Murderbynecessity started following you

murderbynecessity:

dartonthemobster:

Mm? Is something the matter?

*grins* Tea. Yes? *gestures in the direction of his house*

Nah. Just remembering.

Okay. [Now, she’s being rather more casual than needed to hide the usual paranoia. She walked up to that house without a care in the world on her shoulders, but she was fuckin’ paying attention for danger. Being retired didn’t mean other people cared.]

Darton bounced along beside her, seeming equally, if not even more, care-free than she was. Occasionally, he hummed a snatch of music, before it got away and he fell silent again.
Once they reached the house, he opened the door grandly, revealing a grand hall and spacious lobby-space. Two sets of stairs led up either side of the room to an upper level, and both levels had multiple doors leading off into other rooms. Darton gestured at one of the chairs in front of the empty fireplace on the opposite side of the room. “Please, excuse me; I’m going to get tea. Any particular kind?”

Anonymous whispered: A rather hurried knock comes at Ples' door.

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

Another realtor? Really? The ticking man shook his head; he should just put a sign out on the lawn – Not Interested in Selling. He walked downstairs and opened the door.

Not! Interested, thank you-

With the combination of unknown drugs, blood loss, injuries, and lack of sunlight, when Darton sluggishly pulled himself back to the land of consciousness, he had absolutely no idea what time it was or how long he had been out. A woozy, systematic check of his limbs and torso revealed him to be unbound, beyond a sheet laid over him. Was he a shrouded corpse?

The room he was in was completely dark, but he vaguely remembered a trapdoor somewhere in the ceiling. Should he find it? “Aunnh-” An attempt to roll off the table he was currently using as a bed told him that any ideas of climbing stairs should be locked away in a safe and then thrown off a cliff into the ocean. His head was spinning, and everything was sore.

And maybe, since some time had gone by, it would be a good idea to check on the…guest in the basement.

The ticking man lifted his rug and then the door, making his way down. He approached the table, curious as to the state of Darton’s health. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and leaned over the groaning man.

Hallo?

The light in the ceiling appeared again, and a spindly matchstick figure descended the stairs in a swath of light. Not that this man was, by any extent, a savior. Darton was not currently bleeding anymore, but he was sure Ples hadn’t done him any favors in his ministrations. “Hello there,” he mumbled, blinking grumpily away from the light. “Nice of you to join me. How long has it been?”

Mmm…a good number of hours. Eight of them. Plus thirty-seven minutes and 16 seconds. Are you back with us now?

Only eight? Must be why he still felt terrible. “That’s quite specific of you,” he mumbled. “Well, Ples, I must say I’m impressed with your work.” It hadn’t been a great job, but Ples’d managed to stitch him shut, remove a bullet, and clean him up. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. You seemed to get into the swing of it about halfway through, if I remember correctly.”

stickitinmyvein:

dartonthemobster:

How interesting. Darton smiled widely. “Ah! Quite widely travelled, then. Have you enjoyed Europe? I find it refreshing. Very different social atmosphere than America.” America was hurried, spoiled, angry. Europe sprawled, ranging from pleasured laziness to finicky quick walks, from a love of giving false directions to a friendly invitation inside for coffee. “Thank you! Very kind of you. Ah- Luke Darton. My apologies.” He put out a hand to shake, pausing only slightly in his step.

They arrived at The Fix, a middle-class bar that opted to ake itself look fancier with quiet piped music and faux-marble that shined under modern-styled lights, rather than the close, dark atmosphere and pounding music of other bars. Luke took his cues, glancing at Nathaniel’s face to see if he should hold the door, or let the boy guide him to somewhere more ‘suited’ to creatures of the night like themselves.

Nathaniel chuckled sheepishly, flashing the other man a look that spoke more of the same. “I’m sorry to say I didn’t actually travel much. Mostly I stayed within the walls of my boarding school.” It was only once he was enrolled in NYU and working on his Bachelor’s that he’d come to regret his reclusive phase. College had surrounded him with people who’d traveled the continent so much more than him, their varied experiences fascinating him. He held out hope for his honeymoon after med-school. He’d get a proper taste then.

Luke’s offered hand was gripped lightly and shaken. As for a name? Well, that came with a pause and an obvious turning of internal wheels as Nathaniel tried to settle on an alias, or whether one should be used at all. “Nathaniel— Nicky, these days.” Soon to be Brewster, but it was a bit soon to bring that up. In the meantime the bar was appraised and stepped into, a corner booth appealing and soon settled into.

