsequently contract after vicious contract. Ragged breaths close. Towards the Windmill - the only noteable landmark nearby - and to Rachel.
A figure bursts from the treeline, hurtling across the grass with a limp. The ferrous scent of his fresh blood carried by the breeze makes clear the reason for his struggling movement; a shot has grazed his right thigh and hobbled him.
Laughter in the distance. A cheer; with feminine pitch. Two or three, Rachel could likely estimate from the beating of bootheels in dirt, approach shortly behind.
The wounded man careens to the right as his wounds start to get the better of him and he sounds out a whimper, falling head-over-heels across the flowerbed Rachel tended not half a minute prior. He considers stopping and allowing whatever harm the chasers intend for him but his instinct spurs him on once he draws a couple of lungfuls of vital oxygen. Pants planted, he forces himself up to all fours with a whimper, and he struggles forward in a crawl at first and then a staggering lurch of a jog. His upper body sways to and fro as he moves, trying to cut around the side of the windmill, but a stone at the border of the path snares his toe and condemns him to his fate. He falls hard.
The man's eyes, then, fall on Rachel. He looks young; only in his early twenties. His features are youthful and soft, his form hale but not tremendously muscular. He isn't an overt combatant by any means but he has the vitality to press on through the wound and exhaustion, possibly a tell of some supernatural bent. HAD the vitality, that is.
His lower lip quivers as he stares at her like a deer in the headlights. Is she one of them? Will she deal the final blow before celebrating with her colleagues chasing behind him? Will she leave him there to be taken to save her own skin? It'd be reasonable.
Behind, only moments away, the hunters split and spread to breach the border of the lawn. Two of them, Rachel can tell with certainty now. A brief silhouette amongst the trees reveals a man in possession of a pump-action shotgun. The smell of gunpowder drifts on the wind.
"Please..", whimpers the youth. He has nothing else.
They're in the shadow of her keeper's house. He, as most of the locals know, doesn't brook weakness - or if he does, it's to take advantage. Rachel pauses. She wastes precious time. On her person is nothing. No gun, no knife. They're unnecessary when, usually, even the supernatural give this area a wide berth.
Shit.
She zips toward the door. It'd look like she was abandoning him if it weren't for the fact that after she yanks the front door open, she LEAVES it ajar. Just a crack. Up to this man whether he grabs the opportunity for escape. Everyone helps themselves, here in Haven, lest they remain victims.
What awaits inside?
Not whomever she lives with, perhaps, if all the chaos so close to his front lawn doesn't draw him out.
A sob as she leaves. The lad curls into a ball as his pursuers tromp across the grass and the flowerbeds, quickly falling upon him. Around the side of the windmil, the door rests open a crack, Rachel's escape having been out of their view. The man reaches their quarry first, carrying his shotgun at low-ready as he comes to a halt on the path a few feet away. Surveying the quivering lad, he shakes his head and snickers. "Too fuckin' easy."
"The salt-shot worked!", the other calls out. Rachel might catch with a glance out the door or a window as the figure rounds on the victim a little further from the house, stood out on the lawn, a woman holding a machinepistol. Both figures wear lightweight bulletproof vests with pouches of ammunition, grenades, tasers at their hips, and easily accessiable zip-cuffs. It isn't long before they move to put them to use, the woman moving forward as the man stands on watch, dropping a knee onto the cowering youth's back to flatten him out before wrenching wrists into position to be cuffed.
A two-part zipping sound that Rachel knows all too well claims the younger man's freedom; she's somewhat familiar a man that indulges in similar pursuits.
"We got him", the man speaks into a radio affixed to the upper-portion of his vest, "Bring up the truck."
The woman steps back, then, and sweeps her eyes about the area. Her grin falters a little as the notes the open door, and then looks up towards the windmill thoughtfully. Out of towners, perhaps? Just brave? Locked in on the hunt too much to notice where they are? She looks back to the door again, mulling the opening.
Rachel's just beyond that door, out of direct view. They wouldn't see it, but she has the heel of her hand on her chin, her fingers over her mouth. She squinches her eyes shut. There's another moment of exceptional indecision and then she strides out, banishing all traces of concern from her face.
