check twice

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Hamilton Fish
What: An application of logic and a sword frees Fish from captivity, and then more stuff happens.
Where: The Undercity
When: Late Ged, early Haneden.
Notes: Backdated to a couple of weeks ago, and onwards. CO-WRITTEN POST ALSO. Yes.
Warnings: Gore beneath the cut.

So it turns out Fish was only half kidding when he called it a dungeon.

This practitioner of medicine, or whatever you want to call it, his dwelling is mundane enough, occupying a small lot in what passes for topside in the Undercity. Even the cellar beneath the cellar is not unheard of by the standards of this neighbourhood. The way the door is just sort of...there, in the floor, so obvious, a heavy slab of wooden planks with a grimy metal ring for a handle. The way the stairs snake down into the earth, narrow and dank for two flights, as though it's perfectly natural the world should swallow you up and that its guts should be lined with dirty stones, weeping moisture and filth.

The door at the bottom is heavy with iron fixtures, usually bolted shut. Usually.

Conveniently enough, this door slams off its hinges while the doctor is in. Somewhat less conveniently, he is not unprepared for it.

When you start imagining that everything will go smoothly, that's when the world is stolen out from under you. It's probably not good for Baedal that Deacon learned lessons from his homeworld, but that's also a matter of perspective. Anyway, he doesn't underestimate any creature that lives beneath the surface. That he has only brought a sword, of all things, is not an underestimation, but an attempt at discretion. Guns are loud.

The fight is quick, at least in the grand scheme of fights, but no less brutal for it—by the end of the affair the doctor lies headless, his withering undead body now twice its natural size, mutated by some concoction from the shelves. The steel that took his life is also cleaned off on his lab coat, leaving a greasy streak of tainted blood behind. Most of the laboratory glassware is shattered. A foul greenish haze rises from puddles on the floor, smelling not nearly so pleasant as it looks. Chemicals never meant to mingle flow together, sizzling on—and slowly through—the operating table.

"Finally," Fish says, at last, once he's stood up from behind the overturned gurney. His reward is a pair of pants to the face.

Once he's pulled off the shitty scrubs and stained bandages and dressed in a way that makes him feel more like a person, Fish makes good on his big talk from earlier by throwing butane around like he's blessing the place and setting it alight from the doorway. He takes the stairs on all fours, dizzy as hell, wild with giddy fear, while they hurry their dead asses out of there. Out of that cellar, that house, that neighbourhood, Fish insisting he's good, it's fine, staggering around and catching his wrists or elbows on nearly every edge he passes. Deacon spends most of it watching out the corner of his eye the list and imbalance of Fish's steps, at one stage grasping a rough fistful of jacket when Fish straight up falls on the way into Gutters. It's a casual sort of support, but one as strong as the cords that hold up bridges, a hand gripping his elbow as they round a corner.

With help, Fish arrives in a side room, where he falls once more, this time on something soft, and does not bother to rise again.

Days pass. Meals come in bags or bodies. The deepest beats and the loudest voices filter through the walls. Gutters is beginning to rebuild itself although it seems every day that business dwindles in direct correlation to death toll, but that never lasts. There is always a market for blood, one way or another. Deacon is an occasional presence, but sometimes he gets other people, employees, to deliver meals on legs or in bags or in heat-conserving ceramic to Fish's bedside.

The door is never locked or anything, but it looks like it could, from the outside. It grinds open when Deacon shoulders it aside, finds a lean against the steel frame. "Hey." Above them, through concrete and metal and empty space, the sun has set, although only those with a natural internal clock or access to an artificial one can really tell. He is in black today, not overly formal without actually being casual.

"What's the prognosis?"

Comments

[fuckin_thirsty]

"You can do better than some hole in the wall attached to a nightclub," Deacon says, barely half a syllable's pause on the back of the last thing Fish says. His gaze narrows, like he's trying to puzzle something out.

He jolts a shrug. "I can put you up 'til you find something. Undercity's as big as Mafaton. Bigger, in some ways, if you consider which direction we're digging. Or else I'll start thinking--" There's no break in his words, but he smiles suddenly here, tone taking on a mocking edge. "--that all this big talk about moving to the dark side's dependent on hiding behind your new knight in shining armour, Deacon Frost."

[fish]

Damn, his entire master plan, revealed!!

Actually, while Fish does pull a little scrunchy-nosed face at the suggestion that he needs to hide behind anyone, it's basically the truth. One may recall, for example, that time he dove behind Seoraj's manly skirts when he thought Deacon might come after him for making a big deal about their fight over that unfortunate Justin fellow—although he would rather think of it as strategic positioning, thank you very much. In his opinion, it's a wise move to acknowledge his relative weakness so that he may continue to, you know, live. Or whatever you call what he's doing now.

Of course, there's always room for being mouthy. "Whatever. If I hid behind you I'd have to crouch the whole time." Short guys can make fun of each other for being short, right? Heh heh. Behold this saucy grin while you can, sir, because it fades as he goes on to say, "But, um, thanks. Not just for letting me stay, I mean... for like, everything. Just generally saving my ass."

[fuckin_thirsty]

The lack of protest or argument gets a fangy grin from Deacon, which may also be a reflexive reminder as to sharp teeth when his stature is mentioned. Dims again at sincerity, and there's a gesture like he could wave away Hamilton's thank yous for all that he would probably be pissed off if he got absolutely no gratitude at all.

"Just don't forget it in a hurry," he says. "Worst thing about always being right all the time is constantly reminding people about it."