closed starter: philippe + genevieve / @noircurator
location: museum of the city of new york
philippe didn't announce himself. he waited until the gallery quieted before approaching, stopping a few steps behind her, close enough to register the familiar line of her neck "you kept the lights low" he calmly said, remarking on her curatorial choice "i like it better this way. it lets the details breathe"
when she turned, he met her gaze without flinching "ça fait longtemps, geneviève" he said with a soft nod of his head "this won't take long. i just wanted to clarify the new structure with you directly" a beat "i've taken samar's former role. that means, professionally, i'm your underboss now. operational matters, approvals, and escalation run through me. you'll retain autonomy in your daily work activities and any previous agreements you had with mr burman. anything else leaves this building with my consent"
philippe shifted his weight, an attempt to release the tension in his shoulders "we're aligned now, whether we like the symmetry or not. i just want to make sure the work runs clearly, and that you have what you need"
closed starter from josh for gene belcher !! @kindnesspvnk
“hey, uh-” josh scrunches up his nose, wiping the crumbs lazily from the side of his mouth. “you want a sandwich? it wouldn’t stop,” he motions to the pile of stacked up bread and condiments sat on the bench before him. “dunno why, but- they’re good.”
Murphy groaned, thoughts trailing after the stinging ache of his face. He reached up to trail his fingers over the pain, picking out grazes and bruises as the source without the convenience of his mirror. He gasped aloud as pain shot through his arm when he moved it, before biting the inside of his mouth to lock that down. He opened his eyes to darkness, well aware that it wasn’t going to help him feel any less shitty. It was cramped and pitch black – judging by his positioning, he was in a car trunk. Sadly, the explanation came in the form of a memory of what he hoped was only the night before.
He kissed Gene goodnight as he shrugged his jacket on, striding out of her house. As much as he wanted to stay – as he often did, these days – Rita had called, needing to consult in person over something. So he left, begrudgingly, lingering beside his motorcycle as he checked one of the many phones he kept on his person at all times. Her house was secure, fenced off in an upper class neighbourhood, the sort of place where people felt safe wondering around at night; it was for this reason he didn’t pay attention to the footsteps he heard behind him until they were too close.
He turned as he pulled his gun, only to be greeted with a metal pipe to the face.
The blow was well made, and it knocked him down despite his training. The training and common sense he clung to was enough to keep a grip on the gun; he fired a shot at the target but he knew he didn’t hit. Several more blows rained down on him, and he heard Gene’s voice. Had he not been knocked out cold at that moment, he’d have yelled out.
Genevieve was the target, obviously. No one would stalk Gene’s location if they were actually after him as the principle target. She locked her door, armed herself, and called the cops; it accomplished nothing. The police in this neighbourhood were awful at responding to anything at all; a boy had been murdered (well, he’d disappeared, but Murphy knew better) nearly twelve months earlier and just before that one of the inhabitants had been accused of entrapment and rape – he didn’t have a lot of faith in the police in general, which went without saying.
The door cracked open within seconds, and although she managed to drop one of the men, she lost her cool as more came at her. She panicked and kept shooting, missing twice and only grazing someone with her last shot. The clip ran out, and the men were able to grab her. Of course she screamed and made a fuss, hoping it’d get one of the neighbours to show up and interfere.
It didn’t work, and it took less than a minute for them to bind her arms and gag her, dragging her outside. They tossed her into the trunk of their car, followed by Murphy’s limp form; he was heavier than her, driving a muffled protest from her gagged mouth. Sadly, it wasn’t particularly comforting.
In the present moment, he rolled onto his back and felt around gingerly, somewhat glad they hadn’t bothered to bind him in their haste to get her out. He had to check, but he was certain Gene wasn’t there anymore; he’d been in and out of consciousness for some time and had felt her breathing. More recently, he thought he’d felt her fingers digging around in his pockets, trying to find something to cut her binds. He was proud of her for that, for all the good it did them.
He found his pocket knife wedged in the side of the trunk, and he frowned at it for a while before he was sure the darker spots weren’t a trick of the lack of lighting. Pulling it from the lining, he could feel the sticky semi-dried substance stick to his fingers – knew it was blood, even if he couldn’t see it. He flipped it shut and continued his near-blind exploration of the trunk, eventually finding one of his phones. The sigh he gave was one of relief as he turned it on, blinking against the blue light banishing the darkness. He confirmed the blood on the knife, keeping it closed for the moment, and examined his surroundings. Gene’s binds were under his leg; she’d gotten free, he thought, and based on the spatter across him and the fabric, she’d stabbed whatever unlucky fuck had opened the trunk. The amount on his shirt had him wondering if it was arterial, and he was sadistic enough to hope it was. Serves them right, he thought resentfully, repressing worry for what they might have done to get back at Gene.
He needed to get the fuck out of there. He scanned the lining of the trunk, searching for the release it’d have if it was made recently enough – and – damn. Even in the light of the phone, all he could see were the frayed edges of the cord that used to be here for this purpose. Not amateurs, then, he noted in annoyance. He manoeuvred his body until he could get at the drivers side of the trunk more easily, flipping open the pocket knife and hacking at the panelling until he revealed the wires he wanted. He tugged them until the trunk popped open, took a deep breath and kicked at it until it opened wider, knife raised and prepared to stab a bitch if there happened to be one around.
