Blackshot Ghosts [Closed]

[MysteriousStranger]

[Art by Kollapsar on tumblr.]​

Fifty-seven.


Maverick had been counting. Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in his mind something was keeping a tally, and with each added mark, he felt the burning underneath his skin intensify.


He lifted his hardened gaze from the counter to the picture that hung behind the bar, staring holes into the image as if it could conjure answers. The frame was wooden and carved, and held lovingly a photograph taken a few years back. He was in it with his dark brown hair trimmed, jaw clean shaven, and dressed in the uniform of the Navy. He was flanked by two others: on his left, the honey blond, blue-eyed, spitting image of a Viking named Leo, who, much like his name implied, had a mane of hair and massive beard that gave him the appearance of a lion, and on his right, the spitting image of Maverick himself with a bit more age, and a longer beard.


The chiseled image of his brother, whose green eyes shined with laughter, made his stomach turn, and his fingers twitch. He hadn't heard that sound for fifty-seven days.


"Fuck," he groaned, tugging at his beard-which now was only trimmed enough so it couldn't easily be grabbed-as if he were trying to rip it from his jaw.


He had to get out of here.


Tugging the bomber jacket flung over the back of his chair free, the giant, muscled, tattooed ex-soldier clambered outside the bar without so much as a word, and just started walking at a brisk pace. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that sitting still had been getting to him. And with the anger behind his feet, people parted out of his way like the Red Sea. Or perhaps it was the perpetual scowl in his eyes, the way he marched with a defined military step, or a combination of everything that made him seem like a guy just asking for a bullet.


About half an hour later, he had wandered into a marketplace, which, due to the late time in the evening, wasn't as alive as he assumed it would be during the day. It was still noisy, however, as the city often was; he could hear cars on the street over, yelling from a floor of a building above him, and the chitchat of the merchants between the lines of tented stalls. It was a welcomed reprieve; quiet left him alone with his boiling thoughts.


He looked up at the darkened sky, taking a moment just to breathe. It was winter in the city, and each time he exhaled, the discarded air formed a shivering cloud of smoke.


When the tension finally relaxed in his shoulders as much as it could, given who he was, he began strolling through the stalls. He spotted a fruit vendor, and reached into his pocket. As he was pulling out a few bucks to pay for an apple, he felt it. Again.


It was like he was being watched; he knew that feeling on a first name basis, given his history. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alarms triggered throughout his id, his senses went on high alert, and his body stiffened. Yet there was also a chill around him, running down his spine, and it wasn't the kind of cold produced from the weather. That he wasn't used to it. That he couldn't explain.


Unable to help himself, his head turned swiftly to scan the area behind him. Once more, nothing out of the ordinary was there. Though, as he stared motionless, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye: a sliver of a silhouette. But as he tried to focus on it, as he had foolishly tried to do many times before, he found nothing.


He was left standing and frozen with a bitter taste on his tongue, wondering if he was losing his mind.


"Sir?"


The merchant jolted him back to life, and with a shake of his head, Maverick took his change, stumbled off to lean against a wall, and bit into the apple, keeping watch on the spot where the sensation had occurred, and resenting the fact that he couldn't shake it.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

There were patterns in everything if you looked hard enough. Shadows formed figures, faces appeared in coffee stains, and hell, people even saw Jesus in their burned toast when they wanted to badly enough. It was natural for the human brain to take a mess of unconnected shapes and create something understandable out of them because then those patterns meant the world, in all its chaotic, bloody disorder somehow made sense. And the thing people came up with most often? A someone. It wasn't that Kara didn't believe in order. A lot of things happened for a reason, even if one wasn't aware of the push that lay behind them. What she definitely believed in--what she knew for a fact--was that the patterns people didn't see were the ones that were always, always, real. They were someone.

At least they had been at one time or another.

The shadow that skittered away from your gaze just as you tried to focus on it, the scent of lavender where it shouldn't be, the voice that whispered your name in an empty room; these weren't imagination. These were the dead. Yet the average population wouldn't --couldn't-- acknowledge what was obvious if one knew where to look. For once the darkness held more than just blank and harmless shades, when the patterns became ghosts... terror would root deep in the heart and never leave.

She'd seen Them since she was three and since then had overcome most of her own fear. Somewhere down the long corridor of time, she could vaguely conjure up the memory of the woman who had to have been her mother teaching her about Them. Telling her not to be afraid, that all she had to do was learn the difference between the ones you paid attention to and the ones you pretended weren't there. But time had separated her from all but the fundamental recall of her birth mother, and she'd had to learn a lot on her own in the meantime.

One of the things she'd learned was simple: if the dead wanted something, they sure as hell didn't give up.

"Betty, I don't speak Thai," she whispered to the tiny phantom blocking her way. "We've been over this. I have no idea what you want." Steam swirled in a savory ballet from a noodle cart jammed between a cookie seller and a honey vendor. Holding up a ring-laden hand, Kara Kazinsky tried to reason with the old lady. Whatever she wanted, it always had to do with her grandson, owner of the noodle cart, who steadfastly ignored the five foot three white woman muttering to herself a few feet away. Betty-- or whatever her real name had been -- jabbed a death-mottled finger at the young man and said something sharp, consternation thrumming through the upper half of her body. The lower half simply wasn't there, and Kara had never had the stomach to do any research into why. The dead tended to come back in various ways, and often their subconscious held hands with their demise to conjure up some not-too-pretty renditions of their former selves.

Kara sidestepped the old lady with a quiet apology and a pang of guilt. Knee-high buckled boots splashed into a puddle of rainwater and sludge. Can't save them all, she reminded herself, and shoved her fists into her jacket pockets. Weaving her way through the marketplace crowd, she felt eyes heavy upon her, both living and dead. Unless she made of point of noticing Them, the dead tended to lose interest after a moment or two, but the living? They stared. Black on black with silver accents and nothing soft around the edges; that was Kara's wardrobe in a nutshell. She wore short-shorts over thick tights, a leg-bone pattern woven up the front of the latter. Layers up top to block out the cold, faux fur rimming her jacket collar, the strands so long they caressed her high cheekbones. Winter wasn't kind to her piercings. Running the outer rim of her right ear, her pinna rings caught the cold and held it close to her pale flesh, causing her to put a palm against them in a shivering attempt to warm them up.

She crossed the awning-covered intersection at the middle of the marketplace, her necklace swinging in comforting arcs as she walked. A tiny glass and pewter container hung from the end of it, a reliquary that was a century younger than the toe bone housed inside it. Where it went, he went, and even among the press of people --living or otherwise-- she could feel him through its connection. She was just about to suggest to him that was it was time to head home when a glimmer caught her eye.

​

Kara sidled under the shelter of a green umbrella perched over a dining table, taking herself out of the flow of traffic. She peered at the man who stood in front of a produce-seller, his massive frame illuminated by the yellow-eyed glow of a streetlamp. He was of middling interest; in other circumstances, she might have found him handsome in a brutish, bear-like sort of way, but it was his companion that drew her attention. She knew she shouldn't stare. Staring made Them more aware of it. But the dumb bastard had a Rider, one with a connection and willpower strong enough to make itself known to him at least in a threadbare sort of way. That might have accounted for the darkness crouched under the man's eyes, the hardness in the gaze that fought so desperately to make sense of the someone latched onto him right now that he just couldn't see.

