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To Catch A Murderer (Athene & Razgriz)

LadyAthene

LadyAthene

Supernova
Joined
May 12, 2015
Location
West Coast, USA


27th July, 2017

The world had officially - and almost literally - gone to shit. Hell all but froze over, or at least emerged, all over the world. Yet no matter where anyone lived, it was easy to see which countries had been hit the hardest, and which had been given the slightest hints of mercy. One nation that fell under the aforementioned, unfortunately, was the United States.

All because of that asshole, Trump ...

The lamenting thoughts could easily have come from anyone, as a good majority of people who voted for said man were now regretting their choice. And for a damn good reason; several of them, actually.

In the case of eighteen-year-old Justin Hopkins, this country was just not in the right condition. Granted, he had never been overly concerned about his academics to begin with. Now, however, there was absolutely no chance, no opportunity for him to even consider turning his mindset around.

Why bother when unemployment was - once again - beginning to dominate the nation?

"Only a fucking matter of time before we become ruled by a literal tyrant, after all," he muttered, leaning against the alley wall behind him and reaching down into the pocket of his black jeans. He fumbled around for a few moments before finally finding what he was looking for; his last pack of cigarettes. Justin's brows furrowed as he noted the once full contents had dwindled to a measly three cancer sticks left.

" ... Ah well. That's why you do things your own way."

To make up for not being the best with the more 'typical' subjects, he was street smart. Excelled at hacking, stealing, manipulating and overall using people. Some deemed him a con artist, others merely a nuisance.

Whatever the case, it had been enough to land him in juvenile prison several times.

Truthfully, he should be incarcerated as an adult, given he recently hit the age of eighteen.

However, on his birthday, Justin had managed to come up with a way to avoid it.

In the end, the security cameras of the facility he'd been held in manually shut off, soon followed by all of the electricity. Once the latter officially happened, the cell doors opened.

From there, it was literally a simple walk out of the prison, as all of the other inmates had ... other things to worry about. Certainly more so than a mere child, or that was probably what they figured Justin was in their eyes.

To be fair, it wasn't an unfair assumption. It had saved his ass, if he had to be brutally honest.

But .... ah well. Their loss.

Sighing softly, he reached back into his denims and retrieved his lighter. Before he could pull his thumb down and spark a flame, however, the wailing, unmistakable cries of sirens echoed throughout the streets of Missouri City, Texas.

Despite not being born here, it had been the place Justin ended up escaping to.

.... Thinking back, maybe he should have done more research.

A casual shrug was made by his shoulders as Justin calmly walked further down into the alley, pulling his thumb down the lighter and lighting up his cigarette. "Eh. Whatever."

Moving behind ... some old-ass building that probably used to be a restaurant or some other business, Justin leaned against the cold wall. His head tilted up towards the sky as he brought the cig against his lips, took a long breath, and exhaled a long, gray cloud of smoke.

"You got yourself outta prison easily enough. You can do the same with this lame excuse of a city."

That was the best and worst thing about places like Missouri City; it was easy to lay low. And yet, the fact it didn't have an overly huge population made it somewhat difficult to keep hiding out.

Houston, San Antonio, Austin ... you need to get to one of the bigger cities. Ones where it's much easier to mingle in with the crowd, literally or otherwise.

Nodding to himself, seeming content with the plan, Justin's eyes closed, ignoring the beeping that came from his pocket. "Fuck off," he murmured, knowing exactly what the noise had been. It was meant to imply he had a text, likely from his mom.

... Probably. His dad didn't give a shit, not last Justin checked. And quite frankly, he had no intentions of trying to see if he was right, wrong, or otherwise.

Unfortunately, the amount of fucks he given had been reduced to zero over the past three to four years, largely due to a mix of how his life had been going and still feeling adamant that his parents had done little to help advocate for him.

True, a lot of it was his own doing and deep down, Justin knew he had no one but himself to blame.

.... Yet ... he still couldn't help but feel like it wasn't only his fault. Weren't parents the people who were supposed to guide their children? Some shit like that?

His head quickly moved from side to side as Justin blocked out the thoughts, taking another drag from his cancer stick as he exhaled, creating another cloud of extra smoke that rose into the air.

 
Intelligence. Reasoning.

It was something that people quoted as being the most important characteristic of the human being. But that wasn't the case; the human race hadn't evolved because people were smart, it evolved because those who adapted thrived. So in the sense of common sense, people were often thought of as stupid when it wasn't really the case.

It was more often an issue of not caring, of not wanting to get involved, and that was just laziness.

Now were there stupid people? Absolutely. Were there smart people? Definitely.

But finding ones that could see more than one solution, that was the challenge. Because nothing in this life was clear-cut, not even the 'facts' of science and technology. Even that last mystery, that truly final frontier known as death, was never certain in how it manifested itself. And the fact that people nowadays were trying to find the one-size-fits-all solution to life's problems, when life itself demanded in fact the very opposite, was downright lazy.

People forgot how to think, plain and simple...And on this somewhat quiet night, young Justin was about to find out that someone had grown tired of the laziness. Had tired of people trying to rely on others to escape the harsh reality that life was difficult, and its difficulty was a test in itself. And those that failed...Perished. People needed to learn how to think again; if they wanted change so bad, they needed to learn to use their heads and not let some trumped-up charlatan decide their fates for them.

A small 'Tsh' sounded in the otherwise silent alley, a sting coming from the young man's neck; soon enough, a powerful tranquilizer would work through his system, starting to slow down his thoughts, his perception of time...Before completely shutting down the major processes of his body and placing him into a heavy slumber, falling down and striking the cold floor of the alley. The last sounds was those of heavy footsteps approaching...Before darkness would overtake him.

The room he would find himself was barren....Empty. The space itself was huge, the surrounding walls drab concrete. Completely devoid of anything in plain sight, and yet he was unrestrained. Odd that whoever put him here would leave him to his devices like this, in what appeared to be a completely empty warehouse of sorts.

Though it wasn't like he was completely off scot-free; there was an exit sure, but it said 'DO NOT EXIT' scrawled in red grease pencil, underlaid by a giant red X. And should he look behind him, he would see another door that also said 'DO NOT EXIT' written the exact same way. And to his right from there would be a third door, this one saying in blue grease pencil 'EXIT'.

It was almost like whoever brought him here wanted him to escape. To simply walk out the door, if only to wake up and 'Fuck you' and leave. Like someone was just messing with him.

"Mr. Hopkins? Can you hear me?" the young man would hear a voice, calm but cold and stern, its auditory profile altered to mask the identity of the speaker, play over what appeared to be a hastily set-up PA system. "Hmm...Still seems to be out cold, I'll have to lower the dosage." it then commented, pausing for a few seconds to let this young man fully come back to his senses.
 


Hmmm. Where to go and how to go about things?

Those had been the musings that were racing calmly but still very swiftly through Justin's mind. His head lowered every now and again, looking down at his lit cigarette. He mentally took note of when he needed to tap it and make any excess ash fall off. By the third of so time he did this, Justin had started to get an idea. All of it involved him getting ... well ... not necessarily 'home', per se. But he did need to go back to the location he was truly hiding away at. It wasn't much, but hey, it kept him safe. It was a destination he chose on purpose, something Justin was very proud of it.

'It' referred to an old, unused warehouse that was in walking range of any place he needed; a grocery store that was also a department one, gas station for cheap cancer sticks, and was surrounded by a good number of wifi hot spots.

... Of course, he had played a part in creating a good number of those. But it wasn't like anyone needed to know that part.

Chuckling softly, a smug smirk spread over his face as he seemed to find the perfect plan to follow through with. All in good time, too. He'd almost finished his cigarette.

.... That ... was probably the only blessing when the odd stinging sensation registered in the nape of his neck.

"The fuck?" he muttered, instinctively reaching back to pull out whatever he was feeling. Everything after feeling ... whatever the hell struck him seemed to go in slow motion. Almost like he had suddenly been yanked onto the filming set of a movie or something. Justin felt himself weakly brush the edge of the ... what was that? A knife? No, not quite. But it did have a sharp tip. A ... needle?

Kinda but not. It was definitely a much closer guess, though.

Whatever it was, his hand barely rubbed against the item before collapsing down onto the ground. He instinctively turned, trying to see who the footsteps belonged to.

