[e]verything burns.

[&Ismirshalen]

Outside the Quattrocchi Site; the outside;
Topic finished Jul 4, 2009, 11:00pm

The only way Ismirshalen could describe their over 20 hour trip from Australia to England was simple yet precise: Hell. Between checking in, getting on the plane, the actual trip, getting off the plane, and the whole purpose of their trip in general, the word was not being used in excess. Not to mention, being in the company of the black and white colored therapist was hard enough on its own. During their trip all Ismirshalen could do was stare straight forward at the seat in front of him and try not to shift his position as much as possible. At one point he had tried starting a conversation.

"Well, the weather tonight is… nice, isn't it?" he'd commented after about forty minutes of shifting uncomfortably. The stereotypical way that a Brit started a conversation.

The answer he had received was enough to ensure silence the rest of the flight. "We're in a plane."

Now they were both in a snazzy looking rental car that Izzy had managed to get upon their arrival, speeding their way to his home in Oxford. Their silence was starting to gnaw on his nerves. The closer they got to his home, the more nervous he got. Even the familiar landscape did nothing to soothe him. Although during the trip he had managed to keep it from his mind, now he could not stop wondering what had made Dr. DeVrais lose it after he'd answered the phone. What had been said? What did it have to do with him? He had tried going down the route that it had nothing to do with him whatsoever. But that had been quickly discarded. It just didn’t fit.

It was afternoon by the time they made it to the end of the winding driveway that led to his home. The Brit slowed down their breakneck pace as they got onto the dirt path, and tried to calm his nerves as they made their way to the front gate. A thick border of trees lined either side of the driveway. Ismirshalen's mansion was located far enough out from civilization that there were no neighbors nearby. It was a peaceful way to live, and a perfect way to live if you desired no social communication.

He didn’t know how he felt about coming back so soon. Since he'd gotten his job he'd wanted to come back with a burning passion. Now… he didn’t know. It felt like the calm before the storm. Like something extremely bad was going to happen. His hands shook slightly on the wheel, but he told himself it was because he hadn't had coffee in a while. In fact, he'd gotten a fresh mug on the way to his house. But let's disregard that.

He looked over at the therapist, wondering what the man was thinking. What he knew that was so terrible.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent was still worrying profusely while in the ridiculous vehicle. He could have at least paid more attention so he could stop the profligate guard from buying (A car with leather seats) the most expensive rental car he could find. He wasn’t doing a good job of his, well, job. It was so very unlike him. A man who had become a hot topic once for being so good at his job.

But now Vincent was just doing his job. He wouldn’t be fired for doing that. But Izzy? He might have more hell to deal with after this. The people back at The Quack Shack weren’t very forgiving about vacation time to say the least. Especially when you decide to just leave randomly one day to do so. Even if it’s the most awful vacation anyone has ever been on. Which was what this was. Maybe he should have just gone alone. It would have never worked because he would have to tell Ismirshalen some how and the man was already in an extreme mental condition whether he knew it or not.

These thoughts were cut short when he realized he was staring at Izzy this entire time who was now looking at him. His head was even resting on his hand. He jerked his hand away from it’s previous position to his lap and prayed that his expression wasn’t anything out of Vincent-expression-range and grinned. He cared about his patients, but not this one... like that.

[&Ismirshalen]

Ismirshalen attempted to muster a smile of his own in response to Dr. DeVrais's, but at best it came off as a grimace. Realizing that, he just let the pathetic facial expression collapse back into a frown, and he looked away from the guy again. From the way the doctor had abruptly changed his position when Izzy's eyes had fallen upon him suggested he had been looking in his direction for a long time. In any other situation he might have taken it as a sign of the man's 'strange sexual needs' showing or something of the sort, but at the moment he knew better. And what was more, he didn’t even feel like joking on the fact that the look could come off seeming to be what it wasn’t.

Things were strange lately.

Luckily or unluckily for the two, you decide which it is, the driveway was extremely long. It was actually so long that it had been made into an unofficially official road. It used to be called something else, but when he had moved into the mansion Ismirshalen had changed the name to Linnaeus Street. It wasn’t Sesame Street, but it was very much better off from what it had been called before. It was very relieving that that was the only thing his wealthy-ass family had stamped their name on. It was extremely relieving that they hadn't placed their birth surname anywhere in stone [at least stone that could not be removed].