It-- he-- trailed after the man who headed toward a nearby wall, and Kara kept watching, curious, cursing herself for doing so. Curling a finger around her reliquary, she wondered which side of the shit-list the living man fell on when it came to his Rider's point of view: the do-er or the done-to?

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Staring into black asphalt was about as useful as one could expect it to be, Maverick was finding. It irritated him-no, angered him-that he couldn't physically beat this shadow hiding on the fray of his vision out of his sight, out of his life, out of his mind. Perhaps he was losing-it wouldn't be the first time-but he wanted his answers before the insanity truly manifested. He wanted, needed, to know where his brother was...Or, at the very least, what had happened to him fifty-seven days ago.


His iron gaze was broken by a policeman passing by, and, at last, it lifted to follow the man in uniform down the street. The first week after Ayden's disappearance Maverick had constantly been at the station, giving the officers severe tinnitus with his demands. In the end, all it got him was a night in a cell and a bullshit excuse. They claimed Ayden was an adult, and without evidence of foul play, his case was put on the back burner. A trained marine who had more bullets shot at him than housed within their goddamned armory just didn't go missing without foul play.


Fifty-seven days. Deep down, Maverick knew what that meant. Hell, he knew it after the first forty-eight hours. He just couldn't accept it. Not without proof. Not without a body. He didn't know what would happen when the time came, if it ever did, for him to face the facts. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.


He was already on edge, tightroping upon his own sense of control. He had this feeling, clawing at his gut, that something bad was on its way. He couldn't decipher what it was, but he could only hope that it wasn't his own demon breaking off its leash. 


If that time came, there would be hell to pay.


Shit, he hated thinking about this. Having gnawed the apple quickly down to the core, he tossed it into a nearby trashcan, and then rubbed his temples in a sorry attempt to clear his head. What was the point of coming out here to get air, if he only found himself back within the bleeding loop of his thoughts?


With a small, frustrated growl, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, grasping his fingers around...something that wasn't there. He furrowed his brow, and tried the other pocket. When he found nothing, he frantically checked his dark jeans, held up by a leather belt with a metal buckle of the Punisher's skull, and came up with just his zippo lighter. At first, he thought it was Leo. 


During his angsty, rebellious youth, Maverick went through a phase where he smoked. Then his ass was kicked around the curb by his brother and the Viking: their way of convincing him to quit. It worked for about a decade, until recent events had him sneaking the occasional one. Problem was he couldn't keep his hands on a pack. They were constantly disappearing. He assumed it was Leo, but if he knew, he wouldn't be playing these games; he'd be knocking Maverick's teeth out. He was starting to wonder if it was even worth the effort or headache.


Defeated, he simply tugged the chain around his neck, and lifted the decommissioned .308 Winchester bullet hanging from it into his mouth, right between his teeth. It was an odd habit, but it helped him think, or not to think. It was hard to explain, and the fact that he didn't quite understand it himself only made it more difficult.


It was following the length of the bullet with his eyes that he noticed the watching: a woman dunking behind an umbrella, someone he wouldn't normally label as a threat, but something he couldn't quite put a finger on drew his attention to her. Perhaps it was the way his necklace was violently ripped from his mouth as soon as he noticed her, and the second chill that invaded his spine, sending otherworldly shivers sparking throughout his body.


His vision, now tunneled at his combat boots, was tilted as he popped his neck with a silent snarl. Usually he didn't stare back at people, but his eyes lifted and narrowed at his observer. Or, more accurately, the observer of the space beside him.


He took a glance at the bare strip of concrete next to him, slightly raised a brow, and pushed off the wall. Sliding his hands casually into the pockets of his jacket, he approached the dark-haired woman, whose features were becoming clearer with each step he took. He wasn't sure why he kept moving forward, except for a shaking feeling inside his head, like someone was telling him to do so.


"Seen a ghost?" He asked, lips twitching into something just short of a smirk. 


He couldn't appreciate the coincidental humor of the statement, because his subconscious was great at actively blocking out the phantom at his side, who currently looked irritated enough to strangle him.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

____________________
and in the naked light i saw
people talking without speaking
people hearing without listening
​

__________________________
​

They moved as one across the street, dead man and living.  Kara would have been hard-pressed to tell who was leading who, but the fact remained-- both of them were heading directly toward her.  Dark eyes flew wide and snapped to the giant whose strides ate distance in a matter of seconds.  A life spent on the sidelines of society had afforded her the opportunity to observe the people around her, gleaning information from the cut of a man's clothes, the slump in a woman's shoulders, the subtle touch made in supposed secret.  Rich or sad, single or cheating, civilian or military, people gave themselves away in ways they never realized they could.  And this one screamed military, whether he'd been in official service or was just one of those wannabe gun-nuts who spooned with an semi-automatic every night to keep warm.  Even if she hadn't seen a hundred like him here in the city over the years, the chain around his neck was a big giveaway.  It didn't make her at all comfortable with the fact that right beside him was a dead man with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.  


She should have backed away, turned on her heel and melted into the thinning crowd, but she'd been transfixed enough by the ghost to have lost response time, and now she couldn't bolt without causing suspicion.  Setting her jaw, she stayed where she was and found herself staring up -- very up-- at someone far, far too tightly wound for his --and her-- own good.  Kara exhaled through parted lips and clutched the reliquary dangling just below her breasts.  It was warm to the touch, despite the cold air.  


Nearby, anger rolled off his dead companion man in palpable waves.  She kept herself from looking at him, knowing that if he turned just in the slightest, she'd be likely to see the end result of the shot that had put him in the in-between, a gory mess at the back of his head.  He was there on the edge of her vision, expecting something, demanding something, and she knew he'd seen her seeing him.  He was... her head tilted a little.  Furious?  Perhaps, yes, and with good reason, but frustration was the underpinning emotion at the moment.  Almost all of the dead felt it at one point or another if they were anywhere near sentient of their predicament, be it over their newfound invisibility, some hard injustice, or business they knew they'd never be able to finish.  This one had all the earmarks of it, for certain, but she didn't intend to stick around to find out why.  Seeing as the bruiser with the casing on a chain was just as likely the one who'd put the third eye into the Rider's forehead as not, she wasn't about to start asking questions.


At the stranger's own, she forced herself to calm.  She doubted there was any humor in that smirk.  A wall went up and dark eyes met his, cool and expressionless like onyx housed in ivory. 


"I dunno, pal," she responded in a quiet, yet steady voice.  "Why don't you tell me?"

____________________
because a vision softly creeping
left its seeds while i was sleeping
__________________________
 
​

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Faint movement drew Maverick's gaze. Old habits died hard, and the soldier often found himself watching others' motions. Even if he didn't try to do it, the paranoid part of his subconscious-ingrained by the things he had seen-traced everything around him like a hawk. He only caught a glimpse of her necklace as her hand shuffled to cover it, hiding it from his view. It made him curious, but in the end it was unimportant to the moment.


Slowly, his eyes veered upward, even though their height difference made that upward still downward. His gaze, as it shifted, seemed to size her up; that was something he always did to unknown people he engaged. Had he been in a normal state of mind he might've appreciated her raven-like attire, found her defiance-to what he didn't know-attractive, but he hadn't been at rest for months now. Staring into her own fierce gaze, one that reminded him of an animal baring its fangs in warning, he found that he couldn't look away. Something within the darkness said danger, and he never was one to look away from fire.


