Fantasy No Game for Knights

[arbus]

Kling made a sound halfway between a snort and a scoff. Mostly, it was pretense, though. Kling's irritation was already subsiding. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to say: "Your word against the lady's. I wonder who they'll believe in a court of law, the pretty lass or the rundown PI." This streak of vindictiveness was perhaps not his most likable, or even honorable, character trait, but there was enough history between him and Hobbes that he managed to justify it before himself. Hobbes was the one who brought himself into these kinds of situations, after all, and more often than not made the police look stupid in the process. There had been some cases that bum had managed to get himself involved in (had managed to solve, a voice that suspiciously sounded like the Deputy Superintendent's corrected), but none of them had ever quite turned out like this one.

If you asked Kling, it had been only a matter of time.

"You know, maybe it's time for you to hang up your ugly cloak and hat and start looking for some honest work. Leave the police investigations to the big boys", he said, and it was supposed to be only the start of a tirade of accusations, but all of a sudden, all the color drained out of Hobbes' face and Kling stopped himself.

"Hey, you alright?"

 

[sspky]

It took a few moments for that sudden, inexplicable wave of panic to finally subside. Hobbes wasn't exactly a stranger to the sensation -- the war had left him with perhaps more mental scars than physical, which was impressive considering the state of his body -- and he was grimly familiar with the method of careful, counted breathing that would help bring him out of the cloud of trauma.

This was, however, the first time his quiet fits had been caused by something entirely unrelated to that damn war.

The back of his neck reddened a little when he finally registered Kling's question.

"Nope," he said, the stressed edge to his voice quickly melting back into his usual dismissive sarcasm, "Was just shot, remember? I really don't recommend trying it for yourself, Kling. It never gets any less unpleasant."

 

[arbus]

Kling, who himself had experienced a near-fatal gun wound barely a year ago — a fact well-known to the Police Department, but thankfully less so to the public — scoffed. "Yeah. Thanks for the advice, chief.“

It was a relief to see Hobbes gain his usual vexing composure as quickly as he had, illustrated by the harsh note of that near-constant sarcasm in his voice. As irksome as that tone was to Kling, it was better than to have him put on the dramatics and pass out. Bad enough that Kling had noted the reddened skin of Hobbes' neck, a singular but unmistakable sign of embarrassement in the other man, which made him wish he'd never asked anything that could be construed to be concern.

He had not even fished his battered notebook out of his jacket‘s pocket yet, let alone started any sort of real interrogation, but on the spur of the moment -- and some would argue rather conveniently -- decided that now was not the right time for that sort of thing anyway. Hobbes, after all, was much worse for wear than he had expected.

"Well. If there's nothing you have to add, I'll leave you to it. One of my men will come 'round in the next couple of days to take your official statement. That is, if you manage not to get yourself killed in the meantime.“

 

[sspky]

"I can't make you any promises," he replied, "But I'll do what I can."

And if he was going to keep himself from getting whacked, then he needed to get himself out of this damn bed. Although he'd be glad to see the back of Kling, he also had a feeling the officer was probably a lot less corrupt than some of his colleagues. If Hobbes had to confide in anyone on the force, Kling was certainly near the top of the candidate list. But before he said anything while Mirandized, he needed to get himself a damn good lawyer. A few possibilities came to mind.

"Check the damn safe," Hobbes said before leaning is head back into the sweat-damp pillow and closing his eyes. His head was still spinning and there was a growing cramp in his stomach. This was going to be one hell of a bad week -- he'd bet the farm on it.

 

[arbus]

"Fuck you, too“, Kling said in response to the unsolicited advice that seemed ever on the cusp of the PI‘s tongue. It sounded at a lot less pissed off than he intended it to, though; even Kling had trouble maintaining the level of irritation he usually felt with Hobbes when the man looked so goddamn miserable.

For the better, then, when the door shut firmly behind him. It left the hospital room to settle into a heavy silence.

Heavy, but only momentary.

"Whose farm?", someone asked, right up against the shell of Benjamin Hobbes' right ear.

Dusk had come and gone, and the shadows were approaching fast. It was half-dark by now, as Kling had not bothered to turn on the overhead lights.

And the bedside lamp, though plugged into the wall, would remain dead. As the sun vanished behind a line of tall office buildings, darkness started to creep up from the other half of the room.

 

[sspky]

Hobbes's heart jumped up into his throat. He swatted one hand at his right ear instinctively, as if he were swatting at a buzzing fly. The sudden movement sent a tinge of hot pain through his stitched-up stomach.

The hell had that been? He stared across the dusk-lit room, his wan face pulled into a deep frown. Hobbes wasn't the sort of many who'd ever heard voices before -- apart from his own hateful inner monologue. This had been different, though. For a split moment, he thought he'd heard something real.

He shut his eyes against the darkness. Despite the coming night, Hobbes had adjusted slowly to the changing light. He knew the room was empty. Of course, it was empty. Inhaling slowly, Hobbes choked down another wave of nauseous fear and willed himself back into a sense of calm. Perhaps it was time to see the nurse about his morphine drip.

 

[arbus]

(( Admittedly, I might be enjoying this whole demon possession shenanigan a bit too much. ))


Of course the room is empty.

