justguessmyname (justguessmyname) wrote in shadows_rpg, @ 2019-05-09 09:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | #december 2017, mal, mal x westin, westin |
Who: Westin and Mal
When: Evening, Tuesday, December 19th
Where: The Word of the Redeemer Fellowship
Status: Complete
The temperature had inched its way up into the forties today, causing some of the snow on the ground to begin to melt, leaving gray slush along the streets as night fell. It was still windy and cold, not that Westin felt any of it. Not really. He quite liked the way the snow crunched under his boots, the way he could hear television sets and small murmurings of conversation from the houses he passed by on his way to church. Being back in Point Pleasant was like coming home, and he could feel the town’s arms embracing him, welcoming him back. A breeze occasionally blew up around him, causing small bits of ash from his cigarette to fly away, bright orange sparks flying and then dying just as swiftly.
He hummed to himself, a song long since forgotten as he turned down the next street and into the small parking lot in front of his destination. It was a simple building with glass doors and a large white cross perched on the roof. Given the time, it might have been too late to seek out God, but Westin had always heard one didn’t need an appointment to talk to the Almighty. They had conversations regularly, although arguments might have been a more accurate term. There was no conversation to be had today though. Not yet.
Taking one last drag from his cigarette, Westin dropped the butt to the ground and snuffed it out with his boot before opening one of the doors to the church. It was dim inside, and empty, which wasn’t surprising. Westin walked slowly down one of the aisles, his hand reaching out to brush over the back of the seats as he passed. The Pastor was here. He lived in an apartment upstairs, if Westin remembered correctly. He and his… daughter.
Westin’s lips twitched and he moved to take a seat at the front of the church, crossing one ankle over his knee, his arms spread along the backs of the chairs on either side of him. Churches always had such a distinct smell. Cleaning chemicals, old carpet and bullshit. He breathed it in, tapping his fingers on the back of the chair as he waited. The Pastor would come down. Westin didn’t think he was expecting a visitor, but he had one, and what true man of God would turn him away?
In such a small town, and with the awareness that he had, Mal often didn’t lock the doors of the church until he went to bed. He liked knowing that it could be a refuge for anyone who was lost and needing comfort. Needing guidance. The Word of the Redeemer always welcomed new members. What sense would it make for a spider to keep its web closed half the time? So Mal was upstairs in the apartment, settled at the kitchen table with a Bible opened in front of him and a cup of coffee close at hand. Sam was in her bedroom, and Mal was distantly considering checking in on her soon when an odd feeling started building in his gut. It wasn’t exactly the awareness of another mind in the building, it was something else. A pull. To go downstairs to the sanctuary.
Mal lifted his head and stayed put for a moment, opening his mind up further to listen. There were no thoughts drifting up to him through the floorboards, but there was a sense of something down there. As he slowly got to his feet and walked out of the apartment, he attempted to probe harder. If there was a sentient being down there, Mal ought to be able to hear it, but he was getting nothing but a distant sound of static. It was intriguing. He felt no fear, only curiosity as he made his way to the sanctuary door and stepped through it.
There was a man sitting on the front row, looking as normal as you please, but the fine hairs on the back of Mal’s neck prickled. He closed the door behind him and approached, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Good evening,” Mal said quietly.
Westin's gaze ticked to Mal as soon as the man set foot into the church, and he smiled, his fingers pausing their rhythmic beating on the back of the chair. "This is a nice place you have here," Westin said, motioning casually towards the pulpit before he stood, slipping his hands into his pockets and walking up to where Mal gave his sermons every week. The elevated stage was meant to see the entire church, but Westin saw it as looking down upon the congregation. The sheep were never meant to be the shepherd's equal. "You've come a long way from 0278. Made something of yourself. Probably a bit more modest than what you could have, but the Lord provides, doesn't He?"
The number that once was his name sent a small shudder through Mal -- alarm? Revulsion? It was difficult to tell. It certainly got his attention, however. No one here, not even the ones who had sold him into slavery, knew that had been his number. Mal hadn’t spoken it aloud since his escape. Had the organization finally caught up to him? He stood in the aisle next to the front row, watching the visitor step up into his spot. Mal was trying even harder to read him now, but heard nothing from him but static. Which either meant he was trained to shut telepaths out, or ... he was something else. “Indeed He does,” Mal agreed mildly. “It seems you have me at the disadvantage ... may I ask who you are?”