"Pal? Cute." The chuckle that fell from his lips came out as more of a chopped, forceful exhalation of air. Then he didn't speak for a long moment, mulling out his own thoughts.


Yet another was speaking for him. The voice was similar to the one before it, yet softer around the edges. Where Maverick was iron and fire, Ayden was earth and wind. It was also a bit frantic, hurried, even if the ghost was trying to remain as calm as possible: "Miss, you saw me, didn't you? I-You've got to tell him to step away. Fucking stubborn ass won't listen to me, but if he keeps digging into the shit he is, he's going to be next. Please, miss-"


Maverick gave no sign that he heard anything. He did. It was like distant static, and had he not been in public, he would've attempted to 'fix' it by banging on the radio. Instead of acknowledging, he lifted a hand to tug at the tuft of hair on his chin, as the other reached rather slowly, giving her time to track his movements, into the back pocket of his jeans. It was probably a long shot, but he was willing to give his failing senses, which were slowly dragging him into the pits of hell and insanity, the benefit of the doubt. Fuck, at this point he was willing to try anything if it meant getting one step closer to his brother, even if it meant feeding his own delusions. 


He pulled out his wallet, and only then did his eyes finally drop from hers. Reaching into the old and tattered slab of leather, he pulled a photo out of a fold, and then flipped it shut, shoving the wallet back where it had come from. Almost reluctantly, like he was unable to draw his gaze from the image, he held out the picture of the man (though better dressed) standing next to him toward her.


"Hopefully yes," he responded, evenly raising, if only slightly, his eyes back to hers, "And that one in particular."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

It was a hard thing to get used to, the dead speaking. Not so much that they could-- years of experiencing it had inured Kara to that particular phenomenon-- but the very sound of it. It was never the same, and so often a hideous and disturbing thing. A dead cop might speak with blood in his throat, gurgling up from a gunshot through a lung. Burn victims were blisters and smoke and seared tongues, and once, long ago, a schoolteacher who'd cornered her in the basement of her junior high had screamed in a voice that was chalk against slate, unintelligible but for the rage that underpinned it. This one was gentler, but ragged; like rain on hot pavement, concrete against a cheek.

One slow blink was all the acknowledgement the once-living man got for his troubles, but the impact of his words showed in the sigh-turned-vapor sneaking from Kara's lips. Shoulders she didn't know she'd squared untensed and her hand released the necklace, then slipped into her coat pocket. If one were in tune with the world, one might have sensed the direct air around her ease into a normalcy, as well-- or, to be more exact, the atmosphere just a few feet to the left of her relaxed.

Her eyes tracked his fingers when he reached for his wallet, realizing its unhurried journey was for her benefit to keep from spooking her more. While she appreciated the effort, he hadn't had the benefit of hearing his Rider's warning. It'd cleared any suspicion she'd had of the big bear's involvement in the murder, at least directly, and so she'd dropped her flight or fight stance, even if she wasn't feeling quite at home him just yet.

She didn't need to look at the picture he held out, but she did, anyway, not bothering to take it from him for better inspection. At his statement, the gaze which had somewhat softened at his predicament snapped up with a fire behind them.

"You been following me?" Irritation drew out her city roots, rounding off each syllable she aimed at him. Before he could answer, her brows leapt up and she rolled her eyes with a shake of her head. "Marnie. Marnie told you how to find me, didn't he, down at the diner?" Her thumb jabbed toward the little chrome eatery nestled beneath the train trestle four blocks east. "Look, I don't know what he told you it is I do, but--"

A depression appeared in the thick faux fur over her left shoulder, creating a valley in the collar that the normal observer might have attributed to a shift in the wind, but it abruptly cut her off. Her lips pursed in an obstinate line in response, and she lifted her chin to acknowledge that, yes she was going to shut up. Yes, the glance she gave to the other spirit standing across from her said; I hear you.

And yes.

Her silence invited the stranger with the photo to speak. Because murder changed the rules, and if the ghost was telling the truth, the game was stacked against the man who had yet to acknowledge his loss.

​

 

[MysteriousStranger]

There was a priceless moment where big, scary Maverick looked as clueless as a lost puppy. Folding up the picture between his fingers, his brows were lifted, then brought down and together, and his eyes, which had widened, slightly narrowed, before glancing past the short woman in front of him currently scolding him. So much went into the tough guy act, and so little did it take to shatter the image.

He felt like he just missed a lot of things, which didn't make sense to him. He was here, indisputably tuned into their conversation and to the world around them. He was the type of guy who just didn't not catch things, because usually that meant making a deadly mistake, yet he was standing there, clearly unable to grab whatever was flying over his head.

Habitually, he reached a few fingers up to pull at his chain, and then stuff the bullet between his teeth. He didn't even know he was doing it; his hand moved of its own accord.

He proceeded to stare blankly toward the woman, though it was clear his eyes weren't focusing on her, almost like he was afraid to directly look at her. Yet he did see the curious shift in her collar, the slight tilt of her chin, and glance past himself. All things that only left him feeling more behind. Not being able to help himself, he tilted his head and gaze to the empty (as far as he could tell) patch of concrete by his side.

He didn't speak for an uncomfortable amount of time, waiting for her to continue in her accusations. When they didn't come, a look of an epiphany shined in his eyes, and at the sudden realization that she was waiting for him to talk, he cleared his throat, straightened his back, tried to look intimidating again.

"No." His voice, which was almost always a degree of rough, seemed exasperated, and the single movement of his jaw caused the bullet to slide from his mouth. At this point, he was wishing she would've just told him to fuck off.

He didn't expand upon the statement until after he had tucked the photo back into his wallet. Tearing his eyes from his boots, he scratched at his beard, fingers entangling with the strands of scruff on his chin. "Look, lady, I've never seen you before in my life. For all I know, you could be fucking Negasonic Teenage Warhead." He made a sound in between a grumble and a sigh, running his hand through his hair. "I'm just looking for someone. If you know anything-?" The last sentence dropped off as he seemed to get back in gear, holding his setting iron stare directly with her own. As he waited expectantly for an answer, his eyes flickered across her face and body, searching for any tells.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

The longer it took for him to speak, the more her stare slid from irritation to disbelieving impatience. She'd dropped her half of the conversation, and he was supposed to pick it up. A partial shake of her head wouldn't have fallen too far out of place, had she chosen to notch the look up to rudeness, but even Kara had her limits to cruelty. And this poor bastard didn't know what he was in for. The wheels were already in motion, set by Someone or Something with a capital -S, because if he hadn't found her through Marnie, that meant that he'd found her through providence. It couldn't have been just sheer dumb luck.

He needed to know.

Finally, he answered. Kara put a palm first to one ear and then the other to warm them up, pausing a fraction through the motion to give him a dry, flat glare for the Marvel reference. "Cute," she tossed his word back at him in a grunt, but said nothing more. The stranger settled, while all around them the city ebbed and flowed. The sun was well on its path toward the opposite horizon, pulling the temperature down with it as it went. Then, a shift in the small woman occured. The tightness she'd carried slackened. Thoughts ticked behind her dark eyes, and she chewed for a moment on the inside of her lip while they eddied in her mind. She was considering, examining. Picking up words and setting them down again in better arrangements in her head. Planning how best to verbally step forward and confront the person who carried the dead along with him just as she did, albeit unknowingly.

A large exhalation trailed away toward the skyline. Kara cleared her throat.