.... Only to see darkness.
"Ngh ... "

How long exactly he had been out was beyond Justin's knowledge. All he knew was it had been likely at least one hour - if not more - before the now pissed off teenager began to stir. Yet despite his temper, he tried to stay at least somewhat calm and in control of his emotions.

"You're okay," he murmured to himself, slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position.

Indeed, the very fact he wasn't restrained at all baffled him, as was the fact he was ... alone?

"The fuck was the point in doing that shit then?" he bitterly mumbled under his breath, raising a hand to rub his forehead. Whatever had hit him, it definitely took quite the toll on his head. It felt like he'd had his first hangover and, apparently, he hadn't accepted the liquor as well as he could have. Justin's head was spinning and he felt rather faint. Aside from that, though, he was fine.

He stared to slowly blink, thinking for a moment his vision had been blurred with all the EXIT signs he was seeing.

By the time the foreign voice rang over the PA, however, he understood he wasn't seeing things.

"Mr. Hopkins? Can you hear me?"

" ... Who in the fuck are you and how do you know my surname?"

Regardless of whether he got those answers or not, Justin added a few more. Ones that - hopefully - would have light shed on them.

"Where the hell am I and what the hell's going on?"

.... At the very least, that last inquiry would - he hoped - be replied to. Admittedly, Justin was usually the type to get up and leave, flipping off whomever had done this to him. But now that he was seeing all of these doors, he couldn't help but feel ... confused. And ... a bit scared?

He didn't understand that last emotion, but he knew one thing. More often than not, his gut instincts were pretty decent. It helped him out, and that was a primary reason his street smarts were as high as they were.

So, despite being the type to just get up and walk out, he waited. As much as Justin hated doing so, something told him he would need to listen to this man. Thus, he waited, trying to be as patient as possible for some sort of response.

 
As the young man would rouse more fully, the voice changed to something warmer. More pleased as it said, "Oh good, you're up. I was beginning to worry I had used too much; though I should probably not hit people with so much next time. Not being a pharmacologist can hinder me sometimes; even so it looks like my housemade tranquilizer worked wonders."

The voice paused as Justin demanded to know how his surname was known, "Why, the public records system of course; anyone who bothered at all could find out anything about anyone. The amount of information is staggering really, and yet people don't seem to want to utilize it. You ever wonder why that is, Mr. Hopkins? Because for the life of me, I certainly can't explain. But I know more than just your surname. I know about your mother, your deadbeat father...Even the real reason you were incarcerated."

It then continued, "As for who I am, where you are, and what this is....Well, I was hoping you would see all three of those things for yourself. I am the one that captured you, brought you here and left you on the floor. Where you are wouldn't really matter, would it? You seem fairly capable of handling yourself, which leads me to your final inquiry..."

Pausing for a moment to let that sink in and , the voice then kept going, "Around you, you will see three doors yes? It's clear that you don't wish to be here. And nothing's actually holding you here, is it? All you have to do...Is leave. You were nothing more than a test subject for my tranquilizer, that is all...Oh, but before you go..."

Pausing once more, the voice then said, "I should warn you that one of these things is not like the other. Ah, good ol' Sesame Street, hahahaha. But no seriously, if you want to leave, I won't stop you." Really, he felt like he was probably making it too easy by this point....Or maybe that was the point? Who really knew, especially since this figure didn't exactly bother with introducing himself face to face.

Justin probably noticed it, but it was all too clear that the man was expecting something from him. What it was though, he didn't seem all that forthcoming about. Or at the very least, he wanted to make him work for it....So it all came down to whether this young man would demand more information or give in to the urge to simply say screw it and leave.
 


... What a fucking retard ...

Justin rolled his eyes again, unable to help himself at this point. Just ... really? Wouldn't it have been obvious sooner that someone without the right credentials would have a harder time creating something like a tranquilizer on their own versus someone with a proper degree? One would hope the answer was 'no shit, duh'. But ... apparently this man didn't seem to have the right mindset. Or ... was he just acting? Pretending to be dumb when in actuality he was smarter, maybe more so than even Justin. Academically, for sure; but no way would he easily believe he was better in 'street smart' topics.

Of course, those were the keywords; not easily.

Then again, he was being given more important things to worry about. And all revolved around this man ... and the situation Justin was now in.

First, disgust filled him. This man sounded ... creepy. Eerie. Maybe even worse. For all he knew, the choice in words were probably too tame and inaccurate to truly describe whoever this bastard was, name wise. The creepy factor quickly rose when he went on to reveal that he knew more than just his last name, but even his past. Hell, this .... captor went so far as to suggest he knew why he was actually arrested.

"Y-You're ... "

Justin quickly bit his lip, not wanting to utter any words he may regret.

Finally, the attention went away from him and onto the doors. Looking between them, Justin felt at least relieved that his vision was indeed correct. There were three doors; the tranquilizer wasn't screwing with his eyesight like part of him had thought.

... But ... why were there three?

"I should warn you that one of these things is not like the other. Ah, good ol' Sesame Street, hahahaha. But no seriously, if you want to leave, I won't stop you."

" .... The fuck are you trying to hint? This like some warped test and there is actually a wrong answer?"

The mere possibility made him more on edge, more scared. The fear was beginning to make a bit more sense, even though Justin hated to admit it. Literally anything could be behind each door. In fact, this felt very familiar, like a famous horror flick he'd seen a few years ago thanks to a fake ID. But ... he couldn't place the name of it. Alas, whether he recalled it or not, that wouldn't matter. What was essential was the fact that Justin may now literally be in a similar enough version of said film.

... N-no. He's fucking with you. This ... no. This can't be the same goddamn thing. He said it himself, you were a test subject. So that's all there is to it, right?

Going off the 'clue', the one with the blue sign was the answer. But the real question going through Justin's head was whether it was the right answer or not. Sometimes, something being different was actually a good thing.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, slowly - but a bit shakily - getting up to his feet as he took a shaky breath. "You're gonna be fine ... "

Although Justin had seen his fair share of EXIT signs with red letters, he had also seen some with blue that were correct and led to a way out. So between that and the man's words, he hoped - prayed even - that he was making the right choice.

And so, after mustering enough courage, Justin gripped the handle attached to the blue-colored handle and turned it; expecting the worst but certainly hoping for the best.
 
The stranger behind the speaker was just silent as he watched this young man flounder, stress already starting to affect his thoughts. It was all over his face, the anxiety, the confusion, the anger. Everything that led this voice to hate humanity as a whole: Thinking with their hearts and not their heads.

"Stewing over it won't help you any...If you look at the situation logically, this answer should be easier than taking candy from a baby. Which, if I recall, is something you actually did do once." the voice teased, bringing up again the fact that more was known about this young man than being let on. Something certainly unnerving, but would it be enough to unseat the young man from making the right choice?

At the very least, the answer would become apparent soon enough. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough, right? Whenever you're ready...Make your choice." the voice stated clearly, waiting from beyond to see how this would turn out. To see if this young man would give into the baser instincts to obey his hubris...Or rise above and see the solution for what it was.

Closer, closer, the man approached the blue door...Tension palpable and thick enough to cut with a knife, the uncertainty whirring about and starting to seed the first traces of doubt into his mind.

Live....

Die...

Live...

Die...

And right as he might pull the door open, he would see that the way outside was clear; the sounds of cars off in the distance would tell that it exited into an alleyway, much like the very one he had stopped to smoke in after his impromptu breakout. In front of him were three fairly sizable stacks of cash sitting on top of a metal trash can, probably totaling about three hundred dollars in non-consecutive small bills with a fake wooden sign saying 'PASSED'. And after opening the door, Justin would hear a message play:

"Congratulations, Mr. Hopkins. Consider this repayment for volunteering your time...Let this money be a reminder that sometimes it pays to think with your head. Enjoy your time in San Antonio. And call your mother; she misses you."

Of course, he wouldn't be able to see what would have happened had he chosen either of the two other doors, the ones marked 'DO NOT EXIT'. But then again...Would it really matter? The young man survived a potential death-trap, and was now three hundred dollars and some change richer.
 


Oh fuck. What am I doing? The hell's gonna happen to me?!

Each question got louder in Justin's head and caused his heart to pound harder in his chest. A bit of sweat formed and slowly trailed down his forehead. For all his bravado and punk mannerisms, he wasn't the type to scary easily, if at all. He'd survived prison for several years now. There were few things he could ever have thought to be more terrifying than that. Who knew being yanked off the streets and forced to make what should be an obvious decision suddenly dominate being incarcerated? Certainly not the young man and all he could do was manipulate his muscles, ensuring they properly worked.

