The Soulbinder (Randomizer & Sensualist)

[Sensualist]

Kingdom Hospital didn't do itself – or its patients – many favours with its outwards appearance. It was built in a solemn grey building downtown, once the foundation of some ambitious skyscraper that never made it. Art-deco gargoyles peered over the roof, and it had in general all the architectural charm of a tombstone.

Few people seemed to be coming in or out of the reception as Desmond Psyche arrived at the hospital to visit his friend, though the sound of ambulance sirens coming too and going fro echoed off the pleated stone walls of its façade. He stepped past a hoary old dog tied to a metal pole outside, which lifted its head and gave him a suspicious glare. The automatic doors hesitated before squeaking open, revealing a tiled room that smelled of antiseptic (though not quite enough to conceal the other, unpleasantly organic smells of the waiting room) and was lit by sickly green fluorescent lights. Raising her eyes from the soap-opera digest she was reading, a nurse with hair like steel wool and eyes of purest indifference pointed Desmond to Sean Fielan's room when he asked.

Sean was one of Desmond's best friends, the sort of friend that could only be forged in the heat of beating the crap out of one another. They were regular sparring partners at DeSanto's kickboxing gym, and had built the kind of mutual respect that only black eyes and split lips made. Sean was a nice guy, maybe a bit cocky – but when you lived a charmed life like he did, maybe that was inevitable. He was justifiably proud of his 'luck o' the Irish'; he aced exams at college despite never studying, had never met a hand of poker he couldn't win with, and seemed to score with a different girl every night.

That luck seemed to have run out of late, though. His GPA had dropped precipitously, his car had been stolen, and he'd lost his wallet twice – just in the past week. The acme of his misfortune was what had landed him in hospital; a car had lost a wheel as he was mooching along the street, sending him reeling into an open manhole cover and straight down into the noxious mire of the sewer.

A different nurse was in his room as Desmond arrived, administering an inoculation against whatever horrid diseases he might have been exposed to. “Now hold still...” the man admonished, applying the needle. There was a high-pitched sound, like a guitar string snapping, and Sean gave a whimpering yelp of pain. “Shit!” the nurse grunted with minimal apology in his tone. “It snapped! That's not supposed to happen! Sorry, Mr. Fielan... that must've stung.” He quickly fixed the tiny geyser of blood in Sean's arm then bustled off to tend to the rest of his charges, giving Desmond a reproachful look as he passed. Like it was his fault?

A few tufts of sandy blond hair were visible through the bandages and splints that swaddled Sean nearly head to toe, but he managed a weak grin when he saw Desmond. There was a gap in his teeth that hadn't been there before, and his face was a mess of scrapes and bruises. “Hey, Des, man. Do I look as bad as I feel?”

 

[Randomizer]

As Desmond made his way into the tomb of the not yet dead, better known as the Kingdom Hospital, he could not help but be glad that he was skilled enough in his kick-boxing that he had rarely had needed to go to the hospital. There was no sense that was not eager to take his leave. To say the place was boring and depressing to look at was putting it lightly, and it smelled so much of antiseptic and various other bodily substances he did not want to know that he quickly had to breathe through his mouth, which only made things slightly better, considering now he could practically taste it, too. The sound was as bland and miserable as the rest, the buzzing of TL-lights, the coughing of sick patients, and several other generally unpleasant sounds. And the atmosphere was chill, even though it was still decently warm outside, so that his arms got goosebumps.

He decided to simply ignore it, and put his mind on why he was here. Sean Fielan, or Gladstone, as he was better known by the people at DeSanto's, even though these days he did not really live up to this name any longer. Generally, he was one of the best fighters there. While his technique was, at times, a bit sloppy, he really did know how to make the best of any openings he found in his opponents defence. But lately, he had somehow gotten so bad that a 14 year old could beat him. They had tested it. They were still unsure how he had managed to trip and fall directly into an oncoming blow that could normally have been easily dodged. And the drop down the manhole seemed to signify the last bit of his once good luck turning bad.

So Desmond was now making his way towards him, to see how he was doing. Not well, of course, but he didn't know precisely how bad.

Quite bad, he found out when he saw him. There were more parts of his body currently covered in bandages than there were parts that were bare. And he could not see his treatment helping much, if everything went as well as it was going now.

