Post by crypted on May 26, 2023 1:06:14 GMT
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Code by Illirica
Code by Illirica
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Sleep Inn,
said the sign. 12:05 AM, said his watch.
Four floors, red brick. Cryptid didn't know a thing about architecture, but it looked older. Looked unwashed. Cheap and unmaintained. Even at midnight, he walked right through the front doors and didn’t even get a nod from the receptionist. He put his mask on in the stairwell. He moved with purpose, only slowing on the second landing. He’d caught her scent downstairs, but he sift through the mildew and other things to keep track of it.
He followed it to the top floor, which in his experience was the worst place to be if she wanted to go anywhere in a hurry, but did have the benefit of being out of reach of anyone trying to come through a window.
The Cryptid now moved down the hall with a long but silent stride. For the fourth time since he’d found her case, he was trying to decide on his approach. Ms. Hoffman clearly knew she was in danger. She just lacked his paranoid, all-outcomes-possible mindset from years of running. Scary wasn’t going to be the right approach here. Softer, then. Voice of reason, force of comfort. Behind the safety of his mask, of course.
He stopped outside room 412. HIs nose told him she’d been in here – well, quite possibly for the whole week. With only a moment’s hesitation to gather himself, he reached out and rapped twice, clear and crisp.
“Amy Hoffman?”
Movement behind the door. A rustle of clothing. Floorboards creaking despite her attempts at silence. Then a pause as she looked through the peephole. More footsteps, rushed and quiet, back across the room. Confirmation she was in there, but no actual response. He sighed, softly, and then glanced back down the hall. No one else even seemed to be here. And the door looked flimsy enough.
He didn’t have time to waste. Crypted braced, and put his foot through the lock.
The plywood splintered and the door swung wildly inward. Cheap hotel, lousy security. There was more noise than he would have liked but it was too late to do anything about that as he dusted himself off and stepped through–
– and looked up to see Amy Hoffman shakily pointing a gun at him, knuckles white like she was clutching her last lifeline.
“Don’t move,” she hissed, “don’t you move.”
Cryptid raised his hands, palms outward but fingers closed. She didn’t need to see the claws yet. Beyond that, he obeyed. Her voice shook, as did her weapon. He could hear the component parts rattling together.
“Miss Hoffman, please. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m here to help.” His own voice had neither fear nor threat. “I just have a few questions. Please put the gun down.”
“Asking questions is what got me into this mess in the first place.”
“I know. And it took a lot of guts to ask them anyway. Your boss must’ve offered you a lot of money to keep it quiet.”
She actually laughed, a frantic titter. “You have no idea.”
There was a sheen of sweat on her brow. Dark circles under her eyes were the evidence of days without sleep.
“Integrity like that’s a rare thing, these days,” he continued. “I know you want to see him behind bars, and you want to go home. We can help each other here.”
He could tell she was thinking hard. A bead of sweat crawled her face. Cryptid’s eyes followed it, then met her eyes. He slowly shifted his weight and leaned forward in a slow step. Amy sucked in a little gasp. She didn’t pull the trigger. He took another step, hands still raised. She just watched him with wide eyes. Once again, it was a miracle she was still alive. If he’d wanted to make a quick $5000, he could’ve just stabbed her right there and she wouldn’t have even blinked.
Instead, he gently took the gun by its barrel, and her grip loosened. His eyes flickered down to the side of the weapon.
The safety was on.
Amy followed his gaze, and then she saw it, too. In a very small voice, she said, “oh.”
He took the gun the rest of the way from her hands. She was shaking like a leaf.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Yeah.” She sank down onto the bed. “What do you want to know, Mister–”
“Cryptid.” He kept his voice soft and understanding, but didn’t sit down beside her. He was more comfortable on his feet. “I need to know what you found about Felix Vasquez. But don’t rush. We have time.”
Four floors, red brick. Cryptid didn't know a thing about architecture, but it looked older. Looked unwashed. Cheap and unmaintained. Even at midnight, he walked right through the front doors and didn’t even get a nod from the receptionist. He put his mask on in the stairwell. He moved with purpose, only slowing on the second landing. He’d caught her scent downstairs, but he sift through the mildew and other things to keep track of it.
He followed it to the top floor, which in his experience was the worst place to be if she wanted to go anywhere in a hurry, but did have the benefit of being out of reach of anyone trying to come through a window.
The Cryptid now moved down the hall with a long but silent stride. For the fourth time since he’d found her case, he was trying to decide on his approach. Ms. Hoffman clearly knew she was in danger. She just lacked his paranoid, all-outcomes-possible mindset from years of running. Scary wasn’t going to be the right approach here. Softer, then. Voice of reason, force of comfort. Behind the safety of his mask, of course.
He stopped outside room 412. HIs nose told him she’d been in here – well, quite possibly for the whole week. With only a moment’s hesitation to gather himself, he reached out and rapped twice, clear and crisp.
“Amy Hoffman?”
Movement behind the door. A rustle of clothing. Floorboards creaking despite her attempts at silence. Then a pause as she looked through the peephole. More footsteps, rushed and quiet, back across the room. Confirmation she was in there, but no actual response. He sighed, softly, and then glanced back down the hall. No one else even seemed to be here. And the door looked flimsy enough.
He didn’t have time to waste. Crypted braced, and put his foot through the lock.
The plywood splintered and the door swung wildly inward. Cheap hotel, lousy security. There was more noise than he would have liked but it was too late to do anything about that as he dusted himself off and stepped through–
– and looked up to see Amy Hoffman shakily pointing a gun at him, knuckles white like she was clutching her last lifeline.
“Don’t move,” she hissed, “don’t you move.”
Cryptid raised his hands, palms outward but fingers closed. She didn’t need to see the claws yet. Beyond that, he obeyed. Her voice shook, as did her weapon. He could hear the component parts rattling together.
“Miss Hoffman, please. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m here to help.” His own voice had neither fear nor threat. “I just have a few questions. Please put the gun down.”
“Asking questions is what got me into this mess in the first place.”
“I know. And it took a lot of guts to ask them anyway. Your boss must’ve offered you a lot of money to keep it quiet.”
She actually laughed, a frantic titter. “You have no idea.”
There was a sheen of sweat on her brow. Dark circles under her eyes were the evidence of days without sleep.
“Integrity like that’s a rare thing, these days,” he continued. “I know you want to see him behind bars, and you want to go home. We can help each other here.”
He could tell she was thinking hard. A bead of sweat crawled her face. Cryptid’s eyes followed it, then met her eyes. He slowly shifted his weight and leaned forward in a slow step. Amy sucked in a little gasp. She didn’t pull the trigger. He took another step, hands still raised. She just watched him with wide eyes. Once again, it was a miracle she was still alive. If he’d wanted to make a quick $5000, he could’ve just stabbed her right there and she wouldn’t have even blinked.
Instead, he gently took the gun by its barrel, and her grip loosened. His eyes flickered down to the side of the weapon.
The safety was on.
Amy followed his gaze, and then she saw it, too. In a very small voice, she said, “oh.”
He took the gun the rest of the way from her hands. She was shaking like a leaf.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Yeah.” She sank down onto the bed. “What do you want to know, Mister–”
“Cryptid.” He kept his voice soft and understanding, but didn’t sit down beside her. He was more comfortable on his feet. “I need to know what you found about Felix Vasquez. But don’t rush. We have time.”