Upon waking, he found himself momentarily confused, confounded even. A tense body, drawn tight by inner conflict and muscles spasming in pain. Pain that radiated from the body‘s midpoint in hot waves that washed over him in varying degrees of discomfort.

He found his new host‘s mental state the right kind of peculiar, though, and he was drained. Weak enough, in fact, to strike a bargain.

Careful, something inside Hobbes‘ mind seemed to employ, close enough now to some inner monologue that it might, just might be nothing but Hobbes‘ very own thoughts. Wouldn‘t want to tear those stitches, would we?

Was it uncomfortable, to feel that spark of some kind of sentient life inside oneself? He did not know, but he liked the detective for the way he made it hard to guess his thoughts. Granted, he was drowsy, reduced to a fraction of his usual powers.

„Hungry, detective? I‘m ravenous.“

„ ... bbes. Mr Hobbes, I asked if you want green or red jelly for desert.“ The nurses‘ hand was gnarly on Hobbes‘ shoulder as she gave him one firm, yet gentle shake. „Mr Hobbes?“ Standing right beside him, the door to the hallway was all the way open. On a plastic tray next to her was a covered plate of unknown contents. The room was lit sterile-bright and appeared to have been so for quite a few minutes. Outside, it was fully dark.

 

[sspky]

(( Hell yiss ))

When Ben Hobbes was twelve, he'd ridden that nightmarish wooden roller coaster on Coney Island. That was the first time he'd felt that real, genuine rush of freefall. It really put those playground swingsets to shame, that was for sure. Many years later, he'd experienced something similar over the Pacific when the C-76 Caravan he and his troupe had been loaded into hit a particularly turbulent upstream. The drop had been smaller, but the rush was so much more intense when it was coupled with the very real, very genuine feeling that he just might actually be about to die.

Hobbes felt that same sensation now, laying with his back pressed against the starch-white, sweat-soaked sheets of his hospital bed. His stomach moved up into his heart cavity, his limbs went as limp as wet noodles, and he felt his skin tighten of his bones like the dry-rot of a corpse.

Hungry?

No. No, he absolutely wasn't hungry. In his sudden state, he wasn't sure he ever wanted food again.

There was a woman talking to him. For a brief, surreal moment he thought it might have been Miss. Marsh. The spell was broken quickly when he cracked open his over-tired eyes and saw the silhouette of that bony old nurse.

"I--" he started, stopped, and then realized he suddenly felt rather...well, rather ravenous, "Either will do, Miss. Have I eaten yet? Dinner, I mean?"

 

[arbus]

A light pair of eyes regarded Hobbes behind thick glasses that gave those eyes a rather owlish look. The nurse seemed too frail and bony for her pressed, impeccably white uniform, but her hands moved with the reassurance of life-long profession. "I have your dinner right here for you, Mr Hobbes", she said, lifting the cover from a plate of mashed potatoes, an overcooked helping of peas and a thin piece of meat that alarmingly resembled the sole of a particularly run-down shoe. A meal that promised to be unsavory at best.

Regardless, he reared his head, sending a rather overwhelming impulse to grab for it through his host's body. It was not control, per se; rather, an urge all too easy to give into, with enough room for resistance to make it seem like a choice. To, perhaps, make it seem like a damaged body's innate reaction for nourishment, not unusual at all.

"We'll have to wash you up and change your sheets before we tuck you in for the night, Mr Hobbes." The bony nurse had turned her back to her patient to flip through a chart that had been fastened at the end of his bed a moment ago. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I don't like the look of you. Eat up, and I'll fetch you a cup of jelly and a thermometer. You might run a fever."

 

[sspky]

"Great," Hobbes said, sliding the tray on to his lap, "That's great. Thank you."

Through his upbringing, and his time spent in the army, Hobbes had been installed with a proper understanding of table manners and public decorum. None of that was apparent as he dug into the bland, unappetizing meal he'd been given. Gracelessly, he shovelled spoonfuls of potatoes and peas into his mouth. Hell, he barely even bothered to chew that boiled-to-hell-and-back chunk of gray meat.

Once his plate was clean, he doubled over, a vicious cramp tightening up his guts. A sheen of cold sweat soaked down his forehead as he fought back the urge to violently vomit.

What the hell had just gotten into him?

 

[arbus]

More. Hobbes had barely devoured the lackluster meal when another insatiable urge rose, even through the almost immediate reaction of nausea and pain. The air was uncomfortable, a sweet-thick scent wafting through it. The overhead lights were very bright and grew brighter still.

The elderly nurse, clip-board in hand, turned towards Hobbes. Her eyes drifted from his face, a smear of potato and sauce on his chin and around his mouth, to the empty tablet, then back up to catch his eyes. Her expression, in this first half-second, was utterly astonished. Then, her brows clouded over.

"Gee! What in the world are you thinking? You've just had a bullet removed from your intestines, you can't wolf down your meal like that!"

She hurried over, slipped an emesis basin onto her patient's lap in a quick motion, then touched his forehead with a cool hand --

the sweet scent thickened, grew more unpleasant, like inflammation, like decay

-- before she busied herself with the morphine drip, preparing the needle to insert it in Hobbes' arm. All the while, she was admonishing his poor table manners, scolding his brutish behavior in the dry tone of a woman who couldn't really be fazed, to whom this was just one more thing in an endlessly growing list of human oddities.