But none of these trivial things were on the Englishman's mind right now. Right now his mind was clogged and jumbled with more important things like what he was going to have for dinner would find when he came to his home. What terrible thing could possibly befall his home that had made even the therapist cringe? Maybe it had been painted pink by the local teenage population. Maybe the ghosts of his family had returned and littered the place with spray painted signatures of his former last name. Maybe animals had taken the area over. Maybe--

Maybe his home had been burned to the ground.

Tires squealed as the luxurious car came to a sudden stop. The breath was let out of the brunet's body with a whisper. He cut the engine. A terrible silence settled over the area. For a few minutes all he could do was stare at the wreckage of his home with glassy eyes.

"No," he exclaimed quietly, his voice no louder than a whisper. With cold, numb fingers he opened the door and got out of the car. "No…" Slowly he approached the front gate of the mansion. It had been made out of gold, and now it was covered in black soot and even malformed in some places where it had melted. Hands shaking, he touched the now cold metal. His fingers tightened in a vice-like grip over the bar, and he pressed his feverishly hot forehead to the gate.

"This… W'hy… W'hy didn’t you tell me?!" his voice came out as a strangled shout. He banged his head against the gate once, then twice. Struggling with his first thought, that what was happening was just a dream. Not real. His body trembled. "Wh--"

Ismirshalen's voice trailed to nothing when his blue eyes came to rest upon the head of his butler. It was sitting on the dirt path just inside the gate. Its sightless eyes seemed to stare at the homeless man with accusation.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent felt his face heat up and his teeth grind when the car stopped. The fact that his body managed to stay in place when the car stopped was not acknowledged nor celebrated. He felt incredibly dirty at the moment.

Maybe he should have hid in the dumpster this morning and waited for the dumpster to pick him up with the rest of the trash. He closed his eyes just in case the guard got the sudden urge to beat the crap out of something near him. It didn’t come but he heard the door open after a couple of minutes and he jumped out of the car after the frantic man and stopped a few meters away from him. Maybe his tactic of letting the disaster all come out at once didn’t work correctly with some people. The fact that Ismirshalen started banging his head violently on the gate didn’t really help his current feelings, either.

Now he preferred that he let his anger out on him. Vincent could deal with being an adorable stress-ball for a few minutes. One that comes with over 40,000 angry French phrases. Now that he thought about it, maybe he should have brought his therapy things with him. That’s what this man needed. A stress-ball. He had one in every color. He even had humorous ones, dirty ones, tie-dye ones, ones that curse everytime you strike it…

«I promise… I did not know of the man,» Vincent stately with a suddenly hoarse, defeated voice and motioning towards the butler. «But the house…» Vincent examined the melted house. Yes, melted. He could only imagine what a palace it was before it was destroyed by that mysterious voice. «Yes. Sorry.»

Vincent was only truly half sorry about it, actually. He’s been around people like Ismirshalen when news like this is broken to them. It’s best when him and the patient aren’t confined in a small room when it happens. But it was for both their sakes. We all know Vincent has a steady hand…

[&Ismirshalen]

At the sound of the therapist's voice behind him, Ismirshalen tore himself from the gate and whipped around to face him. Despite all of the effort he had put into plastic surgery and the likes, he looked even older than his own true age. Old, defeated, and even scared. Not to mention angry. But he wasn’t sure he could trust his own anger. Because he was sure that if someone placed a kitten in front of him at that moment he would find just as much reason to be angry at it, the therapist, and…

"Who did this?" he asked in a voice that wasn’t much better off than Dr. DeVrais's. "The person… on the phone…?" He put his hands over his burning forehead, unable to think straight. He wanted to cry. And kill whoever had done this to him. And scream. And he felt like he was going to just explode from all of these impossibly complex emotions. How did therapists manage to pick apart everyone's problems and figure out how to make them whole again anyway?

"He killed my butler," he finally sobbed, as if just now realizing what he had been looking at moments before. The Brit turned around to look once more at the head, not because he had interests in morbid things but because he wanted to make sure it was still there, but instead of that monstrosity coming into his view, a fist complete with rather pointy brass knuckles did. Izzy's eyes widened a fraction before his face connected with unforgiving metal. Upon impact the man let out a pained shriek, then crumpled to the ground, holding his face in his hands. He wailed something about his face, but the words were muffled by his pathetic shield.

"And your butler was only the first of two, mate!" the proud owner of the fist exclaimed jovially. It was the same voice that had been on the phone. As he said this wonderful statement of death, he reached through the gate's bars and grabbed the Brit by the collar of his shirt to drag him closer.

