[Closed] The Order Of The Pendulum

[Raksha]

Hamis 18th, 2720
SEVENTEN OFFICES| EARLY EVENING

The young man laughed again, though it was quickly cut short by a grunt and a twist of his lip as Rhys pressed him hard into the wall. He licked at the water dripping off his lip, the cut on his chin a watery red stream staining green fabric a rusty brown. He listened carefully, even if his nose wrinkled in a sneer of defiance. Even if he stared into those hard blue eyes in defiance.
​​
​​There was a brief flicker of something in the human’s eyes at the mention of the co-Captain, a hint of self-doubt. It was small, but it was there.
​​
​​ “You got no idea what you're talking about, fuckin’ tow-head.” Jobe spat, mind racing with various thoughts and excuses. That Bastian, the scary one with the black and grey hair, he didn’t know him like he knew Miss Shuini, but he knew enough. Surely, this could be blamed on the Viendan’s. Weren’t Jobe’s fault D’Arthe didn't have his house in order. Yeah, yeah that was it. He’d ask for her, and he’d be fine.
​​
​​He'd be fine.
​​
​​The sudden movement caught the brunette off guard, and he made a yelp of pain as he sat roughly. It was his moment to escape, if his legs would obey him. Everything was so heavy, and sluggish. Bloody mages. Rhy’s spellwork was quick, quicker than the loud protest Jobe tried to use to interrupt him.
​​
​​ “NO YOU—DON’T…” Too late, the mona around him acted, even if he himself couldn't feel that foul sentience. He knew of it, it was in and around them, and it was creepy. Clocking gollies and their pet magic.
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​​I'll start with an easy one and we'll move from there—What is today's date?"
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​​Jobe snorted a laugh. Fucking St Grumbles, you erse!
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​​ “Eighteenth of Hamis, this twenty seven twentieth year of Our Lady.” His eyes widened in horror, the words he had planned on snarking back merely an idea in his head, mouth betraying him. Jobe shook his head, panic now rife on his face.
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​​ “No, get off me. Get your magic off me! You’re a fool golly, stupid lugger you got no idea stop, stop!” The human shouted, petrified by the realisation that now he was in trouble.
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​​”Who do you work for?"
​​
​​Eyes darting to look around them, one leg twitching a little, Jobe shook his head and clamped his teeth together. Nope, weren’t saying anything. Just shut your mouth and stay safe.
​​
​​ “The Order of the Pendulum are my employer.” The words were spoken through clenched teeth and in a desperate groaning whine, as though Jobe was trying to stifle them. He began to sob, dropping his head forward and smacking it back on the brick behind him as hard as his current state would allow.
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​​Not hard enough unfortunately.
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​​ “Fuuuccckk shut up, shut up! You’re gonna get us both fucking dead you mung bastard!” He wept, glancing at the open end of the alley way in true fear.
​​
​​”Why did you come here?"
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​​ “Filling bodies! I told you I told you already! They needed people. I’m just a pusher! I ent anybody Mister Gawyne! Lemme go please see that ent worth this! I’m just helping out, ent even from this poxy erse city!” Jobe wept, his face a mess of snot and blood and rain, lips trembling.
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​​ “Please Caius, Mister Gawyne. Please lemme go. I’ll leave. I’ll go to Old Rose. I’ll go to Mugroba. I’ll go to fucking Roannah. Please lemme go.”
​​

[Rhys Valentin]

safe streets are a lie

Evening of the 18th of Hamis, 2720

Now he was nice and close, nestled in, making sure to hold what eye contact he could while tangled up in the synapses of some ersehole kid. The thick scent of rain, the stench of the alley, and that metallic tang of some stranger's blood as it dribbled to stain his uniform filled his senses almost twice over, tight knit now through his monic connection with the consciousness of his victim, even as his own head swam with the vertigo of it and his ears rang with the upkeep. He was going too far, but, then again, what were the rules anymore?

Fuck if he knew.

Jobe’d lost his legal rights the moment he admitted to having any connection to everything the not-galdor had made it his bear self-destructive mission to stand against, to destroy, and while somewhere inside Rhys longed to be able to solve problems with mercy and justice, none of those things seemed possible anymore.

