Otty's Writing Corner

You remember Abe like it was yesterday.

The way he first welcomed you to the precinct when you were just a young recruit, wide-eyed and flightless, fresh from the Academy. You were nervous - more than you usually are, inexperienced, still wet behind the ears - but eager to learn. When you were assigned to him specifically, you could tell it was less because he was the most responsible, or capable, or had a way with newcomers like nobody else did. In fact, he seemed more like the complete opposite. Gruff and rough around the edges, sure, but also clumsy as anything, and his investigations? Well, not to talk ill of a dead man, but they seemed more like accidents than actual, properly conducted searches. Still, he seemed to fit right in with the more successful elite among the detectives in the Department.

No- it was because you were there as cannon fodder. A supervisor in disguise. You were meant to reign him in.

The other rookies looked at you like you were a pig about to be sent to the slaughterhouse. Abe wasn't exactly rumored to be the most strict, nor the most pushy of mentors, but he certainly had a... murky background of losing his partners, more times than you could count on your fingers. And you had all your fingers intact. When they gathered around you in the break room, chatting amongst yourselves as you do, corralled as you were, simply due to the fact you were all new and finding your own places in the station still, it was as if they were surprised you hadn't quit yet. (Or, you think grimly, that you hadn't died yet. That you hadn't turned into one of the photographs still littering Abe's pockets and wallet, or pinned to a wall somewhere as a vague act of feigned rememberance for others to walk by without even a glance. For some highly-respected Chief to look at during his smoke break and sigh at melancholically, though not really recognising your face. Just one more piece of art on the wall. A formality.) But you kept at it.

If you had anything exceptional about yourself, it was your spite. The world decided you were meant to die? It could try and get you to, but it better be prepared for a fight. The flow of circumstances led you to the most inescapable situations? You'll make an exit of it, even if you have to construct it out of raw materials yourself. And if the whole precinct was betting on when and how you'd hand in your resignation?

Well. You'd just work harder to make sure they bite their tongues.

He was a grumbly thing, Abe was. You weren't exactly sure how in the hell you were meant to hold him back, keep him under control, especially with how he could just as easily flash his badge at you, claim superiority and push you out of the way. Glorified babysitter, really - all for a man that outranks you both in experience, likelihood of survival out in the field and work hierarchy. You were screwed, to put it lightly. Orders from the top, your ass. The only thing you could try was to get under his skin - a coffee in the morning, suggestions instead of demands, proposing solutions that would inevitably prove themselves to be a better idea, but only after he'd made his own attempts and realized you kind of have a point.

That sort of logic landed you in the office of the Chief of the Department more times than you could count. (How could you let him do this? I trusted you, recruit! You're just as bad as him! If only we had more hands, I'd be firing you both!, etcetera, etcetera.) The only real option after that was to slump to your seat in front of his desk, bow your head like a good little underling and open your mouth wide to swallow as much shit as he could dish out. Just keep swallowing. Just sit still and take it. Because you had a plan - and if nobody else could see it, fine. You'd prove them wrong. One day, one shining, bright day, you'd be right and they'd be apologetic and thanking you profusely. Because you have a plan, and above all - as much patience as needed to keep it going and enough time to make it work.

It helped that, slowly but surely, Abe would raise his gaze to look at you coming out of the Chief's office (It was routine, at this point - and most of the time, you think yourself to be no better than a punching bag for him, regardless of whether you did anything wrong or not. Even if the mission was a success, you'd get yelled at for the slightest misstep. Asshole.) before hunkering back down to your chair with a sigh, a little bit more each time. At that point you knew you could get him - hook, line and sinker. You weren't really bothered most of the time (some days were harder than others, really, when you'd drag your feet around in despair after another mission gone awry, purely because of Abe's backwards logic that, while it did work, caused so much unnecessary collateral damage that it created more trouble than it was worth), but you played it up for him - whining, looking troubled and solemn, taking relatively unnecessary and most importantly - unpaid - overtime to prove you were 'trying your best'. Trying to appear like the kind of rookie he'd want to take under his wing and listen to, someone he could team up with instead of treat like an overpriced secretary, fax machine and loyal grunt all at once.

It worked. Patience is measured in gold, or so it seems.

Soon enough, you were spending lunches with him - talking about how much the Chief is getting on your damn nerves, dragging both your asses for no good reason (though the intensity of your complaints was mostly for pretend); about how the Mayor is trying to push through new laws concerning the police - despite not knowing a damn thing about how rampant the crime in the city actually is (And to an extent, you don't blame him - isn't he, like, some rich, hoity-toity, old money kid? What the hell would he know besides how to get his suit nicely pressed and silver tongue the civilians into complacency?); about how the fire on Main Street ruined the butcher's he really liked going to. And then...

And then...

And then, somehow, you started talking about... other things. Late night stakeouts turned into stories about his family, then about your family, then the Academy, and how the other rookies treated you, and why you became a police officer in the first place- And then, you just started having your breaks at your desk. He started inviting you to express your opinion on cases. Working late nights with you when you had paperwork to finish up, rather than leaving it aside to go home and get some rest, ready to ignore a scolding tomorrow morning about not getting it done. Coming to you first when someone called him for a case. Letting you lead interrogations. Slapping you on the shoulder after a job well done and murderer caught, an occasional compliment shoved somewhere in there. Spending time together after work at a local bar. Meeting his friends.