You'll never get out of here if you don't try ...

Somewhere in between grabbing the door knob and moving the door open, Justin's eyes had subconsciously closed.

.... When he felt nothing but a slight breeze caress his skin, he opened his eyes. They widened, first in shock, followed by disbelief and an overwhelming sensation of relief finally completing how he looked. He stumbled forward, leaning against the closest wall and using it for support.

What the fuck almost happened? Goddamn, do I even wanna know?

Part of Justin did and the other ... had a feeling he needed to just shut up and count his blessings. His head tilted up as he thought on the last few minutes, which definitely felt a lot longer, no doubt due to the tranquillizer's effects still lingering within him.

"Holy fuck ... " he muttered, shuddering and panting as his head lowered and gasped as a new and much more pleasant - but still very unexpected - display came in front of his eyes. Money! And a shit ton of it!

... Okay, fine. Several hundred wasn't the most, per se.

But to just hand over to someone who didn't have an official job? Yeah. It definitely was quite a bit when one put it that way. Trembling hands reached out and yanked the bills off, partially expecting that to somehow be trapped or even worse. Fake .... something of the like. When it stayed in his hands, he elicited another content sigh, steadily beginning to relax.

... Only to jump as the man's voice rang in his ears once again.

"No more!" he instinctively said, tensing up only to calm down as he began to hear the full message. He ... had been serious?! This stranger really wanted a test subject for those tranquilizers? That didn't sit well with Justin. Not at all. Even with all the legal trouble he'd gotten into, he could only start imagining a number of reasons why the man had needed a guinea pig. Suffice to say, none of the thoughts were anything close to decent ones.

.... Shouldn't you say something?

... But ... what? He had literally no idea of whom had drugged him and even less knowledge of what exactly almost happened. Guesses didn't mean shit. Finally ... if he told the cops who he was, he'd just get arrested again. His head moved as Justin decided that even if he wanted to help, there wasn't really any way of being able to properly do that.

So, he took the money, put it away, and ran, albeit doing so with a very tight knot that was clenching in his stomach. He hated himself for the first time in years. But he definitely wasn't about to waste this opportunity; fuck and no. Thus, while the opportunity to get away stayed, he intended to keep it. His best bet was to hope that no one would have the same amount of misfortune he had with running into this creep.
10th August, 2017

The next two weeks passed and as far as anyone living in Missouri City, Texas, could figure, life was normal enough. Everyone went about their daily routines, in and out of work and school.

Although Missouri City wasn't as huge as - say Houston - it did still have its fair share of shady places.

Strip clubs. Bars. Other places that encouraged and hosted sinful activities.

The truth of the matter was most of the women - and even men - who worked there actually did so not for pleasure, but money. Nothing more, nothing less.

"After all, we gotta make a living, don't we?"

The musings came from twenty-three year old Nancy Miller who had been somewhat lucky to avoid needing to resort immediately to being an escort. Some could argue, though, she was close enough.

Instead, she was a model for a small, local magazine. One that focused on BDSM and other kinks.

Thankfully, it meant she never had to actually sleep with a man.

Well ... not because work made her. No, she did that herself, if and when she wished to. But it wasn't a 'professional requirement' of sorts, and even if it wasn't much, she took a lot of pride in knowing it wasn't mandatory for her.

Still, in the end, she really wasn't much better than any hooker or dancer that could be found in the city. And the judgments of Texas's society only made things that much more worse for her life and Nancy's habits.

She drank often; not all day, every day. But perhaps more than anyone in her line of work should end up consuming. To try to make up for her mistakes, Nancy compromised with herself and only had liquor when she was off duty.

It seemed fair enough.

And this way, she was just ... treating herself. Or that was how she viewed things, anyway.

"Alright! We're done for the night! Thanks, sweetie!"

Nancy fought the urge to frown when her boss addressed her by that term. It irritated the fuck out of her. That nickname was something she thought should be used by a lover, or someone as close to that as possible. Either way, he wasn't that type of man. He was supposed to be a professional to her.

"Thanks~ I look forward to seeing how these all turn out."

"Oh, you'll look amazing. Just like you always do."

"I try. Later~"

Flashing Rick a teasing grin and flirty wave, she turned on her feet and exited the small studio, entering the streets of Missouri City. She had been trying various lingerie outfits out and had been put in a good number of provocative poses.

Now, she emerged into the public, clad in her own ... suggestive outfit of sorts. The sun was beginning to set and as such, anyone nearby could easily see her. They'd literally have to be blind not to.

Thus, the top and skirt combination earned her a good share of whistles and cat calls, which were either ignored or responded to with a mere wink. But that was as far as she'd voluntarily go.

Thankfully, her home was close by, about two blocks away. It made walking in heels less of a pain and easier to tolerate.

"I need a drink," she muttered. "Ugh. That man, I swear .... drives me up the walls sometimes."

"And definitely not in the best of ways ... " Nancy inwardly added, chuckling softly as a rather lewd picture entered her mind involving taking that thought to a new and literal level.
 
The stranger behind Justin's strange enough encounter would only watch from behind the television screens, the hidden cameras showcasing every detail; he could see the boy was nervous. Admittedly a little disappointed that the boy was smart enough to see the solution for what it was, it also made the individual more eager to see how far the limits of the human brain could be pushed.

It really was the most powerful computational device in all of existence; people only thought computers were superior because they decided to kill cells by looking at Facebook or Twitter, laughing at cat videos or seeing what some schmoe had ordered at a restaurant. To them, the many things the brain could do were useless by and large and delegated it to machines.

A tall but shadowy figure then moved from behind a hidden fourth door, painted the same color as the concrete walls to conceal its appearance...It was time to pack up and move out. Letting out a chuckle, the individual knew there were plenty of people who wouldn't give two shits about using common sense, or even someone who did for the most part but got complacent.

A victim would be had soon, that much was certain...There were too many narrow-minded people in this world for there not to be.

*TWO WEEKS LATER*

The incident of Justin Hopkins went, not surprisingly, unreported. No one had even the slightest clue that the young man had skipped town, taking all evidence of his involvement with the strange individual with him. There was no evidence of a threat looming in the shadows, no hints that a predator walked among them. Indeed it seemed like everything was normal, nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary.

However, as she might approach her home, she would notice a strange sight: A bouquet of flowers sitting on her doorstep, with a card held in a crimson paper envelope emblazoned with the name 'Rick' in green Sharpie. She would also see that they happened to be her favorites, likely a detail known to only a select few. But why her boss would suddenly go out of his way like this? One could only guess...Though soon she would then feel someone grab her from behind, a rag held harshly over her face and smelling strongly of chloroform, helping to quickly and silently knock her out...

And whenever she might awaken, she would find herself unbound...But instead laying on the ground, cold and alone. She would find the reason soon enough, as bright lights flooded what appeared to be an old stage...And depicted a most horrifying scene.

Rick was chained and strung up, the famous 'teardrop hogtie' that many BDSM practitioners use to accentuate the true 'helplessness' of the submissive. Of course, being play, none of the dom/sub dynamic is usually taken very seriously; however, this would seem...Different. Especially if she were to look down and see what hung beneath him: A veritable bed of rusty rebar sections, ends sharpened into points and each one ramrod straight; lord only knew would that would do to her if he fell.

"Good evening, Ms. Miller." A voice would then say, pausing to let her regain some semblance of her surroundings: She would be in an abandoned studio, and before long, Rick began to wake up too, eyes growing to the size of sand dollars as he struggled against the binds as the voice continued, "You're probably wondering why you're here...And why your boss is currently tied up. Well, Rick here has been a very naughty boy, and you're going to play a game to determine whether or not he lives or dies."

