Flood
Molly doesn't get a text back in response, but
maybe ten minutes later her phone rings and it's Flood's number that
shows up on the caller identification.
Molly Toombs
Molly
Toombs was working tonight, trauma as is always the case. She didn't
keep her phone on her, not usually. Not unless things were going on.
Tonight, things definitely were going on.
By luck she was taking a
break, getting some food in her at a table in the linoleum and
bright-white break room when her phone buzzed for a text. She thought
it was someone else-- a continuing conversation. When she saw the
picture she'd immediately lost her appetite and, for a moment, her
ability to react. She didn't want to comprehend what the message
meant. Didn't want to think of the possibilities.
She wanted to
leave, immediately, but knew she could not. Wanted to be able to
somehow go directly, immediately, to wherever this was happening and
drag Nate away (berating to follow later) and prevent whatever this
was from happening. She would have to start at square one regardless,
though, so she took a breath and tried to call her friend's captor
back. When there was no answer, a text instead: What are you going to
do?
Ten minutes later her phone rang. It rang three and a half
times and was nearly ready to go to voicemail when Molly answered,
hushed and breathless-- she clearly had to rush for the phone: "Flood."
All she had was his name, to start.
Flood
The line opens with the telltale white noise that indicates he's there to hear his name before he replies.
"Molly, I apologize for not answering your call earlier, I was occupied," is how he decides to begin.
And
then he's answering her question before she can ask it again. He's
reading between the lines of it, getting to its heart, and then
answering her real question.
"Nate is fine. Foolish, but fine. Though I do think we have something to discuss," he continues.
Flood
leaves it at that, waiting for her react to the news her friend is
fine, before touching upon the next topic he'd hinted at.
Molly Toombs
He
said he was occupied, and she didn't say anything but there's a small
rush of breath over the receiver, quickly started and then done again,
stopped as soon as it was realized. It was going to be a
semi-hysterical laugh (I can imagine how occupied you were). Then, again, quiet, hanging on words and waiting for the next ones so she could hang on them too.
Nate is fine.
The
news brings relief, but not the kind she wants. She wanted to hear
those words and feel the body-sagging relief that would let her just
lean against a wall and relax and say it's all over and she could be at
peace with the situation. But Molly was smart, you see, and she knew
that it wouldn't simply be over here. He was fine, but that was just
for now, and now he was in a lot more trouble than he's probably
accepted just yet.
So, what Flood hears for a reaction is a small sigh, with ghosted barely-there words of thankyou
on them. It's hard to say who she's thanking, him or some unknown
force that she's never once given indication of belief in. Then she
takes another breath and asks in a tone that manages to stay level but
is tight all the same. Her voice itself, quiet. Trying not to let
anyone overhear. She's probably tucked around a corner or in an empty
exam room while taking this call.
"I imagine that we do. I don't suppose you would've even sent me anything if you didn't want to talk."
Flood
"You're
welcome," serves to demonstrate Flood isn't above taking credit in
place of a silent higher power. It also illustrates that she is one of
the reasons Nathan is fine, whether she'd been there or not.
"You're
much smarter than your friend. He seems to think you need help. See,
he's gone picking through your things while you were drunk. He thinks
you need convincing to stay away from all these things you've gotten
yourself into: playing the field medic to Kragen's
cause-of-the-highest-bidder, finding lost reflections, choosing sides in
a war, all of it," and as he goes on his voice becomes rougher around
the edges. He doesn't sound angry, but he doesn't sound happy to be put
in this position either.
"Molly," and then he sighs after saying
her name like he's trying to calm himself. He doesn't have to breathe,
she knows this, so it must be for effect. "Tell me that you're deserving
of free will," he goes on, "and I will believe you."
Molly Toombs
[Manipulation + Subterfuge: I've got this under control.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Flood
[ Perception + Subterfuge ]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 6, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )
Molly Toombs
To
her credit, Molly doesn't sound particularly guilty when he lists off
the things that she's getting herself into-- things he already knew to
an extent, other things he's learned more recently. She didn't squirm
under the tone.
But she is hiding out in an empty exam room, and she did take advantage of one of the chairs against the wall while he spoke.
When his question was posed, do you deserve free will?, she stills very much.
It
takes her a few seconds to answer. She has to swallow the lump in her
throat and think about her next steps-- or, more specifically, her exact
next one. She tipped her head back and looked at the ceiling. Blinked
away tears that didn't carry over into her voice (not in any way of
tone or cadence, at least, but there is some hint of shake-- her voice has more husk to it-- she's trying so goddamn hard to keep it all together sincerely she is) and took a deep breath.