"Try me—I've got more moas in this race than you're assuming, I promise." The tall blond was happy to sneer back, that taut line of scar tissue that split his lower lip puckering and a new crease into tan skin just above his fair eyebrow like bookmarks in the dog-eared pages of all the chroveshit he knew too much about—or were they just taunting reminders of everything he didn't know enough of?

Godsdamnit.

He focused, really feeling that surge of magically-induced adrenaline once the weight of undeniable truthfulness settled thick over Jobe, tangible like someone's hot breath against the back of his neck,

"Hamis, yeah. Good. You're a natural at this honesty shit, see?" Rhys risked a smirk when the human recoiled in horror at his mouth's own betrayal. He'd seen this look, felt this writhing fear, so many times as an Inspector in the Investigative Division he should never have fucking left. Beneath his grip, even though he managed to keep a hold of all the magic he'd worked through the unfortunate youth's nervous system like a handful of slippery eels, Jobe stiffened a little, settled in, realized that there was only so much fight he could stand up against.

Sure, the boy was pissed, but, for just this brief moment, the Sergeant knew he had to seize his chance.

"The Order of the Pendulum? Is that what you opium-toting bastards have the balls to call yourselves? You're just a pusher, huh?" The Sergeant curled his fingers just a little tighter into fabric, feeling that slow unraveling of his concentration, and ignored the blurring of his vision. Instead, he tilted his head, following the panicked, darting gaze of the young man he wasn't quite through with yet to glance toward the end of the alley.

Another patrol wasn't due back to headquarters for another quarter hour. He had a little bit more time.

"Who's your handler, then? What's their name? Where do you meet them? Oh, now, I can't just look the other way—surely, you know how it is—I told you I'm going to arrest you, didn't I? I'm going to parade you right through those double doors over there, blood and all, and book you in front of Co-Captain D'Arthe himself. No need to cry about it, Jobe. I'm sure you knew what you signed up for, didn't you?"

There wasn't much empathy in the blue eyes that searched the sniveling, terrified young human's face. Rhys had nearly bled to death in some fucking alley, just like this one here in Uptown—only it had been in broad daylight. Rhys already knew what kind of risks he was taking—only he wasn't sure he cared anymore when the prize for all this painful digging might've finally been the fucking truth. Rhys went home every evening to this poor helpless pusher's collateral damage he called his wife—only she wasn't Jobe's fault, not directly. No, Charity was all his fault—he knew it—and knowing that burned its way through his chest so hot, surely, he could almost see the smoke on his words,

"Don't be a dumberse. You and I both know I can't let you go—" He didn't smile, exhaling slowly instead, hanging on a few more precious moments to that Truth spell, to his very limited immobilization spell.

What the fuck was he going to do next? What was he going to do when his endurance gave out? He felt it, eardrums aching.

Was he really going to parade this bloodied thing through headquarters? Was this really his path?

Yes. It was too late to turn back now.

"—Nowhere's safe, anyway, so you'd best just share what you can and maybe, just maybe, you'll be luckier than you think."

Rolls

Avrae | Today at 1:49 PM
#spell-maintenance: 1d6 (3)
Total: 3

[Raksha]

Hamis 18th, 2720
SEVENTEN OFFICES| EARLY EVENING

Jobe sobbed, terrified not of the Seventen that magically tore secrets from him, but of the Order. Of what would happen to him now, regardless of if he was let go. As soon as they knew he’d said something, Jobe was dead. He was a walking corpse, just a matter of time.

He could feel sensation in his toes, he could wiggle them, slightly.

Gods, he just couldn’t move!

“No, I can’t! I canntt…Bavaldi! Master Quincy Bavaldi! The Stacks! Stolley…ssahh!” The tingling in his toes had spread into his arms, and with a shout of effort, the human swung a balled fist into the face of the dripping blonde, connecting with his jaw with a loud satisfying crack and throwing himself free of Rhys’ hands. The wet fabric dragged free, and Jobe fell to the cobblestones with relief.

“Fuck you! You’ve killed us both you stupid erse!” He spat, blood pouring from his mouth as he scrambled to quickly returning limbs, breaking into a run.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

He was dead.

The human ran, rain sluicing down his body and thunder rolling in the sky. His legs pumped, running to anywhere that he could take a moment to hide. To think. To figure out how the fuck to get out of Vienda. Out of Anaxas. Out of—

CRA-KOW!