He wouldn’t need to, he saw, taking in the disappointing lack of people around him. He was in a scrap yard, one cast in blurred shapes as he squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to natural sunlight. It was too bright for Port Lyndon, but the place would’ve been familiar even if he hadn’t seen the sign over the top of a nearby scrap pile. Blacklight’s Scrap Yard. He’d never been overly fond of Blacklight, not used to the weather usually being clear or cloudy at worst, and even less taken with the neon signs everywhere. He’d been there a few times before, but – fuck, was he ever a ways from home now.
He swallowed his pride and dialled Rita’s number, lifting his phone to his ear. Blacklight was on the same coast as Port Lyndon, but further inland, dependent on trains instead of the port; that it was light out meant he’d been out all night, as it wasn’t far enough away to be in another timezone. There was a casino Rita didn’t trust and a roaring drug trade, and he had absolutely no idea who he could trust, not when he worked in Port Lyndon only. He needed to figure out what had happened, and, more importantly, where Gene was. He moved around the car to peer inside, checking for clues, and was completely aware any onlookers would have seen his face fall – Gene’s clothes were stuffed in the window. His disappointment and fear took a backseat as his anger mounted, and he ripped the door open without checking for company.
There were bloods on the clothes, he noted as he moved them. It wasn’t a lot, thank fuck, but bad enough that he was absolutely not about to second guess ripping the people who caused this to shreds. The dashboard of the car was littered with cigarettes and cigars, clearly jabbed out right against the plastic. The interior reeked, the steering wheel was filthy – the vehicle enthusiast he harboured was disgusted by the treatment of any vehicle, even a sack of shit like this – but from the trash all over the floor he could guess that this was a result of long-term surveillance. Over a month, he’d guess, but wouldn’t know exact numbers unless he counted out the take-out trash, and he wasn’t about to do that; it wouldn’t actually do him any good to know who’d bothered to commit long-term resources, not when he needed to get moving.
“Murphy? Where the hell are you? What did you do?” Rita’s tone came sharp even in her concern, and he recognised the ring of frustration in her voice. She didn’t approve of Gene, thought it was selfish of Murphy to involve an innocent in their business. But that tone – he knew her well enough she was getting as close to caring as she ever allowed herself to.
“What did I do?” he echoed, turning the question back on her. She couldn’t see it, but he raised a brow at the dashboard as he dug through the glovebox.
“Your girlfriends parents are on the news – there’s a dead body in her house of some guy, she’s missing, and when they called you – news says you told them they’d better get ready to pay up if they ever want to see their daughter again.”
He grimaced; that – that would explain why he was missing three phones. One of them must have been the pink one he kept as a personal; he hid it better than the others, usually – he’d been fiddling with it outside her place, though, if he remembered right (fuck, he thought venomously; they’d have Jenna’s number, and Gene’s, and her parents; he was going to have to let Jenna, at least, know she ought to change her number, lest she get some disturbing calls). They were setting him up for this, and Gene’s idiot celebrity parents were probably buying it hook, line, and sinker; hopefully on their own merit and not just for pity from the press. It’d probably be made even worse by the local cops, constantly looking for evidence to get him on considering he always ended up off the hook, back when he used to get caught more often. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not in Kansas anymore, he thought, sarcastic and grim.
“You know I wouldn’t hurt her, Rita, not for connections and not for money. I’m gonna need someplace to go, contacts, if you trust me. I’m in Blacklight, and I’m cleaned out. I got nothing on me.” At least the gun they’d stolen was illegal, impossible to trace back to him. If they were dumb enough to use it, best luck, some inter-city cooperation might take some of these assholes down for the shit he’d pulled last Thursday. Wouldn’t that be a gift, he thought, not optimistic enough to even think about hoping for it.
Rita’s sigh was one of exasperation, but she rattled off a name and address he’d never so much as heard mention of. Lazarus. She hung up to call whoever the hell he was being sent to, preparing them for contact.
Her hanging up coincided with Murphy finding a stack of photos in the glovebox, buried under yet more trash. The photos weren’t useful, really, only confirming his theory that she’d been watched for months at least, and making his anger grow. He was annoyed at them, for daring to do this, and at himself for missing it. In his frustration, he almost missed the only useful clue in the car, trapped in the pages of a stack of photos.
A single blue ticket. It was better than nothing – especially as he knew exactly where it was from.
Genevieve had put up one hell of a fight when she’d been dragged out of the trunk.
It hadn’t been enough, though, and she couldn’t get away – she’d taken out two of the men all told, one in her house, and one when she sliced his throat as thanks for him opening the trunk for her. The other two had overpowered her far too quickly for her liking, but she kept right on fighting. She took morbid pride in seeing she’d roughed them up a bit, beating them a bit, cutting them with her high heel – she’d stabbed the knife into the lining of the trunk in the hopes that it’d be useful to Murphy when he came to (if he comes to, a part of her thought, but she ignored it) – and clawing them with nails she’d heard called too long countless times, leaving a deep gash in one of their necks.
They hadn’t expected her to fight so much, but they’d learned better now, and bound her at the wrists and elbows. They were done tightly enough that she could barely feel her fingers, let alone her hands, all of it made numb as her circulation suffered. The same went for her loud mouth – she didn’t know what was actually in her mouth, but whatever it was, it tasted the way kerosene smelt, and tasted of dirt, and she couldn’t move her jaw no matter how hard she tried, her screaming muffled enough that nobody was going to hear her.
She grimaced at her appearance. They’d ripped off her glittery dress at some point, much to her disgust (they’d seen her close to naked, leaving her in her underwear, and she knew she was lucky for that little modicum of respect), replaced it with a hideous plain getup that couldn’t be called an outfit. The oversized sweater drowned her, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, and they hadn’t bothered to give her something as decent as a pair of jeans. She thought some rather unkind things in t heir directions, struggled as much as she could when the man she’d injured twice – grazed with the bullet from the gun, and then almost killed with her stiletto heel – grabbed her by the back of her neck. He dragged her into the bathroom and shoved her to the floor, looming over her with a smirk.
