Post by David Hunter on Dec 17, 2018 14:47:57 GMT -5
A camera turns on. It’s not a very good camera, considering the grain that forms from the street lights around the scene of a park bench. The sky is dark and the grass around the person in front of the camera is barely seen. The body steps back, revealing David Hunter. He sits down on the bench.
“I could sit here and list a whole bunch of reasons why I’m going to beat Muscles Malone. I could say a litany of things by insulting his overdriven sex addiction, his lack of ability, or unknown knows what else I could bother to come up with.
But none of that would fucking matter.
I already lost to him. Ah yeah, one DVD on a stack of chairs after a ‘hell on Earth’ match and that was it. The King was dethroned. The revolution won out.
But the King isn’t dead. Far from it.
The problem is, I don’t want to waste words on Muscles Malone when we both know that it won’t make a difference.
If I talked the best game out of my opponent and lost I’d be seen as a loser or a person who rambles on incessantly, and nobody would ever take my words seriously again.
If I talked the worst game in the world and won, well…my opponent looks like an asshole.
Here’s the problem with talking all the shit you want: none of it matters. All that matters is what goes down in the ring. You could be the best talker in this industry, but guess what bucko, if you can’t hack it in that squared circle, you aren’t going anywhere.
So why bother? Why bother wasting my time talking down Muscles Malone if all that truly matters is what goes down in that ring?
Why bother sitting out here in a Phoenix midnight when I could easily go out there and prove why I am the once and future King, and Muscles Malone barely qualifies as a squire?
That is the question, now isn’t it? Why bother?
Not that I follow modern pop as closely as I did in high school, but to quote a recent song by Justin Timberlake that was a modern hit: sometimes the greatest the way to say something is to say nothing at all.
So Muscles?
You’re not worth getting into this with. I hope you’ve shined my crown nice and clean…because after Trauma…that title’s comin back where it belongs.”
David stands up, grabbing the cheap camera and quickly cutting its feed.
-----------------------------------------------------
The winter sun shines down above David Hunter. That sentence seems kinda contradictory, but considering David’s presently in some khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, some shades, and flip-flops in the middle of December, while standing on some deep orange sand, the whole thing kinda screams contradictory.
Nonetheless, David walks forward, approaching the sign that reads “Glendale Motor Homes”. A fairly unoriginal name for a motor home park, but then again, considering how far out he is from Glendale proper, he’s willing to give them a break.
He meanders past the sign, catching looks from various people outside, doing their usual work on a Saturday. Some are hanging laundry on a clothesline, others are just hangin out, talkin to some buddies with a beer in their hand.
Meanwhile, a few other local parties just stare at him. David’s used to it, yes, but the kind of stare he’s receiving is one that very few can give. The kind that you know they know what you’re here for and they secretly work for people presently investigating the same thing but working for another company.
They’re working for the Peacekeepers is what I’m trying to say.
All the same, David ignores them. That is, until he passes by every single motor home in the park…except for one. Way in the back sits a rusted piece of shit that somebody actually had the balls to call a home. The windows are busted and the shade door hangs limply off its hinges. David looks down at a polaroid in his hand, looking about the same as the home in front of him if said abode was brand new and didn’t look like the South rose again and decided this one place was symbolic of the North.
With a shrug, David tears the photo in two, allowing it to hit the sand. He approaches the door, opening it slightly. The result is the shade door falling to the ground. With a sigh, David steps on in. He takes off his shades, allowing the light from outside to help him brighten up the small location he’s in. He places the shades inside a pocket on his Hawaiian shirt and starts looking around.
Everything’s torn to shit. And David’s pretty sure that the small clumps in one of the corners is, in fact, shit.
David checks around at the broken cupboards, destroyed vinyl floor, holes in the metal wall allowing more light to peak through, and finally finds itself standing next to the bathroom wall.
Or what’s left of it.
Seriously, the entire thing is busted, allowing a perfect view of a shattered porcelain toilet.
“Whoever was after you sure as hell wasn't a fan,” David says.
