SPAM!
Today is a good day to spam my FList. *beams* And, as per usual I seem to have an idea where this is going, woohoo.
Heero watched the flames, fascinated and horrified. The only occasion he could have seen flames and have confusing memories about it, was that one night twenty years ago… How he hated remembering that night.
The spectacle lasted only for several seconds, before Maxwell scooped up some of the flames into the jar and screwed the lid on tightly. He presented the final product to Heero.
“It’s not harmful to us, but do keep it in a safe place.” The detective took the jar carefully - it wasn’t warm. He watched the flames flicker. A memory stirred, but before it could take shape a phone rang. “Excuse me.”
The conversation was brief. Heero only managed to catch several curses, before the call was disconnected and Maxwell appeared back in the room.
“Terribly sorry to cut this lovely chat short, but I’ve to go.”
“You haven’t told me anything yet!”
“It’s better this way, officer. Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”
“I’m not a child. You will not be telling me what I want and don’t want to know, Mr Maxwell.”
“Asshole. But have it your way. Come with me - if you manage to keep the contents of your stomach in, I solemnly swear I will answer every question you might have. In detail.”
Heero eyed him suspiciously, but the deal seemed harmless enough. At worst, he’ll puke his guts out. “Alright,” he said confidently. The violet-eyed man gave him an amused look.
“So sure of yourself. We’ll see.” Maxwell obviously never quite got over his teen goth phase. He threw a black leather coat on top his black shirt, straightened his black slacks and picked up a black knapsack. “We’re off then.”
“So what is it you’re doing today?” Heero asked as they strode through a busy street.
“An ugly case of possession. The girl is about sixteen and she’s terminally ill. She’ll die tonight - I’m going there to make sure she does so in peace.”
“Fascinating job.”
“You have no idea.”
They kept walking in silence.
“Where are we going now?”
“I assume you have no transport, officer?”
“No.”
“Then we’re going to fetch my bike.”
“An exorcist on a bike, now that’s something I haven’t seen before.”
“How many exorcists have you seen?” Heero didn’t reply. Maxwell grinned. “I thought as much. There’s the place,” he added pointing to a run-down garage. It was a weird little place, somewhat out of place in the company of tall buildings.
“Here again, kid? Who’s your escort?” An elderly man in sunglasses walked in their direction, spreading oil and smear evenly over his hands with the aid of a rag.
“Am I ever wondering,” Maxwell replied. “He’s a cop. Sent by Solo, apparently to learn the trade. This is Howard,” he said to Heero, pointing at the other man. “Possibly one of the weirdest case of possession I have seen in my life.”
“Which, all things considered, ain’t so impressive, kid. You’re what, thirty?”
“Twenty eight. Is my bike ready?”
“Ain’t it always?”
“Thanks, Howard,” the kid waved his hand and made his way further into the garage, to a room obviously not for general use. His fingers traced the wall upon entering, flipping the light switch. The officer stared.
It took maybe three seconds, altogether, for Heero to fall in love in the smooth, black curves and profiled planes.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Maxwell said proudly, running a hand down the handlebars of his bike. Heero nodded mutely, admiring the picture. She was obviously made to breach the barrier of sound. “Grab a helmet and we’re ready to go.”
The policeman did his best to ignore the speed at which they travelled the busy streets. He knew that if he actually started paying attention for more than five seconds, he might be forced to find the ticket book. His unfortunate companion did not seem to be perturbed by the amount of meters rolling by their wheels every second. If anything, he was exhilarated by the rush - Heero could feel the chest underneath his hands vibrating with silent laughter. He personally saw nothing funny in it. Weren’t motorcyclist body parts donors, just waiting for an opportunity to save someone’s life, after all?
The address they were going to was the least conspicuous place anyone could imagine. An average town, in the middle of average suburbs, with an average lawn and an average picket fence. Sure, Heero could recall several equally average body bags in similar places, but that just wasn’t the point. This kind of place oozed calm and normality.
Except when you watched the kid, aged twenty eight, saunter to a door, a meter-long braid trailing in his wake, and a bike from Hell Heero was ready to hijack on the sidewalk. He shook the notion from his head and hurried after the man, a heavy bag in hand.
“Good afternoon,” Maxwell said amiably, once the door opened to a gentle knock. “My name’s David Maxwell.” The man standing in the doorway was weary. And wary.
“You’re David Maxwell?” Heero watched from the corner of his eye as the violet eyes rose upwards and back to the disbelieving host. Apparently, the dog collar he was wearing enabled him to mistrust his fellow man to his heart’s content.
“Here we go again. Here’s my driving licence.” The priest examined the piece of plastic thoughtfully.
“You don’t look your age.”
“I weep for the fact, believe me.”
“I’m sorry, it’s a stressful time. That poor girl…”
“I understand. Let me see her, please.”
The man nodded, several times. “Yes, of course. It’s just - the family is in the house now. They’re very religious people. Very religious.”
