Shaun Brantley gets what is coming
Brantley looks out the window again, waiting.
The clock is broken.
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There is a quick eruption of sound at the door, a frantic pounding that rattles the frame. He glides over to peer out, peeping an unfamiliar face. One hand to the grip of his Crossocheilus-tuned pulse amplifier, Brantley gently unlocks and cracks open the door.
A withered face waits outside, skin and second-hand leather hanging off elongated skeletal structure, a poor copy of humanity with a silk bow around the neck. At the feet of this hideous form yaps a small white chihuahua, pulling harder than it should be able on its thin leash. The face asks for half a dozen yokes; Shaun gruffly tells him to go to M St. for another source, closing the door.
The lock clicks. Sweat drips from Shaun Brantley's brow. He exhales deeply.
"Mine now," hisses a low, smoking voice, throbbing in the back of Brantley's skull.
Brantley checks the holster in his coat to find it now empty.
"Oh fuck..."
"Flash did not fire, compulsory flash suppression. One-chip colour area sensor. Auto balance. One half second."
Brantley awakes to see his weapon disassembled on the table across from him. The voice echoes and vibrates his skull, seeming to come from inside his own head; it throbs, it recedes, blood in the water.
"They will give you a new one when you need it. This is useless against the new strain."
"Dr. B...." Brantley tries to start, to explain the situation, but finds himself cut off by a sudden burst of red pain.
"This is not about that yet."
"I heard you were--"
Blackness.
The phone rings. Once, twice.
Brantley looks up through cracked eyes, trying to lift his hands; he feels the cold pressure on his wrists spread up his arms and chest, prompting him to give up. Cold irons bound.
"I'll be here."
The phone clicks and hangs in its cradle.
"I have things. You could let me--" Brantley sighs, pitifully.
Dr. B. cups Brantley's chin with his left hand and turns the head up to look into the mirror. Shaun's spirit sinks when he sees the form of his captor, looking entirely too much like his own. At the same time. Not there. Blackness.