A hot pain pierced his ribs, shattering bone and exploding through soft tissue. Jobe stumbled, falling in a rolling tumbling heap of limbs and blood. He landed on his stomach.

And there, Jobe Jackson stayed, wide empty terrified eyes staring at the wet cobblestone as the water filled gaps stained scarlet.

If the gunshot had been heard by those in the vicinity over the rain, if the shooter was visible in the stormy dark of the night, no one suddenly came running to proclaim a crime.

It was just Rhys, the rain, the dark, and a very dead human.

RollsShow

SidekickBOTToday at 11:25

#Punch: `1d6` = (6) = 6


SidekickBOTToday at 11:28

#Breakfree: `1d6` = (4) = 4
​​

[Rhys Valentin]

safe streets are a lie

Evening of the 18th of Hamis, 2720

Truth spells were a real bitch, and Rhys' lips twisted into a satisfied sneer while the poor boy he'd curled his fingers into the coat of, pressed together in the long alley shadows, drizzled with cold rain. He hissed a breath at the names, trickling slowly like molasses in the winter, from Jobe's lips, the human helpless to the monic influence that danced between the connections of his synapses, compelling his mind to spill only the truth.

The not-galdor was frankly terrified of the powerful spellwork he knew now he wielded without permission, the depths of his relationship with the capricious, sentient mona said to be illegal and impossible, and yet they heard him and obeyed his wild intentions all the same. Did they know his heart? Could they feel the speed of his pulse right now? Did their twisted sentience somehow will this to be what it was for his benefit or their own? He didn't know. He couldn't fathom. He didn't understand how this magical strength coursed through his bastard veins, how spells like these could reveal the truth, could evicerate his entire existence with a few words of monite, back in Seventen headquarters should anyone find him suspect some day.

The thought of bleeding to death at Damen's feet wasn't a new one, but it stole his concentration just a little more and his fingers loosened, vision drifting out of focus just before the boy jolted and struggled. Knuckles hit the bone of his jaw, and immediately Rhys was ripped back into the present with a sharpness poor Jobe couldn't possibly hope to understand—the sensation of pain connected to such a deep, primal sense of helpless rage in the tall Sergeant that the little fuck's words fell on deaf ears.

He staggered, but only for a moment, faint tether to the human's mind severed easily with that hard shove of shaking hands and quick scrambling away from the Sergeant—

"Stop! You're under arrest!" Rhys' voice rang out loud and clear, the well-trained officer very capable of making himself heard above just about anything.

Anything except a godsbedamned gunshot.

Fuck, how he wished he didn't know that sound, how he wished every single over-stimulated nerve in his scarred body didn't immediately react to the crack of a firearm, how he wished he didn't know that the most accurate of results of gunfire were nearly always guaranteed to be fatal when one wasn't a Living Conversationalist.

"No!"

Fuck, he said. He was sure he said it out loud through grit teeth. A few times. Heat clawed down his spine from the base of his skull. Blue eyes caught the crumpling of Jobe's body even as he whirled on his heel in the middle of the street, the tall not-galdor not even bothering to dive for cover, having foolishly rushed out of the alley after the boy only to stop right there in front of a corpse.

Wildly, he looked for any sign of anyone, the Seventen both familiar with the area and a honed Inspector. He searched the rooftops and skimmed the alleys, desperate for a sign of movement—a sign of anything—

But what for? He couldn't chase them.

No.

He couldn't leave the body there.

This was Damen's mess.

Captain D'Arthe would have to clean it.

Leaning down, the young Valentin bent toward the boy's body, rolling him first and checking for any sign of life, crouched on the wet cobblestones, still cursing under his breath. He had a few names and while he'd not had qualms about hurting the human, he'd never had intentions of murder. If anything, he'd probably have offered Jobe a way out—somewhere safe to lay low, somewhere to evade both the law and the Order.

Now?

Shit.

Easily hefting the corpse, he curled the youth against his chest in both his arms, warily keeping watch for danger, quite convinced he'd just end up shot. His pulse pounded against his temples and his ears rang with the speed of it, Rhys forced to push through the vertigo of all of his quick motions and adrenaline. Unconcerned about staining his uniform, unarmed with any explanations, the Sergeant began to trudge his way back toward Headquarters with all the intention of walking up the steps and straight into Captain D'Arthe's office providing no other officer or stranger in the dark stopped him along the way.