“Look pretty for the camera, bitch,” he ordered, his voice sounding like the ash tray he stank of. The pink phone Murphy used as a personal one looked out of place in his hand, more than it did in Murphy’s, and she heard the camera click as he took a picture of her. Heard, because she refused to look, averting her gaze and scowling at the disgusting tiles. He turned and slammed the bathroom door behind him on his way out, leaving her alone.
It was better that way, she thought, nothing but relieved to be alone again.
It took time, with the scrap yard being such a fucking maze, but Murphy figured out where the exit was eventually. A few of the workers stared at him, either because he looked like shit or because they couldn’t recall him coming into the place – whatever the reason, apparently they knew better than to ask questions, because they left him alone. He figured they were paid not to. He kept his gaze up, refusing to be caught off guard again, but glanced down whenever he thought his phone buzzed. Whichever bloody minion Rita had put on phone duty had texted him a series of screenshots of the newest updates, aware his burners didn’t typically have reliable data access; he was presented with a photo of a bruised Gene. He sighed in relief, in spite of his outrage: yes, she was tied up and clearly fucking miserable, but she was alive, and that was what mattered, for now. They’d told her parents they wanted money, and he figured it was the truth; if it wasn’t, if this was a long con that’d end in death anyway, he was going to lose his shit and damn the consequences, damn Rita being too far out of reach to help now.
His anger continued to mount as the walk went on. He was bruised to hell, battered like no goddamned immortal back in Port Lyndon could relate to, and every step shot pain up his limbs, new and old injuries alike flaring up. The walk was long enough that his anger cooled to a simmering, driving force, enough to keep him going but not burning hot enough to make him stupid and reckless – well, any more than usual. It also granted the brilliant benefit of making the pain less distracting, numbing it behind a wall of anger.
He spent the trip brooding, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. He was right there, and yet Genevieve had been in danger anyway. She’d trusted him with her safety, whether she’d made the conscious decision to or not, and he’d slipped up – been stupid and distracted and let his goddamn guard down, and now he was in Blacklight, a place he couldn’t fucking stand, and she would be, too. He didn’t even know if she’d ever been in this neon-drenched pit before, but if she hadn’t, she was about to get her damn fill. He worried that her parents might not play along – these fucks were professional, enough to know to disconnect the internal trunk release, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they tortured her.
After far too long alone with his thoughts, he found the right apartment block, heading upstairs quickly. He found the door to this ‘Lazarus’ open already, tensing still more to find a group of total strangers lurking in the hallway. They were in the business, somehow or other, he figured out pretty quickly – it was obvious, when a couple of them pulled guns on them. He sighed, frustrated with the hold-up, and raised his hands.
“Let him in,” called a male voice from the apartment. Murphy let his hands fall, relieved to be hurried along, directed to where the source of the orders was seated. The guy looked thirty at most, blue-streaked black hair dragged into an intricate braid at the top, then into a loose ponytail at the back. His stubble was rough and messy, something beyond a five o’clock shadow but not thick enough to be a beard, and the man himself was at least as heavily tattooed as Asher from back home, ink visible on his arms, chest, and legs. His black shirt was half unbuttoned, and the jeans had enough holes in them to be classified as rags; dressed like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be classy or ‘cool’ by street standards. His eyes were green and Murphy could fucking swear they were glowing as they assessed him, pulling himself to his feet in a slow, languid motion before he folded his arms with a slow smile.
“Rita told me you need some guns. Looks like you could use some stitches too, Love.” There was nothing really flirtatious in it, just gentle affection, and Murphy blinked in surprise as the man shifted some paperwork from a nearby table, producing a first-aid kit. Unfortunately, his surprise dimmed his anger further, and the pain flared up, and Murphy grimaced at the man who was only smiling at him. The man – Lazarus, he supposed – waited until Murphy decided to either trust him or put up with the delay provided by medical care, looking on with a warm smile as Murphy reluctantly sat on the couch. Murphy let him stitch the wound, but only after an extensive internal debate that essentially declared he would be no good to Gene if he bled out due to his own impatience. Lazarus explained as he worked, all gentle hands; “I owe Rita, so whatever you need is yours, Love.”
“Um, thanks,” Murphy started, before managed to repress the pain, bring the anger back up, and mount a return to the dry directness he was known for back home. “I need a couple guns, a vehicle – a bike would be good, unless I... oh. And I might need a couple bodies, depending.” Lazarus finished stitching up the wound on his head, covering it with a bandage and heading to a dresser on the side.
The man produced a range of pistols and some stored ammunition, handed over a couple, supervising as Murphy shoved the various weapons into the holsters he kept on his person. “Tell the girl at the door – the one in red – that you’re going out back. She’ll show you what we have. There’re a couple motorcycles, a few cars.” He paused, digging in his pocket to drag a wallet out; with that amount of holes, Murphy was sort of surprised it was still in the place he expected. He was more surprised when a wad of large bills was offered to him. “You’re going to need money to get anywhere in this city. Trust me.”
It took an eternity, but Gene finally pulled herself to her feet. She let herself lean against the barred window, mostly because she’d seen some sharp edges on those bars. It would take another eternity, but she set about rubbing her wrists back and forth against it, slicing into the skin as she tried to line it up to cut the rope. Finally, finally, her wrists stopped picking up regular new scratches, and she felt the rope start to cut.