He takes a peak at a picture frame on the wall. Below it, resting next to some glass and lying on the floor, is a small picture of a black-haired guy wearing the cheekiest grin this side of…himself, really. He’s wearing a red hoodie, wielding two guns. To his left a woman in a gray hoodie and black hair that hangs to her neck. She has a “peace” sign up, and his winking at the camera. To the right is an older gentlemen, wrapped in a black trench coat and showing off a smirk of his own.
However…behind them is another gentlemen. This one is…harder to pinpoint. Darker hair, a large beard, a breezy black jacket, but otherwise no recognizable features.
David clears the glass away and brings the picture up with him. Narrowing his eyes and examining the man in the back, he lets out a sniff.
Bad idea. Besides the shit covering the corner, the smell of piss reaches his nostrils.
David gags, folding the picture up and putting it in his shorts pocket. Using the loose Hawaiian shirt on his body, he raises it up as a temporary mask, blocking his nose and mouth.
David walks towards the opposite side of the mobile home, reaching where a bedroom probably is. He tries out the knob, learning it’s unlocked. Narrowing his eyes further, he lets his mask go, going for the pistol located in the waist on the back of his shorts. He grabs it, holding it near his head.
Taking a breath in and out, he opens the door…
….only to find an orange cat on a well-kept bed.
The cat hisses.
“Sorry about that,” David says.
He closes the door.
He pauses a bit, realizing the situation and opening the door back up.
The cat glances up again, hissing back once more.
“I’ll be right back, just sit tight,” he says.
David closes the door again, this time walking away from it.
He looks around the mobile home, trying to find some semblance that the original owner had a cat.
However, his brief search yields nothing. No cat food, no cat litter, no litter box, not even any signs of cat nip.
David cocks his pistol, before opening the door again.
In place of what was once the cat now holds a red-headed young woman.
And a crooked stick presently pressed in his throat.
David decides now is the time to crack a joke.
“I know you were a pussy, but you didn’t have to prove it,” he says.
Not his best, but it got the point across enough for the woman to step back and point.
“Stupefy!” she calls.
On the first syllable, David steps back. He closes the door and leans back against the bedroom wall. The impending blast places a hole in the wall.
“Bee tee dubs, you just alerted the Peacekeepers!” David calls back.
The woman attempts to open the door, but David shoots the floor. She stops briefly, just enough for the two Peacekeepers lurking outside to enter the battle, rifles at the ready.
David raises his hands up, but the bedroom door bursts open.
“Stupefy! Stupefy!” the young woman exclaims.
Both of the Peacekeepers’ attempts to fire are nowhere near fast enough, and they soon hit the floor, paralyzed and stuck. David cocks his pistol at the back of the woman’s head.
“Turn around,” David says.
The woman complies, her stick still in hand.
David grabs the stick, tossing it behind him carelessly. Now with a good shot of the woman, he sees she’s wearing fairly normal clothes. Blue jeans, converse, decent pink top, probably not one he’d see somebody normally wear but it works for her.
“Name,” David says.
“As per the regulation of the Ministry of Magic, I am not required to give you my name,” the woman says.
“British. Great. Also, try again,” David says.
The woman pauses briefly before speaking once more.
“As a special agent brought here by a member of the Council, I am not required to give my name,” she says.
“Hands up,” David says.
The woman complies, her palms facing towards him with the fingers spread out.
“Not that I’m a fashion guru or anything, but why are you wearing that while wielding that?” David asks.
“I could ask you why you look like Magnum P.I…” she states more so than asks.
“I was going more for DeNiro in Cape Fear, but at least now I know you’re from the regular humans and not from them,” David says.
Having heard the venom in the “them”, the young woman responds.
“You a racist by trade or does that come with the macho pride?” she asks.
“Just not a fan of the stuff. Never have been. It’s cheating, plain and simple. Overpowered and under-levels everybody else to the point where nobody can win. Not a fan of it on Beacon, very much not a fan of it in your dimension either. Look, those two Peacekeepers probably have back-up on the way, and finding somebody from your world placed here will alert so many bells that I’m pretty sure Quasimodo is gonna rise out from his grave. Come with me and let’s talk this out,” David says.