You don't even remember when 'getting him back in line' stopped being a priority and 'getting in line with him' did. The flash of realization came when you least expected it, when you were both at the Chief's office on one rainy afternoon, getting chewed out, and you instinctively, so disrespectfully, cut into the reprimands to defend his actions. You... defending him? Since when?, you'd thought when you finally were let back to your desk to continue working. You were always the good one, the obedient one - following orders might as well have been a family heirloom! Siding with him? The person you were supposed to keep watch over? You were supposed to be better. The entirety of the day was spend in half-shock with an underlying, selfish sense of self-pride at having enough guts to stand up to authority. Not even limited to yourself, as he'd watched you with kinder eyes later, muttering a 'thanks', or something along those lines - you were too rattled by your own actions to focus up and actually memorize what he said. Did it even matter?

(When he took you to the shooting range later, in between shots, he'd shouted - mainly due to the space and how it transmits sound - that he thinks you beat a lot of his previous partners by a mile. That he was proud of you. That you're going to make a great detective one day, should you choose to pursue it. That made you tear up just a bit, but you wiped it off with the sleeve of your uniform before he could see. Only muttering a 'Thank you, sir.', as is polite.)

That Manor was a mistake.

At first you'd agreed with him - something about helping one of the guys at that big mansion up the hill for some off the record cash and an already preprepared excuse to fabricate to the Chief about serving as extra muscle - hell, he deserved a break. What do those phony tycoons do up there anyways? Get drunk all day? Certainly nothing useful, you're sure - considering you barely heard of any of them being in the news recently, especially for something noteworthy like helping the community or advancing the academic world in any way, or anything like that. But then again, that Mayor was going. And that actor... what was his name again? Nevermind.

He'd come back... strange. More serious, but also, less focused than before - not that he was that much of an organized person in the first place. More distracted than he ever was - normally, he'd never ignore the calls made up to the office from his old missus, or refuse a 'When are you coming home?' from his little boy. You were kind of getting sick of comforting that little thing over the phone, as cute as he was. The excuses were sparse at best, but after so many times... you hate lying, to kids especially. And that one, well, he deserved a father. A present one.

He spent too many nights in the office, right before that one day. You don't even know if he went home at all - in fact, time seemed to slip away from you more often than not. When had you brought him coffee last? Was it last week or yesterday? When did the seasons start changing so quickly? And the fashion, the music, the culture - goodness, you were supposed to be young, how old were you now? It didn't matter. At least in Abe's eyes, it held no significance, and you were, in the end, just a rookie. Your worried compliants were, at best, shoved to the side and tucked into a messy pile amongst all the rest of the papers in his office.

He was still himself, which was reassuring at the time. Less jokes, less cracking one-liners, but. It was still him. That was, at least, comforting.

You didn't hear much about the Manor - just some news article about how one of the rich, uppity fucks passed on and there was a big commotion about it. See if you care. This was nothing new in your line of work - you'd seen more corpses than you have family members - and in your humble, grew-up-poor opinion, well, sometimes people do really get what they got coming to 'em. All them guys getting up there in the world, at least half of them are doing something seedy to get where they want to be. Karma's got her hands written all over their business. Some other schmuck pawned off that case, anyhow. At least before you got the chance to. Not that you mind - Abe didn't seem like he was up for it anyways. You'd given Abe a few weeks, in case he wanted to talk about it, but left him alone to brood for the most of your shared time. If the man wanted to discuss it, he'd tell you - like he did with most things he found at least mildly worth talking about.

As you stare at the coffin lowering to the ground, his widow - Mrs Lincoln - crying on your shoulder as you try to keep as still as possible, you really regret not asking him about it sooner. A dead man is no good in an interrogation like that.

You inherit his office and position. It's the only logical step, the Chief assures you, seeing as he hadn't really been sharing his cases with anyone else. And in the time you spent together, you'd already finished up your interviews with the seniors after your NDIT - the bachelor's degree in criminology getting dusty in your closet. You hadn't been thinking about becoming a detective, not really - too comfortable working with Abe. The promotion was more like a death sentence rather than a move up in position. The final nail in the coffin that sealed away Abe for good. Like his death barely mattered, though you can see the impact it left on the other officers, as much as they didn't really know him. (How could they? You were the only one in the precinct who really talked to him. Really gave some sort of shit.) After the Chief trotted back to his office, having delivered the news, you sat in the chair he used to sit in, board behind you, and for the first time since his death... you cried like a child. You never thought you'd cry for an idiot like Abe, but... life's funny like that. Tragically hilarious, you think as you wipe at your face with the ends of your sleeves. Fuck. You don't remember when you'd cried last. How many years had it been since you started working together? Five? Eight? Fuck.

You'd never say this to anyone, but... Abe was like an odd uncle you meet during your teen years after your mother tells you not to hang around him because he's a bad influence. Sure, he's got all the qualities of a man gone morally astray - though sticking to a fairly normal life, a wife, child and the occasional dog - he's got that something, a spark in him, that makes people just jump away. He's either too eccentric, too obsessive, too eager - too much, too little, or just not enough. Though, it's nothing you can really point out - and that makes it all the harder to change, to blend in. But there's a part of you that relates to that. There's a small puzzle piece of him that you share and fuck, fuck, fuck - you're going to miss that. The greasy burgers at the joint across the street. The vague smell of those Camel Menthols, still sticking to the leather seats of the office you were currently in. (Or was it something else he was holding in his hand the last time you saw him? It's so blurry- your memories are escaping you more than usual. You should probably see your doctor for that. Maybe it'll get you out of the whole detective business without the Chief asking too many questions.) The stickiness that coated your nose after he left the window open for the millionth time in a row, despite knowing it was going to rain while he was out. There was an understanding there - and for just a second of your time, if you focused enough, you thought you could hold onto that and fuck, maybe even see his kids grow up? Be the kind of partner that becomes a friend of the family, to clap at Robert's graduation off to the side, to be invited when he welcomed his first grandchild, to be able to invite him to your wedding, if you were ever lucky enough to catch someone's eye? Guess all that was for nothing.

