Work Text:
The coffee wasn't cutting it. You'd been trying to watch your caffeine intake over this past week, but you were on your third cup of the day and these reports were all melding together. It felt like the colors of your vision were going dull from how much you had been scouring through these manila folders and yellowed newspaper clippings. It had gotten to the point where the barista across the street shot you a worried look when you came through the doors.
Work wasn't hard. In fact, it was so easy you had ample time to throw yourself into these side projects. A sharp burst of raps against the wall of your cubicle pulled your focus from the paper strewn across your desk. "You're on in ten." David, your coworker, leaned his shoulder against the half wall.
"You got it." You stood to your full height, leaning side to side to stretch out your spine. David glanced down at your desk and raised an eyebrow. "Pet project," you explained, waving a hand dismissively as you pushed yourself away from your desk to join him in the hallway.
The New York Oracle didn't only have one newscaster. That'd be incredibly demanding, considering the program was running 24/7. David handed you a notepad with headlines written in neat penmanship. You glanced down at it as you walked.
Being a journalist in the great city that was the Cursed Apple, was, at the very least, never boring. What was boring, however, was being stuck reciting snappy headlines into a microphone in the time between the more popular hosts. Even more so when you had begun your work here at the Oracle as a journalist. In an unpredictable turn of events, what was a favor for a coworker who called off sick unfortunately became your everyday.
"Are cats aware of parallel planes? New scientific breakthrough!" and "Serial killings strike again; three bodies unidentified." were neatly bulleted down the page. Your job was simple. Read off the headlines, take just enough time that the main hosts can swap out, and do it again in an hour. It sucked.
You quietly slid into the booth while the five-o-clock host was winding through his ending spiel. He glanced at you on your way in and gave you a nod of acknowledgement.
It was a wonder how well your team rotated in and out, like the gears of a precise timepiece or a well rehearsed ensemble number. Two heartbeats passed before the two of you swapped places, and two heartbeats before you took a breath, exhaled, another breath, and leaned to the mic.
While it was true you were bored of this job, damn did you have to admit you were great at it. You had that melodious and over-enunciated trademark newscaster pattern down to a science. "Cadence and the Requiem Boys set to tour the country later this year, stay tuned for your chance at a free ticket. In bleaker news, morgue break-ins still unsolved. We have an exclusive interview with a medium who claims to know the motive. Hollywood's beloved Adder Lounge closed indefinitely following murder of the owner." You spoke into the microphone, eyes flitting down between the notepad in your hand and up into the wall in front of you as if speaking to an invisible conversation partner.
In your mind, it was like interviewing an imaginary person to get the latest scoop out of them. Only instead of actually interviewing, you would be just spouting headlines with no relevance to each other, but what could you do. God, one day you'd be interviewing someone for real. A journalist in the field, where your heart knew you were meant to be.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the hazy silhouette of the next hour's host through the door window. You cast a quick glance at the clock. Thirty seconds to go. The booth door slid open and a woman in a snappy plaid dress with neatly coiffed curls stepped in beside you wearing a sweet smile. The two of you worked in perfect tandem, her warm greeting punctuating the clock's turn of the hour by the exact second. Damn, were you good.
You left the studio silently, returning the cute little wave your boothmate gave you on your way out. With nothing much left else to do, you made your way back down the hallway to your cubicle. David's was along the way, although the man himself was missing. You set his notepad down in the middle of his desk before continuing back to yours.
There was an hour until you had to be back in the booth. It was terribly inconvenient timing. Just when you began to get into the groove of your thinking, you had to spirit away to read off headlines designed to bait interest. You turned the corner to your cubicle and tiredly landed in your chair, scooting close to your desk.
This pet project of yours was admittedly a simple one. Serial crimes weren't exactly uncommon across the country, but what piqued your journalistic interest was a series of break-ins that had left authorities stumped. The incidents were few and far between, yet all tied by a single shared trait.