The young woman calls the stick back to her hand, pointing it at him.
“Stupefy!” she shouts.
David moves out of the way, clocking her in the face with the pistol.
The result is another dropped stick and a young woman falling on his shoulder.
“Right, well, that could’ve gone better,” he says, struggling with the new weight on his body.
----------------------------------------------------------
The young woman wakes up. Her arms and legs are bound with chain and she’s presently weighted down.
She looks around and sees where she is.
It’s a swimming pool.
She keeps her head up, the placement of the weight below her allowing her just barely enough to breathe through her nose and speak.
She hears footsteps, and sees an approaching figure. She looks up and sees its David.
Despite her advanced night vision, she can still barely see his face. It isn’t until the lights around the pool turn on that he is made much more visible.
“Oh, there we go, was wondering what was taking the motel so long,” he says. “Would’ve thought the pool lights would’ve been on by now, but I guess if nobody uses it. Whatever.”
He shrugs, taking his flip-flops off. He sits down, placing his feet into the pool.
“Not the cleanest pool around, but it’s the only one that fits the criteria I’m looking for. So…witch…couple questions,” he says.
The young woman does not speak, instead opting to glance around for something to aid her.
“Don’t bother. Your wand is charmed elsewhere, and even if you could grab it, your hands are too tightly bound. You’re under questioning until I deem you worthy to release,” David says.
“The…those men, the Peacekeepers, you called them. Are they after us?” she struggles to ask above the water.
“Not for the moment. Something came up nearby that drew their attention more closely. Once they get there and realize it was a trap, they’ll be back on our trail. Ideally we’d both be long gone by then, but that depends on your cooperation. Now, let’s try this again. Name,” David states.
“Hermione…” a brief pause to spit out some chlorine water. “Granger.”
“Yeah I figured. Your small transformation wore off once you got in the water, just wanted to make sure. So I’m dealing with a member of the trio. That can only end badly for everybody you talked to while here. Seriously, you just ruined so many people's lives. Anyway, next question, what the hell are you doing here? Who sent you? And don’t spit any of that Council shit, I know for a fact they’d never allow somebody from that world here. It’s literally written in their law. Your's is one of the three banned dimensions,” David says.
“I was…I was brought here by a man…who needed help. He promised me freedom…something I desperately need…if I helped him find who he was…looking for. I do this…I can go back home,” she says.
“Older guy, always wears a suit, annoying cane, hell of a talker? Somewhere around Montreal or…Miami, I think he moved to?” David asks.
Hermione doesn’t respond, opting instead to nod her head to gain some breath.
“Why the fuck would Phillip Silver want to risk so much just to bring somebody from a banned dimension to ours? Who were you looking for?” David asks.
“I can’t say…!” she calls.
“Yeah, yeah, probably one of those deals. Look, I think we’re after similar things. I’m looking for somebody who has what I want. You were in his house. You tell me why he was there, I’ll let you go,” David says.
Hermione nods her head, but other than that, neither move.
“Ya gotta tell me first! Do interrogators in your world seriously let you go first?” David asks.
“Depends…on who’s…doing…the—”
“Interrogation, yeah, I got it. Less talking, more confessing,” David says.
“I was led there…by Mr. Silver. He…told me to meet somebody there…and they’d help…find something…to find her!” Hermione shouts.
“Great. Another female on the list of people to find. By the end of this I’m gonna be getting a harem…” David starts to mumble.
“I was told…to go…to Seattle!” Hermione calls.
She’s struggling to maintain herself above the water. Apparently whilst she was struggling, she started dragging the metal ball holding her down further into the deep end of the pool.
“Seattle, fun,” David says.
He gets out his pistol and fires it behind him, right at a small box on the table. The box explodes, but the result is the same stick as before flying into the water, right into Hermione’s hands, just as the ball starts to fall down the incline. This ends with Hermione submerging completely into the water.
David does nothing, allowing her to free herself.
