Difference between revisions of "9175/Hellbound: Cutting Through the Flesh"

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Latest revision as of 02:44, 14 September 2019

Hellbound: Cutting Through the Flesh
Date of Scene: 13 September 2019
Location: North Point, Nantwich
Synopsis: Film Freak is sent by the CIA to assassinate an old spy, but Spawn's timely intervention foils the plans of Film Freak's betters and leaves Burt Weston back in Arkham Asylum. Will there be a sequel?
Cast of Characters: Film Freak, Spawn

Film Freak has posed:
In the Veidt Building, top story, there is an old, weary man, a veteran of the Vietnam War, some fifty or sixty years ago, in the storied tears of American history. He sits in a penthouse, arrayed especially for him, dressed in an old suit jacket and button-up shirt, left open, his rotund belly and man breasts on display. There is a sad, heavy bearing to him, as he smokes a cigarette and holds a lowball glass of three hundred dollar Scottish whiskey, the type of drink that Swedes vie for and their Scottish cousins brew for the consumption of the illiterate rich.

It's a drink for the Damned.

His sins are unimportant, merely that they are vast and deep, blood sitting about his ankles in the schismal worlds of space and time. He has made love, he has made death, he has made war, and he has refused peace. Therefore, the Grim Reaper approaches, and not in the form of the easy peace of sleep, but in a dagger or a pistol or even bare hands.

Film Freak steps out of the shadows, an old television set in the background, far too old, playing the National Anthem. It's five in the morning, and Film Freak has come here, just to kill this man.


Film Freak takes a seat, across from the man, holding a syringe.

"Let me tell you a story, Film Freak."

Spawn has posed:
    From above, a shape watches the scene down below. From outside the wind is howling like a screaming mother under the light of her stillborn moon, but inside it was nearly silent, save for the two speaking. For the shape's part, even looking up it would be difficult to see anything was amiss, the figure was fully cloaked and nearly blending into the little corner between wall and ceiling. And as those eyes narrowed, he continued to observe the play that was currently unfolding. He did not act, not yet. Just watching, would be enough for now.

Film Freak has posed:
"I've run for a long time, you know, Film Freak. Those old legs, they look big, but the heart is always young when you're from Dixie."

Film Freak looks on impassively, the shade across his face from the dark room, an eerie pallor cast over his head by the television set behind him. The quiet hum of the National Anthem bellows on with a stacatto shape to the room, offering the wind outside a rival, quiet as such.

"I've killed so many people. I'd thought you'd be the last. A contract hitman's life is nothing, in comparison to a soldier."

Film Freak's thumb slowly slides up the glass surface of the syringe, the lethal rattlesnake's venom inside producing a bubble at the subtle heat of his finger.

"They wouldn't just call you back, would they?"

Film Freak quietly tilts his head down, whispering, "You can't kill your own messenger, Mr. Beaters. That's a saying protecting me, not your betters."

The old spy laughs, chuckling and hacking up phlegm, before swallowing it and shakily inhaling on his cigarette.

"Imagine that, defeated by a country saying," Mr. Beaters whispers, placing his glass on the table beside him. "A brilliant play, them making that saying."

Film Freak rises from his chair, palming the needle so the old spy can see it, before preparing it by removing the syringe's plastic cover, then handling it delicately.

Film Freak shares, "Country sayings are where they found you, you know, sir."


Film Freak smiles. "A stitch in time, saves nine."

Spawn has posed:
    "I think I've heard enough of the bullshit."

    The powerful deep voice rolled out over the blaring anthem, echoing off the walls and thick window with a lazy power behind its low, gravelly pitch. The ceiling creaked a bit from sudden weight and movement, as it seemed whoever was watching, no longer saw any need for stealth or subterfuge. Instead, the voice's owner dropped down in a blur of movement, the muted shadowy colors of the walls and ceiling suddenly morphing into a dark red. A form shaped very much like a human fell like a limp corpse, tumbling through the air until it landed in a deep crouch, right over that desk, with a black and white mask, and green glowing eyes, inches from the 'Film Freak'. All around them, the leathery rustling of a brilliant red cape could be heard, almost like the sound of autumn leaves dragging over a stone crypt.

    The ball was in the hitman's court. Or the spy, if his jaw could be picked up off the floor.

Film Freak has posed:
The old spy jolts and lurches away, as Spawn drops into the penthouse, having been unaware that something of such mass was present watching the pair.

Film Freak, meanwhile, slowly turns about with a pivot, looking over his shoulder, with a sleepy Crow warrior's tension rising up into his shoulders, practiced pilates and stretching muscle tensing into whipcord strength. His rave boots swivel about as he steps to face Spawn, slowly and carefully setting his venom filled syringe down on the table, next to Mr. Beaters' lowball of scotch.

"A little conversation with a dying man offends you?"

Film Freak tilts his head, with a cant, to the right, furrowing his brow in curiousity at the shape.

"Are you the one called Spawn?"

He's heard of the monster's reputation, on the streets of Gotham, despite the fact that the geist rarely visits. Tonight must be Film Freak's lucky day.

Spawn has posed:
    "You do your homework."

    When Spawn spoke, it was almost as if it were an afterthought, as if joining in the act of communication were low on his list of priorities. Straightening up to his full height, he leapt off the desk so that he could circle and pace around the room, that cape of his swirling behind that lean, muscular form of his. The very tattered and torn edges of that remarkable piece of clothing almost seemed to 'snap' at the Freak when they got too close, and as it moved sounds could almost be heard coming from the fabric, something like whispering though what it was saying? That was a mystery that would not be solved tonight.