Darton tutted, with that air of fatherly false disapproval. “Perhaps you shall have to go again, then. If I am available, I may accompany you; Europe is lovely in spring.”

A good grip. Firm, but not domineering. Either this man was truthful and open, or had practiced his grip. “Nicky,” the hitman grinned. “What a lovely name. “I knew a Nicky in college. Medical student. Always very anxious, wound up over everything.” He grinned to himself for a moment before bringing himself back to the present. “Who’s this friend of a friend you’re looking for, then?”

A rather finicky-looking man trotted over, tiny fashionable pencil tucked into the corner of a tiny, fashionable mouth and gelled-back undercut shining gently in the lamplight. He plucked the pen into thin, delicate hands and chewed on his lip a moment before speaking in a nasal, sliding voice. “Anything you boys want?” Darton looked to Nathaniel, to see if he wanted to peruse the cardboard menu by the wall before making a selection.

Murderbynecessity started following you

murderbynecessity:

dartonthemobster:

Ah, we might have met before! I did live here briefly, but had to leave again. Work-related. You understand. Still! Good to meet you again, Ms. Devang! Would you care to stop in for coffee? I have tea, of course, if you prefer. A little early for alcohol, but I can offer that as well.

[Sssnapped her fingers once loudly because it fuckin’ SMACKED back out of a shelf somewhere in her brain—the memory of him had. Jesus fuckin’ balls.]

Yyyyo, Darton. Okay.

…Eh? Tea?

Mm? Is something the matter?

*grins* Tea. Yes? *gestures in the direction of his house*

Anonymous whispered: A rather hurried knock comes at Ples' door.

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

Another realtor? Really? The ticking man shook his head; he should just put a sign out on the lawn – Not Interested in Selling. He walked downstairs and opened the door.

Not! Interested, thank you-

With the combination of unknown drugs, blood loss, injuries, and lack of sunlight, when Darton sluggishly pulled himself back to the land of consciousness, he had absolutely no idea what time it was or how long he had been out. A woozy, systematic check of his limbs and torso revealed him to be unbound, beyond a sheet laid over him. Was he a shrouded corpse?

The room he was in was completely dark, but he vaguely remembered a trapdoor somewhere in the ceiling. Should he find it? “Aunnh-” An attempt to roll off the table he was currently using as a bed told him that any ideas of climbing stairs should be locked away in a safe and then thrown off a cliff into the ocean. His head was spinning, and everything was sore.

And maybe, since some time had gone by, it would be a good idea to check on the…guest in the basement.

The ticking man lifted his rug and then the door, making his way down. He approached the table, curious as to the state of Darton’s health. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and leaned over the groaning man.

Hallo?

The light in the ceiling appeared again, and a spindly matchstick figure descended the stairs in a swath of light. Not that this man was, by any extent, a savior. Darton was not currently bleeding anymore, but he was sure Ples hadn’t done him any favors in his ministrations. “Hello there,” he mumbled, blinking grumpily away from the light. “Nice of you to join me. How long has it been?”

Murderbynecessity started following you

murderbynecessity:

dartonthemobster:

Quite debatable, if you can’t figure it out. *chuckles* A pleasure to meet you. My name is Luke Darton. *puts out a hand to shake*

It’s about as reliable as a broken clock.

[Took the hand in one of her own for a quick firm shake.]

Devang.

[Tended to be all the name she needed to give. People familiar with the name’s attachments or not. That’s the name she always used. Even with loved ones—Which got a brief skip beat pause of thought from her. Quickly discarded as swiftly.]

Darton. Sounds familiar. Can’t put a finger on why.

Ah, we might have met before! I did live here briefly, but had to leave again. Work-related. You understand. Still! Good to meet you again, Ms. Devang! Would you care to stop in for coffee? I have tea, of course, if you prefer. A little early for alcohol, but I can offer that as well.

Murderbynecessity started following you

murderbynecessity replied to your post

With my legs. And my feet. Mostly those two things. Possibly my brain. Debatable.

Quite debatable, if you can’t figure it out. *chuckles* A pleasure to meet you. My name is Luke Darton. *puts out a hand to shake*

dartonthemobster:

Darton began strolling leisurely toward a nearby bar he favored for its particularly good mixed drinks. “Oh, I just returned to town. I had business elsewhere for a while. Remaking acquaintances, myself.” He sighed contentedly, and a faint plume of condensation drifted…

How interesting. Darton smiled widely. “Ah! Quite widely travelled, then. Have you enjoyed Europe? I find it refreshing. Very different social atmosphere than America.” America was hurried, spoiled, angry. Europe sprawled, ranging from pleasured laziness to finicky quick walks, from a love of giving false directions to a friendly invitation inside for coffee. “Thank you! Very kind of you. Ah- Luke Darton. My apologies.” He put out a hand to shake, pausing only slightly in his step.

