#narrativeobsession

Rain pitter-pattered against the thin, uninsulated windows of the motel Howard stayed in. It was the only one that wasn't cashless, or needed his credit card, or ask too many pervasive questions. Howard thought America would've been a bit more laid back with these things: people still cut -- what do they call them? cheques? Checks! on the regular -- twenty dollars cash would get you some semblance of stuff (used to be good, but cossie lizzie and all that). Must've been bad luck is all.

South Carolina, South Carolina. All he knew about South Carolina were... Golf. And Nascar?

He didn't even know exactly where the bus driver left him in 'South Carolina'. It was a busy day and the bus driver was eager to get a move on. Can't use Google Maps since he's three days out and home's too far to be asking help from some kid to 'put more internet in my phone'. He'll find somebody here, just... not yet. Maybe somebody outside could help him out.

Victor's back hits the wall and he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, hands clutching at the front of Nolis' shirt. The kiss was supposed to be innocent enough, but it seems that Nolis had other ideas in mind. That's fine. It's not like Victor is complaining. A whine catches in the back of his throat, hands gripping his hips so tight that he's sure there's going to be bruises there later. Good. Something to remember the night by.

The only problem is that they're down in his lab, and neither of them likely have the patience to stumble back upstairs. It's cold and there's an odd smell. Not to mention all of the limbs, but--but it doesn't seem to bother Nolis. It doesn't bother Victor, either. Not in the slightest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maybe this wasn't really a case in the traditional sense. Not anything horrifying, not really a felony, no murder yet... just, probably the single strangest string of theft, misdemeanors, resisting, and evading arrest that the county had literally ever seen. And thats mighty impressive, considering this was Florida.

In fact, technically, the case was in between two counties; Polk mostly, with the rest of the bizarre instances scattered around Tampa. Now, Tampa PD seemed to not notice anything too strange; some lady taking crazy, and stealing here, or trespassing there, or trying to either pet or catch a wild alligator. Suspect description: White possibly Asian female, sometimes armed with a knife, red hair, one leg, scar over right side of the face, distinct tattoos, very tall, last seen wearing a tickertape of band shirts or booty shorts or sundresses or pirate costumes or an actual yellow polka dot bikini. Another flamboyant trailer park diva, they thought, or some wiley lot lizard they just haven't been able to i.d. yet... or taken seriously enough to pursue. Tampa rolled their eyes and had the warrants pending and the boys in blue on the lookout.

Polk County PD did not roll their eyes. They did all in their power not to even blink.

Same woman. Same kinds of crimes. Same behavior and preference of dress. But with so many more run-ins with her in Polk, she'd began to get sloppy. Cops and witnesses and bystanders alike would swear she had just been at the scene. Some even claimed to look up and find her gone. Slippery was one thing, sure, fair amount of hard to catch junkies around here. Slippery doesnt mean you vanished from the back of a locked cop car. Wiley doesn't mean you show up in one surveillance camera, but not the very next one. It was one thing to have many witnesses incorrectly assume they saw a perpetrator, but it was another entirely to be seen on a dashcam walking through a Dennys parking lot and, in not less than one minute, be caught trespassing on the golf course across town. One officer claimed she smiled at him and stepped behind a tree, gone. Yet another tried to give her a field sobriety test when she stepped into a small cooler like she was stepping into pants. Fell in! Disappeared! Like she had gone down a slide! Finally, an undercover officer got as close as anyone had come to her, but it only left them with more questions. She acted like she'd never even heard of most drugs or similar contraband. Actually, this woman hadn't heard of most of anything he'd tried to talk to her about. Or if she had, she was terribly confused and trying not to let it show. She may or may not have attempted to fuck him in his unmarked car and, allegedly, said undercover officer chickened out. Allegedly. Either way, once again, she'd been erased by the fabric of the night itself. All the police had really learned was her first name: Jessica.

