InsaneJournal

Section 13
Word count: 3 007



Those who worked at the morgue would easily identify that it was Patrick Araro's turn out front just by hearing the lazy loud reggae sounds drifting around the building as soon as they started their descent to it. Not that he minded being easily recognized for it! He just thought it a good idea to play the stuff. The stiffs didn't mind, and if any of their visitors did, well, they could always tell him to turn it down. He possibly maybe even would. Considering the early hour of the morning, he doubted anybody would show up right now to place such a request, though. So, reggae.

Which is why the quiet, measured steps he heard a moment before the man turned around the corner of the hallway truly took him by surprise, and the two legs of his chair crashed on the floor as he ran a hand to flip back a couple of the dreadlocks before reaching to decrease the volume of his own volition. Yes, he was that startled.

Before even looking up, he called out, "Jeebuz, man! Sneaking like that in the middle of the night can give a guy a heart attack, you know!"

The fit, trim man in a very expensive suit, tailored coat, with mirror-shined shoes and tired dark eyes walking down the hallway towards him did not seem to be the kind of person who'd respond jokingly to that; not with the silver at his temples, nor with the firm line of the mouth and cool, almost stiff motions. His words were polite, almost to the point of being archaically so. The added shock was that he looked... oddly familiar, and the only new faces Patrick'd seen today were stiffs, and, well, working in a morgue? Seeing the face of one of the corpses up and about wasn't exactly the most comforting concept at... hmm. Half past one a.m. Or whatever other hour, really.

"I am sorry. I thought you would have been informed I was coming down here." Even tone, almost calm-sounding, except that nobody was honestly calm, in the morgue. Just about anything else, of course. "I believe there are some unidentified bodies that I," he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then finished, "can help with." By which time he had reached the desk and stood before it - he wasn't tall, but he seemed to fill a lot of space, somehow. From this close, the face seemed tired too, not just the eyes. Contained, controlled, but tired. "My name is Stephen LaMarck." His gaze lowered to the desk, reminding that there were paper forms to be filled in.

"I, uh. Beg pardon?" Patrick was used to deal with a good variety of people. But this one? Was way too confusing to make out in one go. He seemed to bide his time, and yet the morgue employee in some undefinable way had the feeling that he was in a hurry for some reason. Frenzy was the word he thought of, then waved it aside, there was nothing like that in his conduct. Just random association, right?

The man - LaMarck - seemed close to sighing, then spoke again. "I was told there is a number of unidentified bodies all from the same location. More than three. Since I have... misplaced a few employees in the same vicinity, I suppose my appearance could solve... both cases of wonder."

"Oh." Those. "Your employees? What the hell is it that you do, man? That's some ugly business those suckers got the short end of!" Patrick started digging for the necessary forms. Which, since he'd been on the shift for hours now, took some time.

LaMarck's voice seemed to grow a shade chillier. "I do not believe that is any of your business, but whatever happened to them... wasn't supposed to happen."

"Well, that's a relief! Well, no, not really, not for them eight, but whatever. Here, fill this in, please." He slid a form across the surface. "Take a seat if you need to."

The man was frowning. "Eight? That is... somewhat more than I was led to expect."

"Don't ask me. Fill in the paperwork, and then you can go see yourself. But damn, some of what happened to them? I've got no idea whatsoever how it could have happened. You're in for some ugly sights."

Jaw set, LaMarck picked the form up determinedly and moved to where he could indeed take a seat, behind a relatively clear surface. "Thank you." His penwork was minute, neat, and seemed just a little rushed.

Sooner than he would have expected, Patrick was leading the way to the room where all eight were. They'd had to take some time, earlier that evening - right after his shift started, really - to try to half-autopsy, half-put together these stiffs.

"Again, gotta warn you. That won't be a pretty picture to see, especially if you know 'em."

"If they are my employees, I must, after all. I owe it to them, to attend to this personally." He made it sound like it was some ancient code of honor that Patrick didn't know about. It seemed completely out of place. Or maybe would have, anywhere but here, the place where life was always in the past. Recent past, long-ago past? What did it matter.

"I see. Right." Unlocking the door, stepping in to the first table and unzipping up the bag. The man frowned lightly.

"This... is not one of my employees. Although I wonder if it was..." His mouth worked quietly, and it seemed to Patrick that part of that may have been would have known, but what came out was, "I'll let you know when I've seen the rest, but I may be able to give contact information for somebody who might be able to identify her."