Rick's head shook violently in a 'no' like manner, as if saying he didn't do anything. Something that caused the voice to laugh lowly, "Oh please now, don't be like that; Nancy's not exactly your first is it...Rick? Or should I say, Adam Richmin?" Now this made the man pause in his motions, a blanched expression crossing his face. "Now then...Onto the game, shall we? You like to drink, Miss Miller?" the voice then said, a curtain falling away to reveal what appeared to be over five and a half dozen shotglasses filled with an amber liquid. No doubt whiskey of some kind, and all neatly lined up on the table in six rows of eleven...Or eleven rows of six depending on one's view

"You see, your boss has been involved in some rather illicit business. And by that, I mean, all those stories he told you about those other girls 'quitting' wasn't exactly the whole truth...Even though you work for him, there's more to him that you should know." the voice said, but this time the man shook his head no again, as if to say it wasn't true, his voice muffled from around the ball gag. The other voice continued, "Now, I *could* tell you the answers to the storm of questions likely going through your head, but I feel this kind of information is best left when explained by the person they really need to hear it from. So to that end...All you have to do is drink all the whiskey you see there, and he can be untied safely. Each one you drink will lower the spike bed underneath him, until eventually he Then you can untie him and question him to your heart's content...Think of it as a high-stakes drinking game. Like quarters or something."

Chuckling a bit, the voice then added "Oh, and he is a rather heavy individual...I'm afraid that the hinge-pins are liable to give way at any point. So if you're at all curious as to why you've been selected...Better start tossing them back, hahaha." And like that, the voice cut out...Leaving her to do what she needed to do.
 


" ... What the ... ??"

As her small apartment came into view, so did something else. Running forward as quickly as possible while wearing heels and also ensuring she didn't trip like an idiot, she soon knelt down in front of her doorstep and stared at the bouquet of flowers. Not just any flowers though; white orchids with some pink roses added in, even.

"Oh my god ... " she whispered, blushing slightly. Even when her head lowered and saw the name "Rick" written in the green ink, she wasn't nearly as annoyed as Nancy perhaps would have been. Or should, rather. She was, however, curious. Had he planned this out? Had he hired someone to get over to her place before she arrived?

If so, he did one hell of an amazing job ... she mused, slowly beginning to stand up with the bouquet held in her hands. "He still isn't getting a date," she muttered, lowering her empty left hand to grab for the keys to her apartment, which were always hidden in the same spot. Nancy's mailbox. "It's not ---ahhhh!"

The bouquet left Nancy's hand as she felt an arm wrap firmly around her. Survival instincts were the first things to kick in as Nancy squirmed and struggled, opening her mouth to scream and cry out for help. Unfortunately, the opening had been done at the best time for her assailant, and most certainly worst for Nancy. Because she got a very copious amount of chloroform; more than she would have wanted to begin with.

As quickly as she started fighting, the poor woman soon passed out, groaning as she slumped against whom she assumed to be Rick's chest.
".... Damint, Rick," she muttered, groaning as she began coming to. "That wasn't fucking funny. And now, you're going way too -- "

As the lighting adjusted, the first thing Nancy's eyes found were Rick in perhaps the most ironic position possible. Bound. Hogtied. If she didn't know much better, this would probably be how things would look if she were in charge. Admittedly, the thought was slightly amusing. And it probably would have been more so, if the make shift spikes weren't included underneath him.

"W-Wait. So .... if you're like that then ... someone else ... ??"

"Good evening, Ms. Miller."

The new and very foreign voice made poor Nancy jump slightly, looking quickly from side to side. "W-Who are you? Why do you know my name? Did Rick tell you or ... ??"

Well, our work isn't exactly PG-rated ... Nancy inwardly quipped, initially thinking this man was saying Rick had been naughty because of the work he paid her to do. But when the new voice began to hint he'd been legitimately guilty of something much worse than taking provocative pictures of her, Nancy's eyes immediately narrowed. "Rick? The fuck's he talking about? W-what ... am I missing?"

" ... and you're going to play a game to determine whether or not he lives or dies."

"Wait, what?!" Nancy cried out, feeling a bit of color drain from her face. "H-Hold on, now! That's hardly fair! Okay, sure. Yeah. He can be a piece of shit. And I do wanna know whatever you're trying to hint at but ... no. That's not fair! I shouldn't have to risk being the cause of his demise! I don't want blood on my hands just because ... shit! Why does any of this even matter to you anyway?! Me, my life, my boss ... the fuck is it to you?!"

"Now then...Onto the game, shall we? You like to drink, Miss Miller?"

Nancy pivoted around as the curtain moved away. If she'd already looked rather pale, Nancy's skin looked so white that she probably looked akin to a ghost. Or at least a porcelain doll. "Not that much, no!" she exclaimed, sounding very shocked at the number of glasses and even a bit insulted. "I'm not a goddamn alcoholic! I know when to stop and all of that! This ... is way too much!"

Even with the stronger drinks like whiskey or sake, Nancy could avoid getting buzzed for quite some time.

But .... this was 66 goddamn shot glasses.

There's no way I can do this ... she fearfully thought, her body beginning to tremble violently. "God, please don't make me do this. Please. There's no way! No one could finish that many ... not without ending up in the ER for some sorta complication. Please ... "

And yet ... as much as her boss annoyed her, Nancy wouldn't have wanted him to die. Definitely not in this sort of gruesome manner. Fuck and no. But ... did she really have to do this? Play this man's fucked up game? If she wanted to walk out, let alone do so without any 'blood on her hands', as she'd said, then yes. As Nancy shakily forced herself to her feet, she looked around again, seeking any other ways out. When none came, a scared whimper elicited as she walked beside the table.

Asshole ... she thought, reaching down with a still unstable hand and gripping the first shot glass before quickly downing the contents. Setting the first of the 66 glasses down, Nancy coughed, having chugged the liquor a bit too fast, before moving down the line and trying to get through the shot glasses as fast as humanly possible.

If all you really do need to do is drink these, okay. It's doable. They are just shots after all. And there's no timer.

Or, if there was, the unknown man had at least been generous enough to omit that part out.


 
If only she knew; it had been no secret that the models Rick employed rarely stayed around long, but there were very few that knew the underground domination community like he did. And this magazine was something that fed into those impure desires...And yet despite all this, Nancy decided to pursue modeling for him. And it wasn't the fact that she was modeling in and of itself, it was who she was modeling for.

There was all that information, something that asking a fellow BDSM enthusiast could have shed light on...And yet she chose not to pursue for the sake of monetary gain. Of all the sins, avarice was by far the most lethal...And Miss Miller was about to receive an object lesson in that.

And of course, there was more to this than met the eye: Again, she obediently started following orders, like the sheep infiltrated by the wolf. For all she knew, there could be poison in those shots, or even just some of them. And in a way...They had been. For this was no ordinary whiskey; this was undiluted rye moonshine whiskey, easily 150 proof. And based on how fast she was trying to get them down, it would be a wonder if she would make it through thirty.

So really...To complete this insane task was more like downing almost 150 shots of whiskey, but with only 66 shots, one could very easily mistake it for being the market-grade pisswater on the shelves. If one knew this, it would be impossible to accomplish without guaranteed death.

And as she pounded them down, each one slowly but surely affecting her central nervous system and reasoning faculties, this fact would slowly become a reality: Had she thought about the hidden-in-plain-sight clue in his explanation, she might have been able to see the most obvious solution. Alas...With how long this had gone on, it was less and less likely she would be able to save her boss to get a proper answer.

"Hmmm...You're going awfully slow, you realize that don't you? Remember what I said about your boss being an exceptionally heavy man? Even the best made harness always has its weak points, and it's often the joints" the voice then teased; and as if to emphasize this, the hingepin holding him up broke a little, making his body jerk downward and him nearly wet himself in fear, shouting at her to hurry through the ball gag.

Even if she were to stop now, it was very unlikely the amount she downed by this point would allow for any measurable fine motor control, let alone be able to undo the stringent tie Rick's body was in and carry him away from the deathpit.
 


The thought of the drinks somehow being tampered with actually had crossed Nancy's mind. The better wording was ... she didn't want to believe they would be. She had done nothing personal against this man. At least, she felt pretty certain that was true. So why would someone make such a malicious move against her? There shouldn't have been a reason. Yet, when she tasted ... something odd, foreign within the liquor, Nancy whimpered slightly.

Maybe you're just imagining things ... she tried to convince herself, particularly as the taste was noted in the first drink.

Whiskey isn't exactly your go-to drink ...

It had seemed like a good thought to use in order to keep herself in a somewhat sane state of mind. Alas, by the sixth - or was it eighth? - drink, she knew it wasn't simply the whiskey that she had tasted.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. What's happening to me?