But she could hear them swearing in the other room. They had a plan to frame Murphy, and that was what was going to screw them over – and, by extension, Gene.
Her parents had a lot of faith in the law, and however ready they were to believe Murphy was the sort of person who’d kidnap their daughter and hold her for ransom, they had to have some faith that he’d turn himself over to the police given the right incentive; after all, they knew Gene had seen something in him. And because they trusted the police, because the police thought it was Murphy and claimed they knew exactly who they were looking for, because her parents thought only someone with a shred of human decency and no inclination to screw over his targets could charm their daughter the way Murphy had so thoroughly charmed her – her parents were hesitating on the payment. Their voices dropped in volume as they argued about what to do, and Gene was forced to the realisation that she wouldn’t be able to do much even if she was free – not yet. Maybe not at all. She sat back down with a sigh, her binds a little slacker with the rope frayed, and closed her eyes against the tears stinging them.
When she’d last seen Murphy, he’d been unconscious in the trunk, a dead weight on top of him. She’d pushed him off of her as much as she could after she’d gone through his pockets, more so when she’d felt the car come to a stop. She’d launched into an attack the second the trunk opened, inexpertly slit the throat of the first man to come within reach. She’d hoped Murphy would wake up, but he hadn’t, and she was terrified that he was still in the trunk – or worse.
The door slammed open, but she didn’t startle, distracted by her internal worries. The man strode over and grabbed her, lifted her with ease to prop her on the sink. “Let’s take a page out of your boyfriends book,” he suggested, quietly enough to be to himself, or maybe to the man who followed him in. The first man had a lighter; the second gripped her jaw and forced it open, parting her lips and restraining her in a manner to prevent her from biting, as if that were a concern – and it was, to be fair, she would have bit off a damn finger if she thought she could. The second man gripped her tongue to pull at it, make it accessible to the other – who lit the lighter and held it against the muscle, getting her to scream. He seemed to take pleasure in her pain, a smirk on his lips. It didn’t stop there, not even when her tongue hurt so much she hesitated to seal her lips; they burned her cheek, her neck, her arms, her fingers; burned all those places an amateur torturer might think to work at. Then they tossed her on the floor and used that pink phone to take photographs of every wound.
Genevieve cried and shook. She didn’t know how bad it was, she wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t know any doctors well enough to pay attention to their commentary. All she knew was that it hurt like crazy, her fingers and flesh so coarsely burned that even the breeze leaking through the cracked glass of the window was agonising.
Murphy suited up in the Kevlar Lazarus’ minion, doorwoman, whatever, gave to him, and picked a car out of the lineup, a nondescript sedan that wasn’t as conveniently manoeuvrable as a motorbike but would be able to get Gene out when he found her. If he’d expected a protest or objection to what he seemed to be planning, he didn’t get it. He couldn’t read her expression as she shoved a new phone into his hand, told him to call when he was done or if he needed back up.
Fuck, but Murphy was being accused of some shit, he found out when another text game through on one of the other phones. He was being blamed for her disappearance, accused of abducting her – which, fuck, he’d take responsibility because he should’ve been able to keep her safe, but he wasn’t the goddamn perpetrator. He had no idea how he’d prove his innocence, no idea how Rita and her army of lawyers would deal with it. It didn’t matter right now: unless the Port Lyndon cops reached out to Blacklight, he’d be off the radar, and they had no reason to think the other city was involved at all, even if they weren’t too proud to work together in the first place.
Finding Gene alive was priority number one. He – they – would figure out the rest after that.
He headed towards the source of the blue ticket first, knowing it was a specialty club that dealt with prostitution and party drugs. He only knew about it because Rita had met whoever the fuck was in charge of this goddamn city in a place like this, had needed to know ahead of time what the tickets looked like to get a forgery done so she didn’t have to prove any personal details. She wasn’t going to actually be there, he knew that; the place was upscale even if it dealt in some shit, and he’d seen enough of the blueprints – Rita might work with Faust, but she didn’t trust him, not really – to know there was nowhere to hide someone long-term there. The surrounding area, though, that would be a good bet, he thought – and was jarred from it when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug it out while he was stuck in traffic, trapped in the damn four-door sedan in the middle of a main road.
V’s sick. Anyway. Took me a bit longer without his files but I got into your phone that’s with Gene. Reverse tap, recording included. I’m having issues tracking it with V’s ‘protections’ in place – give me 5 minutes. – B.
The text came through first, then several audio files. He turned the crackling news report down to almost nothing and listened to the files, one after the other, picking out all the details he could. They were arguing about the payment, and then they were talking about taking a page out of her ‘boyfriends book’, and then a long, cracking scream that must have come from Gene. Murphy figured exactly what was meant there, because in their world, he was known for torturing with fire before anything else, putting a man through the paces when he wanted answers. He wouldn’t fucking torture someone being held for ransom, if he’d ever been involved in that shit – and he hadn’t, he had standards, and he was going to get blamed for this when the fucks sent the photos they must’ve been taking on, wouldn’t he? He was incredibly pissed, and offended, at the idea that even the shit cops back home who’d never had enough to put him away would believe he’d do such a thing, even if they did think he’d played a fucking honeypot to lull Gene into a false sense of security. His nails, cut short, were digging into the steering wheel; he glanced at them to see he’d managed to rip part of the plastic and forced himself to ease up the grip, focusing.
B wasn’t used to dealing with this shit; that was why they used V. That was why Murphy caught something B hadn’t: towards the end of the last file, something electronic – the TV or radio in the room – had been turned up, louder and louder. They fucking knew they were being tapped. Murphy forgot all about keeping the steering wheel in one piece as he peered through the windows at the motels that lined the edges of this district.