The cases he has scattered around his office are plenty - though, it's cleaner than it has been for a... good while. You remember coming in here before, papers scattered on the floor while he was furiously writing on the board, only the light of his desk lamp illuminating the space, casting a sunshine-like glare against the myriad of pens strewn across its surface. A timid but comforting, 'Hey, Abe.' and a cup of coffee clinking against the table, with a gruff, 'Hey, kid.' thrown at you in response. (Don't cry. Don't cry.) The papers littering the walls are gone too - a neat little pile stacked on the edge of his work desk, the metallic, glossy pins used to hold them up on the side of them. As you rifle through them, at first upset at whoever had taken them down (The yarn is there for a reason, people! That investigation could've been ongoing and you could've just destroyed weeks' worth of work!), you notice they're all old ones that you'd already finished up. That puts you at ease - though there's a layer of melancholy seeping into your bones at the sight of them, too. That murder on 14th Street. That Jones domestic abuse case. The Sixth Avenue bar fight. Yeah, you'd seen plenty in your time. (Maybe a bit too much.) At times like these, you're at least happy you manage to get some justice out there, even if the world proves itself to be cruel again and again.

As you're browsing through his drawers - the upper management wants all the old files categorized and compartmentalized - there's a rogue file in there. In a pink folder - like it doesn't belong. A sore thumb you forgot to put a plaster over. And, well, have you ever seen it before, really? Your brows furrow as you hold it in your hands, not yet opening it. Why aren't you opening it yet? For a moment, your head turns, the sensation like bullet holes in the back of your head, as if there's someone else in the room too. Staring at you. Whispering, 'Don't do it.' Weird. You're getting old, surely. Or just... too many bloody scenes in the last few weeks? You have been advising a colleague about that gruesome robbery a few blocks down... Could be from the funeral, too. Grief does weird things to people.

William J. Barnum.

You don't think you'd ever heard that name. Or have you? No, you'd heard something familiar, but - it was always Wil- Wil-something, or other. Abe was muttering something about a William or someone of a similar name since-

Since he got back from that Manor.

You hastily rip open the folder, your anxiety getting the better of you. Had he left you something? Abe wasn't the type to hold things close to his chest - or at least so close that nobody knew about them, so there was never a doubt in your mind that he's not the kind of man to leave secret notes in hard to trace places. In fact, he seemed more like the type to leave things out in the open - whether or not you figure out the message behind them is up to your willingness, experience and stubborness. But this? A plain, inconspicuous folder in the back of the drawer? Pink, no less? (He didn't seem like the type to wear pink, either.) Maybe... this isn't Abe.

But it's got his handwriting all over the damn thing. Scribbles, manic, hurried, panicked - circled passages and articles, with a bold 'MURDERER' written across an entire page. Classy. Maybe an old arch-nemesis? You always though he'd suit one of those. Cold case he never got rid of? Every detective's got at least one.

But this- this article's from- last... year?

The more you read, the more invested you become. A lot of the passages are redacted - talking about where they'd met and how, how many times, but the details blurry and scant, as if he wasn't allowed to talk about it. But why? Was someone holding him at literal, or metaphorical gunpoint? Was it a cover-up? Did the Chief have his fingers in this? According to the nature of the things, it seems like he did this alone. Why? Why, why, why? But then- oh. He must've been doing this in his office. Nobody really comes in here, not except- you. How come you never noticed? You came in, at a usual time, no less - according to your clocking in schedule - and then... and then, what did you do? You remember helping him, but with what? Didn't he ask your opinion? Didn't he, tell you things? That talk, the Manor, didn't you-

Your head hurts.

It's a sudden pang that crashes through you, and all of a sudden you're doubling over, the pages of the file fluttering across the floor in a delicate sweep, tumbling underneath your feet. What were you just doing? Who is that man? Ugh- your head hurts. It's pounding, knocking at the sides of your head so badly that every sound echoes through and back into you, a glass casing that keeps being banged against. Fuck. You don't know how long it takes for you to come to, but when you do, there's been a significant portion of time lost, or at least your internal clock tells you so. You're tired. There's a deep-seated ache in your bones now, a pain you can't name. The funeral took a toll on you, sure, but- if- if this is the last thing you have of Abe-

Despite the headache coming back every time you glance at the file, you try to piece things together. That actor - the one who paid up Abe's vacation, he's the one- the instigator. Right? No, no. It's the- this man. The murder of the Mayor and that woman, it's all him, or so Abe is telling you. William, or whatever his name is. According to the books, he's got enough aliases to cover several lifetimes. How long has this man exactly been alive? You push it aside. Philosophical questions can wait when justice is served. There's the Manor, and then - oh. You're guessing what the murderer part is about now. There's a report - or well, it was supposed to be a report, apparently, before it tapers off into nonsensical ramblings of a madman, the hate so palpable it could partically be peeled away from the paper. Whoever this man was, Abe loathed him. Abe wanted this guy dead. But as a detective... the most he could do, realistically, is try and put him behind bars.

You turn the page.

There's so much blood.

