Anora's figure looked as a specter of interlaced color. As a dense cloud of mist may shift its location, so did she shift her own. Blacks collided against soft shades of peach, flowing brown rivulets cascade from the bulbous oval likely to be her head. His exterior may look ragged, more than several steps into some nondescript illness; still, it maintained blatant signs of composure. His back was rigid and straight regardless as to frequent retching. His chest was flexed above gently interlaced legs. His form was of someone still in relative control of their primary faculties. His body operated on a profound depth of muscle memory. His mind began losing any grip it may have once had. The only two signs of his actual state were those drained eyes. To be a gateway of the soul is an understatement by our current circumstance.
Those pink spheres of ocular engagement were far from present, one having been nearly closed whilst the other twitched and pulsed in weak rhythm — their faint and unique coloration shown with alien luminance in a world of once average human perception. Anora may not have looked into Darsby's eyes, having focused on his revolver for entirely sensible reasons, yet, should she have chanced upon them for even a moment something rather strange would have happened. In their weakness, an ethereal call emanates. Something beyond words wishing to be in the company of another tugs gently at any who stare. This isn't a universal longing for emotional saturation as humans often seek without realizing. This is something far colder like a book read from the lips of a mathematician.
Howls and strong gusts of wind, gunfire and rattling walls, screams and cold hands. All of these slip as a single breath into Anora should she have met Darsby's eyes. An artist who feels another should look upon their depressing work. A mason gazing upon finished brickwork he may never be close to again. An unappreciated moment of cleaning up after another. These feelings are only the beginning of an expression going far deeper into the heart than any author could describe through just words. It seeks to strike for a brief moment at Anora's psyche. Then, all at once, these things are over. Like air forced from the body they leave with Darsby's shifting gaze, it's twitching figure staring into some presently unknown abyss.
His mind was being pulled into some other place as this woman he'd come here with moved to and fro in attempting to assist him. His naked backside loosened, it's many indentations of firm muscle giving way to smooth hills oiled over by the deep valleys which tug at them in the form of jagged, shadowy rivers. Pits of memory he'd wished firmly to avoid in his typical strengths washed as capricious waves over him. One moment he's crawling down a dark passage, flickering lights shaking against explosive-born tremors. Another moment he's pressed against a wall, smarting over a sharp pain in his leg and a lack of combative resources. And finally, he's sitting next to someone rather familiar, their gentle voice slipping as soulful hymns into his hungering ears.
*Hupf!* Darsby takes a sharp breath in, his lips resisting the sudden show of force with one faint flopping sound of protest. His eyes split open as if similarly gasping for air. Darsby's free hand reaches with a faintly practiced motion for Anora's collar. Should she dodge, which certainly wouldn't be too difficult, he'd still likely get at some other random area farther down her shirt as he isn't the slowest man. He'd use her shirt as leverage to lurch upwards, bringing his face uncomfortably close to hers. Everything about this effort likely won't seem even remotely hostile, if perhaps, mildly aggressive. If anything, he'd appear desperate and pressed for time.
"Earth girl..-" Darsby would sputter from between dry lips, his breath smelling surprisingly of freshly cut grass instead of bile. ".-I-.. I need two hours to recover, give me two quiet hours and you may ask two questions which I'll answer by complete honesty. Please, get us out of here, something in the wind wants our heads." He wouldn't have stopped himself from speaking if she had pushed him off of her, though, the urgency in his eyes and face may have disarmed her. Rarely do modernized people experience genuine life and death scenario's, the exceptional results these events breed in an expression would riddle his own. Darsby would then sputter with several hard-fought breaths, his body going limp shortly after.
Darsby's body would become cold, unresponsive, and lacking in the natural movement of breathing. By all accounts, he would appear dead. He'd be chilled, without a pulse, and entirely limp in the grass beneath him. He's not the heaviest of individuals, weighing in presently at a surprisingly low amount of one hundred pounds despite his height and physique. Perhaps his organic composition has something to do with this? Either way, Anora has been left with a dead body and a request to safeguard it for two hours. Luckily, no one was on this typically deserted road to witness what has just happened. Despite all these things, his hand remains dead-locked around the hilt of the revolver, some superhuman strength keeping that durable skin firm against its surface. Anora would have to use a crowbar and a large metal hammer even to begin to pry it from him. If she'd inspect it, she'd find the chamber emptied of usable rounds.
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*Bang-Bang! Thwop!....Bang!... Thwop!Thwop!* Inside the hospital, a man in a dapper suit was at work disposing of whatever horrid beasts had remained after Darsby and Anora's escape. He utilized himself and his tools with deadly efficiency. He would strike them down, then use small canisters of stored incantations to transport said abominations to a research/disposal facility. Everything would be resolved by the time the police arrived. He'd even magically transport the artificially shot and murdered corpses of an active shooter and police officer for whatever loose ends may follow. This was rehearsed, practiced as drills run again and again in countless simulated environments by the agents of whatever force this man belonged to. He'd cast one final spell once having finished his 'clean-up', a faint radiance which invades the minds of its recipients and alters their memory's to match whatever your typical police officer may expect to hear or find.
His partner had also assumed her duty as the tracker of their team. She had an unnaturally striking physique, massive fissures of shadow the likes of which you could lose your house key's in acting as the lines between each respective muscle adorning her thick skeletal structure. Crooked, thick horns propelled themselves valiantly from her forehead, clumpy tufts of red hair falling between them. Violent features set out to slam themselves into each other over what may have once been a beautiful face had it not been crowded continuously by fierce anger and hard-fought pleasure.
She'd stalked by swift steps across the entirety of whatever carnage presented itself. With many provocative scents caking her flared nostrils she finally came upon the prize, the shattered window with which our protagonistic pair had made their escape. It wasn't the window itself which shown as a reward, but a sharp piece of glass that jutted mischievously into open air along its side. This shard had upon it a faint red stain, the stain of a girl who'd misjudged a jump in the panic of following her partner's unexplained demands.
This hunter of unparalleled skill pulled the shard from its frame with a practiced motion, teasing it's dripping edge with her quivering tongue. Her shoulders swelled and shifted just below a grimacing face most would pay hard cash to avoid witnessing shortly after tasting the irony supplement now coating her alien taste buds. "Found you..." She'd hiss playfully to herself.
Sirens had now swelled into a chorus around her, yet, all law enforcement which arrived appeared to slip by without paying her any thought. Whatever she may say, shout, or do, would go completely unnoticed by them. The same would go for her partner as he stepped into the open air next to her, magic meant to distract others from their presence operating with potent effect. In two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, they'd cleared the scene and established methods to track whoever had last been here; an unsatisfactory time by most standards given to them over recent months.
"Found 'em?" The man would sigh, withdrawing a cigarette and rusted lighter from his suit jacket.
"The girl I expect to find doesn't trouble me deeply; her blood is uncultured... It's the other smell that gets to me, her companion. I can hardly discern species, let alone if he's stronger than myself or perhaps even weaker than the girl." Her lips quivered in rage at this statement, the vile syllables by which she spat each separate word growing ever more rotten than the last. Her failings are markedly rare, primarily when she's remotely invested in a matter.
"Let's get back to the car. I'll request governance over this case." He turns towards the parking lot holding their ride after relinquishing a wisp of smoke from his lips. He is apathetic to nearly everything he'd just experienced, all aside from the sentences he'd just heard his partner speak. She may never in the past have failed to distinguish her prey simply by one smell, this standalone failure marking nothing significant to him. What would become significant is her rebellious rage over possibly not being allowed to track and manage this present pair. He'd have to call in a few favors.
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