Patrick looked down at the corpse. Generally, he came to see all kinds of things here. All who came down this way were, well, dead. A lot of them killed. But what these bodies had been dispatched with? His lips pursed, he muttered, "this one was easy to identify the cause of death for, even though the explanation is... less clear. Some of the rest? We've got no clue. This one? Sword. By the looks of it, a broadsword, at that. I'm askin', who the hell uses that kind of thing nowadays? It's the bloody twenty-second century, not the... middle ages or whatever."

LaMarck's eyes flicked up, then down at the woman, fit, strong, and very dead, between them. "I cannot tell you that." The phrasing, the tone of voice made Patrick frown. It sounded almost as if he knew who and didn't want to say. Which was damn confusing. Broadswords...

"Right. So no ID on this one. This guy, I was told, was a bit away from the rest, but close enough to be noticed, I guess, and then there's the..." The burns. But there had been no fire. Patrick moved along to the next table and opened the bag.

There was a sharp intake of breath, then the man looked around, seemingly counting the bodies again. "Yes, this one I know." A small pause, and there seemed, for the first time, to be some agitation in the urbane voice. Almost... hopefullness. "Are you sure these are all the bodies?"

"Absolutely certain, sir." Where did that last word come from? Huh. Maybe just the general bearing of the man. Or something. It seemed appropriate. Didn't cause any surprised reaction either. What the... "The boys from the police who brought them in and filled the paperwork said there seemed to have been blood for twice as many more," that got an indrawn breath that was halfway between a snort and a sigh, "but these were all the bodies found. You sure you know this bloke? They said the sniper gun they found with him was pretty damn illegal."

"Yes, he's one of mine." Almost sounding as if one of his that wasn't supposed, or expected, to show up. "I am not sure why he's here though."

"Well, he's not going anywhere until you fill in the paperwork and give us next of kin or whatever to call somebody to pick him up and so on."

"Of course not."

"Those burns are really out of place, though. There wasn't a sign of fire with the extent that could cause that! Any ideas?"

"I cannot tell you that either." He sounded like he knew, though.

"Hey, you'll have to tell the boys upstairs, though, or you may be charged with, whatever, getting in the way of an investigation or something."

"Perhaps." There was a faint amusement in his voice, then he took a breath and became serious again. "I'll call his son myself, but I will leave you contact information as well, just in case." He indicated the rest of the tables. "That would mean my guess is I'll be able to identify half of the bodies and will try to get somebody else here to see to the other four."

"Right. So let's get on and see if you're right or whatever."

"Of course."

The next woman was recognized as well. Her face seemed to have been clawed at, not to mention the strange wounds that they hadn't managed to find out the cause of. "Are you certain? I mean, her face is pretty mauled."

"I am sure." His lips twisted. "She's... she was a hellcat on the practice sparring mat. It seems..." he went quiet, but Patrick's mind filled in, it seems she found an actual hellcat in the end.

"Is there such a thing as actual hellcats?"

The dark eyes flashed up, not quite reaching to an eye contact, then down again. "Very few things are actually impossible."

"That's not an answer!"

"No, it is not." The tight lips half-opened as if to say something else, then after a moment the face blanked again. "I'll have her husband informed."

The next body was again unidentified. Burns, as well as the strange wounds. "Have you ever seen anything like this? Do you know what caused them?" Patrick's voice was... those oddities were nagging at him, he was way too curious not to want to know what did it all.

"I do not know."

"Since half of them are yours and the other ain't, do you think they fought or anything? I wasn't told of any actual weird weapons--"

"No, they didn't fight. They were attacked." There was a firm certainty to that statement. Grimness.

"That sounds like you mean somebody to pay for it or something. Vigilantism ain't encouraged and all."

The return flash of very white teeth didn't have anything that resembled a smile to it. "Do not worry. I am not likely to do anything that is under ... police jurisdiction."

"That's not very reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be. Shall we move on?"

The next one was recognized as well. There was nothing wrong with that one's face. His ribcage however... "It looks like something burned right through. And part of his leg was chopped off with another wound that we suspect is the same broadsword as the one over there." He pointed at the woman on the first table.

"Let me guess. Not much blood left in his body." The voice was... sad. Even if the face was getting a kind of stony, blank expression. If one hadn't seen it marginally more animated as it was minutes ago, one could think that everything was normal, looking at that face. Nothing's wrong. Move on, no need to pay attention here...

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"He probably kept on fighting as well as he could after his leg was off." Gritted teeth for a moment. "I'd say pretty well, or I'd think they'd have left him bleed himself to death with it, rather than..." He trailed off. "We've worked together for a while. He knew what he was doing."

"So to speak. But whatever did that...?"

"... is nothing that you wish to encounter, I can promise you that."

