capeandcowllogs | so marvelous and dangerous

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so marvelous and dangerous

WHO:

sh_consulting
WHERE: An abandoned building.
WHEN: The morning of the 26th, continuing from the night of the 25th.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Sherlock intrudes upon Azrael. It doesn’t go well.
FORMAT: First quick, then I don't know.

[ It’s a beautiful night for casting punishment on the wicked, however old as it might be. Within an abandoned little construction lie, falling apart at its edges—holes in the floors peering down on the floors below, splinters and glass scattered across its floors. Scarce sad scaffolding still clings to its edges, remnants of a renovation long since forgotten.

Within the third, top floor of this place does an evil man sit unwillingly bound and gagged. Michael (not right now, Azrael) holds Sin dangerously close to his legs, threatening (no, foreshadowing) to stroke downward in a smooth, brutal sweep.

He’s been babbling to him for an immeasurable amount of time, voice booming with fanatical fervor, steady in his broken convictions. It echoes throughout the building, shaking off the walls—mostly nonsense, his madness growing exponentially within the past few weeks. If the massive doors to the structure creak, he doesn’t notice them. ]

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[It had taken a few weeks, but Sherlock hadn't lost the trail. Cementing it, storing it, with snippets of information and stories woven from meetings with Talia.

The signs of Azrael's trail here hadn't been hard to follow - dragging a hostage home wasn't exactly something that one could accomplish without leaving marks.

Gun in hand, he pushes the huge doors open just a crack - just a sliver, to slip through. Gun in his hand, adrenaline in his veins and it just feels so much better than it has in weeks.

He hears the babbling long before he gets to it - the murmured whisper of a voice from two floors down, slowly growing louder as Sherlock's silent footfalls padded up the steps.

He stepped into the room with all the careful quiet of a feline predator, gun raising.]

I would say that I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm not.

[ He suddenly stills at the sound of his voice, arm still holding the blade threateningly over the man's legs. In the haze of zealotry, he closes his eyes and breathes. A single moment. Then turns his head.

His tone is impassionate, controlled, as if a sliver of sanity has been restored to him. ]

What are you trying to accomplish, Sherlock? Who do you believe you're saving?

A sinner, I imagine. [His tone was bored, almost lazy, just a hint of amusement at the edges. Proud of himself.

He kept inching closer, each footfall soft but deliberate. Tiny little white notes began to appear around the victim, every detail of the man's life springing to life. It didn't matter to Sherlock what they said. He could have just come from a murder, but that didn't mean Sherlock was about to let a second one happen.

Not when he'd already figured it out.]

Don't even try it. You make a move to hurt him and I'll make sure to put a bullet somewhere very unpleasant.

Would it be of worth? [ He scoffs. ] The possibility that your bullet could not pierce my armor, the possibility that you've condemned a man to death rather than dismemberment?

[ Yet, he's distracted by the notes. His gaze darts to and fro, forgoing his hostage entirely. ]

Do you wish me to release him? Volunteer myself to be shoved in NOHoPE?

I'd take my chances over doing nothing.

[The notes. Obviously distracting. Interesting.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the notes started to have other notes in them - thoughts that he slipped in among his observations. Most of them random, but a very small one read: St Dumas. He inched closer.]

Yes. We can start with his release. Ease you into it, if you like.

[ Of course, he notices it. There's no way he wouldn't. Underneath his mask, his lensed eyes widen. He murmurs, breathlessly. With quiet outrage. ]

That... we may no more be babes, tossed and borne about by every wind of the teaching, [ Slowly, his other hand reaches for the hilt of the other blade. ] in the sleight of men, in craftiness, unto the artifice of leading astray.

Ephesians 4:14.

[His reply was so immediate, so precise, that even he blinked in surprise. How had he known that? Sure, he had read through the bible Talia had given him, cover to cover, just to be able to track down and beat Azrael. But he hadn't thought much of it, and he certainly hadn't attempted to memorize it. There was no possible way that was accurate. And yet... Even as ge thought about it, the next lines were already forming in his mind. More then that, the more he thought, the rest of the book made itself open to him.

Impossible.

And yet.... A feral grin spread up his lips.]

Put on the armor of God so you can take your stand against the devil's schemes.

[A note, at Azrael's shoulder, bright and brilliant white: The Suit of Sorrows.]

You may have the armor, Azrael, but the stand is mine.

That's enough, viper. [ At this point, he's trembling out of his own fury. ] This ends here!

[ Recklessly, his foot lashes out―the chair topples with a great creak and a muffled scream as he lifts up his sword arm and chucks it toward Sherlock, in one movement.