You glared down at the newspaper excerpts across your desk like they would offer answers. Bold headlines leered back at you, indifferent. MAN FOUND DEAD IN FREEZER AFTER BREAK-IN, NO POSSESSIONS STOLEN. It loomed over you like a dark cloud. And if it bothered you so badly, then there was no way it didn't nag at your superiors at the Oracle. Meaning...
Your motivation reinvigorated as you stood up to look down at your desk easier. If you were able to find any new tie, any new clue in this series of cases, surely your boss would reconsider letting you back out into the field.
The rest of the day passed in a frankly uneventful blur. You swore you were at the verge of a breakthrough, yet every time you strained to reach it it slipped past your fingers like you were trying too hard to recall a dream. David tapped at your cubicle wall again. "It's gettin' late."
You glanced up at the window. He was right. It was darker than it usually was by the time you clocked out, and the heavy clouds didn't help. If you didn't get going now, it'd probably begin raining. And by the looks of it, it'd be raining hard.
"Yeah, yeah." You pushed your chair away from your desk, spinning to face David. "I'll be outta here soon." You ran a hand over your face and reached for your jacket crumpled over your bag.
"Take care of yourself." He glanced between you and the papers strewn across your desk before turning to leave before you.
You sighed with the weight of the workday as you gathered your things. It wasn't much, considering all you really needed to do was yammer into a microphone. Only your small purse held your personal belongings like your wallet and notepad. By the time you clocked out, the clouds overhead had gotten darker. Most of your coworkers had gone home, leaving the cubicles and desks you walked by empty. The receptionist at the front desk nodded at you on your way out, also beginning to reach for his bag.
At another time, you would've enjoyed walking home in the rain. Something to feel like you had adventure in your life. But not today. You let out an involuntary hiss when you opened the office's doors, the midautumn chill biting through your skin and jacket right into your bones. There's no chance in hell you could afford to get sick right now. You should get home sooner rather than later.
There was an alleyway up ahead that you could cut through to save some time. You had been down this way before, so it wasn't like you were walking directly into the jaws of whatever killer lurked about this month. At least, that was what you told yourself. It's not "making yourself feel better" if it's just logical reasoning. Right? Even when, when you turned the corner, the alley was so dark you could barely see your own feet...
Your nose involuntarily crinkled as you stepped deeper between the buildings. An acrid, chemical smell filled your nose and stung the back of your sinuses. It was a sour, burnt, vinegar that you swear you recognized. You weren't too keen on sniffing the air to figure it out.
The thoughts you had on the smell fell short when, mid-step, your foot kicked into something. You froze, the rest of your face grimacing in poorly concealed disgust. Whatever it was skidded a few feet before sagging to a stop, unidentifiable in the low light. You'd have recognized if it was the usual street litter. It didn't skid like a bottle cap, and was much too large to be one, and it didn't have the roll or clear trill of a glass bottle being kicked.
They said a lot of things about curiosity. Whatever smart adages there were, you found yourself not caring a single bit as you toed this mystery object closer and closer to the light. What kind of journalist would you possibly be if you recoiled when faced with the unknown?
You picked up a few extra traits about your mystery object as you kicked it closer and closer out of the alley and into the light of the nearest streetlamp. It wasn't particularly rigid, nor was it shapeless. In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but compare it to a fish. It wasn't uniformly shaped, wider than it was thick. One side, you found, had much more give when you nudged it with your shoe. And you were finally putting a finger on that smell burning in the back of your nose. Was that... formaldehyde?
It wasn't too far to the streetlight now. Whatever this was, you'd sate your curiosity, hum in satisfaction, and hurry home. With a final decisive kick with the side of your foot, you sent it skidding into the light.
Oh my fucking God.
A hand.
Your makeshift kickball was a severed human hand.
Skin pale and nails blackened, there was absolutely no doubt about it. You clasped a hand over your mouth before you could scream. Fuck, you had to tell someone. Maybe back at the Oracle? No, the police station. No! Not them, either! You couldn't go tell them that you had tampered with the crime scene because you couldn't help playing hacky sack with someone's hand.
