There's a man waiting by the door to the stairs, as Damien steps off the elevator and onto his floor, but he ignores him. The mundanity of it all fails to hit on the paranoia he's been carrying around since long before the Merlaut, and he has his head on his work, still, chasing test results and theories like a dog chasing its tail. For all he knows, the guy's one of the neighbors kid's friends, and -- well, he really doesn't give a shit. He just readjusts his hold on his bag and the laptop inside it, and makes for his door at the end of the hall, the sound of the news playing on TVs behind paper-thin walls and doors muting the sound of footsteps as they start up behind him.
He pauses just short of the neighbors', fishing his keys out of a pocket on the side of his bag, separate from the laptop, and the footsteps pause, too, but a second too late. He looks up, then, and for all that he doesn't know his pursuer, has a cold moment of recognition, all the same. They stand there for a moment, staring at each other, and then he bolts for the door, fingers tightening around his keys in case he has to used them as a weapon.
He hopes he doesn't have to. He hopes to get the door open before the other man reaches him, get it closed behind him, locked again, so that his friend can't follow, can't hold him at knife or gunpoint while he loots Damien's several thousand dollars worth of computer equipment inside. Never mind the fact that he can't do both at the same time -- the point is that, in that moment, that's what Damien is sure this is about. There have been stories on the news for months, now, about robbers waiting for people to come home at night, only to, well, rob them. Blame the fact that he's a thief, himself, for that being where his thoughts go. Blame the fact that he's a fucking Chicagoan, and this is par for the course, here in the Windy City. The Merlaut is the last thing on his mind.
To his credit, he just about makes it to the door, before they catch up to him. To his detriment, it is a they, now, as not one but two pairs of hands reach for him, and shove him to the ground. He swears, breathless, and squirms free long enough to lash out wildly with his keys, like they're a pair of brass knuckles, like they're a knife. He can't see if he hits, the fluorescent lights above him bright to the point of blinding, his stolen breath taking his reason with it, leaving him with just a pit of panic in his stomach, but he keeps trying to get away regardless. His fingers scrabble against the metal of his door before they drag him back.
Distantly, he's aware of a sound like one of Aiden's tactical batons being snapped open, and -- well, that's exactly what it is. Pain explodes across his temple, whiting out his vision more surely than the lights, if only for a moment, and one of the people holding him down breaks from him. For a brief, hysterical moment, Damien thinks that that sound was Aiden, slipping in behind them to save him, and never mind the fact that he and Aiden haven't really talked much since the Merlaut, the fact that they both decided to lay low the least of the reasons for that.
For a moment, he's saved, and then someone hisses, "Watch the fucking head. He needs to stay conscious. We need to make sure he gets the message."
The hands find his arms again, pinning him down just as he thinks to start struggling a second time, and then the pain returns, bursts of fire trailing down over his ribs, his hips, his legs like sadistic fireworks. Everything grows a little distant, mercifully hazy, after a point, lost to the repetitive drone of metal on meat, punctuated by the sound of someone screaming, then whimpering as something clamps down on it, him, as it gets hard to breathe.
In the end, his body just gives up, the thugs' efforts to keep him conscious all for nothing. He gets the message, though. It's hard not to when, when he wakes up in the hospital a week later, the police tell him no one ever touched his things, door still locked and laptop still in its bag under him. It's hard not to when they ask if he has enemies on the same breath. He knows what this is about, now, but just because he receives the message doesn't mean he listens.
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abeautifulgame) wrote2020-09-14 03:20 pm
damien's apartment; november 2012 (melinoë)
He pauses just short of the neighbors', fishing his keys out of a pocket on the side of his bag, separate from the laptop, and the footsteps pause, too, but a second too late. He looks up, then, and for all that he doesn't know his pursuer, has a cold moment of recognition, all the same. They stand there for a moment, staring at each other, and then he bolts for the door, fingers tightening around his keys in case he has to used them as a weapon.
He hopes he doesn't have to. He hopes to get the door open before the other man reaches him, get it closed behind him, locked again, so that his friend can't follow, can't hold him at knife or gunpoint while he loots Damien's several thousand dollars worth of computer equipment inside. Never mind the fact that he can't do both at the same time -- the point is that, in that moment, that's what Damien is sure this is about. There have been stories on the news for months, now, about robbers waiting for people to come home at night, only to, well, rob them. Blame the fact that he's a thief, himself, for that being where his thoughts go. Blame the fact that he's a fucking Chicagoan, and this is par for the course, here in the Windy City. The Merlaut is the last thing on his mind.
To his credit, he just about makes it to the door, before they catch up to him. To his detriment, it is a they, now, as not one but two pairs of hands reach for him, and shove him to the ground. He swears, breathless, and squirms free long enough to lash out wildly with his keys, like they're a pair of brass knuckles, like they're a knife. He can't see if he hits, the fluorescent lights above him bright to the point of blinding, his stolen breath taking his reason with it, leaving him with just a pit of panic in his stomach, but he keeps trying to get away regardless. His fingers scrabble against the metal of his door before they drag him back.
Distantly, he's aware of a sound like one of Aiden's tactical batons being snapped open, and -- well, that's exactly what it is. Pain explodes across his temple, whiting out his vision more surely than the lights, if only for a moment, and one of the people holding him down breaks from him. For a brief, hysterical moment, Damien thinks that that sound was Aiden, slipping in behind them to save him, and never mind the fact that he and Aiden haven't really talked much since the Merlaut, the fact that they both decided to lay low the least of the reasons for that.
For a moment, he's saved, and then someone hisses, "Watch the fucking head. He needs to stay conscious. We need to make sure he gets the message."
The hands find his arms again, pinning him down just as he thinks to start struggling a second time, and then the pain returns, bursts of fire trailing down over his ribs, his hips, his legs like sadistic fireworks. Everything grows a little distant, mercifully hazy, after a point, lost to the repetitive drone of metal on meat, punctuated by the sound of someone screaming, then whimpering as something clamps down on it, him, as it gets hard to breathe.
In the end, his body just gives up, the thugs' efforts to keep him conscious all for nothing. He gets the message, though. It's hard not to when, when he wakes up in the hospital a week later, the police tell him no one ever touched his things, door still locked and laptop still in its bag under him. It's hard not to when they ask if he has enemies on the same breath. He knows what this is about, now, but just because he receives the message doesn't mean he listens.