"Stuff's changed around you, hasn't it? Gone weird?" she asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. "You lose stuff you never used to lose. Feel someone touching you when you're alone, hear voices you can't track, especially places without distraction, like the shower or a stairwell. Sounds like it's far away, but not." She held a ring-heavy finger to her ear, "Like it's here. And you're always running now, can't sleep, can't eat." That finger tapped the low part of her sternum, displacing her necklace. "Pushed by something. You want to know you're not crazy. More, you want to know why." Her gaze flicked toward the pocket that now held the photo. "I can tell you why. But not here. You'll need a coffee and a sit-down, and a quiet place to hear what I have to say, okay?" She'd head to the diner, and give old Marnie a little thrill.

Before she suggested it, however, she paused, a thought hovering on the edge of her parted lips. "But do me a favor, huh? Can you not do that thing with your chain anymore? It's--" Kara winced a little, turning a shade paler. How could you tell someone who had no idea he stood next to a dead man with a gunshot wound to his head that it was more than disturbing for him put a bullet in his mouth? "--creepin' me out a little."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

For a short moment that ended before it truly began, a small grin tugged at the edges of Maverick's lips. He found her glare and irritation amusing, and slinging back that four-lettered word almost, in that frozen period of time, had him laughing. Reality had a way of being cruel, however, and too afraid to lose his grip on it, he always succumbed to it. The humor was gone from his eyes in an instant, as if it had never been there to begin with.


And it was replaced by something far less friendly.


As she spoke and continued to speak, his stare darkened, and he guarded the expression hidden within. His shoulders and back tensed, his hand dropped down to grip around the leather cord of his belt, and his jaw firmly set. It was all too familiar in more ways than one. Her words mirrored the concern uttered by those close to him, yet always a thousand miles away. He had a knee-jerk reaction to get defensive, because he didn't need help, never needed help in his life; like all other things, he would force himself through by sheer brute will and grit. Then he remember this was a different conversation with a different goal, and his eyes dropped to his boots.


"Why," he repeated with a grunt and shake of his head. "Above my pay grade. I just do, lady." 'Why' was a useless question to him: nothing more than an endless loop of 'if' and 'should'. In his line of work-former line of work-'why' was a precursor to crazy. Leave the morality bullshit to the philosophers, he thought, and let him get the job done.


Still staring holes into the black leather covering his feet, he exhaled in frustration, because at this point, he didn't have many options. He had one goal, and entertaining this woman's motions was something he could do if only for the sake of his brother. He deserved better than to be forgotten, just another goddamn nameless causality of this city.


Under his breath he muttered, "Semper fi, you fucking pansy." A moment later, he felt a pressure on his left shoulder, like someone real and tangible was placing their hand there. Before he even noticed he was doing it, his body jerked around to glare at nothing, or more precisely, random people passing by, minding their own business. His eyes narrowed, suspicion filled his gaze, and he slowly looked back to the short woman in front of him.


"All right," he stated firmly, forcibly keeping his voice even. He tried to look normal, acting like nothing had happened, by relaxing his back, but the tension in his shoulders wouldn't budge. "I can always go for coffee. Humor me."


His hand had reached up to the chain around his neck, and looking down at it, pretending like he hadn't just started to stuff it into his mouth, he shoved it down the inside of his shirt, feeling the cold that had soaked into the metal of the bullet seek into his skin. And with that thought his eyes returned to her own necklace, as his hands folded and intertwined behind his head. He wasn't certain, but he thought he saw something inside the tiny container...like a bone.


"You should be the one judging," he observed with a slight, teasing smirk.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Had they been speaking about anything else, Kara would have thought the man to be just another pretty-but-brainless numbskull incapable of introspection.  But to deny the existence of the dead was an entirely human instinct.  It kept one from tumbling into insanity.  This man was fighting against just that, and if he refused to accept that the Someone he was looking for had just reached out from the other side to touch his shoulder, she couldn't exactly blame him for ignoring the whys of it.  Yet there was a small a part of him was listening, which meant that with a bit of explanation and maybe a brick to the head, he might be willing to believe her.


 


Eventually. 


 


Kara missed what he muttered, but cocked a brow at his observation.  She neither put a hand up to hide the reliquary nor offered an apology for what it housed, but met his smirk with an unreadable, solid stare.  Two breaths passed before she quietly spoke. 


 


"I am the one judging.  It's different."


 


And if he did decide to believe what she was about to tell him, then he'd be open to hearing exactly what that difference was.  Not that it would matter if she managed to convince him.  Once he stopped denying the truth, it wasn't her dead he'd be concerned about.  He had a world of worry he couldn't see laid out front of him, and soon she'd be just a flash in his pan.  Dropping her gaze from his with what might have been reluctance, she jerked her head in a follow-me gesture and made for the diner without bothering to wait for an answer.


 


They were headed through the old Jewish Quarter.  It was five blocks long, three blocks wide, and backed up against the marketplace.  Advertisements in Hebrew generations old still ghosted its walls in faded whitewash.  The barbershop, the tailor, and a stand-up sandwich counter were the main fronts on this block, but the nice shops would peter out into more industrial businesses quickly.  Kara would be able to see the docks soon.  Her apartment in the former textile factory was in spitting distance of the El trestle over the diner.  She hurried past Rosenbaum's butcher shop, keeping an ear out for her new companion's footsteps, then abruptly changed course and stepped across the street behind a passing bus. 


 


[SIZE=12pt]"I'm Kara," she called out over the rumble when she reached the opposite curb.  [/SIZE]"Pronounced like the verb, not the vehicle.  I haven't seen you around before."  Her eyes tracked something high above the pavement not far from where they would've been had they not crossed the street.  Taking a few more strides, she then veered back toward her original path when there was a gap in traffic, studiously refusing to look at the area they'd skirted. 

 

[MysteriousStranger]

The smirk plastered across Maverick’s mouth only widened at her response, and there was an amount of smugness that crept into the expression, even spreading into his eyes, which were filling with bits of humor. The hypocrisy-as it appeared to him-of her protest didn’t really bother him; it was her reaction that was currently amusing him. Little did she know that she was digging her own grave. In his mind, he was already referring to her as the Marvel character he had mentioned earlier.


“Whatever you say, Negasonic.” The response was airy and oddly light for someone who was as currently tensed as he was. Both of his brows lifted as he repeated, “Whatever you say.”


Quickly picking up her gesture he trailed behind her, dropping his hands from his head, and shoving them inside the pockets of his jacket. He was already finding it hard to not toy with his necklace, and tried to keep his fingers busy by picking at lining fuzz and old scraps of paper. For such a big guy wearing steel-toed, heavy boots his footsteps were rather light and precise. Most of the noise he made while walking came from parts of the environment that he didn’t take effort in avoiding: the splash made when his sole hit a puddle, the dislodging of a rock by his heel.


The part of the city she was leading him into was one he hadn’t spent much time in, and because of this, his eyes were narrowed and focused. His stare, instead of taking in and appreciating the scenery, was sizing up people and places around him, analyzing who could be possible threats, or where they could be hidden. Old habits. His attention, however, snapped back to his leader, as the small woman suddenly changed course. He wondered if she was trying to either keep him on his toes or lose him; his path adjusted in but a moment, and he was right behind her as they stepped across the street.

He was less interested in her name, and more about what had caused her to change directions so violently. There was a long pause before he stated, “Uh-huh.” His head turned to peer curiously into the street, before, with a shrug of his shoulders, he went back to his normal routine of walking and watching.