He had to catch up with her right the fuck now, because B’s trace, if she could even get it, would be useless in about five minutes.
Gene lay still for as long as she could after they’d taken a lighter to her skin. The TV got louder, though, and the voices she’d been listening to dropped. She lay very, very still as things moved and slammed. One of them came in in a mood, yanking her to her feet with a grip to her throat, crushing her windpipe.
“If you try anything,” he hissed in annoyance, his breath rank in her face. She had the hysterical urge to suggest he get a breath mint, otherwise his whole game would be for nought as his bad breath suffocated her. “Anything at all, I will send you home in so many pieces they’ll never put you back together.”
He wrapped a jacket around her, an oversized one that he pulled up over her head, like she was some starlet protecting her identity, and marched her outside. The sunlight had her wincing, and she saw the area for the first time, having been able to see nothing of the city through the grimy bathroom window that looked out in an alleyway. It was then she realised that she wasn’t in Port Lyndon. She tried to memorise what she did see, gleaming clubs and motels lined up the strip, before she was shoved into the back of a blue car. The man with the disgusting breath shoved her to the floor and dumped yet another coat over her, and she had another hysterical thought that only people who didn’t live in Port Lyndon bothered owning this much protection from the rain. She gasped in pain as they dumped something else she couldn’t see on top of her, a collection of gym bags; they didn’t want her visible at all, didn’t want prying eyes to know there was anyone in the cars but them, if they hadn’t seen them shove her into the car. They slammed the doors shut and tore out of the parking lot, fast enough to catch attention, but too fast to be identified properly at a glance.
Murphy pulled into streetside parking, opening the door out into the street. A blue car almost tore the door off and he climbed out after it, furiously cussing out the crappy drivers of Blacklight.
Triggers: Guns, shooting, mentions of sexual arousal
Genevieve’s sigh is soft, let out over nothing. She’s had to become the actress her parents have raised her to be, hiding how damaged she is from what she has had to do. She knows it had to happen, but the image of blood and feeling that still lingers against her skin, leaving her sleepless more often than she likes. She hasn’t left her apartment much since it happened, preferring to pour her depression and fear into her notebooks and designs. There’s a whole series of fashion inspired by blood and murder, which anywhere else, but in Port Lyndon is already in the process of production.
She glances at herself in the mirror, disinterested in what she’s seeing. She just wants to stay in her room, but Murphy is insisting on taking her on a ride on his bike. It’s odd: she usually has to push for the interactions between them, but the tables have turned in the past few weeks. She’s tried to style her hair before giving up and leaving it down, and she’s selected a simple outfit. Her sweater is oversized and hangs off one of her shoulders, and her leggings are black leather, as are her high heeled boots. She’s applied very basic makeup, for her, but she feels a sense of victory at making that much effort.
Murphy doesn’t have to call to announce his presence. Outside, the motor of his bike roars as he revs it; she grabs his heavy leather jacket off the chair before she heads out. She’s forgotten to give it back after everything, but she’s managed to get the blood off it – she doesn’t want to think about how so much of it ended up dried on it, and certainly doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that she can’t tell the difference between the more recent and older stains against the black – and mend a tear in the sleeve. She shrugs it on and retrieves her purse before she locks the door behind her, blinking as Murphy waves at her. He hasn’t moved from his bike, straddling it with a cocky smirk on his lips. He pats the seat as if in invitation, like she is able to sit anywhere else.
She slides onto the back and presses her body to his. As she does, a shiver shoots up his spine, one he will later pass off as a reaction to the chill from the rain; in reality, it’s a reaction to the awareness of her warmth against his back. He revs the engine once more before hitting the accelerator, revelling in the sensation of her breath, warm against his neck. He’s wearing a helmet but she isn’t; he doesn’t have a spare, and she wouldn’t wear it if he offered, so he knows her long blonde hair is streaming behind them like a banner. He doesn’t go as fast as he usually would, as he likes to, because he is hyperaware of her safety at the moment, and he’s very aware that scaring her isn’t going to make her feel any better.
Genevieve is taking in the sights. She doesn’t know this part of the city well, sticking to the wealthier end of town. She knows there’s an LGBT strip club somewhere around here, and she’s fairly sure she’s heard Jenna – or maybe Vain, they tend to blur together sometimes, quoting and referencing each other in conversation all the time – mention something about an amazing Chinese place. Other than those two things, neither of which she’s seen in person before, thanks to more convenient – and less suspect – places near her own home, she has never had a reason to come this way.
Murphy, however, seems completely familiar with the place, swerving between cars on the road and turning into side streets too small to catch the eye. She doesn’t know where they are, exactly, but Murphy seems to, especially as he comes to a gradual stop in front of a building Gene never would have looked at twice. She has to do a double take, taking in what seems to be a refurbished building, several and advertisements on the building itself indicating that it was a bowling alley in the past. An array of neon lights scream information at passersby, green and blue and all amounting to similar messages. Guns for $$$, guns for sale, we sell guns and shooting range (open) catch her gaze, and she stares at them for a long moment before looking down at the bike, staring at the sudden stillness of a switched off motor.
He glances back at her, partially because she’s still clinging to him. He feels almost guilty at the fear and apprehension visible in her soft features. The man who caused this is a terrible human being, and his immortal soul ought to be grateful Gene killed him herself. Murphy wouldn’t have been nearly so forgiving. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she says, voice a whisper barely audible over the rain.