"I'm sorry about all of this, really," he told Mr. Linnaeus, every word a lie. "Money's a tough thing to come by. From the way my client sounded, you must be stacked!"

Ismirshalen's perception of things was clouded by the seething pain from where he had been hit. His face! His face! He could feel a burning sensation starting from his cheek and ending just above his right eye, which he couldn’t open. Something liquid was dripping down his chin. But despite his complete horror, one thing this mystery man said [who was still just as much of a mystery when you could actually see him] had disturbed him even more.

"My money was inside the house," he croaked, trying unsuccessfully to free himself from the redhead's grasp. " And… w'hat do you mean, first of two?"

The guy's tanned face took on a paler shade. He paused a moment. His expression changed first to one of complete and utter fear. But before it could stick for any length of time, it shifted to one of a burning fury. He growled and punched the sniveling Brit in the face again, this time sending him landing on his back. The man howled in pain, rolling onto his stomach and writhing in the dirt.

"G'day, Dr. DeVrais," the redhead said, turning his attention away from the ground and to the doctor. "Glad to see you delivered Monsieur Linnaeus in due time. You're an extremely reliable man, you are!" A peculiar thing about the guy [not that he wasn’t already peculiar anyways] was that even though the sky was fairly cloudy today, he was wearing some dark-ass sunglasses. Which sometimes made it hard to tell whom he was speaking to. As he addressed the man, he took a loaded pistol from a holster on his belt.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent by this point was trying to answer Ismirshalen’s questions but was too busy trying to warn the upset man about the flame haired man sneaking up around him. The guard was acting like a legless drunkard and swirling around in circles. «Monsieur Linnaeus, behind… Non… In fro-» Vincent didn’t have time to correct his English mistake and ended up flinching to the sound of Izzy’s face bones crunching.

He could barely look as his client was being punched around by the man he had heard on the phone and was ashamed to have also left his phone at his flat because he would have loved nothing more but to throw it at the guy.

Well now it was his fault. The message that was left on his phone was in no way official and he should have told the police about this… But then he would have still had to tell the man about his house. He was such a French coward. He could tell anyone else that they had some awful brain-eating mental illness but he couldn’t tell this prick that his house burnt down. Maybe he was really just that scared of him.

The burning down of la maison wasn’t his fault but the fact that his patient was going to have to buy a new face was. Vincent was going to do what any prideful French person would do and…

Vincent became very irritated by the red-haired man’s first words. «Why does everyone feel obliged to make fun of my accent!?» He growled in his Frenchy way that he did. He was shaking in the process as he did. It was okay when the British made fun of him but not a disrespectful Australian man who was beating up one of his own ancestors.

Vincent and his thoughts froze at the Australian man’s second comment. He cleared his throat while looking around confused. «Do I know you…?» Vincent asked impatiently putting his hands on his hips and straightening his stature from its previous leer, realizing the man was either clearly delusional or either blind. Who hires a blind hit man, anyways?

[&Ismirshalen]

By now Ismirshalen had managed to stop rolling around on the ground like some screwed up type of indecisive ball and had managed to push himself to a sitting position. His right eye was swollen shut-- try not to think about that-- but he could still see from his left one. By some miracle. The pain in his face was worse than the smell that resulted from an elephant shitting in the middle of its act at a circus. But bloody Hell this whole encounter was starting to get a circus-like feel.

He couldn’t even correctly comprehend what the two men were saying to each other. Their words elongated and shriveled and then danced around in his head until the only two words that made sense were 'My face, my face, my face', which was obviously not what they were saying except that's what it damn well sounded like they were saying. And it took him another minute or two before he realized that the object the redhead was holding was a gun. And it took him another minute to realize what exactly a gun did when you pulled the trigger. It certainly did not simply spout a flag saying 'BANG', but actually committed the terrible act. He wondered how many rounds were in it. He wondered what kind of gun it was.

What was he doing?! Who gave a damn what kind of gun it was, all guns did the same damn thing!

"My face," he quietly wailed. Staring glassy-eyed at the gun. Now back to wondering its make and model.

Monsieur Linnaeus was down for the count.

