Beyond The Pale

When Jason had asked Liliya to assist with investigating some murders in his territory, she'd been over the freaking moon.

Being in a city, with its tall buildings of flat stone and countless windows like empty eyes, was bad enough. Not even a fresh breeze tinted with the breath of green, growing things could reach inside the city maze, much less get through to her; cooped up inside for her 'safety.' Her long recovery from a hit-and-run had barely been half over and she'd already been climbing the walls with boredom. It felt too close in here, and she longed for wind on her face, the open sky spinning above her.

Not to mention, she had to take care of Jason. He would clearly be lost without her and the others working double time to make sure he did more than just care for basic human needs. Her psychic gifts had subtly teased him to sleep on many an occasion, ensuring he got more than 6 hours every other day. Alicia had cursed him -- fluently and in two languages -- until he begrudgingly sat and ate real food, not just fueling his body for the demands he put upon it. Even Shinji and Ian had done their part, but one had an acute case of aphasia and the other respected his boss too much to do the bossing. Out of all of them, however, Liliya had the best reasons to actually accompany Jason out in the field itself, to keep a watchful eye on his shennanigans, and make sure he didn't do something terrible, like get himself half-killed.

Again.

With those echoes looming over him constantly, she did not trust him to be alone. She did not trust evil to stray from him, no matter how formidable he may be. Though she had not inherited the precision precognizant gifts of her father, she sensed a swelling darkness shrouding the city, leaning in. She had to take care of Jason, because he couldn't sense it; he'd been alone in the dark too long. Not even the faintest, new echo standing at Jason's side -- an Archer, dauntless -- could ease her worry.

However, zooming through the streets at impossible speeds, clinging to Jason and her nose full of the smell of leather and fresh air, wiped all thoughts from her mind save equal amounts of terror and glee.

She squeaked as Jason rounded a corner, leaning them into it, his knee nearly brushing the cement as he pushed the bike to keep the speed. The engine roared with incredible power beneath them as it surged forward and her arms tightened even more around Jason's ribcage. <"I'm fine!"> she answered. <"Can it go even faster?">

The answer, apparently, was hell yes. She screamed a little as the front wheel left the ground as they zoomed forward and had she not been delighting in the wind and the sky and how everything blurred all around her, she might've worried about the damage she could be inflicting on his ribs.

By the time they skidded to a stop in front of their destination, Liliya had been giggling uncontrollably the last half mile. It took her a moment to 'unstick' her steel-like grip from around his ribcage, giggles bubbling out of her from behind the unpainted Red Hood mask Jason had altered to her size. Her legs felt wobbly and a bit shivery, echoing with the rumbles of the engine. She leaned against him drunkenly, equilibrium shot, a fistful of brown leather sleeve in her hand. "Again, again!"

His question made her look around -- and immediately she regretted it. Instinctively, she pushed Jason behind her, staring at the grubby, dilapidated tenement building they'd come to. The misery of forsaken, desolate lives clung to the crumbling mortar, the emotions of rage, loss, and bitterness of expecting to live and die in the gutter, had seeped into the stone. Countless generations had moved through here like sh*t down a sewer line, starting a hundred years ago. The discontent of worn and bitter ghosts lay upon the building like a thin film of grey corruption, layer upon layer to create a blackness no amount of soap could scrub away. And deep within, like a heart pumping old, clotting blood, a red anger pulsed deep within. She needed no history to know what it was: The restlessness of those killed, unavenged, who never had their names illuminated by the torch of justice.

Liliya swallowed hard. This was a bad place and in order to help, she had to go further. ["Yes. I can. But not from here. I must go further."] She turned to him, pulling her hands into the long sleeves of her leather jacket. She didn't want to touch anything in there that she didn't have to.

After some finagling with the lock, they were inside. Jason held it open while Liliya stepped in, the beam from her flashlight casting about. Without his direction, she drifted through the doorway, her gifted eyes wandering over the walls, seeing more than he could. ["Stay behind me, stay close,"] she murmured. ["I will keep them away."]

Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, Liliya brushed her hand through the air as if pushing aside cobwebs. <"Return to your rest, spirits. There is no more blood to drink from here.">

The shadows in her Sight drew back, quieted. The coldness lifted minimally. With soft, precise steps, she picked her way through the detritus left by the forensic team. Without thinking, she put a hand on the worn banister as she set foot on the stairs.

A flash.

Men, boys, shouting, fists swinging, women screaming, their clothes strange and rougher than today. The building looked newer, but still in disrepair. Too small for so many people. Too poor. Other men, in uniforms, are beating the the ones who have thick foreign accents. A mother, a wife, reaches out, terror and fury written across her face in the hard lines of difficult life in jeopardy. Outside, there's more screaming, more yelling, the crash of broken glass, the smash of wood and hundreds of raised voices. Violence brews in the air as blood spills on the ground.