He managed to grin back at him, though, ignoring the nurses' glare. "Depends, Gladstone." He answered, taking a seat in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs in the room, "Do you feel like you ought to be lying in a Pharaohs' tomb, chasing away interlopers?" He smirked at him, but it fell away only a bit after. "But shit, man, what happened? Did you trip over a black cat after walking underneath a ladder, and hit a lifetime supply of mirrors, or something? Got cursed trying to steal a leprechauns' pot of gold? You seem to be catching up on all the bad luck you should have had over the rest of your life."

 

[Sensualist]

Sean's grin remained. “Nah... I always saw myself as more the Brendan Fraser, hunky-hero-slash-love-interest type. Rachel Weisz? I'd go kosher that.” He laughed, but it rapidly became a cough, and that cough became a symphony played on the Clive Barker church organ that was the pulleys and straps that held his limbs in place. Sean blanched as the cough wracked him, jerking at his aching extremities and forced himself to remain still until it passed.

“Agh. God,” he wheezed, twisting his head until he could suckle at the straw of the water bottle positioned near him. When Desmond mentioned all the superstitions he might have violated to earn this karmic punishment, Sean's expression sobered, and he shot an emploring glance at the blinds of the hospital room. “How did you... ahhh, no, man, you'll think it's stupid. You'll think I'm an idiot for believing in it.” He grimaced, but after a moment said, slowly: “It's... my four-leaf clover, Des. Someone stole my lucky four-leaf clover.”

Sean's four-leaf clover (made from one and one third regular clovers and some superglue, he'd smugly confided in Desmond once) was one of his favourite ways to pick up women. He'd flash them the laminated good luck charm and brag about his fortunes, 'coincidentally' showing off the condom packet he carried next to it in his wallet at the same time.

“I know... I know what it sounds like, man. But all this shit started when it vanished.”

 

[Randomizer]

Desmond chuckled, glad that Sean was still capable of joking around, but it faltered when he ended up going into a coughing fit. He felt like he should help, but he had no idea on how to do such a thing. So he just watched as his friend was obviously hurting himself with coughing like this. He couldn't imagine what it was like, lying there in pain like that, and was quite certain that he did not want to find out anytime soon.

He was not entirely sure what to think of what Sean said. If he didn't sound so completely serious about it Desmond would've asked him if he had hit his head on the way down into the manhole. Still, feeling a connection to tales of myth, legend, and folklore, and believing in them were two entirely different things. "Are you sure?" He said. "How could a missing four-leaf-clover, hell, a fake missing four leaf clover cause such a thing? And who would have taken it? I mean, I know plenty people are jealous of you, but I don't think any of them believe that that four-leaf clover is actually the source of you're luck. As far as I know, most of them simply think you're a cheater."

He shrugged. "I mean, I'm willing to believe it's true, but if I'd have to get it back for you, I would have to know whose ass to kick to get it back."

 

[Sensualist]

Closing his eyes for a moment as Desmond didn't immediately dismiss his claim out of hand, Sean leaned back in his network of straps and supports. “I don't know. Maybe it's like the feather in Dumbo, just makes me think I'm lucky. Or maybe it's real. I don't know. And hey, people got a right to be jealous of me. I'm amazing...” his voice creaked, and he nearly started coughing again, but managed to clear the itch in his throat.

“Well, uh, as for who could have taken it... there was this girl,” he said. A lot of Sean's stories began that way. “Met her in a bar. A real little firecracker. She was Irish, genuine Irish, with the accent and everything. Damn, but she could...” his gaze unfocused a little, thinking about something more pleasant than his present predicament, then he blinked and continued. “Uhm, anyway. It was after her that things started to go wrong, man. I'm sure she took my damn clover. Maybe... maybe as a keepsake?”

Sean craned his head up, gazing at Desmond. “Wait, you'd do that for me, man? I mean, I was gonna ask you to try and get it back... but I didn't even need to ask you! That's solid, Des. Solid as fuck. Knuck me, bro.” He made a fist as best he could with his hand sealed in plaster, and waggled it at Desmond for a fist-bump.

 

[Randomizer]

Desmond had to smile as Sean, who was currently looking as if he had fallen under a bus, still was calling himself amazing. He was luckily wise enough to bite back the several snarky comments that came to mind. He did, however, roll his eyes at Seans mention of a girl. He seemed to be unable to talk about anything else about a woman that he had spent the night with but her skill in bed. True, that might have been the thing they spent most of the night doing, but that did not mean Desmond appreciated the mental image.

