"I'm here to warn you, Charles,"

Story written by enigmia on Friday 14, May 2010

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Description
My May contest submission (explicit language)

Overall Rating: 91.8%

This writing has been rated by 2 members, resulting in a rating of 91.8% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

Concept/Plot:90.5%
Imagery:91.5%
Spelling & Grammar:93.5%
Flow/Rhythm:92.5%
Vocabulary:91%
"I'm here to warn you, Charles," I tell him. He whirls around as he realizes he's not the only adult in his kitchen. "W-who-wa-whoareyou?!" he says, dragging the boy away from me toward the living room. "I know where you got the boy," I say. His eyes widen. "There's no way you could get the information you did, to go where you went, without getting word of me in those circles." He shudders my name before any sound makes its way out. "V-V-V-Vitika? Why?!" The boy's head rolls as Charles pulls him in tightly. "You're not here for him, are you? Not again! Y'all can't have him again!" Neither I nor anyone I know have ever come for the boy before. "I'm not here for the boy. I'm here to warn you about the man who is. You can expect him any minute," I tell him. "What? Who?!" he asks. "He doesn't have a name, yet. He's just coming for the boy. That's all that's important," I say. "Wha; Then what do I do?" he asks. "That's up to you." "You just came to warn me? You don't want to harm me or Jordan? You're not going to take him?" he almost pleas in his fear. "Correct," I say. "So, you're here to help me then?" he asks. "No." The door shoots into shrapnel as a miniature explosive leaves half of it dangling in its frame. Wallis's lack of subtlety really belies his police training. I take the time to make my way through a locked house before Charles realizes I'm there; Wallis blows out the front door. Men. In his fear, Charles doesn't so much turn as is suddenly, simply facing the remains of his entryway, whirling the kid like a doll as I tighten my grip on my sai, my entire body on edge, ready. Time to see how 1's toy does. [left][/left] The blast sends in the front door as I wait beside the front steps against the wall for the dust and smoke to clear. A darting glance through the doorway: 38 "" 52 years old, male, bald or balding, Caucasian, 5'5" "" 5'8", blue, jean shirt, blue jeans, 185 "" 225 lbs, brown shoes, portly, standing, motionless; one room away, clutching a child off the ground: male, 9 "" 11, white-blond hair, Caucasian, red shirt, hidden design, blue jean shorts, white sneakers, about 4', 80 "" 110 lbs, seems unconscious. The man's standing next to a; 2. Even through the haze, she's unmistakable. The hair plastered down and around her neck to a point, like a tattoo, the black and, hidden in the dust, blue leather-like, body-hugging material, that tightly poised, viper-tense stance, not for show, but all to make it impossible to grab her, if you've worked your life to reach such a caliber as to be able to get close enough through her defenses "" 2. Even if I wasn't so familiar with her, there are only so many six foot Asian women who go around with sai in Harlet, Florida. She stands out when she doesn't make the effort to hide. "Give back the kid!" I yell in. There's silence for a moment. "Who are you?! Why are you doing this?! Why do you all keep doing this?!" he asks. His voice is strained, pitched with fear. After years of experience, I have to admit, his voice sounds genuinely confused. That's not good. That'd mean he's either innocent or insane. It's on 1's tip I'm here. 2's standing ten feet away. This reeks of 1's games. Either possibility is distinctly likely. Another goddamned "test". But the kid is real. I flash another glance around the door frame, verifying no one's in the living room or on the staircase, then I move halfway into the doorway, gun aimed at the man. Silver blurs, but with no gunshot, 2 keeps a hold on her sai. The man freezes, toilet bowl eyes, squeezing the boy to his chest. "Put'im down," I say, calmly but firmly. "He's my son! You can't have him! I won't!" he shrills, drawing the boy even further in. "P;" I start, but the kid moans. It registers. "You drugged him?" I ask. "N-No! I; He just;" he stammers. "He's drunk. The kid," 2 steps in. "Just to calm him! He was just out of his head after his ordeal! I just needed to calm him!" the man starts. It's not clicking yet, but then again, I'm having a hard time focusing with 2 in the room. Facing down a gun cuts deeply into an act, but this man sounds genuinely scared and indignant that the kid is his, yet he holds the boy between himself and the gun and gets him drunk. No, 2 wants me to hear her say he's drunk. 2's straight forward, nothing but, but she's also here on behalf of 1. And 1 is only straight forward when it's to his greatest benefit. If 1 told her to tell me that, I can't even guarantee he wants me to believe it, just that he wants 2 saying it kicking around inside my head. But it's 2, and the kid does look drunk now that I'm looking for it. Logic tells me I'm on the right track, but my instincts are cautioning that this isn't a normal kidnapper. Besides, he doesn't have a weapon. Even if he thought he was alone, you kidnap a kid, you expect to need a weapon on you. "He actually thinks this is his boy," 2 tells me. "He actually thinks he's retrieved his son." "He is my son!" the guy shouts. "Then, you're saying he's crazy? Actually, fuck that! What'd you do to my legs?!" I ask, gun still aimed, taking quick glances around to make sure no one surprises me from around a recliner, upstairs, or behind my back. "7!" 