the blood in our future

Off Record

Anthony Lockwood tried to hold Lucy Carlyle's gaze for as long as he could, but Colby's grip on his bound arms was unrelenting, and he had no choice but to follow him into the evidence room.

Lucy looked so worried for him. As if she feared him walking away from her might be the last she'd ever see of him. So he gave her as much of a smile as he could muster and hoped she knew what promise it held: That he'd come back to her.

Come what may, he would come back to her.

The door shut with an uncomfortable noise, and Lockwood grieved the loss of sight of her.

But him in here and her out there carried something good with it, too.

At least Colby wasn't with her anymore. At least he knew that Webb and Foster had been ordered not to hurt her.

And even though he still wished that she'd kept that knife for herself instead of kicking it over to him, Lockwood would make sure to make good use of it.

He'd cut through those binds, free himself, subdue Colby, and save Lucy.

That was the plan. Simple enough, if nothing came in between. He even still had that salt bomb and that flare in his pockets he could use.

As Colby shoved him further into the room, Lockwood was careful to hide the knife in his fist. He held it so tight it cut into his skin, and yet, he didn't dare to ease his grip.

The chamber around them was much like Lockwood had expected it of DEPRAC: Ridiculously unkempt.

There were shelves upon shelves stacked one behind the other, every one of them overflowing with barely-shutting boxes and far-too-mysterious bags. Some of them had a number which Lockwood assumed must correlate with the given number of their cases — but most did not.

It was a very huge room, too. Gigantic. Nothing but shelves except for the window facade making up the opposite wall.

And Colby, much to Lockwood's chagrin, looked as lost as Kipps in a rapier fight.

But the room was also something else: Too quiet.

No sound from the outside made it through that metal door. And with the wind leading the rain away from it, no sound from past the window seemed to even want to try.

So, as much as Lockwood enjoyed being torn along those rows via the force of utter frustration, he needed to act. He needed to speak. Produce enough sound that it would cover up any slow process the knife would make against his binds.

"Alright, Colby," he therefore began, "you wanted me in here for a private conversation, and here I am. What is there to talk about?"

He tried to sound at ease, to not let hatred and anger pour out of every crevice of his being, but he did not think he'd done a very good job. Not with the way Colby started grinning from ear to ear like a far uglier version of the Cheshire Cat.

"Oh, Anthony, you wound me," he giggled, and Lockwood wanted to ram his fist so hard into his throat that he'd choke on it. "There's seriously not a single topic worthy of conversation you can think about?"

For only a moment, Lockwood thought he'd heard a sort of high-pitched squeal in between the words, but it was over before Colby had even finished. The noise of it swallowed right up, drowned out like it had never been there at all.

For a second, Lockwood listened for anything that might follow it. Then, as nothing did, he concentrated on the matter on hand again.

Because there was a topic, of course. One that did not need to rush into Lockwood's mind because it was there already. Had been for over a year now.