Not long after, a white spark shines under the water, followed soon after by another one. Hermione swims to the top of the water, breathing in and out wildly. David stands up, approaching her part of the pool. She swims to the edge, taking the hand offered to her.
David brings her onto the nearby concrete. He forces her to lean up, rubbing her back as she coughs up water and grabs air like an obsessed fat kid at Willy Wonka’s.
“Sorry about the interrogation, but like I said: magic is cheating,” he says.
Hermione manages to throw over the fiercest glare he’s ever seen. And he’s seen a mother looking for her son who was two planets away.
Seriously, his job is not fun, and it only got so much less so.
“So then…Miss Granger…pardon my French, but why the fuck would Mr. Silver bring you here?” David asks.
“Because…” one last cough to clear her throat. “Because he needs some…device, that allows him to find anybody or anything. He’s looking for somebody, a girl. He told me that if I find her, I can go back home.”
“And you agreed?” David asks.
“I was already here. I couldn’t exactly say no,” she says.
A brief pause between the two of them while Hermione shivers in the cool, Arizona evening air. It might be winter in a desert, but the nights are still fucking cold.
“Right. Well…Seattle, right?” David asks.
“Yes, that’s where I was told to go to,” she says.
“Not sure why you were in this guy’s bedroom as a cat, but hey, the best part is, you won’t walk away from this the pussy,” David says.
Before she can respond with obvious confusion, David grabs his pistol and clocks Hermione in the back of her head with it. Once again, she collapses to the concrete, knocked out.
“No, that’s my job. It’s always my job. I imagine the Peacekeepers should be here soon though, and I’m always looking for a way to get back at Mr. Silver. Imagine the record he’ll have now that he brought somebody from the banned dimensions here. Ha! That’ll show ‘em,” he says.
David starts to walk away towards a car on a nearby road.
He pauses briefly, reaching into his Hawaiian shirt pocket. He brandishes the photo, unfolding it enough to see the man in the red jacket with two pistols.
“Wait…two pistols…those are…Berettas,” he says.
David looks up into the sky, suddenly unleashing a shout that would make a coyote cry.
When he is done, the coyote agrees, with a nearby one responding in kind.
“Who the fuck would want to learn from Two Hands?” he asks to nobody in particular.
“I could sit here and list a whole bunch of reasons why I’m going to beat Muscles Malone. I could say a litany of things by insulting his overdriven sex addiction, his lack of ability, or unknown knows what else I could bother to come up with.
But none of that would fucking matter.
I already lost to him. Ah yeah, one DVD on a stack of chairs after a ‘hell on Earth’ match and that was it. The King was dethroned. The revolution won out.
But the King isn’t dead. Far from it.
The problem is, I don’t want to waste words on Muscles Malone when we both know that it won’t make a difference.
If I talked the best game out of my opponent and lost I’d be seen as a loser or a person who rambles on incessantly, and nobody would ever take my words seriously again.
If I talked the worst game in the world and won, well…my opponent looks like an asshole.
Here’s the problem with talking all the shit you want: none of it matters. All that matters is what goes down in the ring. You could be the best talker in this industry, but guess what bucko, if you can’t hack it in that squared circle, you aren’t going anywhere.
So why bother? Why bother wasting my time talking down Muscles Malone if all that truly matters is what goes down in that ring?
Why bother sitting out here in a Phoenix midnight when I could easily go out there and prove why I am the once and future King, and Muscles Malone barely qualifies as a squire?
That is the question, now isn’t it? Why bother?
Not that I follow modern pop as closely as I did in high school, but to quote a recent song by Justin Timberlake that was a modern hit: sometimes the greatest the way to say something is to say nothing at all.
So Muscles?
You’re not worth getting into this with. I hope you’ve shined my crown nice and clean…because after Trauma…that title’s comin back where it belongs.”
David stands up, grabbing the cheap camera and quickly cutting its feed.
-----------------------------------------------------
The winter sun shines down above David Hunter. That sentence seems kinda contradictory, but considering David’s presently in some khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, some shades, and flip-flops in the middle of December, while standing on some deep orange sand, the whole thing kinda screams contradictory.