"You don't know me?" Westin's brows raised as he set his hands on the smooth wood of the pulpit. He lingered only for a second before turning away and stepping back down to approach Mal. He kept a comfortable distance, as not to alarm Mal or put him on the defensive, though Westin figured he was already halfway there. "You talk about me often in your sermons, and we have a little... back and forth on occasion. I'd let you in, but I'm not sure you're ready for what's in here." Westin tapped his finger against his temple. "It seems like you've settled quite comfortably here in Point Pleasant, and it felt like time to come around and see how things are going. How's Sam?" His gaze ticked briefly upward. "Blossoming."
The tiny muscles around Mal’s eyes hardened slightly as the man approached him again, but he kept his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. He got another one of those chills down his spine. If this man -- if that was indeed what he was -- knew about Mal’s gifts, then he shouldn’t know about Sam, and vice versa. He’d kept those circles carefully separated. Mal stopped trying to get into his brain, but left his own door open, so to speak. Just in case he caught something. Surely the man wasn’t insinuating that he was God, it sounded more like he was saying he was from the opposite side of the fence. “I hope you’ll forgive my skepticism,” he said evenly, ignoring the comment about his girl. “I don’t often receive visitors with such ... bold claims. And I wouldn’t say I’m completely comfortable. Very few in this town are ready to hear the true Word, I have not been extremely well received here.”
"I think the difference between my bold claims and yours is that I'm willing to say it out loud," Westin pointed out, the tips of his fingers sliding into the pockets of his jeans again. "You've been touched. Chosen. And your long, painful journey has led you here. Maybe the people in this town haven't been ready to hear the truth, but they'll see the truth soon enough. And you'll be their savior." His lips twitched. "But I understand your skepticism. I probably don't look the way you imagined, and you can't get inside my head to confirm what I am, or what I'm telling you. I imagine I'll have to earn your trust, show you what I'm capable of to make you a true believer."
One of Mal’s brows lifted briefly. The man was correct, he didn’t speak his claims out loud. He knew better than that. People were foolish and easily led, but they balked at a brazen display of arrogance. Mal happened to deserve his arrogance, he’d earned it, but very few knew that yet. He had to get them ready, banish their worldly doubts. Earn their trust, like this man was saying. “What do you know of my long painful journey?” Mal asked, sounding more curious than challenging. There was so much to know, and it was so compartmentalized that he doubted that this man would know it even if he worked for the organization. The prospect of being a savior was obviously meant to entice him, so Mal didn’t give it much thought yet. “If you know much of it, you know I’ve seen a lot. So I’m curious what you’re capable of that could impress me.”
It made sense that Mal would question and doubt. So many followed Westin blindly, so desperate for help, or their heart's desire, that they never challenged him on what he promised. He didn't reveal who or what he was to everyone. They didn't need to know. They just needed to feel his power, and his sincerity. But Mal was different. Mal was special, as God told him. He needed more, and Westin appreciated that. "I know everything about you," Westin said simply. "Everything. I know what they did to you. How the right offer came in, and they sold you, and everything that happened after, leading you back home. And you have quite a talent. Much stronger than the others they experimented on. You've embraced it, honed it. I'm impressed." He smiled and turned away, just to wander a bit, get a better feel for the church itself. "I suppose you want proof of what I am, that I'm not some demon coming around to bargain for your soul. What should I do?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder as he picked up one of the hymnals and began to flip through the pages. "Perform a miracle? Grant you a wish? Something a bit more extreme? I spent so many years healing the true believers, but I don't sense you're suffering from any ailments. Physically, at least."
That was quite a quandary, wasn’t it? Mal knew better than most people just how the mind could be deceived. It was beyond his power to completely take over a person’s mind to create experiences out of whole cloth that fooled all their senses -- though he longed for that level of influence sometimes -- but that didn’t make it impossible for someone else. Someone of incredible talent, who was meant to lure him back into ... something. Or perhaps he really was face to face with Lucifer himself. The thought was not as repulsive or terrifying as it probably ought to be, but Mal had learned long ago to smother his own emotions. Considering the question, he sauntered up to lean against the podium himself, linking his fingers in front of him and watching the man stroll around his church. “If you are who you say you are,” Mal said. “Then you’re a known liar. I’m trying to think of a demonstration that couldn’t be faked with the right level of mind trickery.” He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and pondered for another moment. “Can you bring someone here? Someone I can read? Someone I would know the shape of.”