It was another few seconds before he offered her his name-well, the name most people knew him by. Only two people used his first name, Jaxon, and one had been his brother. Sometimes Leo, sinking into military habits, called him by his last, Asher. In his branch of town and to the buddies he served with, he was more commonly known as:


“Maverick,” he stated simply. What had started as a joke involving a bad ‘80s movie and too much alcohol became what he associated himself with, how he defined himself.


“Big city. Can’t expect to see everyone. Especially when you’ve got to peer over shoulders when you’re in crowds,” he teased with a small chuckle, though there was an underlying smidge of seriousness to his tone. “So, what was that back there? On the street? Old flame you’re trying to avoid?”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

There were people who teased, and there were people who dug. The former did so out of a sense of familiarity, earned or otherwise, and meant no harm by it. The latter craved reaction. While Marnie could call her Kara his little blackbird and convey affection with it, this nickname didn't come from a place of friendship; it came from a need to be noticed, to incite to attention by pushing and pushing until something broke. And so like the old joke about the masochist who begged the sadist to hurt him, Kara simply didn't. The nickname was met with no reaction whatsoever, not a flicker of an eyelash, not a tightening of her lips. Nothing-- as if suddenly, easily, he simply ceased to exist. Kara stayed quiet after that, listening to his footfalls and the city around them.


Until he said his name. What started as a snort ended in a ha! that Kara didn't bother to tamp down. With her focus locked on the path in front of her, it was difficult to catch the righteous amuseument glimmering in her eyes, but it showed itself in the smirk she screwed up tight at the side of her mouth. No wonder he was a name-caller.

Kara ignored his set of questions for as long as it took to navigate the oncoming traffic while she headed for the next block. She paid no heed to crosswalks or signals, slipping between vehicles like a minnow with a grouper in tow, only to pause under a pawn shop's awning and turn to him. Once again, she searched his face, noting the full lips that would have been sensual, had they not been so prone to mocking. He was broad and big and probably unlikely to heed his friend's warning, and just for a sliver of a heartbeat, the temptation to tell him what he needed to know here, now, just to get it done with nearly overwhelmed her.

But the second figure in her eyeline, so much more ancient and faded than Maverick's own, shimmered into clearer view and reminded her of the two things she found so difficult to hold onto in this shithole of a city with all its bloody, secret dead.

Compassion.

Selflessness.

Without an explanation as to why they'd stopped, she swiveled on her heel and kept going, wrapping her coat more tightly around her before she spoke.


"A mob lynched a woman back in '09. Her neighbors said she'd murdered her three kids by putting rat poison in their cocoa, and they dragged her out of her apartment and hanged her from the lamp post that used to be there." Kara's voice was tight, her brows knotted. There was no longer any sign of the post of which she spoke. The hole had been concreted over years ago, the incident forgotten by practically everyone but a very, very few. She said nothing else, and whether it was the murder that bothered her or the fact that Maverick was bound to make sounds with his mouth in the next few moments wasn't clear, but she wrapped herself in her silence and strode on.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Kara obviously found his imposed name hilarious, Maverick judged by her laugh and smirk. Apparently, she was just as amused by it as he was by ‘Negasonic’, and the fact that she was wearing the same expression he had been early, one that he donned often, didn’t escape him. He supposed there was some karmic justice in that. If only she knew that he also signed the name with an anarchy symbol, just ‘cause he could. At first, he figured she’d die of laughter if she found out, but then he wondered if such a thing were even possible for her.


She navigated this district like the back of her hand, dodging into traffic in such a way that would be dangerous for those less versatile. Maverick kept pace, knowing that if he fell behind, catching back up would be a pain in the ass. The stop was sudden, and had he not been paying attention, he would’ve kept walking. Her earlier stunt had him on the lookout, however, and one heel of his boot struck into the other as he came to a grinding halt.


He cocked a brow expectantly, waiting for a scolding or at least an explanation. When it didn’t come, he lifted his head up, groaned, and stepped back into their march, following her like a dog on a leash.


“You have a good memory,” he remarked, chin falling back down as he tilted his head to the side. Though it was something, it was hardly an answer. Plenty of murders happened in this city daily. It was a grimy place, and he bet that there was a blood (or at least some other bodily fluid) stain in every damned spot. Why she wanted to avoid that specific slab of concrete was beyond him. He dropped the subject in an unusual moment of clarity, though, figuring prodding would get him nowhere, but more so because her tone called for it.


Amazingly, he kept his mouth shut for the next while, watching his leash-holder with a curious expression. Then he realized he hadn’t spoken, and being who he was, decided he had to correct that. “Silent treatment, eh? I’m used to that one. Fine, I'll just entertain myself.”


Without skipping a beat, perhaps in a poorly guided attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere, he jumped into a song:


“Outside the cafe by the cracker factory


You were practicing a magic trick


And my thoughts got rude, as you talked and chewed


On the last of your pick and mix-”


His voice was low and smooth with just a tab of rough around the edges. It was obvious that he did this often, and by the second verse, his trademarked smirk had once again appeared.


“-Said you’re mistaken if you’re thinking that I haven't been called cold before,


As you bit into your strawberry lace.


And then a flip in your attention in the form of a gobstopper


Is all you have left and it was going to waste-”


By that point, his hands had slipped out of his pockets, and one was forming chords, fingers dancing across an invisible guitar neck, as the other was strumming imaginary strings, like he was actually playing the song with his own six-string. With a wink, he arrived at the chorus:


“-Your past-times, consisted of the strange,


And twisted and deranged.


And I love that little game you had called


Crying lightning,


And how you like to aggravate the ice-cream man on rainy afternoons.”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

||||don't ask my opinion||||
|||don't ask me to lie|||


Memory. It was nothing of the sort, but she wasn't about to tell him that. Memory would imply she'd been there, and she certainly wasn't present in 1909. At least she hadn't had to tell him the rest of the story. There were small mercies to be had.

The diner leapt upon them in a blaze of chrome and neon when they turned the corner. It was a Depression-era dinosaur and had changed little in the generations between the first Wall Street suicides and now. A train screeched by on the elevated tracks above it, clicking and grinding like some giant, silver millipede. Kara didn't watch it as it headed along the waterfront. She knew some of the faces peering out wouldn't be human. Not anymore.

With her thoughts occupied by exactly how she was going to impart the message she'd been given by the dead man, she missed the start of Maverick's song. It slowly filtered into her consciousness, bringing along with it a sense of wrongness which made her slow her pace a few yards in front of the diner entrance. Not certain she was hearing it, she peered over her shoulder at the man following her and blinked.

Yes.

He was singing.

||||then beg for forgiveness||||
|||for making you cry|||

Her shoulders drooped. There was something off about the whole thing. People didn't just sing to strangers in the middle of the street, but then, maybe he was just over-tired. He had reason to be. Maybe he needed a little more looking after than she'd be able to give him, and his childish insistence on comic-book references were a symptom of something more... involved. And maybe he was just plain strange. They were in Salem Harbor, after all. Abnormal was the norm. Flicking a glance to Maverick's Rider, she sighed to herself and put a hand on the diner door. She couldn't just up and ask him what the deal was, not and keep from looking like a nutbar herself.

Not yet.

