//------------------------------// // When a Righteous Man Sheds Blood in Hell... // Story: Starlight Over Detrot: The Detection Chronicles // by Daemon McRae //------------------------------// (Author’s Note: I’m warning you now, this chapter is the closest thing to bumping the story up to an M rating I will get. I might actually change this later on, but for now, you’ve been warned.) Chapter 6: When a Righteous Man Sheds Blood in Hell... We call them atrocities simply because the mortal tongue has not conceived of their true nature yet. These beings that walk in our skin. These monsters that act and move as we do. That they breathe and think like we is an affront to nature, yet we cannot discern them from the common folk. Not, at least, until they decide to reveal their true colors. Colors that, should they ever be painted, used to portray, would make the soul weep till it drowned within its vessel. ~Excerpt from “Mind Over Madness”, by Truer Words ----- If there was one thing he could change about his process, it would be the screaming. Loathe the screaming. The cacophony of torturous cries and pleas for release, for freedom, for death, were naught but static and distractions to him. The only thing that drowned them out, he’d found, was music. Simple, classical music. Of course, he detested classical. His mother had made sure of that. But listening to it, seething in the viscous rage it welled up within him, drowned out all else. Except, of course, his work. His work was all-important, and nothing could distract him from that. He wouldn’t allow it. There was simply too much to do. And so, it was with this mindset that he set about his tasks. Organizing his tools. Preparing his room. Securing his canvas. Of course, it wasn’t his room. Not in the legal sense. But every room he stepped in was his. Simply for him being there, he owned it. Commanded it. It was his and his alone to control, to abuse, to craft as he saw fit. He’d had much practice in the art of making a place his. It was even becoming easy. And that wouldn’t do. Ease meant complacency. Which led to arrogance. And sloppiness. He could never allow himself to make a mistake. And so, with each new place he made his own, he did so with higher stakes. More risk, more focus. He could never let himself grow dull, sloppy. Like his tools. They must always be sharp, neat, organized. Ready. He must always be ready. His canvas hadn’t even woken up yet. A rather nice reprieve which allowed him just a few more moments to prepare. Of course, all good things must come to an end, and soon, she woke. Although she didn’t scream. He took a moment to admire that. Few of them had... whatever it was they had that kept them sane long enough not to scream when they woke up. He honestly didn’t care. But it was rare, and he always appreciated rarity. Especially when it was his. Oh yes, she was his. She didn’t ask where she was. She recognized the space soon enough. Although it wasn’t her space anymore. She still knew it. She didn’t ask who he was, either. He never wore a mask. Never had to. All of the preparation he’d done made sure of that, too. Seeing a masked colt turning you into a work of art in front of your very eyes was certainly the thing of nightmares. But then again, he wasn’t doing any of this to scare them. And they certainly weren’t going to dream any of this later. They could thank whatever inane deity they wanted for that. Her first question, surprisingly, was the most intelligent she could have asked: “Why?” Not with any kind of sadness. No disappointment. There was no plead in her voice. Only anger. Anger at being tied down, being helpless. Anger at knowing what was about to happen, and being able to do nothing about it. Anger at quite a great many things, possibly. He loved it when they asked why. Because, for all the work he did, few understood him. And he was more than happy to explain himself. “Because this city has become nothing more or less than a malicious beast on the horizon of civilization. Spreading itself, pushing its limits and influence as far as it possibly can. And then defying all reason by going even further. Whispers of its evil live in the minds of ponies around the world. Good, decent folk are forced to stare at its hideous visage with every blink of an eye. It has become a great beast and blight upon the landscape which must be slain for the rest of the world to thrive.” He spun around, a small blade in his hoof, and stared at her intently. “And how does one slay a monster? By climbing to the head and cutting it off? Nay, more would simply grow back. A beast greater than any hydra, it is. And how would one so small as we topple such an enormous abomination from our