After his last words, Desmond raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course. We're friends, that means I'll certainly go around and find your fake luck charm to comfort those aching bones of yours." He said. He leaned over, and softly touched his fist against Sean's, guessing that much more than that would hurt him. "Still, 'Irish girl in bar who is great in bed' is not really that much to go on. I'd really need her address, or at least the name of the bar you met her in, or her phone number." He said.

 

[Sensualist]

There was a pop as they fist-bumped, and Sean made a face. "Oh, great, there goes the last one. Now I have a complete set of broken bones. Maybe I can trade them in for a set of steak knives." He chuckled, but it turned into a wheeze, and stopped himself before enduring another coughing fit.

"Yeah, man, don't worry, I got you. She was in Jax's Basement - that's that underground club, literally and figuratively, on Shore Street, right? Kickin' place, if you can get past the bouncer. She seemed, like, a regular there, really at home. I, uhm, didn't catch her name or her number... we didn't really have that kind of relationship, you know? But she had wings tattooed on her back, and a four-leaf clover on her belly, just below the belt-line... that was my 'in' when I laid on the moves. She was short... redhead... natural redhead, if you know what I mean."

 

[Randomizer]

Desmond cringed at the pop. He had tried to be as gentle as possible with it. At least he probably was on enough painkillers to subdue an elephant. He nodded at Seans words. He knew the place, then rolled his eyes. "Come on, I don't need to know that. You can brag over your catches when they haven't caused you to fall down a manhole." For a while longer, he turned the conversation onto other matters, until the nurse came back and told him that Sean needed his rest, which was when he left.

That evening, he made his way to Jax's basement. He had a pretty thick wallet, which he knew wasn't the wisest thing to do, but he guessed he might have to resort to bribing the girl to give him the four-leaf clover back, if he let on how much it meant to Sean. If the bouncer didn't stop him, he simply would go inside and see if he could find the girl there. If he did, he would tell him "I'm a friend of Seans', he left something here last time he was here, I'm here to come pick it up. After that I'm leaving again."

 

[Sensualist]

Jax's Basement was wedged between a bank and an electronics store; a recessed doorway between awall of polished black pseudo-marble anda gaping glass storefront filled with unlit flatscreens. Bass-heavy music rose from below the ground, muffled into incomprehensibiity by the obstacles in its way and acoustics ofcthe club. Desmond could feel it in his fingertips and teeth, rather than hear it.

The door was blocked by a burly fireplug of a man who looked up boredly from his phone as Desmond aproached, giving him a bouncer's once-over that took in style, potential threat and potential spending capacity. He didn't seem impressed on any count. "You a friend of Sean's? That supposed to mean something to me, esse? You coul be a friend of Dorothy for all's I care. I'm a friend of Benjamin, you get me?"

 

[Randomizer]

Desmond had been prepared to have to ask exactly where the club lay once he got within a few streets. It wasn't as if it was one of the major ones any student knew. But as he got close enough that the club started sending vibrations of the bass through his body he knew two things: He had found the club, and he probably would be getting out of here with at least hearing difficulties, even if he didn't found the lucky charm his friend wanted him to get.

The doorman was actually wrong on all three accounts, according to Desmond. The general populace would probably give him 1 out of 3, or 2 out of 3 if technicalities didn't count. His style was, indeed, not noteworthy, and while his own savings were nothing to look at, he was able of falling back on his parents if high need arose, even though having to do that would be the last thing he'd try to do. Threat assessment, though, was a skill the bouncer might want to get better at. Depending on how much actual skill the man had, he might give him trouble, but a determined bouncer wouldn't be able to stop a determined Desmond in most circumstances. Still, beating up bouncers wasn't what he was here to do. He rolled his eyes, and got a 100 dollar bill out of his wallet. "There. Now, as I am sure you and your friend have a lot of catching up to do, I would quite like to get inside." He said, and moved to step inside unless the bouncer stopped him. If not, he'd go resume his original course: To find the redheaded, bargoing Irishwoman with the four-leaf clover tattoo. He hadn't really stopped to think about how stereotypical that might sound.

 

[Sensualist]

The bouncer smiled and performed a minor but impressive bit of sleight-of-hand as he made the bill disappear entirely, then lumbered his bulk out of the way and pushed the door open for Desmond.

The music rolled out, deep and heavy so that descending the stairs in the first circle of nightclub hell (or heaven, depending on your point of view) was like walking through velvet curtains. The air that carried the pounding, swirling bass was warm and thick with smoke – tobacco, weed and rave-atmospherics alike, and carried the scents of perfume, fresh sweat, booze and a heady undercurrent of endorphins and pheromones. Jarring flashes of deep blue, green and red light illuminated the posters of bands and concerts that lined the narrow staircase as he made his way down and into the great chamber of the club itself.