Westin turned to face Mal then, his expression calm and passive as he dropped the hymnal on one of the chairs. "Everyone lies," he said. "Even you. Even God. I'm not who you think I am. Not exactly. Not in the way you were taught to believe. Mind trickery is only reserved for a select few. What good am I to anyone without the concept of free will? And I always make sure everyone I come into contact with has a choice." He walked back up the aisle toward Mal, enjoying the fact that he had to look slightly upward toward the man standing against the pulpit now. He was a handsome fellow, one who would draw a very loyal congregation with the right kind of push and charisma. "But, since you asked, I'll bring anyone here you want. Someone you can read. You have a preference? I'd rather you give me a name, so the level of potential trickery is much lower."
Mal wasn’t shocked to hear that God lied. What leader didn’t? His true religious beliefs were a tangled mess in his head, the things he’d been taught mixing in with the doubts that he had and the things that he’d seen and what he knew could manipulate people. At his most honest, he didn’t know what the full truth was, and he didn’t think anyone else did either. No one mortal, anyway. But religion was an important tool, and one he’d been drawn into using. And now this was happening, so it had to be for a reason. It didn’t take Mal long to decide, as he’d already had someone in mind. The man had said anyone he wanted, and Mal wanted someone challenging. “Pastor Raymond Dobbins,” Mal said calmly, his gaze never flickering from the other man’s face. “From Carthage, New York.” He knew that mind, he remembered it very well. He’d kept it contained and controlled while the building around Pastor Ray burned to the ground, taking him along with it. If this being could truly bring a dead man into Mal’s church ... that would impress him.
Westin nodded in understanding, appearing mildly amused. "You want me to raise the dead. I suppose that's fair. I'll warn you that he's not too pretty to look at, but his mind is intact since I assume that's what you're after." He walked over to sit down again, running a hand over his face as if he was exhausted after a long day. "Raymond Dobbins. Of Carthage, New York," he murmured. "I imagine the two of you have a lot of catching up to do." There was a noise behind the door leading from the sanctuary to Mal's apartment, but Westin's gaze stayed locked on Mal. The door rattled for a moment and then fell silent. "I believe it's for you." It could conceivably be Samantha, but they both knew it wasn't. At least Westin knew it wasn't. Mal might need to see it with his own eyes before he believed a thing.
Mal didn’t move a muscle until he heard the door knob rattle. It wasn’t Sam, he knew that well enough. The skin on his back and arms prickled with awareness. Whatever was on the other side of that door, it was projecting a lot. He didn’t move a muscle yet, though. “And he’s not going to kill me, or stick around for long, or any of that other ‘be careful what you wish for’ nonsense, correct?” he said to the man in the front row. “This is just proof and not something to fuck with me?” It was possible he should’ve asked those questions before naming a name, and Mal had no idea what he would do if it was a trick to fuck with him, but it felt important to ask.
Westin barked out a laugh, his face raised to the heavens for a moment. "Mal, have some faith, friend. If I wanted to fuck with you, I would have done it the moment I walked into this church. I think you're well aware of the consequences to certain wishes, but you asked me for proof of my being, and I'm giving it to you. He won't harm you. He won't even touch you, if that's not what you want. And when you're finished with him, I'll send him away. You and this church are safe. You have my word, as much as that is worth right now."
Mal wasn’t sure how he felt about the devil -- or whoever this was -- calling him ‘friend,’ but he couldn’t help but be intrigued. He still gave the man a wary look for a heartbeat or two before he moved away from the podium. Mal didn’t rush as he walked to the door the knock had come from. He felt a slight twinge of fear that Pastor Ray wouldn’t be there anymore, that he’d gone upstairs to hurt Samantha instead, but Mal tried to dismiss it. All of this felt surreal, a bit otherworldly, like he’d been transported somewhere Else, and everyone else in the normal world was gone. He couldn’t get a good handle on the mind on the other side of the door yet, it was ... jumbled, somehow, confusing. People were always much easier to read when he could see them, and if Pastor Ray was truly back from the dead, some scrambling would be understandable, he supposed. He was about to find out. Mal wet his lips, suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder at his visitor, then opened the door.