"Oh, don’t take it personally, Frenchie!" the redhead assured the upset Frenchman, smiling a rather twisted smile that was as of yet still better than anything Mr. Linnaeus could muster. "It just comes with the territory." He busied himself with getting the gun ready for aim-et-fire, not looking at it while he did because, well, what would that do? In fact he wasn’t even facing in the direction of Dr. DeVrais, rather looking more upwards like at the sky. Or a plane. Which he couldn’t have seen anyway because he's blind.

"Know me? Do you? I think we know each other very well, mate. We're great ol' schemers, aren't we? Co-conspirators! One-of-a-kind! Better than your granny's favorite blend of ice cream!"

And with that, he proceeded to pointing the gun in the general direction of the dazed and confused British bum and then emptying all six rounds.

[VinnNAY]

Vincent was too engrossed in the current conversation he was having with the deranged red-headed monkey with a gun to notice the pathetic coil of a man that was rolling the ground in search of Botox. Vincent could argue. He didn’t like to but he was good at it most of the time and sometimes when the moment called for it he can get pretty feisty. However, this man had a gun and he didn’t want him to… Become angry. Vincent could croon a teenager with a gun to sleep but this man was hired to do a job. Or what he called a job. He can’t change someone’s life goal in a matter of minutes. He wasn’t that good. He figured he’d just play along with what the man was saying for awhile, trying to push back the thought that someone’s going to have to die.

«Yes. Because going through ten years of psychology were used for… scheming,» Vincent stated curtly. And what was that about his grandmother making ice cream? She may have been Russian but when you live in a cold climate snow-cream isn’t always what you want. So offending. But if he was talking about his father’s mother she was more concerned with things like croissants and other various shit that he didn‘t eat.

He didn’t feel like it mattered all that much if he defended himself or not. Ismirshalen was clearly more concerned about his physical appearance than the current happenings. He circled around slowly as the crazy man was making more side comments, more near the guard, making sure of course not to crinkle a leaf or snap scattered debris. He could only hope to hold him off long enough to get the lame guard off of hell’s doorstep.

However, the man was done drabbling on and decided to do the deed. Vincent couldn’t do anymore than jump in front of the stunned British man. He wasn’t going to let someone who relied on him die from his silly, but life-threatening mistake. They say different people do different things when struck with a sudden case of adrenaline. Some freeze, some run away, and some fight. You’d think Vincent would have chose the second of the choices but instead did the last. After the first two hit his leg it was very much over for his combo of not screaming for his entire life. Then he felt as the rest of them nicked him one after the other and then… PWND. Right in the front of his head.

[[Vincent, we will remember you. RIP, you human shield.]]

[&Ismirshalen]

One moment, life was just a topsy-turvy nightmarish world that Ismirshalen had somehow come across, perhaps while in reality he was actually just sleeping on the plane to England. Sleeping because he had finally had a coffee crash, and he would wake up an hour later and would be so thankful it was all a dream. Thankful and thoroughly pissed at himself for letting himself be subjected to the annals of his mind.

The next moment, the only human being in his life right now that cared about him even just a little bit had jumped in front of him and had been blown to bits.

After a piercing scream, his body landed at Ismirshalen's feet.

The man didn’t move after that.

For a few moments, all the guard could do was stare with one wide eye at the body before him. What had just happened did not all at once click inside his skull. He could not bring himself to comprehend what had just occurred. All the color rushed out of his face, along with his breath. He started to tremble. Things started to sink in. The process was painful, like a poison.

All at once, it finally came to the man. A whimper escaped him, and he jerked forward to examine the therapist. Already thick red liquid was pooling on the ground before him, feeding the greedy dirt that thirsted to start the process of decomposition. Although the doctor's suit was black, he could see areas that were significantly darker-- and damper. Among those was the upper area of his right leg, his chest, and… his… head.

A sob escaped the British man's throat. "No," he whispered, putting his finger to the man's neck to check for a pulse. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t tell whether the Frenchman was breathing or not. "You can't be bloody dead, damn it!" His voice rose to more of a yell. As if he could shout life back into the guy. His burning blue eyes whipped up to look for the redhead that had caused him so much pain, but the guy wasn’t there. Dimly he remembered hearing a shout around the same time Dr. DeVrais had screamed. Whatever that had been about, he was gone now. Ismirshalen wished he wasn’t. He wanted to kill that bastard with his bare hands.