Every picture of this man - in a suit and tie, in this costume and that- (Is that a safari outfit?, you squint as you bring the picture closer to your face) is covered, if not completely drenched in blood. Some photographs are fine - spattered here and there with little droplets - but most of them are oozing with it, crusted over at the edges, sticky despite however dry they may be. And you're sure, suddenly dropping the folder onto the table in your realization that you're compromising evidence - that this isn't... oh, god. Is this Abe's blood? You're going to be sick. You're usually stone cold to these sorts of things - blood and guts and gore and gunpowder - you see it almost on the daily. But the thought of your mentor's blood on the pages detailing the whereabouts of a killer? That sickens you to the bone. If you sent this down to the lab, surely you'd get it confirmed, but... you can't, really, right? This is a private case - if Chief found out he'd been working on this while undercover, while neglecting other cases... That'd be treading in deep shit. I mean, the man's dead, so he won't get in trouble, really (What deeper shit is there than death itself?), but you? A world of hurt. Worse than that. Financial hurt, especially when you get sacked back to hell and beyond and are out of a job because no police force will take a detective with a hidden case on their record, or one who had been participating in a case of another detective, who kept it secret from the force. Fuck, Abe. What have you gotten yourself into?

It gets worse, when you find the gun. It sits heavy in your hand - a Taurus Raging Bull, of which you remember was a hair short of just outright equating animals to people in the range of how easily they could be mowed down. Your muscles twitch in pure disgust. How vile can a person be? Then the other notes detailing the night of his passing - some of which he seems to have written in a hurry, as if rushing to catch up to this... killer or whoever he was.

'locations? times? the train / knows the future / hasn't happened yet?'

Yeah, you'd like to know what the fuck he was on about, too.

Begrudgingly, impatiently, you end up spending months on developing a proper case. The evidence provided is few and far between, but from what you gather, you can devise a pretty picture of what actually happened. Thankfully, Abe was smart enough to leave you little notes - always the pedantic note taker, at least - if anything, then of what he thought was the truth, or his random thinking about the case, lest he forget anything. It helped more than you thought it would - confirming your already forming thoughts and opinions or giving insight to things you'd missed. (As if he was shoulder to shoulder to you, like he used to be. Like you were working together again.)

Every time you had to devote some time to other cases - those actually pertaining to your new position as detective - you'd pay attention to them, but only with a grumble or sigh attached. You knew this was why you'd joined the force - to help people, and you were damn good at it. But Abe's legacy, the fact nobody researched his death, that nobody even suspected murder or anything of the sort when apparently, the file was right there - was absurd, bordering on offensive or even, sacrilegious (If you believed in honoring the dead, that is.). It was as if they were waiting for it, the entirety of the station, nobody even tried. Before, you'd worried over the same thing. If you went off on a case, so deep, so crucial that only you could solve it, and got lost somewhere along the way, would anyone search for you? Would anyone try?

Well, you're going to find Abe. No matter what it takes.

The building you find him at is some downtrodden thing downtown, suspiciously close to the offices. Had he stuck around for this long? Never leaving? Or was he going around so much, whizzing about, omnipresent, that you barely had the notion he ever left, everywhere all at once? Everything's getting muddy - not that you have the whole of all of the information, either. You're just jumping off of conclusions, really - but you have enough friends in the shadiest of places to know exactly how to find people you're looking for, especially if they stick out of the crowd as easily as a flamingo in a pigeon beauty pageant.

When you approach, it's so painfully obvious where he is. Or, rather, where he's supposed to be. The poster plastered on the front of the joint tells you as such - Warfstache TONIGHT!, it reads in a large, pink, glittery font - though the paper it's printed out on is worn and dusty, so you're unsure if your sources are correct. Better to be safe than sorry, though. Slipping into the back alley, you locate the dingy back entrance, sticking close but not entering yet to survey the situation a bit more closely.

According to your sources, the guy switched his job from murderer to talk show host as easily as slipping on a new pair of gloves. Not that you're that surprised - of course he'd do that. Chumps like him - the deranged kind - usually like to stick their nose where it doesn't belong, anyway. The change isn't really what bothered you, no, it's more the choice of it? A talk show host, really? Wasn't this guy part of the military at some point? You'd think someone with his background would be, well, more keen to trying to live out the rest of his days peacefully. Or, if you were to think about it further, who in the hell would hire an ex-soldier with a debatable sense of sanity, especially one from such high circles? Weren't there jobs usually reserved for people like that? Like, something requiring a higher degree of education but a low amount of actual responsibility - though, his background was insignificant enough for Abe not to write it down, or unreachable enough to not be able to be procured. Maybe he did just finish the basic programs and that's it. Or maybe you're just old. These newfangled media companies all think their stories are better just because someone with an odd background brought them to the limelight - without actually considering the consequences. Whatever. Not your area.

As you're waiting, you see a couple of people passing through the entrance itself - stagehands, interns, assistants and the like - most fumbling around with props or taking a quick smoke break. You can't blame them. From what you'd seen, even without the notion of him being a serial killer, working for Barnum is apparently a shit show in in of itself. Guy does whatever he wants, really - uncaring of the consequences, of people's jobs, or, most importantly - the lives of the people he's interviewing. Who's even crazy enough to put up with that? You'd rather turn tail and run, even if you were desperate enough to take on any job - no life is worth a couple extra bucks. You can't even begin to imagine the frustration seeping off their every step. You tighten your disguise around you - an unassuming black turtleneck with a pair of pressed pants - hoping it won't give you away. How does one figure out what a stagehand wears, anyhow? You sure as hell haven't seen enough of them to figure that out.

