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Description
Serial 01: Drake Prescott.

The surroundings had a washed out, grainy touch to them like an old photograph. He stood within a basement where dust particles swirled around him like debris. Effigies echoed near by and he could see the ghost-like image of a woman who solidified only in his mind. The memory of her had long since faded from those who lived on the ground level of the apartment building. Though his black hair was speckled with gray, the woman herself had long dark hair that made his seem pale by comparison. Her tanned skin was much darker, and golden-brown eyes turned to look at him sadly.

The fellow's name was Drake Prescott. He was a former homicide detective, though that hardly mattered anymore. He was mostly just an empath and psychic medium now, disturbed by the faces and voices of men and women he never knew – people who had their lives violently taken from them, seeking only vengeance, justice and peace from beyond the grave. He had been incarcerated and labeled insane by his peers upon encountering and fatally wounding another who was like him – the Coroner who had spliced many corpses together to create an embodiment of raw negative emotion.

While in Chicago he had paused his journey to pay his respects to the woman who died here in her dungeon. It was here that Lili Afsoneh, a Persian woman, had adopted the role of a mistress to ease the social discomforts of her clients. One of those clients had deep issues that she could not resolve and a sexual tension – frustration – that he vented on her over twelve years ago. Drake had been here before, though never in the flesh. Rope and chain still hung from the ceiling whereas a variety of furniture and equipment, hid by plastic coverings, littered the scene. But no detail was more provocative than the old stains of crimson and chalk outline surrounding them. Being here, realizing that Lili was dead, was rather surreal.

He slit her throat. Drake saw it even while mentally pushing back against the cacophony of sight and sound that took place in his mind's eye. He saw everything and felt everything. He not only felt the Mistress' fright but the killer's anger and self-loathing as well. He was relieved that he had gained some sort of control over his abilities. Without the acquired consciousness over what were his own emotions and the emotions of others he would have been crippled as he had been many times before. At one point it was like a debilitating disease...

Psychic impressions left on him were what led Drake to her – or perhaps to the contrary, led her to him. Not long after Prescott's wife had left him, he found himself periodically consoled by her. She would lash into him with a bull-whip in the way that only a lover could. Lili, once known to several here as Mistress Leila, would nurture his grief and sorrow through physical pain. It helped him to deal with the emotions that were engraved on him, from time spent sleeping on into his waking moments. This was before he had even realized that the only person who had not given up on him, the only one whom he had truly shared his torment with, was dead. It was impossible to let go of that connection and so he sought to fortify it before he moved on.

The ghost glanced over at her detective from beside the privacy screen to the back of the room. It was to the rear of the basement that she had kept her sofa whereas the other side appeared as some place many would have considered a designation for unholy exchanges. She turned to him with the faintest smile, silently confirming that she knew he had been put on the right track.

“Did they ever find him?” Drake asked, hands in his pockets. He left his department under the most unique circumstances. He hadn't the time to distinguish whether or not the case of Lili's murder had been closed.

“I'm still here,” she spoke softly.

Drake nodded. He understood what was implied. He was no longer bound by the system of law enforcement he had known before. For all intents and purposes he was a derelict, a trained derelict, operating outside of normal society. If the killer was still out there, he had an obligation to find that man and see justice done. “I'll look for him,” he murmured just as softly while assuring her, “and see to it that you can rest easy.”

The image faded within the blink of an eye and the colors in the room became more vibrant, solid, and opaque. The walls, ceiling, and scenery deadened to their current state and Drake was now in the present, amidst fewer objects and rusted chains. The years stacked on to the scene and he viewed everything in its modern appearance. The chalk outline was nothing but scattered residue. Mold and decay assaulted Prescott's nostrils. He could hear the footsteps descending along a stone stairwell and witnessed the shadow emerging from within the flush of light that entered the doorway, growing as she arrived...

The redhead stood in the doorway, reaching out with her slender fingers to flick and twist a strand of yellow tape – one of many strands that once prevented admittance into an old crime scene. The grisly murder and the various chain trinkets kept several potential residents from moving in to the basement apartment despite how spacious it was. Ruby canted her head to the side, then winced as she read the expression on Drake's face. She offered a thin-lipped, sad smile before gesturing upward.

“I wanted to be sure you were okay.” Ruby was considerate, though she was ever-aware that they had to keep moving. There was no guarantee that the authorities would not give chase. Besides that they were in Chicago which was a long way from their destination, where she knew others like them resided. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Drake wiped at his eyes, then waited for the woman in red to turn around and head back out before he started to follow. However, once he'd reached the threshold he turned towards the empty room and released a burdened sigh. Touching his fingertips to his lips, he kissed them before slapping the side of the door-frame.

“I love you,” he choked out in the chance that the dead mistress was listening.

