As if things hadnât already been bad enough within this waking hell, whatever those⊠those things were had taken Ian away to gods only knew where, and it was a ceaseless cesspool that Hal had been attempting to wade through in the effort to get the other man back. There remained a sinking level of sickness - nothing to do with whatever the fuck was even going on in this place, but something akin to mounting dread. Maybe hopelessness, maybe an ever looming despair, but he couldnât stop. He couldnât stop.
It didnât change the fact that the Cajun was but one man⊠one man completely and utterly thrown into a situation way over his head. He was no killer, no soldier. Even in self-defense he wasnât exactly the most thrilled when it came to taking the lives of these⊠were they even human anymore? Even if they werenât they had clearly once been.
A tremble shook through his body as he momentarily leaned against the side of the elevator, closing his eyes. There was blood there, left there, a mix of something between what he had fought through and his own - but he didnât care. He was so exhausted. How long had it even been? Hours? Days? Time seemed to stand still here, seemed to stretch on and on and on⊠and a person could only run on pure adrenaline for only so long before it took a toll on oneâs body. Lacerated fingers could barely even grip on the combat knife heâd found - he didnât even seem to notice that it had been damaged during the last struggle, the blade itself cracked half-way through and warping. He would have to find something else to use - whatever he could get his hands on.
There was a stuttered, a jolt of the rusted elevator finally stopping, and Hal lurched himself away from the wall and forward⊠intending to finally head out. Keep moving, keep moving, keep going until he found him..
Of course there was nothing that couldâve prepared him for the suddenness of the attack. Heâd seen the Haunted of course, and from a distance heâd seen other things than those, but nothing had yet moved with quite this speed. Almos tin desperation that damaged blade was lifted upward to try to parry, to awkwardly fend off the downward swing of that axe, even as his adrenaline pumped body jackknifed his weight backwards⊠slamming him hard against the once more closed door of the elevator.
However then the attack.. stopped? It stopped and the other person - a person,a n actual person! - spoke and there was a sound akin to a deflating tire from Hal as he slid down the down to settle on his ass, back against it and utterly headless of what blood and grime heâd left in his wake. A laugh shook him momentarily, an utterly mirthless sound, before he shook his head. âYâknow gotta say..â Despite how low the drawl was the Cajun was still unable to hide the utter shake of shock that was still within it. â⊠despite everythinâ Iâve seen someone apologizinâ for nearly loppinâ my fuckinâ head off is the oddest thing tâhappen all day.â
Joseph expected some sort of back-lash, perhaps even a weapon raised towards him, but hearing the gentleman laugh in relief was a different out-come altogether. Truth be told, being on the brink of death and ultimately surviving the experience tended to draw out different reactions from people; Joseph was quite familiar with that type of emotional roller-coaster. This gentleman was probably grateful for avoiding an imminent beheading, simple as, and Joseph shared the feeling. Huffing out a sound of disbelief, the detective made his way back to the over-turned desk and perched himself on the edge, letting the axe dangle by his side. It was a situation he hadnât faced before, and it was difficult to decide what to do next. Hearing the stranger talk brought the detective back to reality, reminding him that he wasnât the only one in the room having a short-lived crisis.
âI donât normally greet people that way, if you can believe that.â Joseph returned, trying to make light of the situation. At least, he wanted to add, not the normal looking ones. However, the words were left unsaid after he reminded himself that he believed the gentleman was Haunted. He was convinced that was the case, but...this place was playing tricks on his mind. For a split second, the glow of white eyes and decomposing, bloodied skin greeted him as he chanced a glance over the desk -- but he was wrong. Within the space of seconds, he intended to kill another man attempting to survive this hellish world, the true appearance of his target revealing itself immediately.
The sensation was horribly familiar. Everything around him warped, objects distorted and people blurred; a fog slowly enveloping his mind until he could no longer think straight, or rationally. Once he came back to himself, he would feel sluggish and disorientated, memories failing to bring up a reminder of the events. During that moment, as he raised the axe, Joseph had forgotten where he was. All he was focused on was destroying the Haunted, but the result never came. Instead, he was left with a feeling of dread -- wondering why he was so convinced of what he was seeing. Insistent, almost, that it wasnât a hallucination.
Staring at the gentleman, however, Joseph knew that he was real. That much he was sure of.Â
âRegardless, itâs...great to see another person here,â the detective continued, grateful for the chance to speak with the living. Even simply being in the presence of somebody else was enough to make Joseph happy. Funny, back home, he preferred the peace - to be left alone - but he longed for the company of another soul in here. Desperate, even. The more he was left alone, the quicker his grip on reality slipped away, knowing that there was nobody there to keep him grounded. Nobody to tell him that things werenât real, especially. âIâm starting to get fed up of seeing the same...grotesque faces every where I go.â But they were unavoidable, and Joseph knew that. He was positive that, if he ever escaped from this place, those faces would haunt his dreams for years to come.
Adjusting his somewhat skewed glasses, Joseph managed to fully assess the gentleman, taking in his over-all appearance; he was sure that he didnât look particularly smart, himself. His work uniform was ruined beyond repair; white, pristine shirt torn and marked, tie devoid of its bright colour, whilst his waistcoat and trousers were soaked with goodness-knows-what. No amount of scrubbing was going to get that out. Nevertheless, everyone had their own story, and Joseph wondered what kind of Hell this man had gone through. What he wondered most of all, however, was whether he was on his own. He had Sebastian, after all...somewhere.
âCan I ask -- were you brought here alone?â There was an attempt to sound casual, but it ended up being formal. Years of interrogating suspects gifted him with a certain tone, where even the most innocent of questions sounded like an accusation. Realising just that, the detective cleared his throat in a somewhat shameful manner, âSorry -- I mean...are you on your own? I have a partner, but heâs disappeared somewhere. Iâve been trying to find him here.â Unsuccessfully, he thought forlornly. Â
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