"Don't -- " Ray Walker yelped, and that was all he got out before Martin Shardae (or 'Marty' as he preferred his 'associates' called him) smirked, jerked his fist, and broke the young man's nose.
It had been such a sharp, sudden blow that Ray found himself collapsed in a messy heap before completely registering what happened. White hot pain blossomed a second later -- Ray thought dimly that he should try to get up, but by then it was too late.
Marty grabbed a fistful of the youth's hair, jerking his head back so that the two were facing. Above them, the naked bulb flickered, illuminating the killer's odd, twisted smile. Ray struggled briefly.
He considered shouting, but realistically no one would hear him. The house was the last on the left, and Finn street was sparsely populated at best. Ray knew his job would end up getting him killed one of these days, but he never figured it would happen over a misunderstanding.
"How did you find me?" Marty demanded in a fierce whisper, marking the first time he had spoken since finding a tow-headed sixteen-year-old poking around in his garage. "Are there others? I'll kill you!"
As if that wasn't clear enough. Ray could already see the glint of a hunting knife. His neck was very much exposed, and his nose was very much gushing blood. What could save him? Words. Words, come on! He was seconds away from a very early retirement.
"I'm not -- I'm -- "
"You're not what?"
Marty might have been a hardened killer with psychotic tendencies, but first and foremost he was a blazing paranoid. The knife was stayed just for a second -- the man wanted answers. Ray knew he had just moments, and he tried to see past his immediate death, tried to collect himself while gasping for breath --
" -- not from -- from the Consortium!"
He spat it out at last, along with some blood that had been seeping uncomfortably in his mouth. Well, that was it then. Marty's scraggly hair had fallen in front of his eyes, so Ray couldn't see the thought process on the man's face. All he knew was that strained, sickly smile.
With effort, Ray swallowed.
"M-my name is Ray. Ray Walker. I'm -- I know what really happened. I'm trying to help."
Though he might have been imagining it, Ray thought the pain in his scalp was lessening and that Marty's had lowered his knife.
"You're that kid?" The man's tone wasn't very impressed, but it wasn't like Ray had expected a sudden rush of compassion. His heart was still racing at a million miles an hour -- anything could happen. "What, here? In my garage? Talking to me?"
"Tryin' to." Ray's eyes were watering, and he heard the steady drip, drip of his own blood making dots on the garage cement. He gestured feebly to the green '65 Ford Fairlane sitting innocently not ten feet away from where he lay . "Nice car. You don't, uh, see many of those any more."
In a contemplative fashion, Marty let go of Ray's hair to brush his own out of his eyes. The brown locks, stringy with sweat didn't stay where they had been pushed, but Ray got a clearer look at his would-be killer -- dark, sunken eyes without the spark of sanity.
Marty lumbered to his feet. He tossed the knife away, end over end 'till it clattered to rest at the work bench with the screwdrivers and wrenches. Ray would have taken a deep breath of relief, but he thought it would hurt too much.
"Not from the Consortium?" Marty gave a twitch that might have been a shrug, and then he made an odd sound that might have been a laugh. "Get up, then, and come inside. I'll fix you some ice for your nose."
