Elektra Natchios. (thefuries) wrote in pastprologueic, @ 2015-08-03 23:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | !type: log, character: elektra natchios, character: wilson fisk |
WHO: Elektra & Fisk
WHEN: After this little kerfuffle.
WHERE: An undisclosed location in New York City.
WHAT: What goes down for medical care these days.
STATUS: Narrative; complete.
GSW was a through and through. Blade too. Minimal damage. No shattered pelvis. Good thing too, else your girl would be down and out a whole lot longer. I'd say she was lucky..., someone intoned, half-muddled at first, and then, like a radio tuning in, crystal clear. Twelve feet away.
Male, in his late 50s. Heavy New York accent, a native. A smoker and most likely a copious drinker as well. A doctor who lost his license a long time ago and found it easier and more lucrative to simply continue doing without.
... but who gets shot and then impaled? Who is she anyhow?
The television was on, the volume turned down low. The Yankees were playing at home. A window was open. The occasional car drove by too fast. Honking. Inebriated laughter. Homeless digging through trashcans for recyclables. It must be in the mid-seventies out. Humid. No air conditioning. It smelled like dust, damp, and neglect.
Thank you, Dr. Hoffman, for your services. I appreciate your accommodations, and your discretion.
The doctor's heavy footsteps retreated. Beneath the bandage and the topical anesthetic, her hip throbbed, a deep bone ache that grimly sawed up her spine and down her femur, making her skin bead with sweat. Her clothing had been removed. The doctor had kindly afforded her a cool, thin sheet for modesty. In the steady waves of pain, she couldn't bring herself to care.
It was impossible to ignore the other looming presence in the room. Behind her closed eyes, she felt herself pinned beneath his silent scrutiny. His steps were measured as he drew near. The heat of his body was a tangible force against her skin. The mattress dipped significantly beneath his weight, jarring her body and sending a spike of agony thrumming through her body. There was little point in feigning any longer, though she found it surprisingly difficult to peel her eyes open.
"I'm sorry." The only thing she could think to say. Failure had never sat well with her.
"I think it goes without saying that you met him." His face was still, unreadable. His eyes could have been two black stones for what little light they gave now.
"As advertised. Didn't want to stay down. We have matching battle scars now." Stubborn, she would have continued speaking, had she the voice for it. Stubborn in a way so few people were. It had reminded her of someone else who had been like that, but that was long time ago.
"You failed to kill the Daredevil, yet you managed to kill the man who would have been a beneficial ally."
And she hadn't expected it; her reflexes, drugged and pained and slow. He could move as fast as a viper if he wanted to, and in this, he did: his big paw closed around her throat. The tips of his fingers touched at the nape of her neck. The pressure on her trachea, the sudden cessation of oxygen. She was gasping, then gagging. Her hands instinctively came up to pry his fingers away. Her legs kicked out, heedless of the further pain it caused.
"The tattoo on your hip. I once had the acquaintance of a man who bore a similar mark. He betrayed me; he tried to kill me. He failed too, and I watched as he burned alive. So you must forgive me, Elektra, if I am starting to think you may not have my best interests at heart."
Black dots began to appear within her vision, indistinguishable from the two holes in his head boring into her. She tried to speak, her voice broke in croaks across her lips. "I'm -- I'm not--"
Fisk leaned down; his face eclipsing her vision. His hand loosened marginally -- enough, at least, to suck in a shallow revitalizing breath. She hated how her voice now trembled, how her eyes had begun to water and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. How, even now, she feared him in that instant. "We--they trained people like me. I walked away a long-- I stopped working for them. It's just myself now. And -- you. Vanessa. She came to me -- came to me first. Vanessa. She trusts me."
As if the mere mention of the woman was the right music to soothe the beast, the hand around her throat was suddenly relinquished, leaving only the heat of its imprint behind, the dull ache of nearly crushed tendon and organs. She opened her mouth wider, gasping for breath, her hand cradling her abused throat.
By the time she had come back to herself, he was across the room once again, but she could still feel the ghost of his hand, oppressive.