Either way, Maverick was far, far too jovial for what he was about to be told. Maybe, just maybe, the ghost attached to him wasn't much more than an acquaintence and he wouldn't take the man's murder hard... but she doubted that. It took a lot to come back from gone, and his dead friend had returned strong. This wasn't just a passing tip about money in a mattress. A pang of pity twisted Kara's guts, and she swung open the door while attempting to give Maverick a smile. Poor bastard. He wouldn't know what hit him.

"C'mon. We'll see if we can get you a free coffee, or somethin'."

The diner was long, with a blue-and-white checkered tile floor, six red naugahyde booths, and a handful of stools that wrapped around a formica counter. Two of the booths were occupied, one by an elderly set of Hispanic ladies drinking sodas, the other by a greasy truck driver with a handlebar moustache. A plump waitress stretched plastic wrap over slices of rhubarb pie on a platter to be returned to the fridge, a general air of ennui surrounding her. Behind the counter, propped up on a rickety stool, sat Marnie. Six-foot-two, coffee-skinned and wiry, with greying dreads pulled back by a bright yellow band, he was fifty-three years young and already calling Kara's name when her boot hit the threshhold.

||||I'm no prophet or messiah||||
|||you should go lookin' somewhere higher|||

||i'm only human, after all||

 

[MysteriousStranger]

For a moment, standing under the colorful lighting that decorated the diner's outside, the tones of red and blue streaking across his shadowed face, Maverick could've sworn he heard a chuckle. It was soft but bitter....No, perhaps regretful was a better word. And it was real, or he thought it was real, because he thought it came from Kara, who at that moment was smiling. But that was wrong, because the sound had been distinctly masculine, and it was something he had heard many times before. If only he still did.

"You'll regret that."

He heard the words, but they weren't his, and definitely not hers.

Maverick's song had stopped abruptly, and his hand jolted out to catch the door before it could close on him. His eyes settled on Kara for a moment, narrowing, as his subconscious began putting broken and torn pieces of a puzzle together, something he would never dare to do in the forefront of his mind. His shoulders tensed with irritation; to hear his laugh and his words again, like a flashback to a simpler time before Ayden disappeared, before Maverick went off to play soldier...it was haunting and cruel.

His jaw was locked in that rigid way that said he was stubbornly trying to force himself into denial. It made the words that came out of his mouth hard and quiet. "No, thank you. I'll pay." He didn't like being indebted to strangers.

His back straightened, and his hands went back into his pockets. His stare first went to the tall man behind the counter, who he assumed to be Marnie; he warranted Maverick's attention first, because even though he looked aged, he could meet Maverick eye-to-eye, and appeared as if he could hold his own in a fight. Second, he subtly examined the truck driver, and after a once over, dismissed him, as he had quickly dismissed both the waitress and couple.

Clear.

Afterward, he looked back to Marnie, lifted his chin in a small greeting, and immediately went to sit down. He assumed that they were going to do that at some point, and Maverick wanted to control their placement. Whether Kara followed or not, he didn't seem to care, as he jerked his coat forward, and marched to a booth at the back, sliding into the back seat. His mouth flashed an irritable scowl; he couldn't get everything in his direct view that he wanted, and seats like this were never designed to comfortably fit giants like him.

Leaning back lazily and crossing one leg over his opposite knee in such a way that would be encroaching to anyone who decided to sit directly across from him, he turned his body slightly to make it easier to glance over at the bathroom and waited.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

"Kara," Marnie greeted her when she drew up parallel to him at the bar.  Although he spoke quietly, his voice carried in the diner.  It was smooth and sonorous, spiced with a Caribbean lilt.  Perfect teeth gleamed when he smiled.  


"Hey, Marn'," Kara returned his smile, although hers was somewhat muted.  "Can we get a couple of coffees?"


His shrewd, dark eyes took in the stranger whose sheer physical size seemed to make the eatery's walls constrict.  In exchange for an actual query, Marnie made a little sound in his throat that ended on an upswing, to which Kara responded with a cock of her eyebrow.  


"No," she snorted with disdain, "not even.  You do remember Miguel, don't you?"


Marnie chuckled, giving in.  "How's he doing?"


Kara nodded, fingering her necklace.  "Good. He'll be back from Tijuana in a day or so.  We'll see how things go after that."


Marnie's expression softened, a protectiveness radiating from it.  "You make him fight for it, eh?"  His head jerked imperceptibly over at Maverick, who'd settled into the back booth.  "You helpin' that one?"  There was an emphasis on the verb that a stranger might not have noticed, but it caused Kara to glance at the man with his hovering Rider.  


"Yeah," she murmured, low enough for only her friend to hear, "it's not pretty.  His pal was murdered.  Needs to pass on a warning.  Might get ugly."


A nod was all Marnie offered, but it spoke volumes.  The man from Port Royal gave Maverick a smile, his body language relaxed and unchanged, but Kara had no doubt her back was covered-- 


And in more ways than one.  Rather than express discomfort for the fact that she'd be facing away from the the rest of the diner, her back exposed and vulnerable, she gingerly sat down without complaint.  She could take care of herself, even if she couldn't see who-- or what-- wandered in the door.  There was Marnie.  And if not Marnie... she'd always have B.  


Marnie was already carrying over a pair of thick, white mugs in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other when Kara placed her hands palm-down on the table and sought out Maverick's gaze.  "All right.  I'm gonna do this as gently as possible, but it's not going to be easy.  I need you do to listen.  Not just hear, but listen to me, you understand?" 
 

 

[MysteriousStranger]

It wasn't like Maverick intentionally eavesdropped, but being in a place as quiet as this (in comparison to Leo's bar, which only simmered down during closing hours), it was hard not to. He only heard bits and pieces-it was a constant effort to tune out the unimportant, filtering in only information that could be useful or dangerous in some way-of Kara's conversation with her 'bartender'. The dynamic between the two reminded him of a less verbally and sometimes physically violent relationship between him and his Viking. This thought was reinforced by Marnie's suggestion, made only through noise, because Leo would've thought the same damn thing, and it made Maverick groan.


Instead of being tortured more, the ex-soldier slid over the small box containing packs of sugar upon the table, and began using the packets to assemble a tower. He didn't care that he was grown-ass, supposedly scary man playing with condiments; he was building an epic, impenetrable fortress. Negasonic had asked him not to bite his bullet, and this was the result. So, when she sat down and laid her hands flat, causing a small shake of table, yet enough of an earthquake to bring his pride and joy crashing down, he shot her the mother of all glares.

Though there were many sarcastic snipes on the tip of his tongue, which he almost reflexively let loose, he choked them down, and met her eyes in an instinctual stare, like they were both wolves circling each other. Then he dropped it, looking down at the cup of coffee that Marnie had brought. He pulled the mug closer, giving him a small nod. "Thanks. Got any creamer?" With that, he began picking up the rubble of his once magnificent creation, and pouring packet after packet inside the cup until he was having coffee with his sugar.


Once he was satisfied, he stirred a spoon inside the cup, before he took his first sip. He raised a brow, titled his head, and stated, "Pretty damn good." His eyes were still anywhere but near hers, and he took a quick glance around the diner, hitting the bathroom and front door, before finally and reluctantly settling back on her gaze.


Scratching at his right eyebrow, which upon close inspection one would notice a small, vertical scar, he cleared his throat. "All right, Kara, say what you've got to say. My attention is solely yours." His finger tapped consistently against the side of his mug, and he locked his jaw, forcibly restraining himself from the overbearing need to eat his chain. 