Nonetheless, David walks forward, approaching the sign that reads “Glendale Motor Homes”. A fairly unoriginal name for a motor home park, but then again, considering how far out he is from Glendale proper, he’s willing to give them a break.
He meanders past the sign, catching looks from various people outside, doing their usual work on a Saturday. Some are hanging laundry on a clothesline, others are just hangin out, talkin to some buddies with a beer in their hand.
Meanwhile, a few other local parties just stare at him. David’s used to it, yes, but the kind of stare he’s receiving is one that very few can give. The kind that you know they know what you’re here for and they secretly work for people presently investigating the same thing but working for another company.
They’re working for the Peacekeepers is what I’m trying to say.
All the same, David ignores them. That is, until he passes by every single motor home in the park…except for one. Way in the back sits a rusted piece of shit that somebody actually had the balls to call a home. The windows are busted and the shade door hangs limply off its hinges. David looks down at a polaroid in his hand, looking about the same as the home in front of him if said abode was brand new and didn’t look like the South rose again and decided this one place was symbolic of the North.
With a shrug, David tears the photo in two, allowing it to hit the sand. He approaches the door, opening it slightly. The result is the shade door falling to the ground. With a sigh, David steps on in. He takes off his shades, allowing the light from outside to help him brighten up the small location he’s in. He places the shades inside a pocket on his Hawaiian shirt and starts looking around.
Everything’s torn to shit. And David’s pretty sure that the small clumps in one of the corners is, in fact, shit.
David checks around at the broken cupboards, destroyed vinyl floor, holes in the metal wall allowing more light to peak through, and finally finds itself standing next to the bathroom wall.
Or what’s left of it.
Seriously, the entire thing is busted, allowing a perfect view of a shattered porcelain toilet.
“Whoever was after you sure as hell wasn't a fan,” David says.
He takes a peak at a picture frame on the wall. Below it, resting next to some glass and lying on the floor, is a small picture of a black-haired guy wearing the cheekiest grin this side of…himself, really. He’s wearing a red hoodie, wielding two guns. To his left a woman in a gray hoodie and black hair that hangs to her neck. She has a “peace” sign up, and his winking at the camera. To the right is an older gentlemen, wrapped in a black trench coat and showing off a smirk of his own.
However…behind them is another gentlemen. This one is…harder to pinpoint. Darker hair, a large beard, a breezy black jacket, but otherwise no recognizable features.
David clears the glass away and brings the picture up with him. Narrowing his eyes and examining the man in the back, he lets out a sniff.
Bad idea. Besides the shit covering the corner, the smell of piss reaches his nostrils.
David gags, folding the picture up and putting it in his shorts pocket. Using the loose Hawaiian shirt on his body, he raises it up as a temporary mask, blocking his nose and mouth.
David walks towards the opposite side of the mobile home, reaching where a bedroom probably is. He tries out the knob, learning it’s unlocked. Narrowing his eyes further, he lets his mask go, going for the pistol located in the waist on the back of his shorts. He grabs it, holding it near his head.
Taking a breath in and out, he opens the door…
….only to find an orange cat on a well-kept bed.
The cat hisses.
“Sorry about that,” David says.
He closes the door.
He pauses a bit, realizing the situation and opening the door back up.
The cat glances up again, hissing back once more.
“I’ll be right back, just sit tight,” he says.
David closes the door again, this time walking away from it.
He looks around the mobile home, trying to find some semblance that the original owner had a cat.
However, his brief search yields nothing. No cat food, no cat litter, no litter box, not even any signs of cat nip.
David cocks his pistol, before opening the door again.
In place of what was once the cat now holds a red-headed young woman.
And a crooked stick presently pressed in his throat.
David decides now is the time to crack a joke.
“I know you were a pussy, but you didn’t have to prove it,” he says.
Not his best, but it got the point across enough for the woman to step back and point.
“Stupefy!” she calls.
On the first syllable, David steps back. He closes the door and leans back against the bedroom wall. The impending blast places a hole in the wall.