The neutral she wears comes from the very same man to whom our narrator vaguely alludes. Thank you for providing a good model.
"You're on Inigo property," she says on a bored drawl. As soon as the sunlight hits, she pulls her sunglasses off from where they're clipped on her top and slides them into place - ha, as if that's the reason she'd do that.
"We don't take kindly to trespassers." They also don't take kindly to impersonation, but perhaps in this case she'd be excused.
The Inigo name goes far. They own the town, so unless, yes, they're particularly out-of-the-loop foreigners, they'd have some sense that there's danger afoot. They aren't the only predators to be on the hunt.
At the movement, the barrel of the Mossberg sweeps up towards the door, the male kidnapper shouldering his weapon with practiced speeed. The woman, hopping back from her charge, reaches for the machinepistol slung against her chest but doesn't quite go as far as raising it from where it sits.
The name gives credence to the claim. Even these two seem to know that; briefly pausing.
The two consider Rachel, and then look to eachother, sharing a moment's thought. The woman takes initiative, motioning with her free hand to the whimpering abductee, and the man clicks the safety into place on his weapon and strides forward, removing his right hand from the trigger and stock of his weapon to reach down for the lad's bound wrists. He wrenches him up from the ground onto his knees painfully, elliciting a yelp, before tugging him then onto his feet.
"Yeah? Inigo.. right. We're just leavin', miss. Sorry about the noise." There's a little skepticism. It's a bold claim to make, and perhaps they aren't aware of who owns the property, but the name alone slows them down. There is also the matter of Rachel being visibly of Asian descent. The interloper plays the middle ground; acquiescing without giving up her hard-earned spoils.
Could've married in. Unlikely, but possible. A ring isn't visible - although, Rachel's in athletic wear, so that could be forgiven, too. "Yeah," she cuts in coolly after that initial question. Of course they're trespassing, her tone tells them. To even hesitate to kowtow is an offense. "Solomon's upset." Namedropping. Purposeful. "He'll want recompense."
That - that's believable. He'd have the arrogance to demand it. "Or you could gamble." She's not showing her hand. "Drive away..." She waves her hand in the vague direction of the winding road. "And see if he lets it slide." The implication is that he very much wouldn't - but hey, in either case, the Inigos would get their fill. It can either be one person now, or all three later.
She pulls the age old trick. She begins to walk away, back toward the house.
"Wait!"
It works. She plays it perfectly, and they take note.
The womans hands are up now, palms-out, her weapons sitting against her abdomen dangling on its sling. A gesture in search of peace. "Look, Hey, we're not here to make trouble. Just doing our jobs. How about we forget this; we can.. we'll leave quick. No more problems. We'll even let the rest of the crew know not to come to this side of town."
They're asking for permission, suddenly, rather than brushing her off. Even a significant monetary payout isn't worth making powerful enemies in a town like this; it might be them wearing plastic bracelets next.
The woman's eyes flit aside to the bound lad, held upright now by the man who has come to a halt, watching Rachel's back as she leaves. It's unspoken, but the question hangs in the air.
Can we keep him? Puhleeeeaaaassse?
Rachel turns, just enough to hear the woman out. After the last sentence, she looks, if it were possible, even more unimpressed. They're boring her to tears. How dare they waste more of her time? "That's what you were meant to do in the first place."
"Look, hey." She lifts a hand in dismissal. "Roll the dice. I don't care either way. He favors tribute," she tells the two. That's directed at the boy. "But I get it. You two have to eat, too." It sounds like she's relegating them to the status of 'poor.' If they have to scrabble for spoils so meager, surely they're part of the peasantry.
"I have work to do," she tells them. She checks her phone. Tsk. Look at the hour. It's so very late. "Up to you."
No hesitation. Message recieved. You got it, boss.
The lad's whimpering stops as he figures out what's going on, looking up through his curly blond fringe towards Rachel with reddened teary eyes. The warming heat of his despair dulls a little for her as he feels salvation nearing.