lowly stance on the ground, while it looms over us? Why, it must be cut down! By the ankles, first. Then the knees, as it falls to them. Then we cut the wrists as it crawls on all fours. We drain it of everything it is, and cut out what matters. Then, only then, once the great beast is bloody, lying in its own fluids and twitching on the ground, can the head truly be severed.” In less than a blink he was inches from her face. She growled at him, but didn’t flinch. He half expected her to snap at him, try and bite him. But she stayed still, and listened. Like a proper canvas. “And you! I have cut the ankles, the knees. You, who are part of the right hand of the monster! I shall sever you like the diseased appendage you have let yourself become. Surely you’ve seen what I’ve done to your friend? Yes. There are more of you yet to come. You shall not be alone in whatever life you lead once I take this one from you. You could say it’s not even your life, now. It belongs to me. For I claim what I have earned. This place, it is mine now. It shall not stay that way, for I am not a greedy stallion. No, it shall be returned to you, once I am done. Of course, once I am done, there won’t be anything left of you to claim it.” He held the knife to her shoulder, carefully, against a dotted line he’d traced earlier. Precision. Nothing could be more important. “And do try not to scream. I absolutely detest Beethooven.” Her eyes widened as the blade drew into her shoulder, the line turning from a dotted black to a sliver of red. He smiled as the blood slowly oozed out. There would be no spilled blood, unless he wanted it. The drugs would make sure of that. He reminded himself that, for all her apparent courage, she couldn’t move if she’d wanted to. The coagulant and cognitive suppressants would ensure neat, clean cuts and little resistance. He continued to trace, as her expression hardened into that of pain and fear. Still, she held her tongue. Possibly trying to bite it off. Of course, he’d thought of that, too. Metal spring-clamps in her mouth kept her from biting down. Just enough wiggle room to say simple words. Vowels, mostly. Tracing was the easy part. The lines were laid out to make simple, uncomplicated patterns that could be followed carefully, but with ease. There were certain things he couldn’t afford to risk. His art was of the utmost importance. Yes, the beast must die, but he could not allow a thing so grand and terrible to die in anything less than absolute beauty. She’d been quiet for a while, which had surprised him. Looking back up at her face, he noticed she’d passed out from shock. She was still bleeding, so she wasn’t dead quite yet. She couldn’t die, not too quickly. He didn’t need her to live quite as long as the last one, but certain things are easier to do when the blood is fresh. For a time, the only sounds were the soft tearing of flesh, the slow breathing of the canvas, and the subtle noises of movement and breath he himself made. But soon enough, with patience and practice, the first step was done. The easiest step. She was traced, and now, to transform. Across the room, set out on their own little table, were several rather thick patches of paper. Quite a bit of writing on each of them, and each carefully measured and cut. But it wasn’t quite time for those yet, he reminded himself. There were more steps. The pieces of her he’d 'traced’ left large patches of skin laying over muscle. He put down his tracing knife, and pulled a longer, thinner one off the table. With it, the next step. Taking blade to flesh, he slowly separated the marked patches of skin from her muscle tissue. Had she been awake, she most certainly would have died of shock, then and there. But he’d taken precautions to keep her alive just as long as he needed to. Each time, he marveled at the power of modern chemical advances, the sheer ingenuity of medicinal chemistry. But only for a moment. He had to focus. With each patch he removed, he then took a small bucket, and let the blood drain into it. Using the knife to guide the unusually thick blood from her flesh, he carved and spilled until the bucket was full and she was ready for the next step. He’d noticed, near the end, that she’d stopped breathing. And the blood was coming much slower, in some places, not at all. At least she hadn’t screamed. He had enough blood, anyway. And the next step was made that much easier with her passing. A needle and thread. That’s what he needed. And the paper. But first, wipe down the exposed muscle. Clean it carefully, lovingly. Not like the last canvas. The emotions were far too different. Last time he had wanted rage. Pain. Anger. Now, he demanded respect. Solemnity. Patience. They