“Bee tee dubs, you just alerted the Peacekeepers!” David calls back.
The woman attempts to open the door, but David shoots the floor. She stops briefly, just enough for the two Peacekeepers lurking outside to enter the battle, rifles at the ready.
David raises his hands up, but the bedroom door bursts open.
“Stupefy! Stupefy!” the young woman exclaims.
Both of the Peacekeepers’ attempts to fire are nowhere near fast enough, and they soon hit the floor, paralyzed and stuck. David cocks his pistol at the back of the woman’s head.
“Turn around,” David says.
The woman complies, her stick still in hand.
David grabs the stick, tossing it behind him carelessly. Now with a good shot of the woman, he sees she’s wearing fairly normal clothes. Blue jeans, converse, decent pink top, probably not one he’d see somebody normally wear but it works for her.
“Name,” David says.
“As per the regulation of the Ministry of Magic, I am not required to give you my name,” the woman says.
“British. Great. Also, try again,” David says.
The woman pauses briefly before speaking once more.
“As a special agent brought here by a member of the Council, I am not required to give my name,” she says.
“Hands up,” David says.
The woman complies, her palms facing towards him with the fingers spread out.
“Not that I’m a fashion guru or anything, but why are you wearing that while wielding that?” David asks.
“I could ask you why you look like Magnum P.I…” she states more so than asks.
“I was going more for DeNiro in Cape Fear, but at least now I know you’re from the regular humans and not from them,” David says.
Having heard the venom in the “them”, the young woman responds.
“You a racist by trade or does that come with the macho pride?” she asks.
“Just not a fan of the stuff. Never have been. It’s cheating, plain and simple. Overpowered and under-levels everybody else to the point where nobody can win. Not a fan of it on Beacon, very much not a fan of it in your dimension either. Look, those two Peacekeepers probably have back-up on the way, and finding somebody from your world placed here will alert so many bells that I’m pretty sure Quasimodo is gonna rise out from his grave. Come with me and let’s talk this out,” David says.
The young woman calls the stick back to her hand, pointing it at him.
“Stupefy!” she shouts.
David moves out of the way, clocking her in the face with the pistol.
The result is another dropped stick and a young woman falling on his shoulder.
“Right, well, that could’ve gone better,” he says, struggling with the new weight on his body.
----------------------------------------------------------
The young woman wakes up. Her arms and legs are bound with chain and she’s presently weighted down.
She looks around and sees where she is.
It’s a swimming pool.
She keeps her head up, the placement of the weight below her allowing her just barely enough to breathe through her nose and speak.
She hears footsteps, and sees an approaching figure. She looks up and sees its David.
Despite her advanced night vision, she can still barely see his face. It isn’t until the lights around the pool turn on that he is made much more visible.
“Oh, there we go, was wondering what was taking the motel so long,” he says. “Would’ve thought the pool lights would’ve been on by now, but I guess if nobody uses it. Whatever.”
He shrugs, taking his flip-flops off. He sits down, placing his feet into the pool.
“Not the cleanest pool around, but it’s the only one that fits the criteria I’m looking for. So…witch…couple questions,” he says.
The young woman does not speak, instead opting to glance around for something to aid her.
“Don’t bother. Your wand is charmed elsewhere, and even if you could grab it, your hands are too tightly bound. You’re under questioning until I deem you worthy to release,” David says.
“The…those men, the Peacekeepers, you called them. Are they after us?” she struggles to ask above the water.
“Not for the moment. Something came up nearby that drew their attention more closely. Once they get there and realize it was a trap, they’ll be back on our trail. Ideally we’d both be long gone by then, but that depends on your cooperation. Now, let’s try this again. Name,” David states.
“Hermione…” a brief pause to spit out some chlorine water. “Granger.”
“Yeah I figured. Your small transformation wore off once you got in the water, just wanted to make sure. So I’m dealing with a member of the trio. That can only end badly for everybody you talked to while here. Seriously, you just ruined so many people's lives. Anyway, next question, what the hell are you doing here? Who sent you? And don’t spit any of that Council shit, I know for a fact they’d never allow somebody from that world here. It’s literally written in their law. Your's is one of the three banned dimensions,” David says.
