Someone musta forgotten to tell Selene about the stages of depression, because she keeps flip-flopping between denial, bargaining and anger, with some threats thrown in. This at least proves she's got something like a brain in her noggin, and here I figured someone like her would be getting all hyped up once hearing about the Nightside.
Sure, most people don't get dragged there by their hair (not that she had anything left for me to drag her by), but usually, they stand slack-jawed for a bit before starting to yap about everything they're gonna do in a city where there are almost no laws, including natural ones.
Guess I see the appeal. Used to be a little shit, puff my chest out after pulling off some spell I made on the fly cuz I couldn't remember a real one. When you're born able to tell physics to go to the corner, you struggle to care about the rules people come up with. I suppose suddenly getting the power to ignore physics after decades of being human would make people even more reckless.
I look down-there aren't any real directions here, outside space, but the ideas are familiar, so they help keep me on track-as I walk towards the dark blot on the horizon, pockmarked with neon lights. The Nightside, with all the Timeslips leading into it, is sometimes harder to avoid than reach, but when you're heading to it? Place stays just out of reach for what feels like forever, just to be contrarian, or something.
Selene, who's hanging by a hair, much like her mental state, has gone quiet again. Which I love, don't get me wrong, but when she shuts up, she doesn't just stop ranting. She stops answering me too, no matter how many things I smack her mug into.
Least she's not trying to bite my fingers off again. After I tricked her into trying to sink her teeth into my Kissi hand (since the witch couldn't tell which was which with my gloves on) which a couple of 'em cracked after, she's switched to spitting. Easy enough to avoid, but seriously?
I roll my eyes at her shellshocked stare, which reminds me of that sad fuck I saw in the mirror after I first returned from Hell, and keep walking. Intent is more real than distance, here, and I'm getting bored of this stroll through nowhere; soon enough, we're halfway to the city.
Deciding to get in touch with my inner kid-not James, though he's way too bright-eyed for anyone my mental age-I flick Selene on the back of her head, then her forehead. She blinks after the first flick, but glares up at me after the second. I flash her a shit-eating grin and blow her a kiss. She doesn't groan, but I can practically hear it.
"What's got ya lookin' so glum, anyway?" I ask, in a tone so chipper anyone who knows me could tell I'm being sarcastic.
"Do not expect me to cower in the face of my impending death," she says, voice clipped. "I might not manage to get away; I've made my peace with it."
"Oh, but you don't get it, Selly," I say in a honeyed voice. "You're not gonna die. I mean, you couldn't, after being cut by the black blade, unless I let you, but even if you were a plain Jane, you wouldn't bite the dust. You kicking it ain't part of the plan."
Her glare turns disbelieving, then her eyes widen, as does my smirk. She's been in this business enough to know a smug asshat promising to leave you alive ain't a reason to be relieved.
After a few moments, she closes her eyes, muttering something unintelligible under her breath. Probably gibberish, or some sorta code, if I can't pick out the words. Then, she stops, and is just mouthing something. But I've never been good at reading lips, and to be honest, I can't be assed to care, so I deduce she's kissing her fantasies of bringing hubby back goodbye.
One lost husband, returned at the low, low cost of a few hapless sacrifices! Get him while he's cold!
* * *
The Oblivions are seating around a table in one of the Nightside's parks, one of the few debatably peaceful places in the noir shithole. They musta had their picnic already, since the table's empty and they seem to be expecting me when I show up. I bet it's less their detective skills and more Hadleigh pulling info outta his pasty cosmic ass.
I can't really see any of 'em suddenly wanting to skip through flower fields, Tommy in one of his weirder moods aside, so I bet this is a compromise. The ritzy trash heaps where the youngest Oblivion prefers to hang out are a bit much for either of his older brothers, Larry's offices would bring work to mind and not be neutral ground anyway, and the Deep School is obviously off-limits.
Tommy, the Existential Detective, is wearing some dandy wannabe's getup, with a flowy-sleeved shirt that stops just above his chest and pants that manage to look tight even on his skinny frame. They're a pair of those that stop just above the ankle, and, like every hipster to put on this outfit, he's got some of those socks that stop just below the ankle. I wanna clock the effete prick, on principle, and he hasn't even started yapping about the relativity of morals or whatever.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
His hair, pulled back in a ponytail, is brown but streaked with silver, and Tommy isn't that old, which means he's convinced reality he doesn't look like he used to, again. Probably trying to look distinguished, not that it'd work with clothes like these or a face without wrinkles. Least he ain't wearing those tiny round glasses that just perch on your nose, or my fist woulda slipped already.