Cold shocked you from your thoughts. A cold that ran down your cheek, down your jaw, and into your collar. Shit, it was starting to rain. It's fine. It was fine! You'd find whatever awning to hide under while figuring out what the hell to do next. Eyes still on the hand- did it just fucking twitch??- you bolted down the sidewalk.
You didn't get far before you collided with a cold wall.
"Shit," came a voice from above you.
Jesus Christ, the wall was talking.
This time you did scream.
Thankfully, the wall didn't seem to mind. In fact, it waited for you to stop screaming before speaking again.
"Have you, uh..." As it spoke you took a step back and craned your head back to look up. And up. "Wouldn't suppose you've seen a hand around?"
It was embarrassing how late you were on the uptake. The Cursed Apple was home to many an oddity, but talking walls were a new one. No, you had slammed into a person. Your eyes met his for a second before flitting around, not exactly sure where to look. The first thing you noticed was his state of undress. He wore no shirt- in this cold??- and a pair of patched black pants, suspender straps loose at his sides. The next detail about him was even more curious. He was like a ragdoll, stitched together with staples and sutures. You'd seen prosthetic limbs before, but this was different. Way different.
"I, um, there's the- it's- there's one-" You stammered. God, what the hell was going on? "Why do you, uh... why do you ask?" Rather than meeting his gaze again you stared at a suddenly very interesting crack in the sidewalk.
Your attention was commanded again immediately when he raised his left arm. It was, very notably, handless. Ah. Out of all of your encounters with the supernatural variety, this was a first. However, the only thing worse than being a fool was being rude. So you shuffled to the side and pointed your thumb over your shoulder. "I, uh, may have kicked it around a bit. If that one's yours."
He scoffed as he passed by you to retrieve the wayward limb. "Why the hell'd you do that?"
"The fuck else was I supposed to do?" The defensive outburst came before you could tamp it down. Thank God you caught his small chuckle, or else you would've thrown yourself into the street. It overrode the fear in your nerves, doing more than you expected to level your head. "Sorry about that, though. I mean, I wouldn't have kicked it at all if I even knew-" You cut yourself off before it could get any worse. "By the way, I'm..." you told him your name as your wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself.
It didn't seem like he expected it, shooting you an odd look as he bent down to pick his hand back up. "Uh... Victor." An awkward pause passed between you two. He spoke up again. "If you're waiting for a handshake, that might have to wait."
The laugh you snorted out caught you by surprise. "Sorry-" you apologized again when he looked at you. You couldn't stop staring at his hands. He held his own disconnected left hand in his right- it was blue- in a grotesque handshake. "Would you need help, y'know," you twisted your wrist while searching for the right way to put it, "reattaching?"
Victor mulled it over for a second. "I would, actually."
You took a half step in the direction of your apartment. "My place isn't too far from here. Let's get us out of here before it starts pouring."
He nodded and waited for you to start walking, ambling after you at a slower pace. "You seem to not mind the whole corpse thing." He spoke up from the sidewalk behind you. You paused, stepping to the side and waiting for him to catch up so the two of you could walk side by side.
"Is that what it is?" You eyed him up and down. "I've seen weirder."
"You some kind of medium?"
"Journalist. I work for the Oracle." You shove your hands into your pockets as you dance around what it is you really do. "Corpses aren't new. This is the first time one's talked back to me, though."
Another pause between the two of you as you walked. He broke the silence again. "...That's where I know you from."
"Hm?"
"You're the one on the radio every hour."
Shit, he got you. "That's me. Catchy headlines every hour, with the New York Oracle." You put on your newscaster cadence for extra oomph as you spoke. When the pause came, it was you who broke the silence this time. "How are you not cold?"
You watched his brows draw together before shrugging. "I dunno. I don't feel it."
"You don't know?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm inviting you into my home. It'd be weird to not know anything about you."
"Is inviting strange men home a habit of yours?"
