Ghost in the Machine (Undertaker x Female Reader)

Chapter Six.

Please note BEFORE READING:
!More spoilers for Book of Atlantic and after
!Here they come
!Grell is fabulous

It seemed as though we were standing on the sidewalk opposite the optometrist's shop for far longer than the few seconds we spent there, the Undertaker holding me as I stood there, frozen in the horror of what felt like my own creation. I dug my trembling fingertips into his overcoat, unable to block out the sounds of the public reacting to the accident.

In the midst of my shock, I noted a sharp note of tension flicker through his body. He turned slightly, looking back over his shoulder, just as I heard a snap in the air around us; what appeared to be an unusually-long tool for pruning trees had whizzed just over his shoulder, its shears scraping the wall behind us before flying back towards its source. The Undertaker grunted, pulling my head close to shield me from the onslaught.

"So here you are." A male voice, smooth baritone blended with irritation, accompanied the appearance of the metal shears. "As I had expected. Of course, you've put us behind schedule, which is not appreciated."

The Undertaker wordlessly threw his arm around my ribs, clamping onto me firmly enough to knock the wind out of my lungs. I was about to exclaim when he hissed a command into my ear.

"Jump."

I had no time to question him or even cause my own limbs to react to this, however, as I felt him bend his legs slightly before launching himself clear off the pavement and into the air. I was carried with him, too panicked to even squeak; I hugged tightly around his neck in a desperate bid to avoid falling. Strangely, though, I realized I did not feel as swift a pull from the Earth as I'd expected from previous encounters with gravity.

We alighted on the roof of the three-story building containing the optometrist's shop, back across the street from where we'd started. I glimpsed the owner of the tree pruner standing on...a lamppost(?!) below us. He was tidily dressed in a black suit with white shirt and necktie, black gloves and spectacles; his short, dark hair was neatly pomaded. My brain was attempting to process how he was able to balance on top of the lamppost when a larger thunderbolt befell me, courtesy of my newly-sharpened vision.

Chartreuse eyes. The same as mine, and the Undertaker's. They flashed with determination behind his spectacles, which he absentmindedly adjusted on his nose with the tree pruner.

"I knew this wouldn't be easy. Sutcliffe, get on with it!"

"Willllliammm!" Another male voice, sweetly lilting with feminine affectation, echoed from down on the street. "I'm almost finished, darling; don't get excited—or do; either works for me!" I heard an unholy mechanical roaring, the sound of a tiny but beastly motor testing its limits.

My struggle between terror and curiosity in the face of such wild events was shifting rapidly in the direction of what usually got me into trouble. I leaned from the Undertaker's grasp a little to peer over the edge of the building. He had been keenly watching the goings-on, seeming to calculate based on the actions of these new arrivals, and I wondered what he saw.

"No, no, don't—" he tried to pull my face back away from the edge, but I caught sight of the scene on the street and momentarily pushed against him to fill in the details with my own eyes.

"Steven Matthew Coles, August 3rd, 1847 to June 15th, 1889. Additional note: Soul record updated from two sources, generated by Dispatch and—" The feminine voice rang up the side of the building. "—you, my lovely lady!"

His words reached me but I could not yet fully comprehend their meaning. My attention was on the strange tableau laid out below: The poor optometrist lay in the street, the carriage and horses off to the side and crowds milling around in the aftermath. Neither they nor the police officer who had arrived seemed to notice the presence of the owner of the voice who called to me.

He was a splash of red in the cold gray of the London street, wild red hair cascading down his back, his red coat accenting the cheeky, almost cheerful tone of his personality. He too, wore glasses over eyes that marked him as another being of some connection to the Undertaker and myself. He stood over the body of the optometrist, holding a strange machine which was no doubt the owner of the monstrous noises I'd heard before. Strangest of all, I saw a soft glow around the body, with what appeared to be flowing lengths of ribbon undulating outward from and around it.

These observations passed in a second's time; I was pulled back by the Undertaker.

"You need to get away from here, now," he almost barked, his grip on my arms squeezing briefly tighter. "Do you remember the building a few blocks away, where the chemist was?"

"Yes, but—" How would I get down to the street?

"Good. You will be able to get there from the rooftops; just jump as we did before."

What? Surely, he was kidding! My eyes widened as I stammered incredulity at him. He only returned it with a strained smile, and handed me his hat. "Hold onto this for me, pretty." I automatically clutched it by the brim as he pushed it into my hand.

"DARLIIIINNNNNG, I'M COMING UP!" I heard the man (was he a she?) called Grell exclaim just as he-or-she bounced over the edge of the rooftop, landing on one heeled boot in a flash of crimson.

"Sutcliffe, be more respectful of her rank, if you please." I heard the other attacker—'William', was it?—grumble from our other side. He, too, had popped up to the roof, making the leap from the lamppost to here just as easily as the other man.

The Undertaker grabbed my face in his palms, connecting the now-unhidden desperation in his eyes with mine. "Please, my good girl, trust me." He hesitated for a millisecond before darting close to brush my lips with his.

"It'll be all right. GO!"

The way he pushed me away from himself was in stark contrast to how he'd held me under his wing throughout our time together. I felt the urgency in that action, and fought my fright to honor his concern for me. He had turned from me to face the two interlopers; his brief lapse in judgement while urging me away had not gone unnoticed.

"My, my!" Grell pressed a gloved palm to her—assuredly, this being was the embodiment of a "her"—cheek in what appeared to be amused delight. "The Deserter and the Duchess of Chelmsford! What a romantic development," she squealed.

I was startled to hear myself called out. How did they know...?

"Sutcliffe! Enough of that; he's going to—" William did not finish his warning.

The Undertaker had drawn himself up taller as he approached them. He reached into the back of his coat collar to grasp and pull out what appeared to be a long wooden slat painted with East Asian writing of some sort. The wood glowed with the same eerie green of our eyes, before swiftly morphing into a horrendously-large scythe, bearing a skull and bones and gleaming wickedly in silver. His back to me, he raised it above himself, his overcoat and hair thrashing about his body in the rooftop winds. He was a specter against the blackening sky, an embodiment of darkness and menace. I had thought I'd seen Hell, but this was the purest vision of it I'd ever encountered.

I turned, and ran at the edge of the building, giving myself over to the air and the night.

·• —– ٠ ☽ ٠ —– •·

Wheeeeeee!

If you find you're confused by the identity of our MC, we're only just being formally introduced and there are secrets to let out yet. Just enjoy the ride.

I don't think I'm quite done writing this weekend but I'm ending this chapter here, as it seems a good place to insert a pause. I'll likely continue to work through these next few scenes through Sunday and Monday (as it's been fun as hell to write) but there's always the chance that Life will delay me actually publishing them. _-_ Thank you for reading, as always!