2 hardly blinks at the sudden subject. "Your legs?" she says, not actually asking. "7?" "Yes, my goddamned legs, 2! My knees were smashed open last I saw you for God and hell to see, and next thing I know, I'm in my own bed, not just perfectly fine, but running half again as fast as I ever could! What the fuck did 7 do to me, 2?!" Her brow just barely furrowed, her mouth almost didn't pinch, as the slightest sign of pity drips down her face. It serves to remind me that 2 is not one of 1's sociopathic lackeys. Killer "" yes, but clearly under her own sense of morality, not indiscriminately. It's not hard to see that she can only stand 7 as far as 1 makes her have to. On this, like many other areas, more than with 1 or any of his other lackeys whose paths I've come upon, we agree: 7 shouldn't exist. That surgeon's feats of medical impossibility would be better described as satanic deals than miraculous. She treats bodies like boys, not the nice ones, treat their sisters' dolls. No one could fit more perfectly as the head of 1's horror fest of a medical team than her. "Again with these numbers of yours. I know no "7', and it's best you quit fooling yourself that I'd be second to anyone." Of course. I could be wired. 1 doesn't exist; to the world. I wouldn't be here otherwise. I'd be still on the force if they believed me. String of unrelated crimes committed by various monstrous personalities, bodies defying even the hyper science of today, all orchestrated by one man, moving one team, through incredibly complex and malleable plans. All I've been doing, as it is, is trying to minimize the atrocity level of his crimes - more than what an entire governmental organization can do when blinded. He may still steal the atomic device, but maybe I can save some of the people guarding it if I know he's going there. Maybe; maybe even stop the theft. Only thing I have going for me, besides police experience, is that relentless interest of his to make me his arch-nemesis. I don't know why, but I can't focus on how fucking frightening that is. Can't deny that as horrifying as the people he chooses are, they're perfect for what he sets out for them to do. And they only grow more terrifying the longer they're with him. Like how 2 (always 2, never Vitika, always 2 "" I know) was a really good contract hire before. Now I've seen her slice a bullet out of the air. I'd have thought it impossible. But I've seen it. Guess she somehow learned that when he upped the danger he dropped her into and took away her guns. "Course, he's been dragging me through an underside of humanity even as a cop I'd never had to witness "" creatures defying the term "human" harboring corrupted voids tarnished with the knowledge that they were once souls, laughing at the idea of being brought to justice. Justifiably. So why he chose me to oppose him when I had no interest in playing hero at all; why he wants an arch-nemesis, for my sanity, I can't focus on that. That, or why I've lived through it all so far; 1's edict: my family's not to be harmed, nor I made unsalvageable, until he states otherwise. Life by the law of my enemy. He's taught me new definitions of hate. "2, quit screw;" I start, and the kidnapper takes a chance. He bolts for his backdoor as I try to take a shot, but I can't get around the child. The sound of high speed metal puncturing a skull. The death choke of a grown man. The sound of a body sucking off a sai. The sound of 200 lbs of meat and bone crumpling into linoleum. Four sounds I'll never get over, no matter how many times I hear them around 2. "Oh, Je-! Oh, Jesus! Why did you;?" I stammer. "He may have thought the child was his, but he was a coward. He put the child at risk over himself. He wasn't going to leave here, and if you couldn't do it, I could." She looks me in the eye. "Be able to do it next time. You're the hero." She glances at my gun pointing at her, then down at the corpse and moaning kid. "There's your happy ending. Take the boy back, and aim that gun elsewhere." Realizing I moved within arm's reach of her, I lower the gun, uninterested in having her train her own weapon my way. "You call this a happy ending?" I ask. "You're whole, the kid's safe, your family's where they should be. Happiness is relative. Take it where you can." I look at the kid. He looks like a battered slice of an American cliché of baseball, apple pie, and ;something else; I keep the side of my eye on her as I go to pick him up, and realize. "He looks like Roland." Kneeling, I turn to look directly at 2. It's not exact, but the similarities are so close I disregard coincidence. 2 just waits. "1 sent my son's doppelganger?" I ask. Nothing in her face changes. "I don't know a "1', but I also know the child wasn't sent. If there's a resemblance to someone you know, it's coincidence." And she heads for the back door. "Hey;" I say weakly. I know that if 2 wants to go, I'm not stopping her, but she pauses in the open doorway, gloved hand on the knob. "If it's not coincidence, and the child wasn't sent, then maybe there's something more going on. A hero like you, wouldn't it be best to consider the possibility that if you were steered to a child so specific, maybe there was a large pool to choose from?" And she was gone, leaving me with the prospects of a child kidnapping ring and no evidence to pass to the police force to back up my claim. 1;
   

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Comments

    Interesting and intriguing; there's a lot packed inot the word limit.

    I would like to read more; see where this is going.

    Well done.
    The sound of high speed metal puncturing a skull.



    The death choke of a grown man.



    The sound of a body sucking off a sai.



    The sound of 200 lbs of meat and bone crumpling into linoleum. I'll never get over, no matter how many times I hear them around 2.
    - I would write this as one paragraph with semi-colons.

    Good story.