Brothers In Blood

[Snitch]

Welcome to my latest Story (not really a fan-fic), Brothers In Blood. I can't really give much of it away, as it will ruin the rest of the story, but you'll learn as you read. Hope you enjoy. :3

 

[spoiler=Chapter One]Doctor John Paranyne sneezed, making two puddles of mucus on his cluttered oak desk. Both puddles, shockingly, did not come into contact with a single object on the desk, surprising as the amount of space on the desk was very limited. John took a tissue from his white lab coat pocket, blew his nose twice, and replaced the green-stained sheet. Satisfied the day was over, he took a look at his desk and let out a quick sigh, beginning to clear away a few pieces of clutter. He stopped for a moment, stretched and flashed a look at the clock. Reacting as though he had been slapped, he quickly dropped to the floor, ripped open the second drawer down of his desk and retrieved a sleek black briefcase – the only thing in the entire office which seemed partially clean. Quickly unlocking the code, 4-7-2, he slipped two book-like reports of paper into the case, then relocked it. Flicking a few specs of dirt off his coat, he grabbed the case and walked across the room, pulling open the door and stepping outside into the crisp cold air. Fumbling with the large key ring in his pocket, he selected two of the thirty-seven keys and locked the door to his study. Then he turned, and walked over to his lime green Beetle, unlocking the car and stepping inside to it’s rather un-spacious and cluttered inside. He immediately revved the engine after placing in the key and drove off into the dark of night.

 

Forty-seven seconds later, a man in a full black tuxedo and matching bowler hat stepped out of the dark alleyway across the street. The man checked left and right, although no traffic ever came down the road, and walked across the street to Paranyne’s door. His face was hidden in the shadows produced by his hat, and any other skin which could be showing other than his hands was covered by the thick suit he was wearing. His hands were very pale, with long, point-tipped nails. A scar, almost indistinguishable due to it almost matching the colour of his skin, ran along the side of his right index finger. The man brought up the scarred finger to the door, placed the nail inside, and turned his finger to the right. The lock emitted a loud click, signalling the door was open. The man pulled his finger out of the lock and pushed the door open. When he stepped inside, he didn’t seem to fit with his surroundings.

 

The man winced once at the messiness of the room shown by the dim light. Smashed pieces of glass lay in one corner, with a chair untidily set on its side in another corner. A lamp that contained the dim light bulb stood roughly in the center of the room, barely lighting up the whole room but giving it an odd atmosphere at the same time. An oak desk lay near the edge of the room, cluttered with many papers, reports, tape measurers, pencils, pens, and a turned-off computer on the left side of the desk, the monitor inhabited by a large amount of sticky notes in four different colours. On the opposite side of the desk stood a printer which had a large cut through the wire, but was on, by some extent. The floor was plain wood, and a closed closet was beside the tipped chair. A sturdy wooden chair sat beside the desk, and, unlike its cousin, was placed very upright. Two puddles of what looked like mucus were dried and had set into the table.

 

The man clearly was not happy with searching the room, but anyhow, he began to lift up bits and pieces, searching through folders and reports for information. He found a lot of it, and pulled out a miniature laptop, no larger than a mobile phone, and began to send an email on it. He sent the email and made for the door, stopping at the last minute and turning around to the other side of the desk, opening the second draw down. He pulled out his mini laptop again, and sent another email.

 

”Desmond,

 

It’s on the run.”