When no one's around, you take a deep breath or two before stepping out of the shadows and slipping into the back of the building with baited breath.

The backstage is a wretched place - small, but horribly dirty and unkempt, at least for a backstage. There's boxes upon boxes littering the sides of the halls, all stuffed with cheap costumes, various wigs and redacted scripts, movie ideas and, well, you stop reading one particular passage after the stage direction '(The host pulls out a gun)'. You're pretty sure you've seen that one before. After all, what kind of detective doesn't do their research? (Those episodes will haunt you for the rest of your life.) The hallways leading up to the stage are short, but packed with people, so much so that nobody really pays attention to you. Good, you think even as your heart is hammering in your chest.

There's a certain kind of rage, just threatening to boil over. You're mad, yes, maybe even bold enough to say you're furious now, after so many months of hunting - you're almost positive Abe would have been just fine had he not met with that man - but there's a nervousness there as well. After all, you'd never killed a man before, especially planning out the murder beforehand - especially especially, a man who's seemingly even more experienced at killing than you - and you're a trained officer of the law! Well, you guess, he is, or was, a Colonel. You can comfort yourself with that if he overpowers you in any way- which he won't. Tonight, you avenge Abe. Tonight, you end this madness, whatever it is. But you can't exactly help the way your hands shake as you paw at your belt loops, hoping you look casual enough to blend in. You're scared. You're so, very, scared. This man has killed before - four people, if we're counting specifics, and he's so trigger-happy it's probably more than that. Are you ready to be on his level? Are you ready to be a murderer? The gun he used to kill Abe with itches you where it's stuffed in the back of your pants. You have to be. You can't let him get away. If not for the fact that it's for Abe, then for the fact that it's your duty as an officer of the law.

You can do this. You can do this.

It's time to prove you were right about Abe.

When you're sure there are no eyes on you anymore, you slip into the room of Wilford Warfstache, behind the bright pink, star labeled door.

The room itself at least smells better than the rest of the backstage. Whereas the previous space smelled mostly of sweat, of people rushing to get things done - here, there's a soft, dim kind of light, with a slightly sweet and mellow, powdery floral scent in the air. The only blaring, stark difference comes from the white bulbs framing the mirror he'd been set up with - a staple to every movie star, casting a dramatic light over the scene. Though the movie he's about to star in is... less than favorably written to suit its protagonist. (More like, ready to drench him in the consequences of his actions. You hope the cameraman is ready, 'cause there won't be a second chance to capture the shot of his lifeless body clattering to the ground.) In contrast to the set, the rest of the room is laden in plushness - soft chairs, fluffy pillows - the works, really, if only slightly mussed up in that characteristically cozy kind of way, like a set to a play with the concept of a typical teenager's room. If you weren't already caught up to speed on who this guy was, you'd think this was some cocky upstart's frilly abode they use to flaunt their work in. But no, this was typical of him, which in in of itself is a wild thing to say.

There was humming coming from the en suite bathroom, a cheery tune that echoed and bounced off the tiled surfaces of it and through the cracked open door to the left of you. You couldn't recognize it, not really, so you'll just file it away as nonsensical murmuring of an already dead man. Walking corpse. You wet your lips absent-mindedly, pulling out the gun with precalculated, smooth movements, like you were trained all those years ago.

When he enters the room with sure, almost gliding steps, your heart may as well have exploded, the rush of your nervousness unknotting in a spiral that almost sends you reeling, had you not had a steel fist clenched tightly around your psyche. He's everything you'd imagined over the few months you'd been researching him, and everything you hadn't. The picture of innocence- the prophecy of goodwill- with a facial structure so gentle you think one look at it would invoke a smile on your face- but deep eyes. So deep it seems as if even by glancing at you, he knows everything about you, despite not really even looking at you. He's dressed to the nines, a satin, baby pink shirt that almost glitters with a diamond-like glaze, pressed yellow pants and white pointed dress shoes - not surprising, as his show is about to begin, hair pulled back only slightly with bits and bobs as he obviously works on his makeup. An eccentric gentleman, the stench of old money paired with a sour twist of confusion-evoking perplexity that makes your stomach churn and your fingers press deeper against the solid steel of the pistol.

"Oh!", he breaks into a grin as soon as he spots you, hunched over at the back of the room, in the dark, the pose defensive and threatening all at once - a vivid contrast to him, where he stands in the center of the light, in front of the mirror - the back of him lit up like a holy light, like he was an angel. Some angel. More like the devil. The reflection of you in his pristine white teeth seems more like a tarot spread - your future, in the maw of a predator. "You're late, y'know."

... What?

No, don't listen, he's just confusing you. It's what he does best.

"William Barnum." Your gaze is steely from where you regard him, body tense as his smile falls gradually, tilting his head like a particularly curious cat, cocking his head lightly to the side. From the 3/4 view he's looking on you from, his eyes glint in a fashion you're sure most model-based magazines would kill for. But there's something in his eyes - something dark, something vile, a rose covered in spikes, even down to the sharpness of its petals, something you can't even hope to pin down. Something you want to cage if only to shut it off. You feel, if you'd look into his eyes long enough, you'd lose yourself. a cough ruptures through you as you clear your throat. "You're under arrest." It wasn't what you meant to say - but instinct takes over in place of nervousness. Sure, let's go with that - at least as long as you can get him to somewhat comply, then - shoot him in the head. The silencer is ready, almost begging you to use it. It'll be easier that way. You begin to rattle off what comes off so naturally, his rights, the whole spiel. You're just waiting for him to react.