His attention snapped back to the-- not dead, he CAN'T BE DEAD-- unconscious therapist. Feverishly, he tore off the dark jacket of his suit and wrapped it around the man's body. With the aid of a sudden rush of adrenaline he ripped off the arm of the thing and wrapped it around his bleeding head. "Not dead," he mumbled as he worked, the words rushing out and not making much sense. "You're not dead. You can't be dead." He picked up the limp form, wasn’t much surprised that the guy was very light, and ran to the car. After fumbling with the passenger door for a few wasteful seconds he put the therapist in the seat, buckled him in, and raced around to the driver's seat. Started the engine. Tires squealed as they peeled off the driveway at a breakneck speed.

Tears poured out of his eyes as he drove, sometimes blurring his vision to a point where he had to take a hand from the wheel to wipe them off . He had never felt this way about anything before. At least not since he had lost his wife. Obviously he didn’t have any feelings for the therapist that were in any way similar to those. But he still felt something. He cared. He was terrified at the idea of losing this man. And the fact that he felt that way was also terrifying. He felt like his heart would literally split in half. He kept glancing over at the bleeding man next to him. He kept muttering things to him, random trivial things, even though somewhere inside he knew the guy couldn’t hear him.

This was all too much. His house was gone. His money was gone. He was penniless. His therapist had… sacrificed himself for him. It was the word he had been avoiding all this time. The man had jumped in front of him so that instead of Ismirshalen Linnaeus being brutally slaughtered by those bullets, Vincent DeVrais had.

"W'hy did you do it, you toad?" he asked the therapist. Who obviously was not listening. "You know me. I'm a bastard. Everyone says I'm a bastard. Even I know I'm a bastard! Why did you do it?!"

No answer.

The sign for the hospital appeared in front of Ismirshalen's headlights. He drove into the facility like a madman. He parked like a madman. He carried the doctor's limp bleeding body to the emergency room like a madman. He babbled to the people at the desk like a madman. Seeing the state of the mad British man, they didn’t even bother asking him for an explanation just then, because it was obvious that the Frenchman was in critical condition. They took him on a stretcher.

"So… W'hy did he get shot in the head?" Ismirshalen was asked ten minutes later as he stood pacing in the hallway and muttering incoherently to himself. It took him a full minute to realize that he'd been spoken to.

"T-this guy.. sh.. shot him…" he replied, teeth chattering.

"Uh huh…" The doctor looked skeptical. "This man who shot him.. Was he you?"

The response he earned from Ismirshalen was a blank-eyed stare.

"You uh… Just seemed sort of like.. an angry couple, you know?"

"No."

After that he was left alone.

***

Four hours had passed since the bullet-riddled therapist had been admitted to the hospital. During this time all the Englishman had managed to do was walk around the entire building and drink ten mugs of coffee at a breakneck, feverish pace. Fifteen minutes ago he had gotten back to the emergency room to find out that Dr. DeVrais was out of surgery and that he had his own room. Before he could be told anything else, he'd turned and left for the room without a word.

Now he was at the door. Room 213 on the second floor. He'd passed it earlier. For a few minutes he just stood there, staring at the number and only partly aware of what was in front of him. His face was a puffy red, and not just from being beaten up by the redhead's brass knuckles [before he had made an attempt to get it checked out, but they had only laughed and given him a band-aid, which he'd stuck over his right eye]. He felt like he had been torn apart by a paper shredder and then glued back together by a blind monkey. He was still just as shaky as he'd been when he entered the hospital. He felt like a cut thread. He was afraid of what awaited him beyond the door.

He entered the room. Walked the chair next to the bed without looking at the bed and sat down.

He stared at the floor with eyes blurred by salty liquid.

[VinnNAY]

There was something in his arm.
Vincent didn’t like having things in his arm. It freaked him out. So he kept his eyes sealed and his arm as still as was physically possible for a man who was just shot multiple times about 6 hours ago. Which was remarkably quite easy. While he was mentally droning on and off for an extended period of time he felt that there was somebody else in the room. He didn’t want to keep them waiting but he wasn’t exactly in top condition which made him unsure he wanted the other to be there in the room anymore (Vincent‘s always in the mood to impress. Even a bullet to the head won‘t make him stop working. Literally.). He didn’t like to have people see him as so venerable…

He passed out again…

Half an hour later he recalled that Ismirshalen was somewhere around here and he wanted to talk to him.
He tried to think of English but it never came. This made him grasp the idea that his mind was just as damaged as his body if not… Significantly worse.

He passed out again…

This time he opened his eyes.
«Ish… mir…s…» The rest of the guard’s name was lost his currently swollen mind but he continued.
«…Vous avez la demi d'un visage.”