Murphy’s gaze softens for an instant that she misses, and he reaches over his shoulder to free a leaf that has been captured in her hair, before gently caressing her cheek. “I just want you to be safe, Gene,” he assures her. He’s not the only person who calls her that, but it’s a relief to hear it from his lips: it means he is taking the time to know her, to learn what she prefers to be called. “You should know how to protect yourself, and I promise you – the targets are paper.” He’s teasing to break the tension, and it gets her to roll her eyes as she huffs a sigh. She slides off the bike and fidgets until he offers her arm, and then clings to it as he leads her inside.
The place isn’t what she expects. It’s a little messy, and the reek of cigarettes is explained by the ash tray sitting on the counter. Guns line the walls, and smaller models – pistols – are locked away behind glass cases. Bins and boxes carry the stores bullet supply, which she figures makes sense. It’s just seedy enough that she is able to equate it to Murphy in her head: something about him is not quite legal, obviously, so of course places with the same atmosphere appeal to him.
The man behind the counter gives a heavy, hardy laugh, followed immediately by an impressively loud wolf whistle. Gene cannot even be angry about it, it’s that much of an accomplishment. The man is taller than Murphy and herself, even with her heels boosting her by three and a half inches. His shoulders are wide; she guesses they’re as wide as her arms are long, and his biceps make her thighs seem tiny. His skin, heavily tanned, is decorated in numerous tattoos, but his eyes – his eyes, she notes, are soft and kind. His laugh is warm and cheerful in response to Murphy’s obviously faked look of annoyance.
“X,” Murphy says, “Genevieve. Genevieve, X.”
“Aye, is this the little lady you were talking about the other day? You weren’t kidding. She looks like a playboy model.” He coughs as he blushes, much to Gene’s surprise. He raises a hand in greeting. “I meant that in the nicest of ways, ma’am.”
Genevieve’s snort is faint as she glances at Murphy. “Oh, so that’s how you talk about me?” she taunts. The look on his face is priceless as he refuses to meet her eye, searching the gun displays as though they’ll offer an excuse..
She watches X as he examines her body, but it’s different. She’s been checked out often enough to know that that’s not even close to what he’s doing, so she says nothing as she pokes Murphy, teasing until she gets his attention again. X manages before she does, which she refuses to pout over, striding to the next case and opening it.
It takes a moment, but he produces three small pistols. He lines them up on the counter, one, two, three, and offers her a gentle smile as he taps the counter alongside the weapons. “Small enough to fit in your pocket, purse, bra, whatever. But these are just as powerful as that Glock I hear you fired, with the added benefit of not having too much kick for you to handle. We can’t have your own defense damaging someone as lovely as yourself, can we?”
Murphy examines them as she watches, apparently making some decision and pushing the center one back to X, pulling the other two closer. “Why not that one?” she asks, curious and wondering if she’ll understand.
He tilts his head, answering almost absently. It’s as though he’s explained weapons to people who are new to them before. “I personally don’t like the bullets that gun uses; the way the barrel is designed lets them stall way too easily. If they ever fix it, or I can get my hands on a modified one I actually trust, I’ll show you. Plus, the clip’ll probably damage your nails, from what I’ve heard.” He’s heard other women mention it in the past, and though he and Rita roll their eyes at the complaint, he knows it’s a pressing issue for the more appearance aware. He doesn’t notice the blush that comes to her cheeks, but to her, this is a sign that he really does careabout her.
X proves them with bullets and goggles before Murphy directs her into the shooting gallery, a room adapted from the old bowling lanes. It’s pretty dead compared to normal, which is something Murphy anticipated. After all, the rain outside is heavier than usual, with him and Gene still damp from it, and beyond that, most people are probably sitting down to dinner about now. He nods to someone Gene doesn’t recognize – she probably won’t ever know it, but the stranger is Murphy’s second in his line of work, and the reason he is able to come to her aid at a moments notice – before getting to work.
He presses both guns into her hands, waiting for her eyes – wide with confusion – to take in the weapons. “Pick whatever one feels better in your hands,” he instructs, like he has a hundred times before. “Play with it, hold it, move it. They’re not loaded, so you can pull the trigger without worry – see if it hurts your hand. If you’re not comfortable beforehand, it’s going to make it harder to aim and work with.”
Genevieve nods slowly as she discards one, placing it on the bench before her. She follows his instructions, feeling foolish as she tests the weight and balance, adjusting her grip and aiming it towards the target. She pulls the trigger experimentally, adjusts her grip and the position of her arms and hands. Murphy, she knows, is watching her closely, so she doesn’t voice how odd this feels; instead, she repeats the process with the second gun. It’s only tiny differences, barely of note to her, but she swallows her cluelessness and indicates the second gun, still in her hands. “I think this one is easier for me to pull the trigger on? The other one pinched my finger a couple times.”
He smiles, moving the spare to the side before setting placing his fingers over hers and the gun. They spend half an hour with her exploring the gun and learning how it works – she’s not sure if it’s surprising or not that Murphy seems to know the details of that. It’s not until she’s able to reliably load ammunition and remember to flick the safety back on after each test fire that Murphy allows them to move on.
“It’s heavier with the bullets in it,” she observes, mostly to herself. Murphy nods and turns her towards the target, manipulating the controls until the paper target is fairly close. He steps behind her.