He barely even lets you start when he apparently realizes what you're doing, rolling his eyes back with an exaggerated sigh, head thrown fully to the side. His previously tense shoulders collapse against his frame, the suspended hands almost bouncing back with the force he lets them fall to his sides with, as if he's already bored with you. But it's a facade, you know. It's how they get you. Get ready, get ready, he's going to- "Would you quit that already?!", he notes in a voice you think barely fits him, like a shoe not quite settled in right, annoyed and done with your shit. What shit?! You'd barely started! You're here to kill him, for gods' sakes! "Yes, yes, I know.", he's muttering to himself as he turns to the mirror, taking out the many pins he has in his hair one by one - hurriedly, but not as if he's panicked - moreso like he has a show to get to. He's insane. He's definetly hearing something you're not. "Seriously, would you put the gun down?" He's raising his hand upwards, waving it around as if to signal that his words are pointed to you specifically. "I usually love the taste for violence you have, but you were supposed to be here, what-", jutting out his elbow, he's looking at a watch that just... isn't there. "Half an hour ago? Very unprofessional." You can see his eyebrows move with his words in the mirror - a mildly dissapointed expression playing across his features.

Just because he decided to play some sort of twisted game with you, doesn't mean you'll relent.

"Oh for goodness' sake!" he half-shouts, letting go of his hair, as soon as you decide what to think. What is- is he- reading your thoughts? No. You're just paranoid. You're doubting yourself. Toughen up. You can do this. You take a step forward, tentative, but a looming presence - the intensity of the action's implication radiating off you like a poisonous gas. He doesn't seem even lightly bothered - if anything, he himself is turning towards you now, taking a step too - wait, is he coming over to you?! You have a gun! Is he insane?! "When will you stop, already? Like I said-", he points a finger at you, almost in line with the barrel of your gun, as if he's calling you out, "- you -" , twirling it around as he continues his sentence, "- owe me an interview. Remember?" An- what? An interview? When did you- How did you- You blink at him rapidly - once, twice, confusion clouding your judgement. "Yes, yes!" he agrees with himself succinctly, though you hadn't spoken a word. "You need to get ready. Can't have you out on camera like..." Looking you up and down, one of his eyebrows presses harder against the other in a faux concerned expression as he looks you over before he readjusts himself, a hand supporting his chin as he pops his hip to the side, squinting his eyes at you. Those, pretty, villanous, eyes. "Well, you don't look too bad. But too drab!" He nods his head to himself. "Too drab, mhm. Need a bit of makeup, too-", he notes as he moves his hand in a half-circle motion, hovering in front of and around his own eyes, back and forth, back and forth, "since someone's been missing out on their beauty sleep."

"... what?", comes out like a squeak from you, a small crack in your impregnable defense of steeled edge. He sighs in response, as if talking to a petulant child, taking another step forward when he shifts again, now cocking up his arms against his hips- no, why is that kind of hot- "Are you really going to make me do everything for you?" He steps forward again, and a again, in measured, confident strides, as if he has no fear of you whatsoever. Like you're old friends- like- like- oh, you don't even know. "Back. Off." You remain firm in your position, the barrel of the gun hitting his chest with a push added to every word, him now close enough to bump against it with little to no issue. Conniving bastard. "Well, that's just uncalled for." "Shut, up!" You raise your voice, mindful of the people outside - wouldn't want to be caught, would you? But that sets him off, somehow. There's a hint of a genuine reaction in his gaze, especially now that it's clouded in less light than prior, in which he seems almost... surprised? His eyebrows twitch lightly upwards, undereyes jerking to make his eyes squint mildly in a small motion that betrays him. Or does it? Killers are usually good actors. Or so you've seen thus far.

"You... killed my partner." A flutter of lashes as he regains himself, and a rubbing of his fingers together in an almost forcefully resigned manner as his hands leave his hips, almost reaching out for you. "Ah. You're still hung up on that.", he mutters solemnly, insecure from what you can see. You don't buy it for a second. "Of course I'm still hung up on that!", explodes from you in a milisecond, emotions taking over your tired, burnt out body. Steady, steady. Keep it cool. "I mean-" You falter slightly, and the burning gaze of his pupils is maybe even worse than a knife slicing through your ribs. There's a squirming underneath your skin that wants out, like your entire being is screaming to get away from this man. That, in fact, you'll be the corpse soon shoved in the closet before he finishes getting ready. "I'm going to kill you." A snort, barely subdued, before his smile (soft, gentle) is reaching his eyes like he can barely believe what he's hearing. Like he doesn't even trust you to make good on your promise. Disrespectful son of a bitch. "Oh, are you? You'd have to be pretty good with that-" He turns his gaze towards the power that is the Taurus, sitting snugly in your both hands, cradled in the fists of a trained professional, reaching over and lightly - as if his skin is kissing at the cold steel of it - tracing a finger down from its peak and inching toward you. "- gorgeous little number, to do that."

Then his eyebrows furrow, blinking rapidly. "Wait, is that mine?!" The finger turns into a whole outstretched hand, lunging for the pistol before you move it out of his range, pressed up against his forehead now. "You can have it buried with you when you go, I promise." There's a wickedness to you now, voice sickly sweet, base instincts unveiled as you toy with him, the hate a demon on your shoulder. Maybe it's an illusion - you really have not even a barren clue who's really dominant in this conversation, but even if you're about to die... at least you got to pull at his buttons a bit, twisting them this way and that. At least you go out guns blazing. Abe would've liked that. "Oh, come on!" He pouts- wait, pouts? - insolently, almost making you think he's about to stomp his feet on the floor in a mock tantrum as his body drops its weight onto his skeleton again, arms hanging by his side as the barrel of the gun makes a small indent across his forehead with how much pressure is being applied.