would remember her. Stitch by stitch, thread by thread. How did that old song go? Each patch wove itself perfectly. Measures. Treated. Calculated. Everything was exactly how he’d planned it. It always was. Soon, she was the picture he’d seen in his mind. The canvas was now a vibrant painting, a visual masterpiece to be beheld and understood. To be remembered, and revisited. Now, the floor. The blood. And the brush. He’d made it out of her hair. He thought she would have liked that. Or hated it. Either would have amused him. But neither were important. What was important was the floor. Getting the strokes right. The detail. With only one color to work with, the image must stand out in and of itself, without leaning on the crutch of polychromatic expression. One color, was all he needed. A white floor. A perfect blank slate. Red paint stood out brilliantly, violently against the white. The patterns were intricate. No simple message. No easy clues, like the last time. The last time, it was about brutality. Blatant, and obvious violence. A message. This was a masterpiece to be deciphered and coveted. When it was done. Each stroke welled up within him a sense of pride as he saw each piece of the whole come together. Soon enough, it was done, too. Just like he’d imagined. Exactly as he saw it. He positioned his canvas over the floor, the brush in her hoof, as if she had given out trying to draw the last few strokes. Every inch of him burned to finish the work himself, but as he stood back, to admire the whole, not the parts, the total sum of his creation, he knew it to be perfect. To be beautiful. He knew it to be complete. ---- This was the most gruesome crime scene I’d ever come across. No sooner had I gotten back to my office with Longarm than we got a call about another dead body. Now, I’d never met the mare before, but you better bucking believe I knew who she was. Absolutia. Drawing a blank? Take a look at your coin purse. You see those nice little bits in it? Those pretty, shiny things? How about that bank account full of them? The one you’d been stuffing your chump change into, calling it savings? Yeah. She owns that. Or did. Absolutia was the highest on the totem pole of the biggest bank in Detrot: Equestria First National. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even NEED initials in her title, but she had them. Because she could. Now, while the Princesses are in charge of government funding, and the national treasury, somepony has to make sure that all those bits you feel would be safer in a vault than under your pillow get there. That was her. She owned everything from bank accounts to real estate to her own PMC organization. If it required money, you better believe she had it. Even her apartment screamed money. I couldn’t being to describe the place without sounding like an advertisement for every Fancee decorating company in the world all at once. Chandeliers, private everything, white marble tile flooring. The woman probably bled money. At least, I used to think so. Now that I could see her blood, well, you get the idea. “Spy, what the buck are we doing here?” Paperweight’s voice behind me was distraught and muffled by the hoof over her mouth. “Because the sick as sin wackjob that killed Barrel is more than likely to have killed Absolutia. And we need all the clues we can get. Don’t forget, this guy has three other bodies he’s claiming to have done up and nopony’s accredited them to him. If I can put together the whole list maybe I can find out who the next four are.” My talent for exposition never fails me. “I know all that. I mean what are we doing here? We follow around unfaithful spouses. We bust people for insurance fraud. We track down little old ladies that walked away from home and halfway through an Alzheimer’s attack find themselves in the middle of the park re-enacting the Crusades. Not... this!” She waved her hoof at the... display. There was really no other word for it. Then she put her hoof back over her mouth. The smell was something awful. Thankfully I’d thought to tie a bandana around my face when I came in. You could smell it from down the hall. I turned to her. “Look, Paperweight, you’re a sweetheart. And I’m not going to say I don’t need you here. But I’m also not going to say that you have to be here. If you can’t, or don’t want to, deal with this, I won’t make you.” She looked at me, then at the body, and the ‘art’ surrounding it. “You don’t fight fair, Spy.” “You’re right, I don’t,” I said as I smiled. I knew she was going to stay. I turned my attention back to the display. It was full of characters I didn’t recognize, and wasn’t complete. It looked like Absolutia had stopped right before the