"I am-- I'm looking out. I just..." Another pause, another breath. Keep it together, Toombs. Okay.
"I'm not making any rash decisions, I assure you."
Flood
"Then I am assured," Flood returns in an even voice that manages to sound both convinced and convincing.
"I
have to insist you allow me to help you make the most informed
decisions possible," he says firmly. "That is if you still plan on
taking this route. I would feel somewhat responsible if..." He trails
off.
"I've upset you." Maybe he'd already realized it, maybe he
can hear her breathing through the phone and only does then, but this is
when he decides to comment on it.
"You think I meant that as a
threat? It wasn't," and that might be true. If she had trust for him,
she might be able to believe it was, but all she has to go on is that is
sounds like he's telling the truth.
Flood
[ Manipulation + Subterfuge. Specialty (Cult of Personality) applies. ]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 5, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Flood
[ Four successes. ]
Molly Toombs
All the while that Flood was talking, Molly was silent. All but holding her breath.
He
called her out on being upset, and quietly she reached up and brushed
her cheeks. Those tears that welled had fallen free, but she'd been
ignoring them. No one was around and she'd probably just need to fix
herself before going back to work anyways. She swallowed again, hard
for her heart kept trying to jam itself into her throat instead. She
was so worked up lately over waiting and waiting for those support beams
to cave and for one of these undead people would come for her neck
sooner or later. To have herself worried that Flood may be on his way
to simply take care of that had terrified her.
But, it wasn't
meant as a threat. He meant this-- sincerely. Or, he sounded like it
at least. Molly leaned forward and brushed her eyes lightly, then
rested her forehead in her hand, which was supported by an elbow set to
knee.
Again, quiet when she answered.
"You asked me if I deserve
my free will. Of course that--... You know how that sounds, don't
you?" He had to realize that half of the things that came from his
mouth were laced anyplace between flattering charm and cold-dark-dread
promise. It couldn't be an accident.
"Flood, you scare me to death. To tears."
She was starting to sound like it, and her words twisted themselves
into what sounded an awful lot like a confession when she concluded: "I
couldn't have known a longer shadow to stand under in the first place."
Flood
"Fear
and sadness aren't going to kill you and neither am I," and though he
sounds certain, what he says next leaves him coming off as a little
ashamed: "I am sorry," clear as a bell in that voice that cuts through
even a cell phone receiver like it can't stand in its way. He might as
well be whispering in her ear.
"It was that same offer I made the
first night we met. To make you forget all this. To give you the life
you had before, but I don't think that's the life you want," he says
next. It's an intuitive leap.
"I think you want to dig up every
bone, explore the dark places, know every secret, and have your own,"
and saying this through the telephone, there's a sudden noise, an ahem, like he's realizing the circumstances.
"This
isn't the time for talks like this, is it?" He can, perhaps, hear pages
over the intercom in the background of their conversation. "You have
lives to save. How many lives have you saved today, Ms. Toombs?"
Molly Toombs
This
time, the hysterical laugh is allowed to come forward just a little
further. It's more of a breathless chuckle. Dry, almost humored.
Mostly, though, relieved. A chuckle because that was better than
letting that held breath fall out on something closer to a sob.
He
had offered to let her forget, and she'd shut her eyes tightly. She
hated the offer reflexively without completely thinking it over, and
when she thought of it later she would come up with her reasons (but what about Jacky but what about Nate and I might forget but nobody else will they'll come and they'll find me and--),
but he didn't leave it on the table. He reshuffled the deck and
continued on. Spoke words that rang more true. That sat like stones in
her belly because she knew the truth to them.
Since they shared
cigars and she drank her wine and he prompted her to continue forward
and not to shy away. She had wanted to before, but he'd compelled her.
And then she'd gone deeper, she'd learned more. She'd tasted what it
was to Know, and to have others Not Know. It was scary, but she still
didn't want to let go of it. It was her lifeline anymore, after all.
He'd asked how many lives she saved and that was what prompted the dry chuckle.
"I
stopped counting after the first year." She cleared her throat.
"You're right. It's not." She paused, added: "I have things to do."
Something about the way she framed the statement made it seem like she
was talking about more than just tonight. Like she meant Things with a
capital T instead of just 'things'. But...
"We can talk later, though, I think. Another night.
"Goodnight, Flood."
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