That was everything the case file had to offer. With the manila folder shut and this supposed detective now up to speed, the Polk County sheriff sat back in a perplexed mix of curiosity and shame; not even two days ago he had firmly believed in nothing but the good book and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Now here he sat, depending on some kind of "ghost hunter" or whatever he called himself, after weeks of radio silence from the FBI. He fixed his crossed arms over the round of his belly and sighed, eyeing the private investigator with an aching yet nonhostile stare.

" And that's... about where the trail runs cold, son. If you can even call it a trail." His grumble was exhausted but warm, and his Southern accent gravy thick.

Viktor's eyes flick to a nearby trashcan. He realizes that cannot be the grand sum, but it gives him a starting guess.

"This would be the...fourth?" Thick brows raise, lips quirked into a little grin. "I am beginning to think you may go into cardiac arrest rather than passing out. In which case, I cannot help you."

He's one to talk. He ate toast with jam for breakfast, nothing for lunch, and it's presently 11 at night and he's had water and at least two pots of coffee. He's been awake thirty hours straight. He's full of shit.

A perfectly measured fingertip tapped the marred surface of the Rec Room table. Tap. Tap. Over the top of his silver-framed glasses, Herbert West stared across the space, unblinking, observing the same man he had observed every day for weeks. His fingers drummed with careful precision. Over and over. As he watched.

Save for skin tone and eye colour, they could almost be brothers. Both had dark hair, small build, and the same height that was, without a doubt, smaller than all of the other patients in the facility. Herbert was much paler - the handiwork of spending almost all of his time indoors - and his grey eyes shone stormy and intense over the other man's warm chocolate brown ones.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The man at the table beside him - Grayson, his name was - towered over Herbert. He was a disgusting man, with long, stringy, unwashed hair, and various fascist tatoos. His IQ was somehow worse than his breath. Even hunched over his checkers game, rocking slightly, he looked way down at the young scientist with growing annoyance. Tap. Tap. Herbert seemingly took no notice.

The man across the room was named Fairchild, and Herbert had heard some extremely interesting rumours circulating about his previous experiences. In a place such as this, every patient had an insane story about being abducted by aliens, talking to ghosts, or what have you. But West could see that this man was haunted by something not created by his own mind. Fairchild didn't belong here any more than he did.

Tap. Tap. Grayson growled quietly and, after a few more seconds of incessant tapping, he suddenly slammed his fist on the table. "God damn it, West! Cut it the fuck out!" Herbert slowly ripped his gaze away to look up at the man. Calmly, he said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Grayson roared in frustration, sending the checker pieces scattered across the floor. Before he could get his hands around Herbert's neck, orderlies were there, restraining him, dragging him out into the hall. It took four men to pull him away. All four orderlies who were assigned to the Rec Room, in fact.

Rainer Gersten is a mature adult. She's lived for over a thousand years and learned much, she's wise and fair and ultimately when dealing with mortal men she might be likened to a shepherd.

That's why she slides her sunglasses down her nose and squints intensely at Cove's chin. She's not looking at him 'like that' anymore, she's now looking at him quite differently. More obnoxiously, anyway.

               HE   FELT   HIS   ESSENCE   BURN   BRIGHTLY,   A   SILENT   FURRY   READY   to   pounce   when   given   the   opportunity.   He   was   quick   to   corner   the   being.   His   eyes   were   locked,   a   bitter   cold   stare,   upon   @narrativeobsession.   He   hadn’t   said   a   word.   In   fact,   his   lips   parted   to   speak,   but   a   defensive   plea—   a   statement,   reached   his   ears.   

               i haven’t hurt anyone

                  BLOND   STRANDS   TRAILED   OFF   HIS   SHOULDER   WITH   AN   ELEGANT   TILT   of   his   head.   Muscles   were   tense,   already   knowing   which   weapon   on   his   person   to   draw   if   needed,   “   Words   of   the   guilty.   Is   this   some   type   of   confession?   ”   A   voice   of   resolution   and   authority.   He   needed   to   test   them,   judge   them   on   their   innocence.