Description
Serial 01: Drake Prescott.

The surroundings had a washed out, grainy touch to them like an old photograph. He stood within a basement where dust particles swirled around him like debris. Effigies echoed near by and he could see the ghost-like image of a woman who solidified only in his mind. The memory of her had long since faded from those who lived on the ground level of the apartment building. Though his black hair was speckled with gray, the woman herself had long dark hair that made his seem pale by comparison. Her tanned skin was much darker, and golden-brown eyes turned to look at him sadly.

The fellow's name was Drake Prescott. He was a former homicide detective, though that hardly mattered anymore. He was mostly just an empath and psychic medium now, disturbed by the faces and voices of men and women he never knew – people who had their lives violently taken from them, seeking only vengeance, justice and peace from beyond the grave. He had been incarcerated and labeled insane by his peers upon encountering and fatally wounding another who was like him – the Coroner who had spliced many corpses together to create an embodiment of raw negative emotion.

While in Chicago he had paused his journey to pay his respects to the woman who died here in her dungeon. It was here that Lili Afsoneh, a Persian woman, had adopted the role of a mistress to ease the social discomforts of her clients. One of those clients had deep issues that she could not resolve and a sexual tension – frustration – that he vented on her over twelve years ago. Drake had been here before, though never in the flesh. Rope and chain still hung from the ceiling whereas a variety of furniture and equipment, hid by plastic coverings, littered the scene. But no detail was more provocative than the old stains of crimson and chalk outline surrounding them. Being here, realizing that Lili was dead, was rather surreal.

He slit her throat. Drake saw it even while mentally pushing back against the cacophony of sight and sound that took place in his mind's eye. He saw everything and felt everything. He not only felt the Mistress' fright but the killer's anger and self-loathing as well. He was relieved that he had gained some sort of control over his abilities. Without the acquired consciousness over what were his own emotions and the emotions of others he would have been crippled as he had been many times before. At one point it was like a debilitating disease...

Psychic impressions left on him were what led Drake to her – or perhaps to the contrary, led her to him. Not long after Prescott's wife had left him, he found himself periodically consoled by her. She would lash into him with a bull-whip in the way that only a lover could. Lili, once known to several here as Mistress Leila, would nurture his grief and sorrow through physical pain. It helped him to deal with the emotions that were engraved on him, from time spent sleeping on into his waking moments. This was before he had even realized that the only person who had not given up on him, the only one whom he had truly shared his torment with, was dead. It was impossible to let go of that connection and so he sought to fortify it before he moved on.

The ghost glanced over at her detective from beside the privacy screen to the back of the room. It was to the rear of the basement that she had kept her sofa whereas the other side appeared as some place many would have considered a designation for unholy exchanges. She turned to him with the faintest smile, silently confirming that she knew he had been put on the right track.

“Did they ever find him?” Drake asked, hands in his pockets. He left his department under the most unique circumstances. He hadn't the time to distinguish whether or not the case of Lili's murder had been closed.

“I'm still here,” she spoke softly.

Drake nodded. He understood what was implied. He was no longer bound by the system of law enforcement he had known before. For all intents and purposes he was a derelict, a trained derelict, operating outside of normal society. If the killer was still out there, he had an obligation to find that man and see justice done. “I'll look for him,” he murmured just as softly while assuring her, “and see to it that you can rest easy.”

The image faded within the blink of an eye and the colors in the room became more vibrant, solid, and opaque. The walls, ceiling, and scenery deadened to their current state and Drake was now in the present, amidst fewer objects and rusted chains. The years stacked on to the scene and he viewed everything in its modern appearance. The chalk outline was nothing but scattered residue. Mold and decay assaulted Prescott's nostrils. He could hear the footsteps descending along a stone stairwell and witnessed the shadow emerging from within the flush of light that entered the doorway, growing as she arrived...

The redhead stood in the doorway, reaching out with her slender fingers to flick and twist a strand of yellow tape – one of many strands that once prevented admittance into an old crime scene. The grisly murder and the various chain trinkets kept several potential residents from moving in to the basement apartment despite how spacious it was. Ruby canted her head to the side, then winced as she read the expression on Drake's face. She offered a thin-lipped, sad smile before gesturing upward.

“I wanted to be sure you were okay.” Ruby was considerate, though she was ever-aware that they had to keep moving. There was no guarantee that the authorities would not give chase. Besides that they were in Chicago which was a long way from their destination, where she knew others like them resided. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Drake wiped at his eyes, then waited for the woman in red to turn around and head back out before he started to follow. However, once he'd reached the threshold he turned towards the empty room and released a burdened sigh. Touching his fingertips to his lips, he kissed them before slapping the side of the door-frame.

“I love you,” he choked out in the chance that the dead mistress was listening.