 

[CastoffCaptain]

The use of her name, even with its slightly barbed tone, loosened some of the tightness in her limbs. Sugar spilled into her cup in a white cascade, and she picked the mug up, swirled it a few times, and set it back down again. A line formed between her brows. Her eyes lingered on the chain that led to the bullet and for a long moment, she said nothing. Then, taking a breath, her gaze snapped up to his.


"All right. Here's how this'll likely go." She took a sip of her coffee and put it down on the table, warming her fingers on the ceramic. "I'm going to tell you what I do. You're gonna call bullshit. I'm going to try to tell you what you need to hear, but you're not going to listen, because you're going to be busy getting pissed off and being in denial, at which point you'll maybe..." she flicked a glance from his head to his fists, "smash some stuff up, which you shouldn't, 'cause Marnie's a good guy and this is his diner, not mine. You'll leave, I'll let you go, you'll be back again, but probably at a time and place that's inconvenient for me, so let's just get to the part where I tell you I see dead people and you believe me, because you've got one hanging around you who's trying like hell to keep you from getting killed."


From behind the counter, a disapproving tsk cut the air. "Kara," Marnie admonished her softly, shaking his head at her bludgeoning callousness.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

For a moment, the kind that stretched over the course of several clock ticks, Maverick simply stared at the woman across from him. His eyes were guarded and unreadable, and his mouth hidden by the cup raised to his lips. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but for a man who lived and breathed to say every sentence that entered his head, the silence that now cloaked him acted as quite the tell that it was something disconcerting. 


She had been right. 'Bullshit' sat on his tongue like fire begging to be spit out; the only thing holding it back was his refusal to show how well, how easily she had read him.


Dead.


The word was hollow, overused, and almost had no meaning to him anymore. It was just that thing that happened. Like kill. Lower your head and move on: dead. But Ayden? Maverick knew, but refused to know. Ayden was his brother, the stabilizing factor. Ayden was a word that shouldn't lose meaning, and neither was it one he could willing dissociate from that meaning.


He felt a snake choking around his throat, and its venom seeping into his teeth. Innately, he became defensive and bared fangs. With a forced smirk and a look that could kill, he grunted, "So that's your particular brand of crazy, hm?" As if he were one to judge.


He forced a sound from his mouth that was supposed to be a laugh, yet came across as too aggressive to hold any amount of humor. He took a sip of his coffee, put his cup down, and broke eye contact. His hand grabbed a few creamer cups, and he began building a second tower, intending on making it better than the first, yet that was hard to do because of his shaking tattooed hands. If he had to put money on it, he'd guess it was a side effect of his fueling rage; anger came more naturally to him than anything else.


"So, is this a money makin' thing?" He asked in a low rumble. "Or do you just fucking get off on it? 'Cause, doll, there's an easier way to do both at the same time."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

I take back all my poor words. We're dead, we're dead...


.

__________  _________  ___________


[SIZE=10.5pt]This was business.  [/SIZE]Had it not been, the hurt, the downright rage that blazed behind Maverick's eyes might have wilted the strength she had to meet and keep his gaze.  Every muscle in the man's body coiled, a brutal spring ready to snap.  One of Kara's feet slid back, poised to thrust her from the booth and into a safer distance from him should he lunge for her, and yet she stayed where she was.  Her breathing was slow and controlled, her attention locked on him, seeking out any signs of his next move.  When he finally spoke, she pressed her lips between her teeth, letting his first accusation roll past without hurt. 


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]It wouldn't have been the first time she'd been called crazy.  [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]None of this was unfamiliar ground.  [/SIZE]She'd seen it before in a hundred different shades with a hundred different reactions.  It still never failed to take her heart and twist it double.  So, she simply stared at the violent trembling of his hands.  Someone else might have been tempted to take them in their own, to try to still the shaking with a misdirected sense of compassion, but Kara held no such illusions.  To do so would have been to stoke a bonfire into an explosion.  She felt pity for him, of course, and his pain echoed in her own memories, loss and fear and fury and confusion: she knew them all, but she knew better than to heap on unwanted platitudes.


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]And so she did what she knew best.  [/SIZE]She told the truth.


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]It stripped away her hard edges, leaving her quiet and exposed, vulnerable.  [/SIZE]Human.  She spoke softly, head tilted while her eyes traveled from one feature of his face to the other. 


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]"I don't want money.  [/SIZE]I don't work a scam, I don't enjoy this."  Maverick had only to look at her through an unclouded gaze to realize that.  "You found me, remember?  I don't do cold readings, I'm not going to try to convince you any further than you want to be convinced that I'm telling the truth... but I am.  I wish I weren't."  Her brows knitted, her head dropped a little.  "There are a lot of things I wish, but this isn't about me.  It's about you and," she paused, finally taking in the sight of the dead man occupying the space so very close to Maverick.  Her head angled toward his insubstantial form.  "And him.  He wants you to step away.  Called you a... a 'fucking stubborn ass' for it, said if you weren't careful, you'd be next.  I don't know what that's about, and to be honest, I don't want to, but he means it.  He wants to keep you safe."


[SIZE=10.5pt] [/SIZE]


[SIZE=10.5pt]She sat back then and Marnie stepped in, his lined face solemn, unreadable.  [/SIZE]In his hand he held a short glass filled two fingers high with a golden liquid which he placed on the table.  "Bourbon.  On the house," was all he murmured before he moved back behind the counter again.  

 

[MysteriousStranger]

When Maverick became like this he found it hard to form words. He tasted the bitter, burning ash of the smoke that was clogging his throat, the same product of his fiery anger that was forming a haze in his mind. His breathing was accelerated, and he found it hard to take in as much air as he felt like he needed. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears better than the words of Kara, which rang and rang like the echoing aftermath of a close call gunshot.


He just kept building his tower, and inevitably it came crashing down, a victim of his inability to control himself. He stared at the white plastic cups, and his eyes wandered blankly onto the back of his hands. He studied the words on his knuckles, 'Iron' and 'Fire', to remind himself of who he was, what he was; slowly, he curled his calloused fingers inward toward his palms, forming hardened fists. 


So absorbed by this he didn't even notice Marnie's approach, and his eyes jerked up to track the owner's movements. He didn't say anything, just looked back down at his hands. He didn't say anything for a long time, caught once more in that realm of magic realism. 


He could hear the honking of a horn outside the diner, and knew that around this time Stella would be closing her tattoo shop, and heading to visit her brother, Leo, at his bar. He knew Leo would probably be playing Soundgarden on vinyl, and as he lifted his head to peer out the window, he could see figures of people passing by. It made his stomach clench, how the world kept spinning, while he was stuck sitting still. Didn't it have the fucking decency to know it was over?


He pulled his lips back over his teeth, mouth twitching in a small snarl. "No." In reference to it all, and he growled it a second time, louder, with his favorite adjective, "Fuck no!"


His hands pulled at his hair, and his body slammed back against the seat of the booth. His eyes finally connected with Kara's gaze once more, displaying a look of a man trying desperately to hold onto whatever he had left. 


He knew. He knew. She wasn't lying, and for the first time, as he turned his head, he saw, if only for a moment, the outline of his brother in all its bloody glory. Maybe it was psychological, but he felt it: the burning pain of a bullet blazing through his brain. 