It would have been easier to bring Pastor Ray back from the dead completely intact, his flesh unblemished and his brown hair thinning, but still capable of being combed over to hide the receding hairline. But Mal wanted proof of what Westin was, and it felt necessary to show the aftermath of Mal's choices. Not that Mal felt regret and he shouldn't. He did what he had to do and Westin could appreciate that. The man waiting for Mal on the other side of the door resembled enough of Pastor Ray that there could be no mistaking who he was. He even wore his glasses, though they were cracked and crooked, perched on his nose. His hair was nearly gone, small patches stubby and singed remaining. Most of his visible flesh was dark and cracking, skin gone, including half of his face. But he smiled when he saw Mal, lips swollen and red. His mind was certainly jumbled, but intact enough for Mal to read whatever he needed to. Pastor Ray might have been long gone, but there was no doubt he was standing in the Word of the Redeemer church now, smelling of burnt flesh and death.
It was like a nightmare made flesh, standing in a doorway that Mal used many times a day, and the state of him made everything feel even more unreal. Mal looked at Pastor Ray without flinching though. He hadn’t seen the body when the fire had happened -- all of the corpses were brought out in black bags. Mal had stayed at the remnants of the church for spiritual support, naturally. But the Pastor looked much like Mal suspected he would. And there was enough left in his brain to be recognizable. Memories that couldn’t be re-created by someone who hadn’t already been in his mind. It really was the dead man. Overwhelmingly curious, Mal reached out a hand before he thought better of it, touching Ray’s arm with two fingers. The skin was hard and crispy to the touch, but it didn’t take much pressure to make the skin slide a bit, loose underneath. Satisfied, he backed up a step or two, then turned to look at the more-than-a-man in his sanctuary. “I’m finished,” he said quietly.
Pastor Ray was gone as soon as Mal turned back to Westin. It was then that Westin stood, adjusting his jacket a bit around the collar. "You don't have anything to fear from me," Westin assured him. "But you're the only true man of faith I felt in this town and I think the people here need you, even if they don't know it yet. I think together we can change Point Pleasant for the better." He had no intention of harming anyone in the way Mal might assume, given what lies history had fed the general population since the beginning. There was always a give and take, and the freedom of choice. Westin was not to blame for what humans decided in any given moment.
The only true man of faith. Why did that not surprise Mal all that much? He also knew it was something he wanted to hear, which made it suspect coming from this man. Or the thing with the visage of a man, anyway. He ambled in closer, wiping his fingers on the side of his pants almost absently. Perhaps he should’ve been more affected coming face-to-face with a man he had killed, brought back from the dead, but Mal wasn’t feeling much at all at the moment. It was a state of mind he’d been in many times before, when he was working. He eyed the man assessingly for a quiet moment. “And what do you ask in return?” he inquired finally. “My eternal soul? If such a thing truly exists.”
Westin smiled, his eyes shining with amusement. "What on earth would I do with a soul, carry it around in a jar? That doesn't help me at all, and frankly, I'm already limited on space. No, you can keep your soul, Mal. You're more useful to these people completely intact. No, the only thing I need from you is loyalty, and you receive mine in return. I need your help here, and frankly, I think you may need mine too. I like to heal people, help them. I'm not God, and I would never claim to be. And you know, if I have to earn your trust, I can do that too." Mal wasn't a stupid man, and it would be foolish for him to take Westin at his word. Usually those who followed blindly never served Westin for long. After awhile, he had no use for them. But he liked the ones who asked questions and challenged. They generally lasted longer than the others.
If the man truly knew everything about him, he knew that Mal had spent most of the formative years of his life being lied to and manipulated by the people around him ... until he learned to do it back, and do it better. He didn’t trust easily. This little demonstration told him that there was definitely something otherworldly and powerful about this being, but that didn’t make it trustworthy. He seemed to know it, too. Mal’s expression was still stoic and his guard was still up, but there was a hint of interest in his eyes that he couldn’t quite smother. “I’m open to possibilities,” he said finally. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, after all. What do I call you?”
