Kayla Michaels lives without guilt (thekappa) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-11-02 19:47:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | cinnamon spider, elliot stabler |
Who: Billy and the Kappa.
What: Learning that not all masks are do-gooding vigilantes.
Where: Redmond.
When: Late tonight.
Warnings: References to a fatal mugging and the Kappa being such a creeper.
When Desmond Holt had grabbed his dad's pistol and hit the streets of Redmond, he hadn't expected to be looking at a dead woman. It was just supposed to be a scare thing, to go out and find a lady with a nice purse and get her to give it up without much of a fight. Nobody messed with tough black guys holding guns, anyway. At least, that's what he used to think.
The woman hadn't made a fuss when he pulled the gun on her. She was in her mid thirties, attractive, and carrying a really nice Coach handbag. Though she was shaking, she held it out without question, begging him to just take her money and leave her alone. He was fine with that. The fifty dollars in her wallet would feed his little brothers for the week, which was more than his deadbeat mom could say. After taking the money, he was fine with handing her the wallet back - the bag he'd pawn the next chance he got - and was just about to do that.
When something stopped him.
It started as a feeling at the nape of his neck, a growing terror that something was watching him. Several times during the robbery, he had felt it, like he was on candid camera and didn't know it. But he'd ignored it. He just needed to get through this and get home before someone noticed and called the cops. But when that wallet was midair, ready to be returned, his hand stopped. Looking back on it, he supposed he had stopped because he heard a noise. It was a soft noise, hidden in the shadows. He turned, keeping the gun trained on the woman, and saw something materialize from the shadows.
Were he not in the middle of a robbery, he might have taken a few extra seconds to stare at her. She was dressed in what looked like a skintight jumpsuit, dark teal with black bands curled around her legs. He found himself just staring at those legs for a brief second before his gaze reached her face. She was wearing a mask. He'd heard of guys like Batman, Corbinian, and Rorschach. Hell, he'd even seen that article about Sentinel. He knew that masks existed, and that they didn't like criminals. Just seeing this woman, calmly watching him, made him want to scream. He thought those guys targeted hardcore gangbangers, not kids that just needed some cash. He was about to run when he realized that his legs were jello. He couldn't.
He tried to reason with her, to say that he was just handing the wallet back and he'd be on his way. But she didn't respond. The civilian he held up was clearly relieved, ready to thank this bizarre woman for being her savior - but the mask didn't say anything. She just slowly approached him, and even though he wanted to run, he couldn't. Her gloved fingers curled around his wrist, holding the gun level with the other woman's forehead, as she slipped behind him. Her breath was warm against his neck as she pressed against him in ways he never thought he'd get from a girl. He tried to apologize, tried to move, but something about her was holding him fast.
It wasn't until she asked him if he had ever killed before that he realized something was wrong. He said no. He was a good kid. A good boy. This was just a mistake, something he'd never do again if she just let him go. Sweat was beading on his neck, his muscles beginning to shake. She said that they'd have to change that. The other woman, the lady he had robbed, was watching them both with terror in her eyes. It wasn't until then that he realized how green those eyes were. They were pretty. If she she'd been his teacher, he'd have probably had a crush on her. He wanted to tell her to run, to get out of here because there was something wrong about this woman. But he couldn't.
Then he pulled the trigger.
He wasn't sure which of them screamed louder - him or the woman he shot - but the sounds echoed through the streets almost louder than the gunshot. He could have sworn it was the mask's fault, but she hadn't touched his hand. How had this happened? He'd never shoot someone, never. Dropping the gun in a panic, he suddenly found himself able to pull away from the dark-haired mask, letting out a shriek of terror as he did the only thing he could do - run. Desmond ran, ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran far and fast, just hoping to distance himself from that poor dead woman and that weird mask. The sound of her delicate laughter would haunt his nightmares for years to come.