004: Masque of the Red Death
"So tell me, Miss Hawthorne. Who was Melissa Foster, really?" he asks as he leans across the table separating them. His voice is amiable, smooth. This is the third time they've met here, the lawyer and the murderess. It's almost comfortable now. Routine. His mug of coffee, her cup of tea, the quiet hum of the cafeteria a backdrop for their conversation.
"Do you really want to know, Mr. Armando? Really, truly?" She flutters those long eyelashes at him, golden eyes wide and innocent as she reaches for her teacup. He has to admit, she's good. A liar and a murderess, but good. If he hadn't seen Fawles die on the stand, he might even have believed her. Instead, he just smiles slowly, eyes on hers, trying to discern her purpose. It's his best weapon, this easy sort of charm, hiding the sharp intellect below the surface. He downs the rest of his mug of coffee, the bitter brew sliding easily down his throat. This is blend #96, his best yet. A warm feeling spreads through him, a rush of caffeine flooding his already-infused system. He thrives off this addiction, both chemical and psychological.
"Wouldn't have asked if I didn't, sweetheart." The warm feeling is still spreading through his body, a small spasm in his chest bringing one hand from behind his head to his chest. Heartburn. He coughs, clearing his throat. The feeling persists. He ignores it and reaches for his mug again, empty--had he really finished it?--before folding his hands before him.
The redhead waits patiently, an angelic smile curving her delicate lips. She leans forward, one hand toying with a lock of hair. "Well, in that case, I'll tell you, shall I?
...Mr. Armando? Why, what's the matter? You're looking a little pale. You really should lay off the coffee..." she giggles triumphantly. Too late, his eyes shoot to the coffee cup on the table. His chest spasms again, and this time it's real pain, real and sudden and he coughs again, doubled over as he turns from the table, trying to get to someone, anyone before the poison (yes, she must have poisoned him, the clever little witch, what else could do this to him, leave him gasping for air) takes hold completely.
Too late, he sees, as he makes to stand up and his legs give out beneath him, nervous system rushing to keep up with the barrage of pain washing over his entire body. His killer stands suddenly with a little scream of surprise, her chair clattering to the ground as she rushes to his side. "Mr. Armando! Mr. Armando, what's wrong?! Someone, call an ambulance! I think he's had a heart attack!" she cries out, bending over him. Behind the curtain of her hair, there's just the two of them, and his clouded eyesight can just barely make out the savage glee on her face. "M-Mia...you..." he gasps out, features contorted with pain and hate. "Oh, don't you worry, Diego," she replies in a voice for his ears only. "She'll be joining you soon..."
--
[[Diego wakes up in a cold sweat, feverish. Every time he closes his eyes, that same scene. It's coming more frequently now, every time he slips into unconsciousness. It's been three days since Mayfield brought him back again, back from that Hell into this one, and even though he refused their 'vaccination,' he's still dying--ironic that the flu was real after all, wasn't it--only this time it's slow and laborous. His voice is raspy, thick with a wet, hacking cough. Clearly, he's unaware that the phone is off the hook, as he's deliriously talking to himself.]]
This town...damned if I do and damned if I...
you know, cyanide's a damned sight cleaner than the flu--
not even any pigs...
...should've just taken the shot and to hell with it.
Hell.
Guess I'm going back again, huh...?
"Do you really want to know, Mr. Armando? Really, truly?" She flutters those long eyelashes at him, golden eyes wide and innocent as she reaches for her teacup. He has to admit, she's good. A liar and a murderess, but good. If he hadn't seen Fawles die on the stand, he might even have believed her. Instead, he just smiles slowly, eyes on hers, trying to discern her purpose. It's his best weapon, this easy sort of charm, hiding the sharp intellect below the surface. He downs the rest of his mug of coffee, the bitter brew sliding easily down his throat. This is blend #96, his best yet. A warm feeling spreads through him, a rush of caffeine flooding his already-infused system. He thrives off this addiction, both chemical and psychological.
"Wouldn't have asked if I didn't, sweetheart." The warm feeling is still spreading through his body, a small spasm in his chest bringing one hand from behind his head to his chest. Heartburn. He coughs, clearing his throat. The feeling persists. He ignores it and reaches for his mug again, empty--had he really finished it?--before folding his hands before him.
The redhead waits patiently, an angelic smile curving her delicate lips. She leans forward, one hand toying with a lock of hair. "Well, in that case, I'll tell you, shall I?
...Mr. Armando? Why, what's the matter? You're looking a little pale. You really should lay off the coffee..." she giggles triumphantly. Too late, his eyes shoot to the coffee cup on the table. His chest spasms again, and this time it's real pain, real and sudden and he coughs again, doubled over as he turns from the table, trying to get to someone, anyone before the poison (yes, she must have poisoned him, the clever little witch, what else could do this to him, leave him gasping for air) takes hold completely.
Too late, he sees, as he makes to stand up and his legs give out beneath him, nervous system rushing to keep up with the barrage of pain washing over his entire body. His killer stands suddenly with a little scream of surprise, her chair clattering to the ground as she rushes to his side. "Mr. Armando! Mr. Armando, what's wrong?! Someone, call an ambulance! I think he's had a heart attack!" she cries out, bending over him. Behind the curtain of her hair, there's just the two of them, and his clouded eyesight can just barely make out the savage glee on her face. "M-Mia...you..." he gasps out, features contorted with pain and hate. "Oh, don't you worry, Diego," she replies in a voice for his ears only. "She'll be joining you soon..."
--
[[Diego wakes up in a cold sweat, feverish. Every time he closes his eyes, that same scene. It's coming more frequently now, every time he slips into unconsciousness. It's been three days since Mayfield brought him back again, back from that Hell into this one, and even though he refused their 'vaccination,' he's still dying--ironic that the flu was real after all, wasn't it--only this time it's slow and laborous. His voice is raspy, thick with a wet, hacking cough. Clearly, he's unaware that the phone is off the hook, as he's deliriously talking to himself.]]
This town...damned if I do and damned if I...
you know, cyanide's a damned sight cleaner than the flu--
not even any pigs...
...should've just taken the shot and to hell with it.
Hell.
Guess I'm going back again, huh...?