Westin figured it would be a bit much to throw up an Amen! to the heavens at that, but the thought of doing it anyway tickled him. It would have come across as sarcastic and Westin didn't want Malachi Nichols thinking Westin was mocking or making fun of his faith, as tempting as it was. "Westin," he said, offering his hand out to Mal. "Westin Straker. I've got a place out on Ludlow. A bit of a fixer upper, but it'll do for now. I know you don't like to be called Father. So I'll just stick with Mal, unless you've got something else you prefer."
He hesitated for just a heartbeat before he reached out to shake Westin’s hand. They weren’t sealing any deals, because Mal hadn’t promised anything. He knew the Enemy could be tricky and devious, but it didn’t feel like they’d reached any solid agreement. “Mal works,” he confirmed, giving a slight nod. He paused for a moment, holding onto Westin’s hand a few seconds longer than he ordinarily would as he looked the ‘man’ in the eye. “Do you know my birth name, then?” Mal couldn’t help but ask. He had no way of fact checking it, but there was something in him at that moment that was compelled to know, since Westin claimed to know everything about him.
Westin knew it would take time to earn Mal's trust, and that was all right by him. Time was something he had plenty of. Eventually Mal would realize they were allies, and perhaps more alike than he wanted to believe. Mal's question prompted a quirk of Westin's lips. "Brandon MacNeil," he said simply. "Born right here in Point Pleasant." He could tell him other things. The names of his parents, the fact that he had a brother and sister out in the world. But these were things he would ask about, if he really wanted to know them. Westin didn't like to overshare unless he had to, or needed to. He kept his hand in Mal's until the other man was ready to let go.
Brandon MacNeil. It was a normal name, a boring name, even. Mal tried to imagine himself as a small child, before he’d even started forming permanent memories, tow-headed and chubby, perhaps, just a small bundle of potential. Vulnerable. Had he been stolen, or given away? Had his parents looked for him? Had he been one of the many missing children in this town that he’d learned about? Were they still in the area? Were they still even living? Mal got the impression that Westin knew these answers -- or could access them -- but Mal didn’t know if he was ready to hear them. He wasn’t the same person he’d been as a child; he wasn’t vulnerable anymore. Now he was powerful instead, and he’d made himself into who he was. Now he had a possible ally, one with seemingly incredible potential of his own. Brandon was long dead. But it satisfied something in Mal to know. Perhaps he would want to know more later, but not tonight. He released Westin’s hand with a small nod. “Thank you,” he murmured, and slipped his hands back into his pockets, still eyeing Westin with interest. “So, Westin Straker ... I’m curious to hear your thoughts on what could be improved in Point Pleasant. What we would be working toward.”
Westin smiled, tilting his head just so. It sounded a bit like an interview, or a business meeting, which amused him. He supposed in a way this was business. "A reckoning, Mal. I'd say it's past due. That's why I'm here. I think that’s why you’re here too. But we've got time to talk about that. Samantha is looking for you." His gaze ticked above briefly. "I've got people to see and some things to settle. But we'll be talking again real soon. And if you want to talk to me before I come back around, well, I'll know." He didn't own a phone, because... well, why bother with that? He didn't need one. "Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"
Mal’s eyes gleamed a bit when Westin said ‘reckoning.’ This town needed one of those at the very least, and it was incredibly validating to hear someone else say so. Someone with more power to know than Mal would ever be blessed with. The feeling was short-lived, as the mention of Samantha was always a distraction. Mal glanced upward too, instinctively reaching out for his girl’s mind. She was indeed looking for him. Westin seemed satisfied that he’d gotten what he wanted out of this encounter and was ready to leave. Mal found the idea that he could just want Westin’s presence and he would turn up both oddly comforting and a little perturbing. He would have to put that to the test. “Nothing comes to mind immediately,” he said, then actually cracked a small smile. “Unless you want to take care of dinner for us.”
Westin chuckled. "My talents only go so far, I'm afraid. But I hope you both have a relaxing evening." He gave Mal a small nod before turning to walk back down the aisle leading to the exits. With Mal's interested piqued now, Westin would be back, probably sooner than later, once he had planted a few more seeds around town. Point Pleasant was ripe with vulnerable and desperate people, perhaps more so now than the last time he had come around. Mal was just the right person to bring them all together, and Mal knew it. Westin was just going to help him realize his full potential. Soon.