Larry, the Dead Detective, is a pale zombie with a mop of straw blond hair, wearing a frown and the suit he was likely buried in. It's got enough pockets that I can't spot anything unusual, but I can feel the time-stopping magic of his fairy wand. Metaphysically, he's clutching it like I'd literally grab a gun, which proves Dash and Shirley didn't drop all their kids on their heads, just the runt. I'd be on edge around myself, too.
Hadleigh, Detective Inspectre, despite this being a pretty warm and humid park, is wearing his heavy black leather duster, and combat pants and boots of the same material. I wonder how many black sheep he had to shear for the sweater, and shut James down before he can use that as an analogy for Hadleigh's position as a Dark Academie teacher and his relationships with his students.
Hadleigh's leaning back into a chair balancing on its back legs when it should be falling, hands together in his lap. I notice we're the only souls in the park, and I use that term loosely. Wonder if any of them got rid of potential rubberneckers, or if people just fucked off seeing most of the Oblivion family in one spot.
Tommy rests his chin on his laced fingers, while Larry keeps trying to stare holes into me. It vaguely reminds me of Chalk, and that's just recent enough I want to punch his jaw off, too.
Looking away before he can piss me off further, I notice the photo in the middle of the table. The air ripples around it, the result of a magic trick meant to make it visible no matter how it's placed. Must be a recent family photo, because Hadleigh is present and looking like he has since he stopped being Walker. He's got this flat but intense look on his face, like he's daring the camera to try and make him blink, but I doubt it was dumb enough to.
In front of Hadleigh, who's standing in the background because he seems to loom over everyone, even in the photo, are his brothers and his parents. Dash, the former Continental Op, is a thin, bald old man, with a hooked nose and bushy white eyebrows, but don't let the geezer look fool you. He could probably kick my ass if I were only as dangerous as I look.
Shirley, his wife, is in her seventies but looks younger, thanks to her bright eyes and long, thick white hair. She used to be known as the Lady Phantasm, back when she and her husband traipsed around the world like a power couple outta some pulp magazine.
Hadleigh, when I get close enough to talk without having to scream so his brothers can follow, makes more of an effort to smile than he did for the photo. Still doesn't pull it off-he's got as much of a face for it as I do, and doesn't even need the scars-but the fact he's trying at all woulda been weird not too long ago.
He dips his chin at Selene, and says, "I see you're done, Stark. Why'd you bring her back like this, though?"
"She was too fat to carry," I lie easily, and Tommy laughs after staring briefly. His older brothers' mouths twitch, so I add, "You'd believe me if you'd been there. I'd have brought a photo, but she didn't fit." Like Larry's ego in theirs. His head is much bigger than that, really.
"I'm sure," Hadleigh says, tone casual enough I can tell his brothers know enough about the his line of work to understand what I do as Assistant Inspectre. "But you know what I mean."
I nod, pull myself a chair and sit down. With a hand, I toss the family photo to Larry, because he looks the dumbest holding it, and plop Selene down in its place. After a recounting of my walk through Chalk's stomping grounds, I say, "Obviously, the ritual is pointless. But we don't need the spell itself, just the idea of it, and the emotions associated with it."
The witch, who's been stubbornly quiet from the beginning, looks alarmed and tries to say something, but Hadleigh mimics zipping his mouth shut, and she's suddenly voiceless. Shaking his head at Larry, who was too slow in pulling out his wand to freeze her in time, he says, "What for?"
I shrug. "I'm a lazy bastard, was before learning from the best. Figure I can dump some of my workload on whatever unlucky son of a bitch I can trust." I'm being flippant, but the truth is, being unable to bring people who could help in a fight along because it would unbalance the multiverses is a pain in the ass. I already know a handful, and I've been scouting out more. Hell, just Taylor would've been usefl in helping me track Selene and her chucklefucks down.
I outline my plan, stumbling over my words at some points, because this isn't the sort of thing you can explain just by talking. The Oblivions get it, even if they can tell I'm fumbling. It isn't just about magic, or I could cobble together something on my own.
"You understand," Hadleigh says, running his hands over the witch's severed head like it's a crystal ball, "that this won't solve everything. Even if we tear her mind open so it can act like a beacon and a stabilising influence, purpose will still be necessary: going on a quest to stop monsters is one thing, calling Taylor over to get plastered is another."
I scoff. "Not out of drinking buddies, don't worry." As if I'd hang around Taylor's smarmy ass just to get hammered when it meant some eldritch turd could tear spacetime open because we were in the same universe. That'd just be more work.
He nods. "Very well. " Standing up, he takes the head in both hands, and by now, it's looking pale. I swear she's gotten a few new white hairs. "Tommy, Larry, I want you close by in case this goes worse than it probably will."