Sure, alcohol was meant to slow a person down after a bit. But this ... wasn't the same. Not exactly; it was and it wasn't.

"What'd you do to me?" Nancy weakly asked, barely fighting the urge to cry as she shakily reached out. Her grip was weak and, honestly, very awkward. She damn well nearly dropped the shot glass altogether. The only thing keeping it held between her fingers was instincts. Desires. Wanting to get out of this alive. The hell with Rick, at this rate. If she could get at least herself out of this - even if not overly 'well' but alive - she'd be fine.

Human nature was a very fickle thing, particularly when Death got closer an closer to taking a person away. Even if it wasn't the immediate lesson her captor had wanted to drill into Nancy's mind, it was quickly beginning to be realized all the same.

"Please don't kill me ... " Nancy pleaded, moving shakily onto the next drink and coughing as she forced the contents down your throat. "Why me? I .. don't think ... I've even met you. What'd I do?"

Poor Nancy had jumped the first several steps of grief, and was now somewhere in between the 'bargaining' and 'depression' stages. Third and fourth, respectively, which was ... quite the jump. Clearly trying to find a loophole, even though that had probably disappeared the moment she started drinking without questioning herself well enough. Clearly, she was regretting that choice but ... somewhere, deep down, she knew this man was right. There was no point in stopping.

... Is this really it? Is this really going to be the end of me?

Oh the irony indeed.

It was that mere fact that finally made Nancy cave in and sob.

 
Rick - or Adam, as the voice had indeed correctly called him - could see that she was starting to slow down, her thoughts and actions becoming more and more sluggish. The hell did this person, this malevolent voice, have against him? Sure, he might have done unsavory things, but this...This just wasn't right! He tried to scream around the ball gag, to yell at Nancy to keep going and drinking; even so there were so many more shotglasses left, and though the spike bed had retracted a little...

It wasn't nearly enough to get him out of danger. Evidenced as such when the hingepin broke once more, his life literally hanging on by a thread and his eyes starting to profusely leak tears. He didn't want to die, not like this! "Mrgfhuf!" he screamed to no one at all, his cheeks red from the rising anger and frustration that couple with the momentary sadness.

"Oh dear...Seems Ms. Miller can't hold her liquor as well as she might like. Seems she's the sad drunk, hahaha. You know...There was a very easy way to solve this." the voice then spoke again as she continued to down each shot, the weight trigger slowly being lifted with each glass she finished. "But for you, Mr. Richmin....It seems like your time is up."

And almost right as he said that, the last bits of material holding him suspended finally gave way...And sent him falling down to his death. The rusty pieces of rebar quickly turned the heavyset male into a human pincushion, his body ran through by the hastily-sharpened metal. Sick 'squch' sounds emanated throughout the otherwise silent room as the rebar destroyed his internal organs, the ones piercing his brain and neck doing well to near-instantly kill him.

And as the young woman would start to sob, the copious amounts of alcohol slowly shutting down her systems, begging as to why she was chosen there was no answer at first.

"Huuuuuu....." the voice let out a heavy sigh, continuing, "It's not what you did, Miss Miller. It's what you didn't do...Both then and now. You never asked for more information, even when things didn't add up. You never thought it through...And now those mistakes will be the reason you die here today. But before that whiskey depresses your central nervous system to a fatal degree, let me let you in on a little secret."

At this a man in a heavy black trenchcoat exited from a back door, his face hidden by a hat and sunglasses, a bandana covering his mouth to completely hide himself. Stepping up to the plethora of shot glasses left, he then reached out his arms and started knocking them all off in large batches. The sounds of tinkering and shattering glass filled the room, the bed of spikes carrying the now-dead magazine boss lowering into the floor before being covered by thick wooden panels on the stage...Safe from view beneath the trap door.

Had she done this, it would have certainly saved Ric's life...He might have had some smarting from the fall, but at least he would be alive.

"See how easy that was? I wanted to see if you could deduce that much...I honestly figured you smarter than this." he then said to her, his voice harsh and scathing. "But now the alcohol will steal your life, just as your boss stole the lives of all those girls before you. The only real victim is the first one he killed. You failed, Miss Miller, and the penalty of failure is death." And with that, he stalked off...Leaving the model to succumb to her vices.
 

"Oh god ... " Nancy whined, shuddering visibly as the tell-tale sounds of the make shift contraption barely holding Rick above the spikes gave away yet again. Her head bowed weakly before moving from side to side. "I -- I can't!" she stammered, her tears falling aster down her face. "This is taking the phrase 'cruel and unusual punishment' to a very new and literal meaning! This is too fucking much! I -- I can't do this ..... Rick! Please forgive me but ... there's no way anyone could!"

Although anger wasn't a common emotion Nancy displayed, it most definitely did exist. And when she was taunted, the model turned - no doubt trying to find her assailant - and clenched her fists angrily. "Shut up!" she hissed, "I'm not normally a sad drunk! But anyone would be if they were in my spot! What gives you the right to do this shit, anyway?! To make me and Rick go through this crap! You're not God! You don't get to --- oh fuck!"

Finally, Rick fell down and as he did, Nancy's hands raised, covering her eyes.

"Jesus! Rick ... no .... "

Nancy fell to her knees, literally feeling sick from the alcohol and the sounds; be it the ones produced by the spikes or her now ex-boss as he screamed out in agony. Muffled, yes, but it was heard nonetheless. And all the while, Nancy could do literally nothing about it, which only made the depression that much worse.

"It's not what you did, Miss Miller. It's what you didn't do...Both then and now. You never asked for more information, even when things didn't add up. You never thought it through...And now those mistakes will be the reason you die here today."

" .. My mistakes?" she asked, half-baffled and just as equally insulted. "The fuck?! Look, I know I've made a shit ton of others besides this! But the hell?! It's not ... not your call!" Her arms wrapped around her chest as a surge of pain, very likely from the alcohol's poison starting to work, rushed through her body. Nancy groaned, shakily holding onto herself as she fell onto the wooden floor. Her head instinctively lifted as footsteps echoed nearby. Alas, any hopes of actually seeing the same bastard who did this to her were gone.

He was smart enough to cover himself up quite a bit. Even a bandanna was used as a make shift veil to keep his mouth, lips, whether h had any facial hair or not, all concealed away.

"Asshole," she muttered, staring in disbelief as he simply knocked the glasses off the counter.

.... He .... would have let me do that?

.... With how complicated the man seemed, she would have felt certain he'd say she cheated. But no. Apparently, the test had been that simple. Laughably so, it seemed. Seeing and understanding this fully made her that much more disgusted, at both her captor and herself. "I ... I hope ... you burn ... in the deepest layers of hell, you sick fuck ... "

In a last ditch effort, Nancy tried to reach out, hoping to grab an ankle. Something - literally anything - to keep him from leaving her in such a state. Instead, she found air. "Oh god no," she muttered, coughing and panting as the slow venom continued to work on her. "Not like this. Please ... "
Four hours later ....

22:27 PM

Though many precautions had indeed been taken, a lone passerby walking beside one of the windows and seeing Nancy's corpse was all it took to earn a call to the police. And now, twenty-five year old forensics expert and cop Ophellia Wilson entered the scene, accompanied by at least a small handful of competent co-workers.

" ... Foul play ... " she almost immediatley murmured, nodding to herself and the others as she knelt beside Nancy's body.

"Hm? What makes you so sure? Looks like she came here to drink herself to death."

Ophellia scoffed and rolled her eyes, looking over to the man who spoke up. "See, it's petty comments like that which keep you at such a low rank in the force, and thus why I am a lieutenant. Look around. There are already at least several good indicators. The first ... are all the glasses. If she really just wanted to drink herself to death, I don't think those would be broken. Not like that, anyway."

" ... What do you mean by that?"

Ophellia sighed, standing up after taking a picture of Nancy's driver's license and body with her cell phone. "Simple," she explained, pointing down at all of the shattered glass. "Okay. I'm not going to doubt she was likely inebriated. However, let's pretend she was here on her own accord, let alone aiming for suicide. The angle the glass is at is wrong. What we're looking at implies someone else was here and knocked these over. This wasn't Nancy's doing. Also, the shot glasses .... if she really wanted to resort to death by alcohol poisoning, why bother with setting these all up at all? She could have simply had an entire bottle or a few to herself."

Ophellia's head slowly moved from side to side. "But no. This was all set up, as if done for some really fucked up play."

