Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 15 - Hoodwink

This warehouse has seen many things, things String wouldn't want to describe although he's involved in a majority of it, willingly, but the rusting chains hanging from the ceiling, dried stains of toxins and blood on the concrete floor, and the chair bound with belts and straps, may give you an idea of what those many things are.

It's nighttime, no moonlight, rainclouds had covered up its glow, the only light in the warehouse is the single pole hanging loosely on the ceiling.

String's always wondered when that thing's gonna fall, like when he was a kid and thought the ceiling fan's gonna give up eventually.

Though, he hopes it doesn't any time soon. The technician wouldn't want to know the origins of that horrid, rotting smell.

The large rusty doors click, the clattering noise of metal echoing across the warehouse. String hurries to the doors, with both hands pulls one of them open, to make way for Paper, standing there, waiting patiently, his favorite scalpel in one hand.

And a body in the other, holding him by the hood of his jacket.

"Tie him up," Paper orders, letting go.

String eyes the body he'd dropped off - very distinct dyed sky blue hair and a face mapped with silver piercings, a luxury-brand jacket over a makeshift suit and gothic combat boots. He's distinguished, and loud. His appearance asks for attention, demands it. Did he really think he could go under the radar looking like that?

He smirks, picking up the limp body, still breathing, just unconscious. "You know, it ain't a very good idea to look as showy as him if you're gonna be a traitor."

"It was easy to track him down for an evident reason," Paper says, the sides of his lips quirking slightly outward, seemingly satisfied with his work. "Now, the chair."

"Aye, aye, captain." String turns around, their captive flung over his shoulder like a sack of hard drugs. (He may as well be a sack of drugs, he smells like a pharmacy.) He sets him down on the chair, pulling on the belts, strapping his wrists onto the armrests, ankles on the chair's legs, then his neck, holding up his otherwise bobbing head.

"Hoodwink," Paper then says. "His code name. In Hemlock, at least. To Valerian, he is Blue."

String crosses his arms, eyeing their captive's gaudy blue hair. "Gee, I wonder why."

"I haven't got a clue," Paper adds, sarcasm evident. String wished he entertained that more. "Anyhow, bringing him here made a tad bit of a mess," - he glances to the door - "I should have it cleaned."

String nods. "I'll look after him while you do that."

Paper hums in amusement. "I don't even have to order you anymore. You already know what to do."

String feels his pride spiking, shrugging like it's nothing when in truth it feels like he'd just been knighted. "What can I say?"

Paper is standing by the frame of the metal doors now, a hand on the one that had been pushed opened. "Thank you, String," He says, voice slightly raised, the echo letting String hear it from where he stood. "I'll have your reward at the ready."

String smirks over his shoulder, then lifts his arm up for a wave. "Better make it count, boss."

Paper mirrors his smile. "You know I do, lover."