Without regard to his own life, he lunges forward towards him. Hand out. ]

[He fired the gun at the same time he lunged to the side, so of course the bullet went wide - lodging itself into the wall.

He'd been expecting it. Egging for it, and suddenly, exactly where he was standing milliseconds before, an image: a dark cowl, two points rising from the head, a dark mask with bright eyes... Sherlock's own completely flawed, mythic vision of the Gothamite known as Batman.

He cocks the gun and dives at the chair with the victim in it, hoping against hope that the Batman projection will grant him enough confusion to rip through the binding around the man's hand so that at least he can get himself free.]

Tsk, Azrael! Wrath. Falling into our own traps now, are we?

[ His hand touches, passes through the hallucination―no, he realizes, some sort of illusion―confusion turning him momentarily sluggish, a little stunned. It even takes him a few more valuable seconds to regain enough of his composure to allow Sin to drift back into his hand.

By the time he's taking sure and deliberate steps back (clink clink, armor loud as ever) towards Sherlock, he sees that the hostage's bindings are already off. It's inconvenient. ]

Whatever paltry sins I hold pale in comparison to your unrepentant pride, Sherlock. [ Step. Step. ] All your actions are ingnoble, spurred by the search for your own gratification. I know this.

[Satisfied the man now had the ability to escape on his own, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, drawing the gun back up to eye level. Purposely, he circle away from the chair, drawing Azrael's eyes away.]

Yes, yes, oh my pride. And yet, here I am, fighting on the side of the angels.

It must just eat you away inside.

[ From the corner of his eye, he watches the man stumble to stand, flee. Shaking his head, he continues. Clink. Clink. ]

I won't slay you, if you give me your gun.

Hm. Let me think on that for a moment. No.

[Still circling, the outer wall to his back - what was ever built of it, anyway. A stiff wind blowing his coat up around his ankles.

He'd accomplished the first task, but the second one was rather more difficult. Probably impossible, but, having to chase down Azrael every time promised to get tedious. His hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his communicator, eyes and gun still locked on Azrael.]

I have a much better idea.

No. [ frantically: ] Put that down!

[ Leaping forward, Michael shoves his empty hand foward―intent on grabbing the front of Sherlock's coat, unconcerned about the gun. Intent on Sherlock's ruin, his defeat. ]

[He throws the hand with the communicator behind him and fires, instantly, point blank. He knows enough about the armour to know that it would be unlikely to pierce it, even at this range, but the impact and the pain should be more than enough anyway.]

―Nng! [ The impact stuns him, knocks his breath away entirely; his knees nearly buckle entirely beneath him. Gunshot wounds aren't unfamiliar to him, but it's undoubtedly still completely and utterly agonizing, unequivocally shocking. The Sword of Sin clatters on the bare concrete floor beside him, abandoned.

But he's not going to let this stop him, not going to let another one get away from his grasp. Blinking tears away, his arm lashes out yet again with the intent of shoving that arm holding the gun out of the way. ]

You― [ His other hand grabs at, pulls the lapels of Sherlock's jacket. Iron in its grip. ] ―I am not letting you get away with this!

[He manages to maintain his grip on the gun, somehow, but he can't cock it again. He feels himself dragged forward by his coat, feet slipping before he locks them into place and pulls back.

His other hand is still gripped iron tight around his communicator, his thumb hovering over the record button.]

And yet.

[Scripture. As much as he can remember, pulling it up in seconds, crowding the very air around them - between them.

The word of God, Bright and Blinding.]

Edited 2012-01-25 07:09 (UTC)

[ It blinds him in more than one respect. The outrage that stirs within him when all in his vision is what he lives for, the sheer arrogance in the exploitation of holy work in a misguided deed is one that chills his bones and heats his blood. He's witnessing a damned man, he knows. Someone eternally hellbound, without chance of redemption.

Unable to see, unable to focus, his first instinct is to shove the offender as far away from himself as possible. He can't breathe, for God's sake. ]

[ Perfect, now all he had to do was--

He stumbled backwards, and suddenly there was nothing behind him. His thumb hit the record button out of a sheer moment of panicked realization.

Then he fell. (http://capeandcowl.livejournal.com/3587299.html) ]

Edited 2012-01-25 07:45 (UTC)

[ When Sherlock topples out of his vision and the scripture clears, he's left standing in that place, jarred and horrified. There was no righteousness in this method, he made a mistake―

Bending down to take his blade, Michael flees. Runs down the flights of stairs, eyes closed as he leaves the scene of what he assumes to be a murder. He's made too many mistakes, God forgive him, please. Please.

Without looking back, he goes.

EXEUNT ]

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