“It’s alright,” Maxwell said with a heavy sigh. He buttoned up his black shirt and fished around in his coat’s pockets. To Heero’s utter astonishment, he produced a dog collar and with practiced ease tucked it onto his neck.
“What about him?” the priest nodded to the detective.
“He’s my driver,” the violet-eyed man replied with a sunny beam.
Finally, they were admitted inside. It was obvious that there was something not quite right going on. Heero could feel the tension, even before they met the family. Maxwell’s shoulders, as he noted from the corner of his eye, were hunched. He was shivering.
“Upstairs,” the elderly priest pointed.
“Father Brutha!” A middle aged woman walked down stairs, taking the steps one at a time.
“Forgive me, Madeline. This is father Maxwell. I told you about him.”
“Oh. You seem very young,” she said politely.
“I’m older than I look, ma’am,” father Maxwell said kindly. “May I see your niece?”
“Oh.” She covered her surprise with a burst of quick logic. Summoned, obviously, with some effort. “Father Brutha must’ve told you. Come along.”
“Niece?” Heero leaned and hissed in his companion’s ear.
“Long story. Keep your cool, and you might hear it.”
“Ah.”
Like with the atmosphere in the house, it didn’t take a genius to figure out something was wrong with the girl. The room was bathed in sunlight, as much as the windows would allow. The golden glow shone on the crucifixes, there were bibles littering the bookcases, rosaries and prayer books. The girl, lying on a bed in the middle of it all, was pale, her face taut and grey. Her eyes opened nevertheless, revealing bright hazel irises, which seemed gold when the light hit them just right.
“Please leave us alone,” Maxwell said strongly. It said something for the power of his voice that a woman such as Madeline took his request without a word. Heero was willing to bet she wouldn’t accept a plate of soup without arguing about its contents and/or pattern. Father Brutha closed the doors behind the two of them. “There’s incense in the bag, light a stick,” Maxwell instructed, closing the windows tightly. “Watch out, it burns strongly,” he added, seconds after Heero just managed to rescue his eyebrows.
“Thank you.” But the exorcist was already busy lighting candles and arranging them around the bed.
“You…” the girl whispered suddenly, her eyes gleaming yellow.
“Me indeed,” the long-haired man said, standing at her side. “A pity you can’t stay, I’d love to chat. Heero, stand against the wall. Do not step beyond the candles, whatever happens.”
“Should I expect fountains of pea-soup?”
“No. Demon spit. It tends to be worse, in general. Unless we’re talking Manny’s. Nothing is worse than his pea-soup.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’ll serve you well.” The smile disappeared from his face. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”
And the calm gave way to a storm.
Heero watched the flames, fascinated and horrified. The only occasion he could have seen flames and have confusing memories about it, was that one night twenty years ago… How he hated remembering that night.
The spectacle lasted only for several seconds, before Maxwell scooped up some of the flames into the jar and screwed the lid on tightly. He presented the final product to Heero.
“It’s not harmful to us, but do keep it in a safe place.” The detective took the jar carefully - it wasn’t warm. He watched the flames flicker. A memory stirred, but before it could take shape a phone rang. “Excuse me.”
The conversation was brief. Heero only managed to catch several curses, before the call was disconnected and Maxwell appeared back in the room.
“Terribly sorry to cut this lovely chat short, but I’ve to go.”
“You haven’t told me anything yet!”
“It’s better this way, officer. Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”
“I’m not a child. You will not be telling me what I want and don’t want to know, Mr Maxwell.”
“Asshole. But have it your way. Come with me - if you manage to keep the contents of your stomach in, I solemnly swear I will answer every question you might have. In detail.”
Heero eyed him suspiciously, but the deal seemed harmless enough. At worst, he’ll puke his guts out. “Alright,” he said confidently. The violet-eyed man gave him an amused look.
“So sure of yourself. We’ll see.” Maxwell obviously never quite got over his teen goth phase. He threw a black leather coat on top his black shirt, straightened his black slacks and picked up a black knapsack. “We’re off then.”
“So what is it you’re doing today?” Heero asked as they strode through a busy street.
“An ugly case of possession. The girl is about sixteen and she’s terminally ill. She’ll die tonight - I’m going there to make sure she does so in peace.”
“Fascinating job.”
“You have no idea.”
They kept walking in silence.
“Where are we going now?”
“I assume you have no transport, officer?”
“No.”
“Then we’re going to fetch my bike.”
“An exorcist on a bike, now that’s something I haven’t seen before.”
“How many exorcists have you seen?” Heero didn’t reply. Maxwell grinned. “I thought as much. There’s the place,” he added pointing to a run-down garage. It was a weird little place, somewhat out of place in the company of tall buildings.
“Here again, kid? Who’s your escort?” An elderly man in sunglasses walked in their direction, spreading oil and smear evenly over his hands with the aid of a rag.
“Am I ever wondering,” Maxwell replied. “He’s a cop. Sent by Solo, apparently to learn the trade. This is Howard,” he said to Heero, pointing at the other man. “Possibly one of the weirdest case of possession I have seen in my life.”