"I'm running this show, pal. Now-" "No, no, no!", he suddenly relents, words now firmer than before as reaches behind himself, the gaze of your gun a steady heartbeat against him, and pulls out a- is that a Viper revolver?! Where the fuck did he get that?! He didn't have a gun on him before! "I'm-" , he emphasizes as he cocks it and points it against your own gun in a Mexican standoff, "- running this show. Didn't you read the poster? Warfstache! Tonight! It's literally my name!", he scoffs, the arrogance seeping off him like water from a barrel with no bottom. "Yeah.", focusing up on his gun, you debate if you'd be able to take him. Surely. You'd get trampled with a wound, but the Taurus is stronger. He's no match for that, but despite it - and you can call yourself stupid freely for this one - he doesn't seem like he wants to hurt you? That can change in... less than a second, you remind yourself. Don't be dumb. "And how many of those have you got, huh? Wilson? Wilford? William?" Your gaze darkens even further in the shadow, the glint echoing off the silver of his weapon giving you an added slice of danger. "Murderer."

There's a furious discussion brewing behind his eyes, pulling his emotions this way and that. Lucidity and insanity. A twinge of regret? You'd put enough people under pressure, cracked them open juuuust right enough to remember what that's like. To be in an inescapable situation, albeit from the perspective of the opressor. A sick, twisted part of you delights in it. Especially when it's well-deserved. "You're just how you always are. Just how he said you'd be." That makes you take a mental step back, but your time is ticking. You cannot allow for this to go on any longer. No more lies. No more gouging. No more shows. This marks the end of the season. "Good.", you mutter, eyebrows pressing heavily as your head tilts back- and push at the trigger. The sound reverberates throughout the studio, a crystal clear spear through the eyes. You only blink once from the impact, and then-

There's arms wrapping around your torso as you recover from the jerk of the gun, and you almost scream at their presence.

"Sweetheart." His head hangs across your shoulder, looking at your face from the side as you try and grasp the situation.

How did he- when did he- what...? He's dead. Nobody- How-

"So many thoughts in such a small, pretty head." Your eyes widen like saucers, hands shaking around the warmth of your weapon, the smell of fresh gunpowder in the air and lacing your hands like newly laid snow. He's pressed up against you now, from behind, and you can feel practically all the muscle he has built up from his years in the army. If you were to engage in hand-to-hand combat, you'd lose. Definetly so. Not even a shadow of a doubt in your mind. You're trembling now. Who- who is this man? How does one- evade a fucking bullet?! He's petting the side of your head, lightly slapping across that cheek of yours that's away from him in an almost comforting way, one hand on your hip and the other's wrist nestled in the crook of your neck where it can reach your face. "I missed you." Missed... you? He'd... never met- you- before. Have you seen him somewhere before? Had he been looking you up, too, or worse- stalking you?! And how could you not have noticed?! You're too frozen in place to retaliate, too numb to feel the way he's feeling you up. Gentlemanly, still, of course (of course?), touching only the places that aren't inherently private, but still intrusive. Overbearing. Smothering you in him so much you feel like even if you tried to breathe, you couldn't. "Oh, right."

He backs off for a second, seemingly a sheepish painting of insecurity, before he's reaching for you again, hand encasing your throat when he almost surprisingly forcefully, with the steady strenght rivaling a mountain range avalanche, drives you against the wall. You sputter and cough, clawing at his hand, the pain a sharp stab that fizzles out into a dull, pressuring throb - somehow taken by surprise, too shocked by the presence of him so close, your knowledge boiling out of your head like steam from a train. Fuck- he's- by everything holy, he's crushing your windpipes so harshly- "I'm sorry.", he sighs, leaning further against your neck, as if you were just another part of the wall he decided to lean on with an outstretched arm, while the other hangs loosely on his hip again, legs crossing over nonchalantly. "I just- get ahead of myself. It's been such a long time since I've seen you, after all." Raising his hand, he combs the fingers through his now messy, brown hair, the tips of it (now that you look at it more closely) a vibrant pink shade, though your vision is slowly getting blurry. Please, don't put the fact you got offed by a man obssessed with the color pink on your tombstone. Anything but that. "You-", he points an accusatory finger at you while your face turns another shade of purple, "- are a very, very tough person to find, detective." Then, as if adding insult to injury, he refocuses on your face, eyes clinging to your struggling, singeing you further into the wall with it alone before he leans in closer, closer, closer - and presses the tip of his finger on the tip of your nose with a whispered "Boop.".

You're dropped without warning, clattering to your knees with a heavy thump, the carpet doing you no good in cushioning your fall. How strong is this guy?! You're hacking and wheezing as the feathered footfall of him turns shades lighter, stepping away from your shivering form. You have zero chance, you realize now- if this guy can't be killed by a gun, and he's too strong for you- then what would you even have yourself do? You can't kill him. You can't - you're literally unable to. And fuck, if that doesn't bring at least a tear to your eye, easily masked by the stray tears having seeped out already, naturally forming in regards to the pressure exterted on your throat only moments before. Fuck. Fuck! Well, if he's going to kill you, at least you're going to get some answers. "Answers, yes.", he rattles off when you raise your gaze feebly, craning your neck with significant difficulty to see him seated back in the chair in front of the vanity, dabbing foundation with a beauty blender at his face. "But why? Why would you want those, when they're so... useless?" His shoulders twist that way and that even while he's not looking at you, as if to express his own nonchalance to your burning curiosity. To your desperate need to know. To your hate. To your love. Like it's all a quickly dwindling down game.