They arrived at The Fix, a middle-class bar that opted to ake itself look fancier with quiet piped music and faux-marble that shined under modern-styled lights, rather than the close, dark atmosphere and pounding music of other bars. Luke took his cues, glancing at Nathaniel’s face to see if he should hold the door, or let the boy guide him to somewhere more ‘suited’ to creatures of the night like themselves.

stickitinmyvein:

dartonthemobster:

Darton seemed to have no such wariness, nor to notice it in the other. “Quite crisp out. Glad I brought a jacket. What brings you out?” He beamed, a huge smile splitting his face. “Care for a drink?”

Goddamn Dino and the uneducated horse he rode in on. Nathaniel was…

Darton began strolling lesurely toward a nearby bar he favored for its particularly good mixed drinks. “Oh, I just returned to town. I had business elsewhere for a while. Remaking acquaintances, myself.” He sighed contentedly, and a faint plume of condensation drifted skyward. “Your accent is fascinating, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Lovevengeanceandmotoroil and Murderbynecessity started following you

Good evening to you! How do you come to be out and about in the city at this time of night?

tagged: #stickitinmyvein
Stickitinmyvein started following you

stickitinmyvein:

dartonthemobster:

Ah, good evening, sir! How are you on this fine night?

"Looking for a friend of a friend." Nathaniel answered, trying not to seem wary but feeling it all the same.

Darton seemed to have no such wariness, nor to notice it in the other. “Quite crisp out. Glad I brought a jacket. What brings you out?” He beamed, a huge smile splitting his face. “Care for a drink?”

Stickitinmyvein started following you

Ah, good evening, sir! How are you on this fine night?

Anonymous whispered: A rather hurried knock comes at Ples' door.

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

Another realtor? Really? The ticking man shook his head; he should just put a sign out on the lawn – Not Interested in Selling. He walked downstairs and opened the door.

Not! Interested, thank you-

Even before Ples was finished cleaning the blood off his legs - he wasn’t sure why the man bothered; he was still wearing bloody clothes, after all - Darton was reaching for whatever Ples had left by his head. Could he trust Ples not to kill him? Probably. Good enough. He shifted onto his shoulder to grab the pills, growling as he landed on his injured arm, and tossed the medication into his mouth, chewing so the medication would work faster. The water was drained, and he slipped onto his back again with a grunt.

As he waited for the medication to work, under the immediate concerns of pain and safety considerations, his mind made brief note of Ples’ words: You’re lucky I took over the driver’s seat. I took over. I took over.

…What?

And he was out, slipping under a dark sheet of unconsciousness like one might put a sack over someone’s head and toss them into the trunk of a dark car, on a moonless night where there was no one to hear their cries for help.

Goodnight, whoever-you-are.

Tiben cleaned up the mess he had caused (but not the one Ples made) and even did Darton the courtesy of tossing a sheet over him.

If he wanted assistance, he could holler. Tiben would hear. Probably. The basement was remade with the intention of it being soundproof. Oh, whatever. It’s not like he was locking the door or anything. 

With the combination of unknown drugs, blood loss, injuries, and lack of sunlight, when Darton sluggishly pulled himself back to the land of consciousness, he had absolutely no idea what time it was or how long he had been out. A woozy, systematic check of his limbs and torso revealed him to be unbound, beyond a sheet laid over him. Was he a shrouded corpse?

The room he was in was completely dark, but he vaguely remembered a trapdoor somewhere in the ceiling. Should he find it? “Aunnh-” An attempt to roll off the table he was currently using as a bed told him that any ideas of climbing stairs should be locked away in a safe and then thrown off a cliff into the ocean. His head was spinning, and everything was sore.

Anonymous whispered: A rather hurried knock comes at Ples' door.

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

Another realtor? Really? The ticking man shook his head; he should just put a sign out on the lawn – Not Interested in Selling. He walked downstairs and opened the door.

Not! Interested, thank you-

He leaned away from the papping, not in the mood for condescension. Dammit. Nothing within reach of his (comparatively) good arm could be a weapon. Some string, a cloth. He didn’t have the spring in him to wrap either around Tibenoch’s neck, or the power to keep the cloth over Ples’ mouth and nose long enough to knock him out. He slid hazily in and out of consciousness, close to the edge, but not quite over yet, posed as Tibenoch left him. “Damn b——-d,” he called hoarsely after the man. Leaving him here to bleed out, maybe take his organs.