“Which, all things considered, ain’t so impressive, kid. You’re what, thirty?”
“Twenty eight. Is my bike ready?”
“Ain’t it always?”
“Thanks, Howard,” the kid waved his hand and made his way further into the garage, to a room obviously not for general use. His fingers traced the wall upon entering, flipping the light switch. The officer stared.
It took maybe three seconds, altogether, for Heero to fall in love in the smooth, black curves and profiled planes.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Maxwell said proudly, running a hand down the handlebars of his bike. Heero nodded mutely, admiring the picture. She was obviously made to breach the barrier of sound. “Grab a helmet and we’re ready to go.”
The policeman did his best to ignore the speed at which they travelled the busy streets. He knew that if he actually started paying attention for more than five seconds, he might be forced to find the ticket book. His unfortunate companion did not seem to be perturbed by the amount of meters rolling by their wheels every second. If anything, he was exhilarated by the rush - Heero could feel the chest underneath his hands vibrating with silent laughter. He personally saw nothing funny in it. Weren’t motorcyclist body parts donors, just waiting for an opportunity to save someone’s life, after all?
The address they were going to was the least conspicuous place anyone could imagine. An average town, in the middle of average suburbs, with an average lawn and an average picket fence. Sure, Heero could recall several equally average body bags in similar places, but that just wasn’t the point. This kind of place oozed calm and normality.
Except when you watched the kid, aged twenty eight, saunter to a door, a meter-long braid trailing in his wake, and a bike from Hell Heero was ready to hijack on the sidewalk. He shook the notion from his head and hurried after the man, a heavy bag in hand.
“Good afternoon,” Maxwell said amiably, once the door opened to a gentle knock. “My name’s David Maxwell.” The man standing in the doorway was weary. And wary.
“You’re David Maxwell?” Heero watched from the corner of his eye as the violet eyes rose upwards and back to the disbelieving host. Apparently, the dog collar he was wearing enabled him to mistrust his fellow man to his heart’s content.
“Here we go again. Here’s my driving licence.” The priest examined the piece of plastic thoughtfully.
“You don’t look your age.”
“I weep for the fact, believe me.”
“I’m sorry, it’s a stressful time. That poor girl…”
“I understand. Let me see her, please.”
The man nodded, several times. “Yes, of course. It’s just - the family is in the house now. They’re very religious people. Very religious.”
“It’s alright,” Maxwell said with a heavy sigh. He buttoned up his black shirt and fished around in his coat’s pockets. To Heero’s utter astonishment, he produced a dog collar and with practiced ease tucked it onto his neck.
“What about him?” the priest nodded to the detective.
“He’s my driver,” the violet-eyed man replied with a sunny beam.
Finally, they were admitted inside. It was obvious that there was something not quite right going on. Heero could feel the tension, even before they met the family. Maxwell’s shoulders, as he noted from the corner of his eye, were hunched. He was shivering.
“Upstairs,” the elderly priest pointed.
“Father Brutha!” A middle aged woman walked down stairs, taking the steps one at a time.
“Forgive me, Madeline. This is father Maxwell. I told you about him.”
“Oh. You seem very young,” she said politely.
“I’m older than I look, ma’am,” father Maxwell said kindly. “May I see your niece?”
“Oh.” She covered her surprise with a burst of quick logic. Summoned, obviously, with some effort. “Father Brutha must’ve told you. Come along.”
“Niece?” Heero leaned and hissed in his companion’s ear.
“Long story. Keep your cool, and you might hear it.”
“Ah.”
Like with the atmosphere in the house, it didn’t take a genius to figure out something was wrong with the girl. The room was bathed in sunlight, as much as the windows would allow. The golden glow shone on the crucifixes, there were bibles littering the bookcases, rosaries and prayer books. The girl, lying on a bed in the middle of it all, was pale, her face taut and grey. Her eyes opened nevertheless, revealing bright hazel irises, which seemed gold when the light hit them just right.
“Please leave us alone,” Maxwell said strongly. It said something for the power of his voice that a woman such as Madeline took his request without a word. Heero was willing to bet she wouldn’t accept a plate of soup without arguing about its contents and/or pattern. Father Brutha closed the doors behind the two of them. “There’s incense in the bag, light a stick,” Maxwell instructed, closing the windows tightly. “Watch out, it burns strongly,” he added, seconds after Heero just managed to rescue his eyebrows.
“Thank you.” But the exorcist was already busy lighting candles and arranging them around the bed.
“You…” the girl whispered suddenly, her eyes gleaming yellow.
“Me indeed,” the long-haired man said, standing at her side. “A pity you can’t stay, I’d love to chat. Heero, stand against the wall. Do not step beyond the candles, whatever happens.”
“Should I expect fountains of pea-soup?”
“No. Demon spit. It tends to be worse, in general. Unless we’re talking Manny’s. Nothing is worse than his pea-soup.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’ll serve you well.” The smile disappeared from his face. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”
And the calm gave way to a storm.