"Gah!", he whines, as he is tossed bodily into the grass beside the path. The male captor might do as he is told, but he doesn't have to be happy about it. He turns and tromps off, back towards the path as an engine rumbles closer in the distance, nearing the property along the road.
The woman is a more tactful; perhaps in possession of a more refined and well considered desire to survive unmutilated. "No, no. It's yours", she begins, lowering her hands and stepping towards her ex-quarry. She slips a knife from a thigh-sheathe, quickly slicing apart the zipcuffs with a flick of the blade, before backstepping across the lawn and sliding the weapon away. She shows her hands again, palms-out towards Rachel as though she's backing away from a rabid animal about to strike. The moment she feels she has reached a comfortable distance, she spins and runs to chase after the bulky male.
Immediately, the youth breaks down into tears. His desire to be held is palpable to the dual-blooded 'Inigo'. He makes an effort to crawl a little towards her ankles, reaching towards her to steal a touch of his savior but he collapses halfway there amongst the grass. His exhaustion gets the better of him, for the moment. "Th-thankyou.. thankyou so much miss.. thankyou", he blubbers, tears streaming down his face as reality sets in.
"Good choice," Rachel says after their turning backs.
It's a little thing, easily missed, but she doesn't say 'you're welcome' to the woe-begotten boy. Instead, she tells him, "Come inside," with a ring of supernatural authority. "You should get off your feet." Reasonable - the first time she has been in the last hour. He IS hurting, if he's been shot. Of course, that's probably something she prefers. There's a spring to her step as she takes her own advice, heading in.
It's not so foreboding, the interior of the windmill. It's open concept, modern, with a kitchen to die for with all the right equipment. That's where she goes first. It's in her nature to play caretaker, perhaps, and to feed whomever she might.
What she pulls out, though, is a can of Sprite. With her back to him, she pours into a glass.
His hearing would have to be phenomenal to catch another vial being uncorked. His instinct would have to be even better to realize that that soft drink isn't quite so soft at all.
She passes the glass to him. It's topped with crushed ice. How thoughtful, how kind of her, to consider the heat.
Her sunglasses come off.
"Here. Drink."
He struggles to his feet. He has to get on them to get inside to get off them, first. His movements are shaky and it is a struggle for him to make the journey but he joins her inside eventually. The woman said it; Salt-shot. His wounds are painful and bloody but ultimately not permanently damaging. Hurts like a bitch though.
He finds a chair upon entry and drops down into it with a whimper. His blond curls hang around his neck, parted in the middle with a few dangling stray infront of his eyes, unseated by the assault on his person. He follows along, out of gratitude, fear, and his innate angel-blooded desire to please.
His hearing is, at present, not being employed nearly actively enough to catch any of that. He is simply exhilerated to be alive. The glass is accepted with a warm smile and a thankful nod, desperately appreciative of Rachel's generosity both outside and inside of the building.
Chug, chug, chug. He'd been running for a while, he's parched.
Rachel's face presents compassion. She even touches the boy's shoulder: it's alright, you're safe, you're in good company.
Tick, tick, tick goes the clock. In the time that elapses - some tens of minutes - Rachel says little of herself. She asks little of him. Those in the know would understand. She doesn't want him to endear himself to her. Easier if she never comes to understand him at all.
Inevitably, he begins to dose off. It's no easy drop-off. It'd be quite clear that something's wrong, from how fast the darkness approaches. "Just say 'yes,'" would be the last thing that he hears. "It's easier." It's the only kindness she'll do him.
When he slumps, she catches him. It's hard - very, very hard - for her to tow him up the stairs, but bit by bit, she does it, dragging him by the arms. They go into an unremarkable bedroom, and from there, to a very remarkable attic.
At its center is a desk, upon which the surface is riddled with scratches, blood indelibly sunk into its grain. There are ritual implements everywhere. An inverted pentacle, painted. She drags him in, then closes the door behind him.
The lock clicks.
There's no need to bind him; he's never getting out again. If he manages in body, he won't in mind or spirit.
When she finishes up, she flees down two flights of stairs, into a sparse, but well-maintained bathroom. Her stomach heaves up all of its contents.