end. Although I could tell it was just posing. No way a pony could do all of this with their last dying breaths. Not with all of that work done on them. I walked away for a moment and tracked down a pegasus with a camera, taking pictures of the room. “Hey, kid. What’s your name?” He really was a kid. A few years younger than me, and that’s saying something. “Featherfall. CSI photographer. What can I do for you?” he spoke like he expected everyone else here was in a position to give him orders. And technically speaking, I was. “How good are you with that camera?” He smiled. “I don’t miss a thing, sir.” ‘Sir’. The way he said it unironically made me smile despite myself. “Alright. You’ve photographed a DB before, right?” I pointed to Absolutia’s body. He looked over my shoulder, and nodded. “Enough times. I’m good for it.” “Great. Now, we can’t move her yet, but I want as many and as detailed pictures of her as you can get. Exactly as she is. The artwork, the... patches, all of it. I want it panoramic.” I gestured to different parts of the scene as I spoke, if nothing else to be moving. A lot of nervous energy. This whole corpse thing was still just a little new to me. He saluted, and flew over to hover above the paintings and corpse, his camera flashing like crazy. Paperweight trotted up to me, if only to get further away from the body. “What are you thinking, boss?” I looked at her, then at the scene. “This took almost as much, if not more, work than the last scene. But it’s much more complicated, in it’s own way. A lot more information to process. The last one was a basic word puzzle. Meant for attention. To bring the situation into focus. This is about depth. A much broader, more detailed puzzle. And I don’t want to miss any of it.” Longarm walked up beside me, and watched the pegasus take pictures. “He’s gonna go far, that one.” His attention turned to me. “Spy, I appreciate you... not touching anything. I don’t want to sound snooty, or bossy, because I don’t think you deserve it. But I also think that you’re doing your best to minimize your contact with everything, and it’s making our jobs a lot easier. That may not be your intent, but it certainly helps. And having a new set of eyes with a knack for details is a huge help. But I have to ask, how do you know this is one of ours?” I’d been waiting for one of them to ask me that. I whipped out the journal, in it’s little plastic evidence bag, and handed it to Longarm. “Page 78, line 5.” “...AA at 5/6 M? The hell does that mean?” Longarm looked more puzzled than I had been upon first reading it. “I haven’t figured out the 5/6 M part, although I’m sure it’s going to smack me in the face when I do. But the AA, and the BRS below it? They’re names. AA is Absolutia. As soon as somepony said her name it clicked.” I started walking back to the corpse, giving the actual body a once over. She had been pretty, once. Paperweight called from behind me, “But what makes you think they’re related cases?” I didn’t turn around. Something about the patches bothered me. They were dark from blood and thicker than some materials I’d seen, but something was familiar about them. “Not sure yet. Still working on the details. But the guy's tendency toward extravagantly designed setpieces is unmistakable.” Longarm walked around me to the other side of the painting. “Ok, I’ll give you that. We certainly don’t have any other over-dramatic homicidal psychopaths on the loose. At least, I bucking hope not.” “There’s always somepony out there,” Paperweight muttered. She was right. This city would never be done killing ponies. I leaned in as close as I dared to a patch on her shoulder. Something... I thought I could make out words. “Notice... notice for? No... notice of... for...” “Notice of forfeiture,” said a voice above me. I looked up to see Featherfall looking solemnly down at the body. When he noticed me staring, he added, “My mom got one not too long ago. Lost her house. Not something you forget somepony handing you.” I nodded to him, sparing him the ‘I’m sorry’ that he didn’t need. Looking back over the rest of her body, or as much as I could as she lay, I saw the rest of her was covered in the same notices. Paperweight could see my cogs turning, it seemed. She’d finally bucked up and walked over. “What’s going on in that head, Spy?” I pointed at the patches. “Notices of forfeiture, like the kid... like Featherfall said. It’s another message.” Longarm perked up. “What kind?” I sighed, realizing the implications. “He’s saying her body isn’t hers anymore. She belongs to him now. He owns her. These... it’s like branding.” Paperweight put a hoof to her mouth again, and ran out of the room. I let her go. She needed it.