"Me? Oh sure, I don't!" And then the next one... Patrick opened the bag, then immediately looked up. The features were mirrored, although one set was twisted in the pain of death, and the other... well, the mouth twisted slightly as a slow sigh came out. "How--"

LaMarck reached to open the bag and reveal a strange beaded bracelet around the wrist, then looked up for permission. "May I?"

Patrick shrugged, still too weirded out to speak much. That was... the same face.

The knife seemed to show up in the man's hand too quickly, or maybe Patrick hadn't been paying attention. He took a sharp breath and a step back, but all that the blade was used for was to cut the cord of the bracelet. As soon as it stopped touching the corpse's skin... the features sort of melted. Different face, same twisted pain. No wonder - his neck was gnawed at in a manner that put one in mind back of said hellcat. But it was still so fucking weird... "Illusion."

Maybe there was something in the utterance of that single word, or maybe Patrick imagined it as his mind made the connection. "You were supposed to be killed. The poor loser died in your place!"

That got another slow sigh. "Stewart Rodds was never a loser. But yes, if I had been there... this would have been me." He walked to the next table without saying anything else. And that body got recognized too, head bowed.

"One of 'yours' again?" Patrick's voice was dripping with irony. What kind of man sent people to die instead of him?

"No. Business associate. My guess, even though I cannot be fully sure, is that the other two were his security." And then, muttered under his breath, "that was supposed to be still safe a rendezvous, damn it."

"If it was supposed to be safe, why the..." He waved back at the now-looking-differently body on the table before.

"My head of security insisted, to be on the safe side. I could probably bet he's not happy about this, wherever he is. Those were people from his department. And he doesn't like losing people."

"Who does?"

"Indeed."

"So this one," Patrick indicated the last one, "should be one of the associate's people?"

"Probably." Lamarck was actually pulling off leather gloves from his pockets, apparently getting ready to finish here, fill in the details, and leave.

"Which doesn't explain why he's the worst-off of all the lot. Like all the rest of 'em put all together." That got a frown, and renewed interest. Patrick moved around the table and opened the bag, looking up questioningly.

Which is probably the reason why he saw the face pale. Blanch. Take an almost greenish look to it, actually. But there were no words.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

No reaction. Of course, the body on the table was... truly badly off. The head had been... cut in half, the slash through the face diagonally. There were numerous signs of abuse that must have happened shortly before that. Claw marks, teeth, the odd wounds. Burns. Broken bones, too. But somehow, it wasn't the shape that the body was in that got the sudden change of... the sudden loss of stoicism.

But the presence, there, that way.

The gloves dropped to the ground, forgotten. One hand reached to touch the damaged face, then stopped shy.

"I don't think he'd mind being touched right now."

Very dully, the words came out, voice hollow. "No, he wouldn't. He never did." It was the barest brush of fingertips over cold skin. "He's one of mine."

The voice didn't break. The facial expression didn't break, and the color, while pale, was no longer impossible to take in. But there seemed to be now waves of... coldness coming out of the man that seemed too low even for this place. They stilled any words that Patrick tried to come up with before they fully formed, let alone came up to his lips. The overall effect was truly chilling.

After some time, Lamarck looked up briefly, and his voice, his face, seemed to be under control. "May I use the office's telephone, please?" He knelt to pick his gloves from the floor.

"What? Your phone's battery's low or something?"

"I do not... get along well with mobile devices. Please?"

"Sure, sure. You'll fill in the papers, right? Don't want them to stay around if they can be picked up or whatev--"

"They will be picked up, do not worry."

They walked back to the front office in an uncanny silence, stony, uncomfortable. For some reason, one or two of the lights they passed by in the corridor flickered and then blew up; LaMarck took a deep breath and his jaw tightened slightly, as if that was somehow his fault, and it actually didn't happen again. He went for the papers first, then swallowed slowly and picked up the phone's receiver, dialing quickly.

"Solace? ... Yes. Is Claudia there? ... Has she called? Oh, of course, they'd all be there still. Could you meet me there as soon as you can?" There was a slow, hesitant pause, then the word came out as the only admission as to something being wrong. "Please?" A beat, just enough for him to get confirmation, perhaps, then he hang up.

He looked up at Patrick again, very quickly, then down to the name tag. "Thank you, Mr. Araro. Have an uneventful rest of your shift."

"Thanks, uh, should I call a cab or something?"

"No, thank you."

The slim man turned and walked away towards the exit upstairs. Something in his shoulders, in his walk, very different from how they had been when he walked in. Patrick stared at his back until he turned the corner, then shook his head, dreadlocks flying out as he flipped the music back up again. "Damned weirdos..."

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