    At the same time, the various chains that were wrapped around Spawn's torso unfurled and moved of their own accord, tightening and loosening and acting independently of their master. The last piece of significant information to take in was the brown leather shoulder holster, under the Hellspawn's left armpit. It seemed that on top of this creature's natural abilities, he was packing heat of a more worldly sort. It seemed it never hurt to be prepared.

    "When there is no more room in Arkham, the loons and wristcutters will roam the streets. It seems after all this time, some prophecies still hold true."

Film Freak has posed:
"There's always plenty of room in Arkham, Spawn," comes a murmur with a smile, as a glint of silver steel comes from his hand as a knife is slid from a brown case on the hip of his designer jeans. "Just not enough in a doctor's head."

Film Freak begins pacing as well, matching the circling Hellspawn, watching his chest, directly his chest, aware that the chains are his most dangerous foe. Binding, pinning, stripping, cutting, pulling, throwing, any of those, even the worst, strangling or lifting or ripping.

"You know what the worst thing about Arkham Asylum is?" Film Freak says. "It's the fact that it makes you normal."

There's a lowering of his eyes, as he lifts his left hand in a knife fighter's forward posture, of the Native variety. The sotto sound of the National Anthem concludes, and there's a loud broadcast voice from Gotham general broadcasting.

Film Freak pulls his hand back and goes rushing forward with surely set feet, rushing into Spawn with a swipe down and from the right, his left arm swinging behind him in a tilt hipped swing as he puts his right leg forward recklessly and drunkenly, before his left leg pommels forward and he swings his left shoulder around into a block, his knife swiping back out with an upward slash from the double-bladed dagger.

Spawn has posed:
    There is a rule in unarmed combat, that if an untrained man has a weapon, then that man has just become a black belt. It was true that when it comes to movement, defense and deflection, Spawn is good. Spawn is damn good, the result of years of the best training Uncle Sam had to offer, on top of his own explosive anger and desire to break opponent's faces open. When Burt feints, Spawn counters. When he lunges, he feints or parries. But a knife is dangerous, and even though the blade is deflected every so often by an oversized gauntlet or a shifting chain, there are multiple occasions where the knife performs its intended effect. Hands, fingers, his torso all get slashed as green, bright-glowing blood pools slowly down as if already coagulated. But the man in the fancy costume doesn't seem to give the pained responses that the 'Freak' might have been hoping for.

    "Don't worry. You don't have to be normal...to bore the shit out of me."

    The Freak was inside Spawn's reach, which meant a right-handed backhand was coming the man's way. Thankfully for him, those big metal spikes on that massive red gauntlet weren't sharp enough to draw blood. But the strength and speed that the attack was traveling, meant that if the man didn't have an answer, he might be taking a trip through the air, into that window that was currently protecting them from those violent, cold howling winds.

Film Freak has posed:
Film Freak dances around Spawn, slashing and cutting, performing a graceful dance with his knife, cutting and slashing and thrusting, splattered in green ectoplasm as he grunts and grits his teeth and squints, before the backhand comes.

There's a glimmer of light as the knife goes flying across the room, out of Film Freak's hand, simultaneous with the man being swung spinning into the window.

The window shatters, wind howling into the penthouse. The violent gusts upset the penthouse, the curtains flapping violently and billowing, as the high altitude, twenty or thirty stories up, bevels its drafts into the whole room.

Hanging down, one floor below the window, is Burt Weston, out of character as Film Freak, now just a regular method actor, terrified and hanging from a piece of statuary, a black eagle emerging from a freize below the windows of the floor below.

He hangs on for dear life by his right hand, his legs shifting as he grips the smooth head atop the staring eyes and curved beak.

Spawn has posed:
    Burt is hanging on to that statue for dear life, so he more than anyone would have a grand view of the very ends of that cape, as the form of the vigilante(?) comes out to stand and perch right above him. Curious, that while the wind was blowing so hard that things like Burt's hair or jacket might have been whipping around violently, the flow and physics of the cape, currently wrapped around Spawn as if he were Dracula, defied physics. Even his massive collar remained where it was, until that cape slowly unfurled and spread as if they were the wings of a terrible bird of prey. This was so that the chains around him could unwrap from around his chest and legs, and try to loop and snare around the auteur's wrists, and ankles, and throat. Not enough to choke or throttle...but tight enough for him to feel how sharp they were, and how easily they could tear into flesh, if their owner willed them to. If this worked, then Spawn would lift the figure so that they were seeing eye to eye.

    "I have come to take you to HELL, boy! Ambulance or hearse? I only offer the choice once."

Film Freak has posed:
"Ambulance, ambulance, ambulance," come the terrified squeals of Burt Weston, shivering in the severe cold of the early morning's night. "I was working a company contract, CIA, CIA, not mob, I swear," he whines.

Poor choice of words, given Spawn's origin?

Spawn has posed:
    And so, Burt was left, hanging by his wrists from that precarious eagle statue, as police and ambulance rushed over thanks to an anonymous tip. The entire time Spawn had been watching while in plain view from street, locking eyes with the very unfortunate hitman. When the sirens got louder and the police pulled in, then and only then did the shape in the cape slip away, racing away from the light like a scurrying spider along the floor of a nursery. He was finally gone. But was he ever really gone? Perhaps the actor might never truly know...