"It's not his job," he spat through gritted teeth. "It was never his fucking job. Step away?" He laughed forcibly and bitterly, shaking his head as he exhaled like a bull. "No, no, no."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

The few folks who found her, the ones who came seeking solace, answers, closure, or the combination to their loved one's safe, they were different than the man who sat across from her. They made up the majority of people who sought her out, the ones she could turn away quickly enough with a message or two passed along, but at least they knew. This man, Maverick, even if he'd had an inkling of his loss, even if his friend had led him here with not-so-gentle pushes and shoves from the other side, he hadn't had actual, hard-line confirmation up until now. She could count the number of times on one hand she'd done what she was doing right now.

Not that the dead didn't call out to her from their crawlspaces and their car trunks, slinging curses and murderer's names, but this, too, was different. She was sitting across from a man in the first full-fledged stages of grief. The door of knowledge had been blown open, and now he had no ground to stand on.

Kara bit her lip. She could sense the people behind her in their booths stirring, turning to look. Already, Marnie was moving to reassure them. His voice covered the disruption like warm molasses, his smile sweeping away the uncertainty they felt. A few words filtered through.

Just found out... friend passed away... needs a moment... more coffee?

Bless the man. She remained unmoving, waiting for the right moment in which to speak. Shaken loose from its plastic herd by Maverick's movements, a creamer cup rolled toward her edge of the table. Just as neared critical speed, it slammed to a stop, froze, then gently righted itself.

"Sorries won't help, so I'm not going to say any," she said, "You both got a shit deal. That's undeniable. But listen." Without looking, Kara reached for the errant creamer and held it out in front of him on her palm as if it were evidence of what she spoke. "He's here. Here. Do you understand? Not everybody gets to come back." Her jet-dark eyes cut to the specter attached to Maverick, intensity shining within their depths. "Make the most of it."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick could hear the mumbling and feel the eyes watching him, like he was under scrutiny and judgement, something he knew well. Ironically enough, mostly from the shadow of the man he had seen next to him, the one constant in his life, the one who was always there, expect now when he wasn't, not really. The thought was enough to feed his fury, and he had to bite it back.


He stared at Kara with a wild-eyed look of deer in the headlights mixed with cornered predator ready to pounce, only jerking his eyes away when he thought he saw the cup he had sent tumbling forward come to a physics defying halt. He blinked at it, wondering if he was losing it, before the woman's voice drew back his gaze. Her words came through clearer than the others that floated around him, yet it was like they were speaking a different language. She didn't understand, and how could he expect her to when the thoughts in his head were nothing more than jumbled, abstract metaphors so he didn't have to think about what was really going on: the bloody and black and deeper truth.


"Make the most of it," he repeated, after which he sawed his jaw back and forth, and dropped his hands down to the table. Slowly, his left hand reached out, fingers extending to pluck the cup of creamer from her palm. Immediately afterward, he retreated back to his side of the table.


Longterm plans had never been his thing, but he could do it moment to moment. He just had to focus. His eyes shifted for a second to gaze at the dead man walking standing at the corner of the table with his arms crossed and a furrow in his brow, a frown tugging his lips downward. Maverick found him hard to look at, like trying to focus a staticky picture on an old, tube television. So his eyes snapped back to the only one who was making sense of the world right now, and stayed on her because, at the moment, she was the only one who could give him answers.


Before he found his words, he picked up the glass of bourbon in his right hand to take a chug, shaking his head once as he set it back down with a clink. It all felt surreal, and he wasn't sure he was entirely awake or aware, but he had decided to take it moment to moment, and not give a shit about what came next. 


"Who?" Though his voice was steady, that single word was filled with dark implications. In the spot next to him it was answered with a cold silence. 

 

[CastoffCaptain]

There it was.  All of Maverick's deflections had been stripped away by shock and he was laid bare before her.  No smirking now.  No singing.  The change was painful to watch, but nothing in comparison to what he was experiencing on his side of things.  The heat of his fingers burned Kara's still-chilly palm when he took the creamer, a reminder of life, but it faded fast when he retreated to the other side of the booth.  Ayden hadn't dissipated.  Anyone who'd have assumed he'd have done so after he'd passed on his message would've been an idiot.  Fucking stubborn ass aside, Kara didn't know many people who wouldn't fight tooth and claw for justice for a murder, but it still came as a shock when that question cleaved the space between them.


Who?


A chill seeped through her limbs.  Her stomach tightened.  Shit.  How had she not seen this coming?  Of course he wanted to know, and not so he could call the police.  Whether he was ex-military or a gun-toting wannabe didn't really matter at this point.  He was the type, and would hunt down the shooter with a single-minded ferocity that would most likely get him --or someone else-- killed.  She could feel the color drain from her already-pale face and she watched the dead man for his reaction, hoping, praying he wouldn't come up with a name or an address.  


She breathed a little easier when the answer came.


Turning back to Maverick, she swallowed hard and made certain she had his attention before she spoke.  "Average.  Male.  His face was covered."  She shook her head.  "He didn't get a clear look at him, and I need to tell you right here, right now, you need to stop and think.  Not just about the next step, but about the next five, ten steps you take, you get me?  If someone did that to him, they can do it to you, and if you go charging in blind like some wounded bear, you're gonna get hurt.  Even if you get the person who did this, there are the cops to deal with afterwards."  She lifted her hands from the table, palms up, wrists resting on the Formica.  "I've passed on his message.  My job's done.  Don't be a dumb fuck about it, though.  I don't want to see you with a bul-- dead-- in a week or two, you hear me?"


Shit.  Shit shit shit.  


She'd put a tenner down on him doing exactly the opposite.  

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Maverick was listening perfectly well. His attention was sharply focused on Kara, but he doubted it was for the reason she wished. While he clearly heard and even understood her warning, it rolled past him as nothing more than a few drops of rain in comparison to the thundering storm raging inside himself. He had already made his decision, one that was determined even before his path had crossed hers; it was easily mistaken for fate, but in reality, just the predictable way the dominos fell, every reaction linked back to the catalyst. It was just the essence of his being.


He set the cup of creamer upon the table's top, before lifting his thumb up to jerk at the chain around his neck; the bullet danced with the motion, tapping against the middle knuckles of his fist. With a grunt, his lips twisted into what he intended to be a half-smirk, but came across as more of a snarl. "Wouldn't be the first."


His gaze shifted to the remaining bit of bourbon. Noting how she had looked like a ghost just a few moments ago, he sent the glass sliding across the table with a flick of his wrist. Though the idea of beginning to drown his sorrows in alcohol was appealing, he knew he needed his head clear for what was to come, and she looked as if she needed it. 


"Death is damned easy," the words fell out of his mouth, and he hadn't meant to say them. Perhaps it was in his vulnerability; perhaps he felt it safe to let those things he kept to himself slip to this stranger, this unlucky medium who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. "Losing someone, though?"


And then the first repressed thought creeped forward: alone.


He mumbled a "shit" under his breath as he grabbed at his hair, trying to keep the thoughts out of his head. His breathing noticeably accelerated, and he had to fight to keep himself there, verging on a blackout. It took a few long moments for him to get ahold of himself again, and only one phrase brought him back, growled through gritted teeth: "Whoever did this doesn't deserve the luxury of waking up morning after morning, feeling safe in their bed."


"It's not your problem," he continued, voice uneven and shaking. "But I need to know where. I need to see it, I need to know for sure...Beyond any doubt."