"Miss Wilson! Over here!"

"Hm?"

Her typical partner-in-crime, the competent Mark Robinson, made a 'come here' motion and pointed at the ground. "Blood," he said, kneeling down and beginning to feel around on the floor.

"Good eye. Let's see ... "

Between the combined efforts, the two eventually found and opened the trap door, each scooting back slightly away as the scent of death wafted in their nostrils. "Ugh ... never do get used to that smell ... " she mused, grimacing as she began forcing herself to focus on Rick's body as opposed to the aroma her nose was being haunted with. "Okay. Everyone! There's gotta be something sturdy to lift him up and out! Help me accomplish that! This body alone is enough to help prove my thoughts on this being foul play has risen from 50 percent to 90 percent."

Because the inclusion of Rick's body simply didn't make sense.

Even if this woman did kill him first .... no. Something here just isn't adding up.

... This was going to be one of those nights; the ones that included a lot of research and just as much paperwork.

Fun. Go me. Ugh ...

... Ah well. At least she wouldn't be bored, for one. Two - and perhaps the most important point - she knew she had people who would help her out, Mark in particular.
Outside of the crime scene, meanwhile, there was yet another person busy at work. True, many could argue taking pictures of a live crime scene wasn't exactly an occupation, let alone a smart one. But for twenty-one year old David Edwards, it was good enough. He was officially employed, meaning he did have a boss who paid him.

And with Missouri City not having as much fame as any of the other larger cities in Texas, something like a crime scene - murder or suicide - was actually a big deal in its own right.

In truth, worse than him taking the photos - and this was in his own opinion, which said quite a bit - was the fact David tended to sketch the very things and pople he shot photos of.

But ... was there really anything actually wrong with seeing beauty in every thing? Including Death itself?

"Of course not," he mumbled, getting one last shot for good measure before finally moving away from the window. In his hand, he held not a camera, but an iPhone. It just seemed easier, at least nowadays, to upload images over getting them printed out via Walgreens or any department store that could print out pictures.

After rapidly swiping through and checking to see how the images turned out, a satisfied smile spread over his face.

"Perfect. Alright! Time to get home and work on the new art projects!"

His content look remained plastered on his face as David began jogging eagerly back to his own apartment which - eerily enough - was a few doors down from where Nancy used to live.

 
With the police's attention so sharply focused on the scene itself, not one officer was actually looking around to see if there were any nosy reporters/journalists lurking about. Something that made the young man's little 'assignment' that much easier to pull off, and before they even finished processing the scene, he was gone.

And with the amount of uncertainty about the exact manners in which the two were led to their deaths, the authorities in the Homicide Division were going to have a full plate tonight.

And if things were going to keep going the way they were, it might just get even fuller.

As David might approach his apartment, he would notice an envelope taped to his door. Normally, for a renter that was one of the last things they wanted to see especially if they were troublesome. However, inside would be something that would be sure to stoke the fires of David's curiosity:

Photographs, clearly taken during the moments in which Nancy Miller and Rick, depicting the scene in full detail: A close-up showed the tears on her and the man's faces, one showed her taking the shots of whiskey like a champ, and the last showed the moments before Rick fell onto the bed of spikes.

Inside there would also be a note, reading:

"Mr. Edwards,

Beautiful, isn't it? The depiction of human mortality, the sights of people showing their true selves before they die. And these two, as you can see, were certainly not afraid to reveal their true colors. As one such as yourself who finds beauty in the morbid, I felt it appropriate to reach out.

I ask you though, how far will your curiosity take you? If you're interested in more for your little project, go to the pay phone by the Orient Cafe...And you just might find the inspiration for your greatest masterpiece."
 

Indeed, the sight of the envelope originally made David swallow, groan, and grimace. In that exact order, no less. "I wasn't late. Not this time," he muttered in annoyance, removing the white container and shakily opening it. His eyes immediately widened when he realized it was most definitely not his landlord bitching at him or anything close to that. In fact, this was the very last thing he would have expected; pictures! Of the very same scene he just left!

" .... Hoooooly fuck! How in the hell did someone get a much better view than myself?"

After scrolling through the photos, he then read the small but essential note that had been included with it.

This ... is way too convenient. You can't deny that ...

Be that as it may, the note was correct. His curiosity had definitely been piqued. And even if listening to this letter was a dumb idea for a number of logical, sane reasons, David was seriously considering listening to the not-so-sane decision to go and see what was at the phone booth.

"Well, whoever the fuck gave these seems to know you; or at least knows how to do their homework."

That much was clear by the words 'Mr. Edwards' being included at the start of the letter. True, someone could easily have asked the landlord. But they, in return, were supposed to give their information over. No random person was simply allowed to see any of the other tenants so .... yeah. David nodded too himself, having already come up with one idea that could be done in order to get a better idea on what exactly he was getting into.

"... Oh shit! Wait! Is this from the murderer?!"

David had barely picked up on a few pieces and words the police had said. He distinctly recalled hearing the words 'foul play' and these pictures only made it that much more likely they were right. It was impossible to imagine some bystander being so close to the scene and not doing a goddamn thing. And even then, should that assumption be right, they would quickly become as guilty as the actual person behind Nancy and Rick's demises, both on a very technical and metaphorical note.

The young man stumbled inside, feeling his heart rapidly pounding against his chest.

... If I'm gonna go, no fucking way am I losing these.

Partly because they truly were his 'projects', but also, it would give the police the very wrong idea. And he didn't want to risk getting more involved than he already was. So, hurrying forward as best as he could - barely avoiding tripping over his own feet - David soon stood in front of a small safe. His hand moved deftly, with confidence, as the combination had been remembered for a good number of years now. As the door opened, he tossed all of the new photos plus his phone inside and hastily locked the door, as if fearing someone had already snuck up behind him.

David then moved away, standing beside a desk. Upon opening the drawer, many more iPhones would be seen; all new and most still within their packages.

Grabbing an unused one, David shakily opened it up and wasted little time in testing the "Camera" function out by snapping a few shots of his own room. A few nervous chuckles and sighs of relief later, David leaned against the wall; still trembling, heart still frantically beating, but otherwise wanting to believe he was ready.

Okay. Let's calm down and assume this isn't the murderer. Just ... some very creepy son of a bitch. You can do this. This bastard has nothing on you.

Nodding to himself, David finally pushed himself away, pocketing the new iPhone into his pocket, and ran. The pay phone was one he'd walked by many times, and even used a few. So he knew exactly where to go. Hell, David even knew a few short cuts to help make the trip even faster than it would have normally been. Thankfully, these were hours where people usually ate, were at work, dd something other than use a mere pay phone.

Thus, David found himself alone, not at all interrupting anyone.

So ... he waited; finding himself full of hope, curiosity, and a healthy dose of fear that had mingled in with the faintest hints of paranoia.

... Maybe you should go. Before it's too late? This may not be worth it ...
 
Indeed, one would normally be cautious about following instructions from a note on their door. Especially if it then contained evidence of being too close to the crime scene; in fact, the police could argue that possessing the photos themselves tied him to the scene, whether he was actually there or not. And they wouldn't be entirely wrong, except for the time he was actually present.

And as he would walk towards the restaurant, people passed him by. Going about their normal business, like nothing was wrong; though he would certainly overhear people talking about what had happened in that old abandoned theater. Not that it was anything specific, just that the police were all over it. And given how small the population of this city was, it wasn't hard to see why word already began to spread.

And finally, he arrived: The lone pay phone, a relic from a long lost era. Long since superseded by the cellular phones and messaging services that permeated the digital realms. And with the hour of his arrival, there was no one that would see him. No one to interrupt what was about to happen next.

Just as the young man considered turning back, the phone began to ring, the loud racketing sound of its bell disturbingly ominous in the vacant space. It would ring and ring until he might finally have the courage to pick it up...And a voice would come from over the line.

"Welcome, Mr. Edwards. So good of you to show up...I apologize if this means of communication is, well, archaic. Outdated and such other descriptors. But I often find that the old adage of 'if it ain't broke don't fix it' is rarely heeded in today's world. Instead, people so easily tossing things aside just to grab new ones. Newer doesn't always mean better after all...Especially for you, since you happened to lock up the very thing that would help you in this game you're about to play."