Oh, no, wait. He was back. Nevermind.

G…H…B? That meant something. He couldn’t call it to mind. “Ghhngh?” he tried. Everything hurt. “Unngh,” he mumbled, in agreement. Whatever it was, it couldn’t make it too much worse.

Are you absolutely certain? I’ve no idea what it does! Here.

A glass of drinkable water for Darton. Tiben plunked it on the table next to Darton’s ear. He even took a selection of pills and placed them by said glass. Ibuprofen, even some of the GHB. If Darton took it, the relaxant would put him to sleep.

Next, Tiben used the sanitary towels and the warm water to clean up the remaining mess - he wiped Darton’s head, face, arm, and leg. Eesh. Honestly, what was Ples thinking, risking infection like that? Such a dirty job. But, perhaps sharing the occasional brainwave had that advantage: Ples was probably trying to infect the wounds and get Darton grievously sick, possibly killing him, depending on how far he went to get help.

Oh.

Tiben frowned.

You’re lucky I took over the driver’s seat. Now then, you eat your sweeties-

He was referring to the pills.

And perhaps we’ll get to know each other a bit better once you’ve had a little nap, mm?

Even before Ples was finished cleaning the blood off his legs - he wasn’t sure why the man bothered; he was still wearing bloody clothes, after all - Darton was reaching for whatever Ples had left by his head. Could he trust Ples not to kill him? Probably. Good enough. He shifted onto his shoulder to grab the pills, growling as he landed on his injured arm, and tossed the medication into his mouth, chewing so the medication would work faster. The water was drained, and he slipped onto his back again with a grunt.

As he waited for the medication to work, under the immediate concerns of pain and safety considerations, his mind made brief note of Ples’ words: You’re lucky I took over the driver’s seat. I took over. I took over.

…What?

And he was out, slipping under a dark sheet of unconsciousness like one might put a sack over someone’s head and toss them into the trunk of a dark car, on a moonless night where there was no one to hear their cries for help.

Anonymous whispered: A rather hurried knock comes at Ples' door.

tiktiktikboom:

dartonthemobster:

tiktiktikboom:

Another realtor? Really? The ticking man shook his head; he should just put a sign out on the lawn – Not Interested in Selling. He walked downstairs and opened the door.

Not! Interested, thank you-

His leg was on fire, even worse than his arm. Tibenoch was poking around his leg, maybe trying to remove the bullet, maybe just prodding him to watch him squirm. Everything hurt; nothing was making sense. Several shouts and various curses later, Darton wasn’t convinced he shouldn’t have just called an ambulance and dealt with the inquiry. He wasn’t even cogent enough to notice Ples’ self-referenced plural. All the violence he hid under a smiling veneer was now plain on his face, screwed into a hateful, teeth-bared grimace. If he could have found Ples’ neck he would have throttled the man with whatever strength he had before he bled out, just for spite. His free hand, the one connected to the arm without stitches, patted hazily around, searching the table for anything remotely weaponizeable.

At Tibenoch’s last question, Darton simply continued swearing, interspersing the panted curses with threats of grievous bodily harm for good measure.

Tibs’ witnessing of Darton’s suffering resulted in a bright smile from the old man. At the string of swears, threats, and curses, Tiben simply papped Darton’s cheek again.

There, there. Let’s get you some water. Keep this leg up. Or don’t.

Pap, pap. And with a turn and some spindly-legged maneuvering, Tiben got up and jogged upstairs, gathering some supplies that would actually serve some purpose, now that the emergency phase was over: drinking water, warm water for washing, towels that were actually for hands, and some expired painkillers, just in case. Tiben squinted at the label, which held quite a startling amount of typography and images and was yellowing and peeling at the corners. What were these? 

Can I interest you in some GHB?

He leaned away from the papping, not in the mood for condescension. Dammit. Nothing within reach of his (comparatively) good arm could be a weapon. Some string, a cloth. He didn’t have the spring in him to wrap either around Tibenoch’s neck, or the power to keep the cloth over Ples’ mouth and nose long enough to knock him out. He slid hazily in and out of consciousness, close to the edge, but not quite over yet, posed as Tibenoch left him. “Damn b——-d,” he called hoarsely after the man. Leaving him here to bleed out, maybe take his organs.

Oh, no, wait. He was back. Nevermind.

G…H…B? That meant something. He couldn’t call it to mind. “Ghhngh?” he tried. Everything hurt. “Unngh,” he mumbled, in agreement. Whatever it was, it couldn’t make it too much worse.