The ceiling was low enough that many of the dancers could reach up and touch the lights and speakers that hung from it as they rocked and swayed with their arms in the air. On the stage a J spun hypnotic beats that rose through the soles of their shoes and moved something deep inside, a primal, Sabbath-time, bonfire-dance of community and motion. The crowd seethed as one many-limbed body, one ocean of flesh, joined in the joy of dance and tangible music, and Desmond suddenly felt a twinge of isolation from not being a part of it. Shaking it off, he cast his glance around the dark room, seeing numerous nooks and booths where people dozed, drank, made out or held point-blank shouted conversations under the omnipresent noise. As he tried to make his way around to the bar, the surging dancefloor buffeted him, trying to draw him in like a whirlpool swallowed a boat. He managed to fight off its pull, the inviting tug of hands and the simple weight of bodies, but stumbled as he escaped, and found himself grabbing the edge of the bar as he caught his breath.

A pint of beer skidded across the smooth glass surface, landing right in front of him, foam slopping at the rim and amber bubbles bursting. Desmond looked up from it and found one of the bartenders grinning at him – a short, redheaded woman in a tight black Ramones t-shirt and mixologist's apron.

“You look like y' could use one of these, boyo,” she said, leaning towards him with a twinkle in her emerald eyes, her voice somehow musical and clear despite the torrential music of the club.

 

[Randomizer]

There were times where Desmond would like such places, although perhaps a bit less drugged out, and would spend all night in these clubs as if there were no tomorrow. Tonight, though, he was here as an outsider, and was completely not interested in it. He ignored all of the people trying to pull him into the dance, fighting against the current of people, at times physically having to shove somebody aside who ignored his attempts to get through and simply stood in his way. All the while, he was trying to search for the redheaded woman, but he saw none on the dance floor who fit the description.

When he got to the bar, he felt as beaten up as after a night in the gym, assaulted by all the scents, sights, sounds and people he had tried to force his way through. So for a moment he was simply glad that he could catch his breath, and that a glass of cold beer had managed to make its way in front of him. Only after he had taken a swig did he look at the source. Well, at least he wouldn't have to look through the crowds any further. Now he only had to hope she'd be willing to give the clover back.

He was unable to agree with Sean about her, though. If he'd have told anybody about her, he would have been certain to tell them about her eyes. Her eyes were one of the greenest pair he had seen so far, set apart even more by her red hair. He mentally slapped himself back awake. He was here for a reason, not simply to goggle at pretty ladies. Even though he had to admit she was very pretty.

"Certainly, but what I really could use is a lucky charm. Found one of those around here a while ago?" He asked, he himself do having a need to almost shout to get over the music, bluntly going straight to the point. It might be interesting to try to get her into bed before, but Desmond was neither really the type for that, although he could certainly make an exception for her, nor was he eager to spend all too much time in this pit of a club.

 

[Sensualist]

The girl was certainly striking; it wasn't hard to see why Sean had been drawn to her. She was built like a supermodel, but on a miniature scale – she couldn't have topped five foot even, but was proportionately leggy, with sleekly curved hips, a lithe build and pert, rounded breasts. Her creamy skin was dusted with freckles, making her like a blank canvas on which the strobing lights of the club painted their hues, and her lovely face was surrounded by a short cloud of flaming hair. She watched him taste the beer – a Guinness, of course – and gave him a wickedly sly smile.

“Looks like you already got one,” she lilted, reaching over and flicking Des' silver and obsidian necklace where it hung around his neck (her fingertip brushing against the base of his throat, just above the top of his shirt before pulling teasingly away). “Or were you thinking more of somethin' like this?” She arched her back, leaning slightly away from the bar with a display of feline flexibility as she reached down for the hem of her own shirt, lifting it up to give him a flash of slender waist and taut stomach, with a couple of leafy lobes of a clover tattoo inked in green in her white flesh.

 

[Randomizer]

Desmond didn't have to find it hard or easy to see. He felt himself drawn to her, only his current knowledge that she had a habit for taking lucky charms and he was currently trying to get it back for his friend managing to stop him from trying to hit on her. So, trying to keep thoughts out of his mind of picking her up and fucking her against a wall, he kept his composure. Mostly. The light touch of her hand against his throat as she played with his necklace for a moment, and the sight of her smooth and lovely stomach made him quite glad that there was a bar in between them.