The amused pinch across your face and nudge of your elbow into his forearm was more of a reflex than a conscious action. "Watch it," you warned, though your voice was nothing but playful.
Victor's tired eyes stared down at you. Their softness faded as his brows drew together again. "Why are you being nice to me?"
He had a point. You really didn't know the answer to that. Scrunching your lip, you hummed as you looked for a satisfactory answer.
"Well... I try to be a good neighbor. And in New York, everyone's your neighbor."
"That a saying?"
"Maybe. I made it up just now."
Your apartment came into view as you turned the corner. A humble brownstone shoulder to shoulder with its siblings, vines up the walls climbing to just about your height. A pizza place down the street and a café a block away, you couldn't complain in the slightest. You fished for your keys before unlocking the door, holding it open and ushering Victor in before the cold could creep in.
"Make yourself at home." You declared as you turned on the lights, gesturing to the couch on your way to the kitchen. "Tea or coffee?"
Victor instead chose to stand in your living room. His height made him look incredibly out of place in a way you would dare to call cute. His posture wasn't the best, but if he drew himself up to his full height he probably would've hit his head on the way in. "I'd rather have my hand back before any of that."
"You're right." You pointed a finger in his direction and course-corrected out of the kitchen and back into the living room. "So what do you... use?"
He looked down at his hands. "Sutures are nice. I won't say no to sewing thread either. Or if you know how to use a staple gun-"
You held up a finger before disappearing into the bathroom, returning quickly with a red box. "You are so lucky, I took a class on doing medical stitches just last month." You set the first aid kit down on the coffee table, motioning for Victor to sit. You had to wave your hand pretty aggressively for him to finally concede, awkwardly sinking his large frame onto your loveseat. "Mind keeping your hand still for me?" You asked as you popped the medical kit open, sorting through your supplies.
"Sure." Victor leaned forward to rest his elbow on his knee, holding his hand in place. "Is there a reason why you decided to learn how to do sutures?"
You hummed as you began your work, taking it slowly. "Not really, no. I thought it'd be a good skill to have. Never know what could happen, y'know?"
He made a noise in acknowledgement. You saw him opening his mouth as if to say something else, but he stopped. Yet again, the two of you fell into comfortable silence. At times your hands were clumsy with the tools, but never with how you handled Victor's flesh. With every tie, your thumb gently massaged the skin to test the seam.
Occasionally, you'd glance up at Victor. His eyes never seemed to leave your hands. As the minutes ticked by, you came to notice a lot about the man. Barbed wire snaked around his left arm, and his right had an obvious seam where the skin changed from a pallid grey to blue and adorned with tattoos. His broad chest had a large Y-shaped scar through the middle. Not to mention the various staples and stitches that held him together.
Your eyes tended to linger on the metal bolt sticking out of his elbow, and the two you could see over his shoulders. The stitches across his throat and at the corners of his mouth drew your attention as well. It was rude to stare, but damn if you weren't curious.
Something had been on your mind since you began walking home with him. "I really don't mean to be rude, but is that smell you?" You forced yourself to keep working at an even pace as to not betray how stupid you felt asking that question.
"I smell like a jar of pickles when parts of me pop off. Sorry." The pale hand in your grasp twitched minutely.
"No judgement here," you tied another stitch, "I was just wondering." Besides the slight sting of formaldehyde in the air, Victor smelled rather nice, especially for a corpse.
It had been about an hour or so before you leaned back, stretching your arms up above your head. Victor took the cue to lift his hand, twisting his arm back and forth in examination. When he clenched and unclenched his fist, you took it to mean a job well done. Even more so when he looked at you with his mismatched eyes and smiled. "Feels like a dream. Dunno how I should repay you."
You stood up and began cleaning up your impromptu workstation. "Get coffee with me sometime." You flashed him a grin as you popped the buckles on the medical kit shut. "I could use more friends outside of work." The way he stared at you made your heart skip a beat in your chest.
Uh oh.