Letting a slight pause sink in, the voice continued, "But before you get any ideas about running, I'm sure you've seen the movie 'Phone Booth', yes? Answer me this: What's the penalty should you decide to terminate this call before you're allowed?" And if he were to look to his general left, he would catch a slight glinting coming from an apartment window about six floors up and four hundred yards out.
 

David found himself impatiently tapping his fingers near the pocket of his jeans, closing the door to the booth behind him. He leaned casually against the glass, feeling his digit repeatedly rub against the denim fabric wrapped around his lower body. He had now been in the booth for thirty seconds. The time quickly ticked away, steadily becoming longer ad longer. What had started as thirty seconds became forty-five, then a minute, and it threatened to become almost three.

"Hah. What a joke. Yeah. I knew it; that's all this was from the get-go."

A sigh of relief resounded from David's lips as he ran a semi-shaky hand through his dark hair.

"All this for nothing. Good riddance."

His ankles tensed up, preparing to leave.

... But then, it happened. The phone actually rang making him jump. The note had made it sound like he was waiting for something to happen, sure. He just hadn't originally considered that 'thing' would be getting a phone call. Maybe seeing another murder or some shit.

.... Then again, that would probably be too convenient, if not bold.

Clearing his throat, David hesitantly picked up the receiver and placed it against his ear. "Hello?"

And on the off-chance he had considered the letter to be a fluke, it was proven to be very accurate, if anything. He was greeted - once again - by his surname, which made him gulp anxiously.

Oh shit. What the fuck have you done?

"Well ... " A nervous chuckle would be heard as David casually shrugged, "I mean, true, I don't use this nearly as much as other people here. But hey, it's a way to keep in touch. It's not really my place to judge or anything of the like. Why ... why are you calling me? What do you want?"

Instincts began to kick in, and upon hearing the phrase 'game you are about to play', his heart started to beat wildly in his chest.

" ... Game? The fuck are you going on about?"

By this point, he definitely would have hung up. Dismissed the call altogether, headed home, and merely convinced himself that had simply been one hell of a nightmare. The warning, however, kept him firmly in place.

" .... Phone Booth?" he repeated, moving his head from side to side. "N-Not seen, no. But I do know the premise, what it was about .... "

Then .....

Poor David almost immediately regretted moving his head and finding the same concept was now being applied to him. The faint glint that barely was seen - no doubt aided out by what moonlight was shining down - made his back connect with the glass behind him.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, "O-Okay. Holy hell, I get it. God, please don't shoot me. Fine. How exactly is this game gonna go? What are the rules and all that jazz?"
 
"Ah good; never really figured you for the idiotic sort, at least not when you know that something very bad could happen to you." the voice replied, seeming to hold a sense of neutrality despite the obvious disadvantage the young man was in.

"But of course...Intelligence is a very subjective thing, and I would argue that it's purely subjective. Hitler was an idiot as a strategist, but a genius in uniting people for a common cause, for example. President Trump is a bigot and an idiot in general, but very good at using people and building business." There was a slight pause before the voice then got a little more focused-sounding, "And you...You're exceptionally gifted in the arts, but not quite that smart when you're violating the sanctity of the dead for the sake of your personal gratification."

Ironic how someone that basically tipped their hand as the one responsible for two people's deaths, was now vaguely painting someone's actions as morally reprehensible. "But as for the rules of the game...Well, you're an artist, so you must have at least a decent short-term memory. Because that's what this game is going to focus on: Memory. Shame you locked up your phone with all the answers you'll need too; that would have helped you immensely. Now...Do me a favor and look above you."

On the roof of the booth David would see twelve pieces of what appeared to be cardboard glued to it, each one having either a number, a symbol or an 'X' drawn in a different color. "Currently, your booth is rigged to explode with a powerful nailbomb in the box in front of you, only being disarmed once the proper combination is inputted into the dialpad on the phone before you. Tamper with them, they'll detonate. Try and run, I'll shoot you. Hang up the phone and I will watch your body turn into a meat firework. Simple right?"

Letting that little tidbit sink in, the voice continued, "Of course, like every good bomb scene, there's a way to defuse it. This way involves a similar setup to Pairs, except instead of you trying to match twin sets of matching pictorals, you're going to match either a number or symbol on one of those little glued on pieces of cardboard hanging over you to the answer of a question. They'll come off quite easily...And you'll know which ones to pull off because I'm going to quiz on the crime scene you just left not too long ago. And after each one you pull off, just hit the number hidden underneath it...Of course, there is a penalty if you hit the wrong one too many times....And don't worry, you'll know what that penalty is all too well."

What David wouldn't see was that the booth also had a wiring setup such that if he hit the wrong digit, it would shock him..Enough failures and the bombs would all go off at once. A slight chuckle would be heard before the voice then said gleefully, "Don't let me down, Mr. Edwards. Let the game begin....I'll give you an easy one. What color was the skirt the woman was wearing?" Four of the cardboard circles would have those colored 'X's: Red, yellow, blue and white....

Now all Mr. Edwards would have to do was pick the right one.
 

David felt - in a word - absolutely terrified. And the fear only got worse as the rules and exact situation he had literally waltzed into were relayed to him.

Oh shit. I'm in a bomb waiting to go off?! Oh fuck ....

He gulped, already beginning to feel a bit warm despite the air outside being a bit on the chilly side. Thankfully, there was some good news that came with this revelation. David's head instinctively lifted, noticing the cardboard pieces hovering above him. As scared as he was, he forced himself to pay attention and listen to what everything meant. So even though it may appear as if he looked very clueless, that wasn't quite true. The young, unorthodox artist did understand above him was how he was supposed to answer, as well as what could be found underneath each piece.

"Al-Alright. I ... I got it."

I think ...

Normally, he would have retorted about more of this talk, particularly parts such as him appearing to lack intelligence in certain areas. Surely this man had that same fault, right?

Because ... he's right. My memory's not the worst ...

At least, that was what David wanted to believe. He couldn't help but let out an audible sigh of relief as the first question was indeed revealed -- and his unknown sniper did keep that promise. It was indeed an easy first inquiry.

"Blue," he muttered, "It stood out because it matched the ocean. Almost a cerulean hue if I had to be more exact."

Feeling confident that - at least at that moment - nothing bad would happen, David reached up and pulled the X attached to the "Blue" labeled square. Whatever was hidden underneath would be entered into the phone, as instructed by the voice over the phone.

Keep calm. If this is really all that's being asked of you, you can do this. Just don't panic. Don't even think about the fact you're in what could be ... no! Don't dwell on that! Just concentrate on the questions. This is a test. Yeah. A test .... a fucked up one, but an exam nonetheless. You can do this.

Nodding to himself, David closed his eyes, waiting patiently for the next question. At the same time, he tried to calm himself - especially his poor heart, which was feeling as if it were already trying to leap out of his own chest, fueled on by a mix of adrenaline and the same sensation of fear that had been running through every inch of David's body since learning what this 'challenge' would consist of exactly.
 
"Very good, Mr. Edwards...Now take your piece and match to a number on the dialpad..." the voice commented, seeing the young man do as such. Yes, the fear was quite real; and fear tended to make people desperate. But so far, at least with this much, the young artist was able to keep his wits about him. "See? This isn't such a bad game. Answer all the questions correctly and you'll be able to go back to your life soon enough."

Though whether or not he would get out of here at all still hung very heavily in the air; and with this being one of the easier questions, one could only surmise it was about to get harder. How much harder would depend on the voice over the phone and how much of a nitpicker it would decide to be.

Letting out a low chuckle, the voice then added "But now, it's time for the next question. One down, eleven to go."

There was a noticeable pause here again, almost as if contemplating what to ask next. "Hmm...No, not that one...Don't even know what that question is about...That's one's too difficult right now...Hmm, maybe this one? No...Aha!" That series of ramblings would definitely come across as someone slightly less than all there, a person with one too many screws loose in the old brainbox.

"Sorry, was trying to look at my cheat sheet here for a good question...And I think I found it. For how that man was tied up in the pictures, please find the one of the three symbolized pieces that best represents it." If David would look close, he would see a butterfly overlayed by an interdictory circle, a pig with a necktie and lastly the very classic hangman's noose where a man was hanging dead from a crudely drawn length of rope.
 

... How many more of these?

At what was no doubt the scariest and most accurate timing possible, David heard the answer, though part of him honestly hoped he hadn't. Or maybe that his ears were somehow deceiving him. Either way, the reply caused his heart to temporarily cease then sink.