If anyone asks, Murphy won’t admit it, but until this moment he hasn’t considered the other perks of helping her with this. He presses himself against her, smiling at the scent of her fruity perfume, and rests a hand at her waist. She’s still wearing his jacket, and it’s still hot, damn it. He keeps one hand at her waist and uses the other to guide her arms and hands, manipulating her positioning. He slides his hand up from her waist to tap at her back, murmuring to straighten up, and not slouch while firing. He’ll admit he lets his fingers linger, savouring the feel of her skin.
She fires a shot without his instruction, and the scent of gunpowder becomes that little bit stronger and more immediate around them. Her shot misses the target, clipping the edge of the poster. The recoil isn’t as severe as the Glock, but it is enough to push her into stepping back into him. He tightens his hold on her to keep her in place, and it’s a very good thing she can’t see his face right now, and his pupils blown wide with arousal – she gunpowder is apparently A Thing with him, as much as blood has proven to. He’s grateful to the cigarettes for making his voice hoarse by default, because that masks her number one clue. “Don’t fight it so much,” he instructs, leaning closer to rest his chin on her shoulder to gauge her aim. Gunpowder and fruit, he smells, and mm. “You don’t have to hold it in one place. Align your gun with the sight you have of the target. You don’t need to worry about getting a perfect shot – we’ll work on that later, and anyway, it doesn’t matter so much for self-defense. It doesn’t matter where you shoot a person, if you at least hit them, they’re not going to be able to be quick about stopping you from firing again.”
Genevieve nods as she fires again and again and again. As her confidence grows, so does her stability, and with it, her aim improves. She keeps very quiet about it, but she knows how a man can change when he’s attracted to someone – to her. Her aim gets better and she hits the target more often, and she can feel the start of his erection pressing against her where he hasn’t thought to step away.
So, Murphy has some odd fetishes. She got that from the incredibly obvious thing with the blood, picked it apart in late nights dwelling on the incident. She’d felt disgusting, covered in the evidence of her crime, but his breath had hitched and his eyes become hooded as he stared at her that night. It was enough then to help ease it, a little – to help restore some sense of normality. And now, today – she’s known he’s attracted to her at the best of times, it’s obvious, and she knows how to use it, though he has proven more committed to his work than men she has hit on in the past. But today is different, more obvious, and she thinks his voice is a little deeper and hoarser than usual, as though from arousal. She doesn’t know if it’s a consequence of her wearing his jacket, or if it’s the perfume of gunpowder in the air.
She knows she doesn’t mind, though. It’s flattering, and it’s reassuring, and she knows there are many worse people than Murphy (she still hasn’t spoken to her friend, the one with good intentions but terrible taste in men) to have act on their interest to her. And she knows that these things they’re doing, these activities – they’re dates without the kissing, but she thinks it might only be a matter of time.
(Or maybe she hopes?)
Either way – perhaps she won’t complain if he makes this particular type of date a recurring thing. She doesn’t know if a seedy shooting range is her idea of a good time, doesn’t know if she is capable of enjoying the feel of a gun in her hands – but she’ll give it all the benefit of the doubt, if it means this happens again.
Triggers: mentions of gore, blood, rape, and aftermath of all three
Murphy made a point to never set custom ringtones, beyond ensuring each phone on his person didn’t use the same tone. He could usually guess what business he was being called to deal with based on which phone rang.
Tonight, though, his ‘personal’ phone rang, a low-quality intro to a Bring Me the Horizon song piercing the half-light. The men on his side didn’t look around, focusing instead on the target tied to the chair before them. It took Murphy a moment to direct his second to take over the interrogation before he was able to step outside.
Gene didn’t give him a chance to speak before she stammered out the words. “I – I need help.” They were immediately followed by the beginning of sobbing, followed by specifics he figured must be a location – at the very least, he knew the hotel was near town hall, a few streets back from the basement he was in now.
“Give me a minute, okay? Gotta get someone to cover for me. Don’t hang up,” he advised, muting the call so she couldn’t hear him before he went back inside. Family emergency was the excuse he used, playing a card that would work on anyone Rita had hired. After all, the people she hired had morals that lined up with hers (‘innocents unharmed’), and even if they didn’t, there were such things as codes that meant questions were better left unasked.
Murphy switched to a Bluetooth headset, tugging on his helmet to jump on his bike. His car would have been better, of course, but he hadn’t had it with him. Tonight’s job had called for mobility and discretion, and anyway, his second had been responsible for obtaining the target.
“You with me, Gene?” he asked quietly, before he left. “I need you to focus on breathing, alright? Just breathe with me. Ready?” After the mumbled affirmation, he slowly drew in a breath, guiding her in some meditative breathing he’d been taught as a kid. The anger management therapy hadn’t don’t much to benefit him, but the breathing was great for calming in a crisis. “Alright, Gene? I’m on my bike and keeping my phone on; I probably won’t be able to hear you, but I’m here. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He waited until she responded, a soft whimper, before peeling out of the parking lot.
Usually, he basked in the enjoyment of a decent ride, especially one at high speeds. Late at night, with streets newly alleviated of the mushy snowfall, and only a soft rain falling, was practically ideal for riding. He didn’t have time to enjoy it, though, listening to light traffic and labored breathing as he rushed through the streets.
He shrugged of his jacket to cover the blood on his shirt as he entered the lobby of the hotel, sparing a smile for the sleepy person at the reception desk. Murphy made a point of walking with purpose, jabbing the buttons the second he stepped into the building. “I’m in the elevator,” he told Gene, “two minutes, if it’s as good as the price of this place implies.”
She didn’t say anything, but he didn’t particularly expect her to. He got off the elevator at the top floor and scanned the doors quickly, making a beeline for the one she’d mentioned to him.