“I was…I was brought here by a man…who needed help. He promised me freedom…something I desperately need…if I helped him find who he was…looking for. I do this…I can go back home,” she says.
“Older guy, always wears a suit, annoying cane, hell of a talker? Somewhere around Montreal or…Miami, I think he moved to?” David asks.
Hermione doesn’t respond, opting instead to nod her head to gain some breath.
“Why the fuck would Phillip Silver want to risk so much just to bring somebody from a banned dimension to ours? Who were you looking for?” David asks.
“I can’t say…!” she calls.
“Yeah, yeah, probably one of those deals. Look, I think we’re after similar things. I’m looking for somebody who has what I want. You were in his house. You tell me why he was there, I’ll let you go,” David says.
Hermione nods her head, but other than that, neither move.
“Ya gotta tell me first! Do interrogators in your world seriously let you go first?” David asks.
“Depends…on who’s…doing…the—”
“Interrogation, yeah, I got it. Less talking, more confessing,” David says.
“I was led there…by Mr. Silver. He…told me to meet somebody there…and they’d help…find something…to find her!” Hermione shouts.
“Great. Another female on the list of people to find. By the end of this I’m gonna be getting a harem…” David starts to mumble.
“I was told…to go…to Seattle!” Hermione calls.
She’s struggling to maintain herself above the water. Apparently whilst she was struggling, she started dragging the metal ball holding her down further into the deep end of the pool.
“Seattle, fun,” David says.
He gets out his pistol and fires it behind him, right at a small box on the table. The box explodes, but the result is the same stick as before flying into the water, right into Hermione’s hands, just as the ball starts to fall down the incline. This ends with Hermione submerging completely into the water.
David does nothing, allowing her to free herself.
Not long after, a white spark shines under the water, followed soon after by another one. Hermione swims to the top of the water, breathing in and out wildly. David stands up, approaching her part of the pool. She swims to the edge, taking the hand offered to her.
David brings her onto the nearby concrete. He forces her to lean up, rubbing her back as she coughs up water and grabs air like an obsessed fat kid at Willy Wonka’s.
“Sorry about the interrogation, but like I said: magic is cheating,” he says.
Hermione manages to throw over the fiercest glare he’s ever seen. And he’s seen a mother looking for her son who was two planets away.
Seriously, his job is not fun, and it only got so much less so.
“So then…Miss Granger…pardon my French, but why the fuck would Mr. Silver bring you here?” David asks.
“Because…” one last cough to clear her throat. “Because he needs some…device, that allows him to find anybody or anything. He’s looking for somebody, a girl. He told me that if I find her, I can go back home.”
“And you agreed?” David asks.
“I was already here. I couldn’t exactly say no,” she says.
A brief pause between the two of them while Hermione shivers in the cool, Arizona evening air. It might be winter in a desert, but the nights are still fucking cold.
“Right. Well…Seattle, right?” David asks.
“Yes, that’s where I was told to go to,” she says.
“Not sure why you were in this guy’s bedroom as a cat, but hey, the best part is, you won’t walk away from this the pussy,” David says.
Before she can respond with obvious confusion, David grabs his pistol and clocks Hermione in the back of her head with it. Once again, she collapses to the concrete, knocked out.
“No, that’s my job. It’s always my job. I imagine the Peacekeepers should be here soon though, and I’m always looking for a way to get back at Mr. Silver. Imagine the record he’ll have now that he brought somebody from the banned dimensions here. Ha! That’ll show ‘em,” he says.
David starts to walk away towards a car on a nearby road.
He pauses briefly, reaching into his Hawaiian shirt pocket. He brandishes the photo, unfolding it enough to see the man in the red jacket with two pistols.
“Wait…two pistols…those are…Berettas,” he says.
David looks up into the sky, suddenly unleashing a shout that would make a coyote cry.
When he is done, the coyote agrees, with a nearby one responding in kind.
“Who the fuck would want to learn from Two Hands?” he asks to nobody in particular.