"One down, eleven to go."

"... You're ... literally giving me a dozen questions?" he asked in an incredulous voice, slumping against the glass in defeat. "Fine. Whatever. Let's get this over with."

The urge to find a way to reverse time was only feeling that much more appealing. David would gladly slap himself from ... how long ago had it been now? Twenty minutes ago? Thirty maybe?

Either way, if he could have made himself do what had been the smart thing. What exactly was that? Admittedly, even he wasn't sure. But there was no way listening to the note was it. Nope. Definitely not; that much he knew.

Somewhere in between waiting and finally hearing his potential sniper glancing at what he assumed to be the 'cheat sheet' he quickly spoke of, David's eyes had briefly closed. The moment he started speaking again, however, they shot open, looking very wide and alert. As if he'd just downed five Red Bull's in the span of mere seconds. He swallowed, gulping nervously as the next inquiry came. He had a good idea on what the right answer should be. But suddenly, David was starting to make himself sick with who he was.

As a man who found beauty in even the more morbid and grim things like Death, he only knew - or felt certain he knew - this because of his 'art appreciation' of sorts.

So, he slowly reached up towards the pig wearing the neck tie and began peeling back on that small button. Once he found the next number, he pressed down on it and prayed for the best possible result to come to him.

I'll change. Sweet gods, I'll change. Just let me get the fuck out of here, please ...
Meanwhile, back at the warehouse where Nancy and Rick's bodies had been found, Ophellia was at a loss. This scene looked something in between a really fucked up suicide and homicide at once.

Could it be both?

Most definitely. And truthfully, that was exactly what it was starting to look more and more like.

A firm hand landed on her shoulder.

Ophellia whipped her head around, seeing the hand belonging to one of her female co-workers.

"Come on," she heard whispered in a calming, reassuring tone, "You look exhausted. You're not going to get anywhere just staring. Who knows? Maybe a good, long nap will help out."

"Maybe ... alright. I'll try. Thanks, Emily."

Waving to the other cop, Ophellia glanced around one last time before sighing and nodding. "Get everything transferred to their respective locations; forensics, morgue, wherever they need to be. I'll sleep on this and talk to one of you first thing in the morning."
 
Even though the silence was palpable, the voice on the other end of the line was silently judging his reactions. Seeing the exasperation on his face, the silently haunting melancholy as the gravity of the situation began to dawn on the young man. And though he didn't know it, the intent of the voice was not to change his ways...But to help enlighten him more.

He saw the beauty in death, and forever immortalized it in his work. But now the voice wanted him to see the beauty in life as well...And with it, perhaps create something even more astounding than anything that had ever come to him in his life.

When he pressed the button, there would be no fire. No explosion that took his life away, no final reckoning in a blaze of light and heat. All that would remain was the deafening silence, the emptiness that allowed the human mind to wander far too freely for its own good. To experience the inherent curse of having such a developed brain like the human race possessed.

"Very good, Mr. Edwards, you're doing so well. But don't give up now; we've still got ten questions to go. Should I send a pizza your way? Something to help keep your energy up?"

As bad as that reference was, the voice felt it oddly appropriate to make such a comment since the man in the booth was looking defeated. "So...Next question. You might have to think about this one." he started, a moment of silence hanging between them...He'd succeeded twice, and he'd find this next question a little easier than the last.

"The man that fell on the bed, he's clearly quite dead. Stung more than a hive full of bees...Now what was the thing that floats, quoted Muhammad Ali?"

Obviously he worded the question strangely...But if David were to look at the symbols again, he would see the answer all too clearly.
 

David started to open his mouth, about to accept the offer. But ... he stopped. What if something more deadly was given to him instead? Or he was somehow tricked into leaving the booth? He'd been dumb enough to literally walk into this game. If he could help it, he wouldn't make the same mistake. Not again. Not easily, anyway.

" ... I should be fine," he muttered, audibly sighing as - once again - nothing tragic happened to him. Which meant, thankfully, that he was indeed correct in his logic.

... Whether he was overly proud or happy with how he knew the answer was another story.

But that was why the next question was needed; to help yank David away from his self-loathing so he could focus on the here and now, and the new inquiry that came with it. "If you're quoting Muhammad Ali, it'd be a butterfly that floats."

Tilting his head up, he saw the piece with the butterfly overlayed by an interdictory circle, pulled it away, and pushed down on the number. His eyes closed as David gulped, relieved that if the question had to be an odd one, it was linked to something he'd be more likely to recall than less.

Though the quote wasn't from a typical artist of sorts, it was from a well-known figure, whom - in his own rights - did make his own style. Maybe not of art, certainly not in the most typical form, but it was close enough.

If it'd been something linked to a subject like ...

No! Don't jinx yourself!

Gripping onto his lower lip, David tapped his right fingers against his jeans, the left hand still keeping the phone pressed against his ear. "Next?" he asked, trying to think of anything but the mess he was in.
 
The voice on the other end chuckled, "Suit yourself; I myself have a delicious cheese pizza to snack on while I watch. Carbs keep the brain fueled, you know." Truth be told, the voice seemed glad he refused; could very well have been that he would have been delivered something poisonous instead. Or even something not food at all. Any number of things could have happened, really.

Regardless, as the voice heard the newest participant answer the question and then ask about the next one, silence persisted once more. It was almost like this was not just a test on knowledge, but a test on stress management. Something that only time would tell if he knew how to do.

"Next question, huh? Getting awfully demanding, don't you think? You never know if I could just flip a switch...From my vantage point the explosion would be rather spectacular" the voice said in what could only be conceived as an ambiguous tone. Was it teasing? Serious? Somewhere in between? "Very well then...How about we see how much you're invested in your so-called art. Please select the number that tells us the female victim's age."

Of course...This was a naturally impossible answer, unless David happened to know Miss Miller on any intimate level. And should he press the numbers into the pad, he would find a rather shocking truth to the consequence of failure. "Careful you don't get this one wrong now; you won't die....Yet...if you do, but I can't imagine the experience will be very pleasant." the voice then added, giving a solemn warning to his potential victim.
 

The exact reason that the unseen assailant mentally thought about had entered David's mind. There were too many possibilities, good and bad, that would have come from accepting his offer. Admittedly, this man was right about the carbs part. And with it having been about three to four hours since David last ate, part of him was a tad on edge he'd fuck up due to something petty. Like being unable to remember anything he needed to.

The thought made him grab his lower lip as he shook his head firmly.

You're not gonna die like this.

Yet as David heard the next question, his heart sank. He didn't know Ms. Miller on a personal level, no. But as a man who found beauty in the most morbid of subjects, he had bought a good number of magazines which included her in it. Not all of the poses had her in provocative positions though. Some were truly as innocent as her merely lying down on a couch or bed, fully - or at least half - clothed.

And in a few of those images, there had been her age included below her name.

Shit, fuck! Umm ....

A bead of sweat fell down David's face as he began frantically trying to recall. He sorta knew. It was in his head and yet not all at once.

"Twenty ... twenty ... son of a bitch! Argh!"

He stared at the number pad intently, as if they somehow had a "Right" or "Wrong" label hidden behind them. Alas, no such luck. A quivering right forefinger rose and pressed the "2" button once before trying to gauge where to go. Or, was it easier to determine the incorrect answers?

"She was younger than twenty-seven for sure," he muttered, grimacing as David realized that - even if that was correct - it only removed three of the nine numbers. So he was at a one in six chance of hitting the next number and being correct.

David sighed, taking a deep breath first before lowering his finger and then moving it to his right, finally pushing down on the "6".

... Only to hiss and yelp as the shocks traveled through his body.

"Fuck!" he winced, rapidly clenching and unclenching his fists to help focus on the sensation of his muscles moving instead of the electricity.

Okay. Fine. That was fuck-up number one. Just don't panic. You still have more chances.

His head fell against the glass behind him as David panted, trying to get his breathing to a more normal rate. With how this was going, a drink - two liter to be exact - would have been preferred over an entire pizza.

... Probably after this 'quiz' was over. So long as it went well in his favor, of course.

"Next?" he asked in a slightly raspy voice. Compared to last time, it would be noted David was more eager than demanding, implying some of his confidence had indeed disappeared with the shocks that coursed through his body.
 
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