Liliya stumbled, hand flying to her forehead as she blinked the vision away. A wave of dizziness assaulted her as she blinked the chaos of a hundred years ago out of her eyes. ["I'm alright."] Again, in English, "Okay. I okay."

She pressed forward, reaching out with her senses and not touching the walls or the memories soaked into the very grain. Without Jason's directions, she reached the scene of the crime, ducking beneath more yellow tape and stopping at the bloodstain soaked into the wood floor -- hardly the only one here, just the most visible. Liliya crouched, staring at the center of the puddle intently. It took no psychic to know what happened here. Pain, misery, suffering. It had dripped into the fabric of the wood and would never be removed until cleaned by fire and rain. She moved on.

Every step deliberate. Every breath even and measured. She looked around at all the details, breathing in the age of this place, sifting through the indelible fingerprints of memories and emotion that had slept here for so long, both old and new.

It was a study of some kind. Wooden floors, slightly dusty. It felt closed in, with only the one window allowing in ample light, had it been day time.

"Light...."

Liliya laid a hand on the window sill and--

A man of silent lullabies, tall, face of shadow, cleared the badly placed furniture from the window. Each piece found a new home, each in its proper place. She watched him ferry everything to its current place in the room, tracking him here and there, taking his time. Not rushed, not worried, but working at an economical pace, as if he'd planned it out all. Dark songs drifted from his face as he smiled a smile she could not see, the tune warped and sad, a lonely sound. Once the window had cleared he stood back, nodding in approval before turning to fetch the gruesome centerpiece. He turned, a billow of shadows from his back and disappeared into--

Jason's severe red helmet watching her.

<"He opened the window deliberately, cleared things from it. Here and there, small things, to open the window, remove the blinds. He wanted it to be seen. It wasn't just the body, the entire room is constructed. It is his art. This is his composition. His face is made of terrible songs in the dark. All of it was planned, all of it had exquisite precision. He is lonely and wondering, like a tune that isn't sure of its own ending.">

Her fingertips brushed a small window ornament, a stained glass hummingbird that was really just tinted plastic, doomed to fade and crack in the sunlight. It now hung from a bookshelf, as if it had always been there. It rocked slightly from her light touch, tapping against the wood. But the tapping against the clock had not changed.

Liliya turned, ear cocked upward as she tried to locate the sound. Not tapping... It was more metallic, more neat, more like--

Ticking.

Above her, below her, all around her. There were invisible clocks in the walls and she wandered to the center of the room, spinning in slow circles as she listened to the ticking of gears and rockers and cams and springs. She spun until she was in the center of the room, listening.... listening to the ticking, ticking ticking.

Butterflies flitting behind her eyes...

(Questions, questions, wondering, wondering, where will the tale get to? Pushing limits, pushing minds, pushing questions. Singing in the dark, crafting, nothing ever quite right, needing to adjust, fishing at night. How lucky for them to be a part of something with precision, their miserable, squalid lives elevated from the sh*t of day to day existence, to become part of something grander, even beautiful, in the starkness of its truth. Death, light, life, dark. Precision, ticking, ticking, ticking.... messages in blood and shadow and whimpers of living art. See it? See it now? A pattern, not discernible to a fools eye, only to those who know, who can see, encryption on the city maps and bloodspill. See? See? Ticking, ticking, waiting in the dark. COME FIND ME.)

Liliya blinked and found herself kneeling in the center of the dried pool of blood, hands pressed together in prayer before her, head bowed. Imitating the victim, the impressionable paint and canvas that had been shaped by the Artist. She'd been humming a strange tune, unknowingly, the entire time, hauntingly familiar but just enough to stray from where it had come from. A simple, mournful melody, weird and uncomfortable. Her right thumbnail had been tapping out a slightly syncopated rhythm on the brow of her white mask. Like clockwork.

In all the time she'd been here, kneeling in the midst of so much suffering and death, there lingered no spirits here. Something told her this was not a good thing. No one had passed on. No honored dead lay here.

She took in a shaky breath, inhaling darkness and cold. Standing, she picked up her flashlight, the fresh battery dead and drained. <"I know where he is. Tyler. E. Harrington. That is his next sculpture.">

She rattled off a location immediately, describing the porch and door color. The information nonsensical was to her mind and ears, but somehow she knew exactly what she had been seeking. Then she gripped Jason's arm through his sleeve, staring at him hard from behind white lenses. "He waits for you. Do not go."

She held his gaze, heart fluttering faster than before. She didn't think it, didn't try and speak it, because she already knew the answer awaiting her. But still, she hoped if she pressed him on this, with all of her heart, he might hear. He might listen.

Please, Jason, let's leave this place and forget this darkness and leave the mold and rot.

Red Hood  Hush