Live for the Trade, Die for the Trade X: Ryle Hoffman

[Thechosenone]

(Its about Ryle....)

A winning smile. That’s the first thing he notices in the mirror. His own smile. Vanity isn’t something he’s ever been accused. He’s always been humble, always been likable, always been desired for reasons beyond his looks. He’s aware of his handsome gifts but they never defined who he was. They never went to his head.

But he loved that winning smile.

It’s not a reflection in the mirror but a memory.

“Come on pretty boy. Things to do and people to kill.” The voice from behind orders with an all together inappropriate joy.

The reflection in the mirror smiles too. It has no choice. Muscles are pulled into a tight grin and there are no lips to hide the teeth. Dead flesh patterned with careless scalpel scars spread from the face and weave into a detailed map of cruelties that consume the entire body of Ryle Hoffman. Through tears in his skin machinery leers out. Where there should be living pallor there is only flesh the color of an ashen sky. He cannot see the world the way he once did. He sees no beauty in it anymore. His eyes are gone too. Red lenses and sparking filaments tell his mind everything it needs to know.

His jaw flexes as he remembers the face he once had. Ryle would cry if he could but they took that when they took his eyes. The mechanical parts in his throat vibrate and echo adding an altogether inhuman tone to his scream. He screams at the memory in the mirror. If his tongue was not a twist of veins and swollen meat he would tell the memory to run and never return, ashamed of what the memory might see in him now. He’d ask it why? Why the only thing he feels anymore is pain. Why the only things left in his mind are the urges to obey and holes where his sense of self once lived. Why he’s not the memory in the mirror anymore?

A claw made of pistons and steel rips into the mirror and gouges chunks of wood and plaster from the wall along with the glass.

The hallway of the estate spills out in both directions. The lightless quiet offers no resistance to his eyes. He sees the hall through a veneer of hellish red light.

“Love that singin’ voice” Bennett Creedy laughs with his signature giggle, a rumbling and terrible child like glee.

“We do not want to agitate Mr. Hoffman.” The second voice creeps down the halls and seems to drip from the very darkness that chokes the hall. Creedy’s lantern light flashes back and forth till it locks on a shape behind him. The battery powering the lantern spasms causing the light to flicker. The shape jerks through the periodic blinks of illumination, its movement seizure like and uneven. The light settles on a mask that stares at Creedy from only a few feet away.

“Mr. Stannish.” Creedy says. All the joy drained from his voice. The bloated mass of the Guard Captain frames the taunt and unnatural Lawyer. Creedy has no love for the oddity. Where the captain wields a very tangible power Stannish’s abilities, like his level of authority, are nebulous and always changing. “Just trying to get things moving. We don’t have all night you know?”

“Time is on the side of those that know it’s little secret.” Stannish’s whispers bubble up from his decayed mouth. The shadows repeat his every words.

“And that is?” Creedy humors him.

“That time is an illusion. It is creature comfort for little things trying to make sense of their existence.” Stannish’s bird like wobble takes him around Creedy and to Ryle’s side.

Ryle feels few things anymore. Only pain. The touch of Stannish’s chalk white flesh feels like the prick of needles left to long in an ice box. The Lawyer’s free hand points down the hall. “Prosecute the enemies of the Guild. They are held in the highest contempt. Sanctions… Mr. Hoffman. Sanctions…” The hand on Ryle’s flesh slides down ripping at his nerves but it drags his attention down as well. His mechanical eyes focus on something half remembered. A weight, distant but familiar fills Ryle’s hand.

A chain gun.

Ryle howls. He wants nothing more than to turn the gun on Stannish and splatter his wicked form against the wall and then grind Creedy into a mess of gristle and bullets. But he can’t. His mind lacks every function that would allow him to turn the gun on his twin hates. Too many holes in his mind. The only pieces left are the ones that belong to the Guild.

“Kill.” Ryle breathes. Few words fit his broken mouth. This one fits fines. He pulls the trigger on the weapon. The wheels begin to spin and bullet straps start dragging into place. “Kill!” Ryle’s firing arm hefts up and locks in place. The darkness and quiet dies but it doesn’t die alone. Bullets splinter the walls churning up bedrooms and Union seditionists with indiscriminate care.

Creedy can’t hold back his happiness when one of the terrorists wanders out of a room already leaking life from a dozen wounds. He’s not sure what confused action the corpse of a man intended on talking but the gurgling choke followed by the bullet dance he does when Ryle crosses him with gun fire are too much.

Stannish is sprayed with blood as the man explodes under the deluge of lead. He rubs his hands together while his smile widens to an impossible width. “Commendable work Mr. Hoffman. The Pinnacle could not be happier with your progress.” He dabs up a gush of blackish phlegm with his short cuff as it boils out his mouth.

Ryle’s finger loosens on the trigger as the hallway returns to stillness. Creedy orders him onward. The ruined home still has more vermin to flush out. The machine part of his mind obeys. It has no choice in the matter. The only memory broken part of his mind provides is a droning constant chant: Live for the Trade, Die for the Trade.

The meat part, the part that hurts all the time, that part is occupied with a nagging torment that never goes away.

Why aren’t I the memory in the mirror anymore?

[the_madhatter1]

as always, utterly awesome

[Cambrius]

Very nice, and well done as usual. If you're not careful, we'll end up holding you to this standard.

There are a couple of word choices I would change, if I may be so pedantic. Instead of, "Why aren't I the memory in the mirror anymore?" I would perhaps use "Why am I no longer the memory in the mirror?" A really minor critique, and again, I'm just picking nits. But there's my two-bits more for you, sir.

[Thechosenone]

Thanks Cambrius. Appreciate the feedback.

When i write something i try and say the dialogue out loud (Usually somewhere private so i don't look crazy). What i'm looking for is how natural it sounds.

For some characters a more drawn out manner is needed to their speech but for Ryle i just wanted to convey a regular man losing himself.

"Why aren't I the memory in the mirror..." just fell off the tongue in a more smoother way.

That was my thinking anyway.

Thanks again and please, more comments the better.

[Cambrius]

That makes sense, the character's speech pattern isn't always correct. But I got the impression that Ryle was British and highly educated. I think that's where my impression is from.

You're quite welcome, sir. It's all good training.