"I've got one, but my friend doesn't." He said, perhaps a bit more quickly than was normal for a calm person. "It's similar to yours, except, obviously, not on his body. It's a four-leaf clover. He says he must've lost it around here, and you were the last person whom he had showed it to, so he wanted me to come ask if you knew where it was." He looked intently at her face, looking for a hint of guilt, even if she'd answer that she didn't know where it was. And to keep his mind off her waist.

 

[Sensualist]

There was a flash of emotion on the woman's face as Desmond probed her about the lucky charm – but definitely no hint of guilt. Rather, a brief flicker of a heady mixture of amusement, mischief, malice and curiosity.“Oh, aye? Is that right?” she chuckled. “Mebbe ye should tell your friend that some presents aren't meant to be kept ferever, and it's not wise to flash 'em around willy-nilly.If you ken remember all that tomorra, that is.”

She winked at him, a wicked green flicker, then stepped back from the bar and twined herself away between the forms of two other bartenders, losing herself in the hustle of bodies. No sooner had she vanished than Desmond realised his mouth felt dry, and there was a throbbing pain in each temple. His stomach gurgled a complaint, a wave of nausea rose through him. He was usually no lightweight... had there been something in that Guinness? Whatever the case, he suddenly felt a pressing need to offer his prayers to the porcelain altar of Bacchus.

 

[Randomizer]

The expression she gained was both interesting and confusing. Both because he had not expected such a look at all. She looked guilty, of course, but neither worried, or actually feeling guilty about it. Her words managed to confuse him even further. "A present? It was just a three leaf clover with an extra leaf glued on, he said." He spoke out loud. Then, she turned from him, and pushed herself inbetween two other bodies. "Hey, wait, stay her--gaah!" At that point, the headache hit him.

Every beat of the music was another nail driven deep into his temple, even as his stomach tried to turn itself over in his belly, or at the very least. Thoughts of the woman were soon driven from his mind and replaced by thoughts of needing to empty his stomach. He forced his way back through the crowd, in search of the first bathroom he could find. He made his way into it, into one of the empty stall, where he leaned over the toilet and started puking his stomach out as his body tried to expulse the poison the irishwoman had put in his drink. What the hell had he gotten himself into? was the first rational thought that came back to his brain after that, soon followed by: And how am I going to get myself out of it without leaving Sean with the ultimate bad luck. Lagging slightly behind the others, a third came. "God, I hope I'm at least in a guys' bathroom."

 

[Sensualist]

The strobing of the dancefloor lights cast disjointed and painful images on Desmond's suddenly-tender brain as he staggered past it to get to the toilets. They assaulted him like ugly polaroid snaps.; limbs seemed bent into unnatural angles; bodies lurching through obscene rituals; sneering smiles and blank-eyed euphoria. He managed to find the stainless steel and tile cell of the bathroom, lit in UV tones to discourage junkies from shooting up before his body betrayed him and breakfast through dinner staged an abandon ship through his mouth.

He was still gasping from the effort of throwing up a year's worth of growth and rinsing his mouth out from the sink when he felt a hand lace through his hair. Maybe she was stronger than she looked, or maybe he was weakened by the emetic drug, but the little redhead was able to hoist him around without much apparent difficulty. Before he could react, her lips were on his – her mouth small, warm, insistent, her tongue sinful as it invaded his. Desmond felt an electric tingle race through his body. Unexpected arousal, and something else, something giddy and... weird.

She pulled away, and maybe it was once again a hallucination brought on by the effects of the drug, but he could have sworn there was some sort of glow around her lips, a trail of glimmering sparks flowing from his mouth to hers. It was accompanied by a vague and unconscious sense of loss and anxiety, like something insubstantial was missing from him. The bartender tilted her head back, licking her lips like she was savouring something. “Mhhhm. Not bad. An orphan, adopted by rich folks? A sweetheart of a step-sister, but a roomful of bullies? A real mixed bag o'fortune you got yerself there, handsome,” she smirked, letting go of Desmond and letting him slip bonelessly to the floor.

She turned and headed towards the door, a sway of new vigour in her petite denim-wrapped hips. “Yer friend had his comin', but for what it's worth, I'm a wee bit sorry about the bucket o' crap you've got headed yer way,” she cast back over her shoulder, untying her apron, balling it up and casually tossing it in the waste bin. “If ye want my advice? Stay away from lottery tickets and busy intersections for a while.” She raised her hand and gave him a wiggly-fingered little wave as she pushed open the men's room door.