The Silver Killer

Ten: Recovery

You were back in your own house now, with all of the curtains in every room drawn, all of the lights off. But it was your house now, and you knew your way around.

You pulled away from Five, taking your scythe with you, and found the light switch for the hallway, staggering down it with blood trailing from your ankles onto the beige carpet. It was definitely going to stain, but you didn't really care.

Your hands found their way to the clasp at your neck, undoing it and letting the cloak flop to the ground before pulling the creaky under-the-sink bathroom cupboard doors open to grab the first aid kit.

You slid down the wall in your bedroom, which thankfully had hard wood floors. The blood would be easier to mop up in here rather than in the hallway, you reflected with a sigh as you rolled your shirt up to your bra-line to reveal the cut, right in your gut.

"That looks ... bad." Five said from where he was standing awkwardly in the doorway.

You just grunted in response, too focused on the gauze and tape and alcohol pads to really care about what he was saying.

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For the next couple of minutes, Five stood by in the doorway, casting a glance over his shoulder every now and then to make sure that the pair of you were alone. Not being chased by some psychopath. Or Sparrow.

Finally, you dropped your head back against the wall with a groan, a slightly bloodied piece of gauze wrapped around your middle and taped in various places. "Finished."

His eyes locked on the blood seeping into the cloth. "Stabbed?"

You just nodded, exhaustion overwhelming you, but you knew you couldn't sleep yet. "Help me up."

He went to your side and wordlessly extended his hand, which you took, letting him haul you to your feet. For a moment, neither of you said a thing, just stood there, until you realized you were still holding each other's hands. Then you both recoiled.

"I'll get a mop," you said weakly, pulling your shirt down to cover the gauze. "Can you ... wipe down my scythe?"

He watched you for a moment, felt the way you were leaning against him even though you were clearly still trying to stand up straight. Something inside of him forced the next words out of his mouth: "I'll clean up the blood. You ... need to wipe down your scythe. It's your blade, anyway. You should be the one to clean it."

Your eyes met his, and all he could see was exhaustion. To a certain, level, annoyance. "He knew we were coming," you said suddenly.

Five just blinked.

Your gears were whirring, the way they had been ever since the victim jumped you as you entered his apartment. "Somebody tipped him off. No, no, I don't know anyone, I haven't talked to anybody about this except you ... ." Suddenly, it clicked, and you were bolting off down the hallway, stumbling over your cloak but ignoring it.

"Y/N-" Five called, but you spun around and pressed a finger to his lips, then to your own.

Microphones, you mouthed, pointing to the ceiling and then the walls. Somewhere. Find them.

Five nodded, his lips still tingling from your finger against his skin.

Without a word, the two of you began searching through the living room. You knew it had to be there, in that room, because that was the only place you'd spoken of the killing aloud. Unless there was a camera in the basement ... .

No. It's gotta be here. Nobody even knows about the basement, anyway.

Standing on your tip-toes on the couch, your fingers, running along the crack between the wall and the dusty popcorn ceiling, suddenly latched into a wire. It was clear, matte so it didn't glisten in the sun, and ran up into the ceiling.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you yanked on it, sending down a shower of popcorn ceiling crumbs that landed in your hair and on the couch you were standing on. The item the wire was strung to still wouldn't reveal itself, so you tugged on it again, catching Five's attention.

Found it you mouthed to him, gripping the plastic strand with both hands and tugging at it with all your might. There was a final crack! as the item came loose, breaking off a board in the ceiling and sending down a final flurry of dust and ceiling crumbs that ripped a cough from your lungs.

"Is that it?" Five asked, breaking the silence as he teleported to stand on the couch before you.

You nodded, a prideful smile gracing your lips as you held up the microphone. It was a thin plastic strip wrapped around a small black cube, which you poked open with one of your fingernails, pulling out a tiny chip. "The heart of the operation." Your eyes scanned the chip for a name, a brand, anything, but there was nothing to be found except the tiny lines and squiggles that were common on chips of that sort.

Five's eyes darted up to the ceiling. "It must've been there a long time."

"Nah, probably just a few days. It's not hard to take a ceiling panel down, slip something inside, and put it back up. The popcorn ceiling would be a bit of a setback, but just spray new stuff on and vacuum up the old and you're set." You tossed the cube up and down in your hand before stepping down from the sofa. "But who put it here is the question. The question I-" You broke off with a gasp, slipping and catching yourself on the corner of the bookcase as you felt your wound open more.

Five had teleported to your side already. "You have to rest. It'll just worsen if you keep walking around and leaping all over the place," he added.

You hesitated, pain and confliction clear in your eyes, before nodding. "But this needs to be figured out first."

And you were marching down the hall before Five could stop you.