"Why did you do it?" The voice coming out of you is damaged, raspy, hoarse - flesh pushed against a grater, with a pain rivaling it only in its intensity. It aches - so badly, but you force yourself to push through it. You need to know. You need- You need- "What you need to do is relax.", comes his muffled voice - now applying some sort of blush to his features, a hand outstretched upwards, back towards you, tilted slightly to the side and spread apart as if to say, 'stop'. Pompous fuck. "Why... did you do it?" A cough interrupts your speaking every now and then, but you must push through. You must. You have to. You need to know. (It hurts so badly.) "Tell me, you shitbag."

The thump of his hands against the wood is all you hear as you're trying to recover, head hanging and blinking as if to keep yourself together. "I didn't." His voice is changed, somehow, deeper, more tragic, more solemn, or is that the ringing in your ears? There's an aura about him- you're sure now- something that makes men crumble to their knees. Not inherently a vulturous one, but a spiral going 'round and 'round - neverending, endless, nameless. It pushes you to the side until you're a careening, baseless form, intoxicated beyond measure, spitting out bubbles at your own feet. And each bubble, a part of yourself you'd thought to have gotten over. Pain, and pain, and more pain. Or maybe that's just you. "We play this game over and over, detective." A timbre is added, a subtle bass to its edge. "One time you're fighting me for her, for- Ce-line. The other time, you're here for Damien. Then, Abe, and- Celine again, and- Damien-" A pair of white shoes comes into view, pitter pattering steadily to you in almost soundless motions, settling right next to the arm you're using to hold yourself up, on your knees and slightly swaying. "But I think all you really want is a chase." A strong stretched out hand sprawls itself across the back of your head, tangling in your hair - not necessarily twisting or grasping, just hovering so you can feel the warmth of it. A restrained power. A show of authority. "I've been so willing to provide. Before. But I got attached." Closer, closer, warmer, warmer. A thick set of muscle, gristly and well-connected, a hand of a monster waiting to crush you.

"I don't want to be chased anymore. I grow tired of it, Detective."

A light brush through your locks, a loving kiss of muscle to cranium, affectionate as anything. A last gentle motion.

"Aren't you tired, Detective?"

The ringing in your ears grows more fierce, more intense - like the world around you falls apart in ribbon-like shapes - tearing, breaking apart with visible cracks and seeping reality through like a pungent soup. What is reality, anymore? Who are you? Who is he?

"Just let go. It doesn't matter."

It doesn't matter, right. Right. Right.

The more you let yourself fall in, the more information is revealed to you - where you previously didn't know who Damien was - no, but he's that Mayor. Celine - the sister, the seer. The Entity. He's twirling you, on top of the world, a brain in a dream, pleasurable pain settling deep inside your very soul. There is nothing that matters. Atoms, stars. Where had they gone? All that is constant is the madness, the swishing, the cursed dance of light and dark. And him. William? Does it even matter what he's called anymore? It's all a game, anyways. Every card is set, every stage lit up, and everything comes into you in waves, crashing against you - everything you needed to know, and what you didn't. People, puppets, the world you live in - a standing precipice of cardboard and a slowly dwindling universe looping in on itself, repeating, repeating, repeating.

You'd seen him before, when you used to wear mostly black instead of the trench coat you wear now, the sides of it slipping around you as they're carried by the wind, when your cards were that of the arcane instead of sets of guns and threads of yarn, when your hands were stained with ink rather than with gunpowder and red marker, and- there's tears pouring out of you in waves, for the persons you used to be, for the persons you will be, for everything you are.

A light kiss is placed against the crown of your head, and you snap back to consciousness.

What just... happened?

You were at the studio, he was there, his gun pointed at you, and-

The walls surrounding you are basically crumbling, now no longer a surrounding of cozy pink, of feathers and barely concealed stench of death, but an abandoned building. You could hear the walls whispering to you in the distant language of crumbling stone, almost spooked by your presence as your eyes glaze against the brick walls, the red almost unnatural, spiking your heartbeat.

There's nothing here.

No people, no stage, no blaring lights - just a post-war building, threatening to be run down with signs of demolition seemingly plastered to each corner where it dips into another, equally as abandoned room, though so torn you can only assume the demolition process had been halted into indefinite time. The wind calling to you swishes throughout the hallways, deathly cold and whistling in your ears like an oncoming train. The floor underneath you, no longer a soft carpet, but now a rough, calloused expanse, the dust sticking to your pants where you're hobbled over on your knees, the small particles of rock slicing into your palms in a sweet sensation of irritation.

Your throat hurts, but from what? You can't... remember.

There's a slip of paper, as if dangling from a hook, laid gently in front of you.

'IOU: One interview with your host, Wilford Warfstache! Date tbd. Call me!' with a scribbled in number whose numbers danced around your skull like pinpricks of a needle, unwilling to be understood. And your signature. A pink heart plastered at the end.

You can't run away from me, Detective. You'll always be chasing me.

Alternate edits. I was truly just fucking around...

Unedited version

Backgrounds (not tagged, because I just coloured over an image)

Reference