He couldn’t say he expected to open the door to a room more at home in his workplace than in this upscale hotel, but nonetheless, it’s what he saw. He took in brain matter on the ceiling, blood on the bedding, and a rattled, sobbing Gene in the middle of it all. There was no way the man who had fallen half on the floor was alive, not in that state.
Murphy hung up the phone and hurried to Gene’s side, carefully prodding at her to check for injury before prying the weapon from her hands. He had seen victims of rape before, it was almost an inevitability of loyalty to Rita, and this was obviously that. Usually, the people who came to Rita’s syndicate were angry and violated and desperate to get even, to feel a little more powerful than their attackers made them feel. Rita granted that. Murphy helped grant that, which more than one such person had thanked him for. It was often a messy affair, and the way he saw it, step one was to put a bullet in the violators body.
Gene, apparently, clutching at a Glock that was much too big for her, had beaten him to that.
Murphy remained determinedly calm, of the mindset that anger would make it worse. He pulled Gene against him and rubbed at her bare arms gently, until she loosened up a little.
He pressed his jacket into her hands and pointed her at the suitcase. “Go shower and get changed. Take your things with you. Take your time. I’ll be here.”
He wondered if she’d argue if she wasn’t in shock, or if she’d take the opportunity to flee the second it was provided. Probably the latter, if she had sense. He focused on this train of thought as prepared to work, removing his shirt to drape over a clean surface near the door of the room. It was with minimal hesitation that he produced a phone to contact his boss. Rita was his immediate superior, and wouldn’t appreciate being awoken. She’d appreciate being kept in the dark even less, so he swallowed his desire to not piss her off, and called. He kept his volume low as he explained the situation, how a friend of his had shot her would-be rapist. How he needed clean up done at the hotel, computer systems scrubbed of records ASAP.
Rita agreed readily – she trusted him, which was probably not a great idea in their business. It was fine. He was fine. Mostly, he couldn’t shake the mental image of Gene, spattered with blood. The situation was shit, of course – but man, he couldn’t help the fact that she was incredibly attractive like that. She was incredibly attractive at any given moment, but still. This was definitely crossing a line.
So he worked to clean the ceiling first, chipping away at damp brain matter with his pocket knife and gritting his teeth against the sensation of it dropping onto his skin. It was disgusting work, and delicate, and he never had enjoyed cleaning. It was why he worked in murder, Rita’s full-time fix-it man, and not in hospitality. He was able to make out chips in the ceiling, stained pink from blood, and wrote them off for now. Bleach and a new coat of paint would cover it up, and that was all he wanted to dwell on for the moment.
Gene spent what felt like ages in the shower, but it was probably for the best. By the time she reappeared, Murphy had finished collecting everything he could move onto the bed, bundling it up in the ruined sheets and rolling it so that it is not actually recognizable as a human. When she peered at him, now more stable, he glanced at her. He wasn’t surprised to see she’d elected to pair his jacket with a modest jumper and some dark jeans, or that she had pulled on a pair of heels. What he was surprised by was the way she refused to shake. “Hey,” he said, voice soft, “I need a large suitcase, I think. Or a laundry cart.”
Her lips parted in surprise, but he was able to see understanding dawn. “There was a laundry cart at the end of the hall? This’s the only room taken right now. Only room on this floor.”
“Can you get it for me?” he asked. The request served two purposes: letting her be useful, and getting him something he needed.
She nodded and left the room, returning minutes later with the cart. Murphy examined it thoroughly before removing half the sheets contained within, dumped the corpse, and then covered it with the remainder of the bedding, consigned to be washed at some point. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He was able to hear Gene swallow, and if he expected her to remain mute about the ordeal, he was surprised. “My friend set me up on a blind date with him. He – he followed me back up here. I always use hotels for these things, you know? Just in case. I don’t want just anybody knowing where I live.” She managed to give him a tiny, exhausted smile that did nothing at all to convince him that she was anything close to okay. “He pulled a gun and tried to – to – yeah – and I got it off him. And... shot him. There was – there was a lot of blood.”
With a member of the gang, Murphy would joke about that being expected of a death blow to the head. It wasn’t even close to appropriate, and there was no way it’d be appreciated in the moment. “Your wrist hurts, doesn’t it?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “How do you know that?”
He smiled tightly, taking it gently in his hand to feel along the bones. He watched her responses to different amounts of pressure as close as he could, making a mental note to take her to Gwen once cleanup arrived. “That’s a Glock,” he explained, “it has a lot of kick. Everyone defaults to shooting with one hand, thanks to TV. It’d have knocked you flat on your back.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You need something smaller, if you’re going to do this again.”
Immediately, the color that had returned to her fled, and Murphy sighed internally.
“It’s better to be prepared,” he informed her, voice gentle. He ran his hand over her arm, gentle as he could, before guiding her to the hallway to sit against the wall. He disappeared back into the room to grab her suitcase, depositing it in the hallway on the other side of the door and handing her her phone.
He maintained a steady flow of commentary to fend off the silence, not expecting her to participate, as they wait for cleanup to arrive. Eventually, they do, and he greets one of the ‘maids’ Rita has sent with a string of coded phrases. Gene visibly stiffened as Murphy opened the door, but the woman only smiled at her as she takes her crew and her equipment inside. “Friends of mine,” Murphy explained, which barely explained anything at all as he helped Gene to her feet. “You ready to go home?”
Judging by the expression she cast in his direction then, she’d been ready for a while – which, in Murphy’s opinion, was fair enough.
God, he was going to get her a weapon better suited to her. It didn’t matter if she didn’t want to use it, they’d all sleep better if she had the option.
