literature

The Undeath and Death of Yves Carabin

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Literature Text

Yves Carabin was kind of undead. It was a complicated situation. He was also a private detective. That was complicated too.

He left the bar a little wiser than he'd been when he walked in half an hour ago. He was also a little drunker and his knuckles were a lot sorer. His trenchcoat whipped in the wind. A few drops of rain came down sideways to herald the gathering stormclouds. Yves turned up his collar and lit a cigarette with his eye socket.

There was a girl he used to know. A djinn. One time he got himself shot in the eye. She mended him with smokeless flame. Resurrected him. That was the first time. A couple of glowing scars on his back attested to the others. He wasn't sure if he counted as a wight or a revenant or just a plain old zombie. All he knew was that he had a heartbeat again and he owed her for it.

He puffed on his gauloise and regarded the embers as he exhaled. Fire reminded him of her. When it had been her turn to die he'd spent day after day and night after night trying to bring her back. He'd read every grimoire, recited every incantation. In the end the hotel burnt down and that was that. Arcane rituals were candle intensive as it was, and pyromancy doubly so for obvious reasons.

Yves shook his head and let the sound of the rain wash his mind clean. There was work to do, and it was the kind of work he needed to be sober for. A pretty girl wanted to know why the P.R.B had sent an agent to interrogate and subsequently poison her goldfish. Yves didn't like to mess with the Parahuman Regulation Bureau, he wasn't registered, but the girl was offering serious money. Nothing made Yves serious like serious money.

He'd been asking questions and interestingly enough, the goldfish were just part of the picture. Word on the street was that someone named Strauss had been doing the rounds, sniping two dogs, garrotting another, shooting a cat point blank and capturing a chinchilla for questioning.

After a fight and some more questions, he'd found out why. Most of the targets were unregistered parahumans involved in a pixie dust ring. The chinchilla was a pretty high level operator if what he'd been hearing was right. If that had been all, the case would be closed and he'd be halfway down a bottle of scotch by now, but Yves had stumbled on something more.

He'd paid a visit to a girl named Poppy, an ex-cat owner. She'd been reluctant to open the door, but he'd been persistent. She'd had another unwelcome visit not three hours earlier. Two goblins had apparently pushed their way in, cleared out the basement and threatened her to keep her quiet. According to her, they'd been moving containers and cases of equipment and mysterious substances. The late Magnus Whiskerson had apparently been ordering in large quantities of bomb ingredients.

He wasn't sure what his next lead would be or whether it was even worth the trouble. His 'friend' at the bar had told him something about a disarmed bomb found there earlier in the week. Nobody really knew what to make of it, least of all Yves. Truth be told, he enjoyed having an excuse to hurt people. Maybe it was something to do with being a fire wight, but he suspected he'd always been this way. It was hard to remember now. He stepped in a puddle and swore through gritted teeth. He was not having a good day. That's when a couple of goblins pulled him into an alley and started to rough him up. There were a lot more waiting in the shadows. Presumably they were going to take shifts.

"Heard some walking corpse with a glowy eye's been asking questions round here" said a voice, punctuated by a blackjack.

"Not a corpse," said Yves from behind his cigarette. He clocked one assailant and threw the other into the street, one handed.

"Huh?" said the voice.

"Not a corpse," repeated Yves as he twisted someone's arm and stubbed his cigarette on it. "Got a pulse."

The goblins all piled on him. It was so dark they were probably hitting each other more often than not, but one got lucky. He felt the knife sink into his eye with a thunk. They probably just aimed for the light, he thought.

It was strange to feel so cold after all that fire.

C'est la vie.
FFM 2012 day 6!

Not sure if this one stands on its own. I am quite proud of the name Yves Carabin, if not the story itself. Escarrabin is french for graveyard, and Yves means Ash, a tree associated with graveyards and sorrow. Also Carabin means rifleman in french, so that's pretty badass too. =)

This was for the detective/speculative fiction with a byronic hero challenge. My setting is already speculative and a detective story seemed to slot into place given what I'd already done. The byronic hero element got away from me. I started out with the intention of him being a lot more sociopathic than he ended up. The character just seemed to take a different shape, probably due to his tragic backstory making him more understandable. I hope he still comes off like enough of a bastard. =p
© 2012 - 2024 joe-wright
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PoorEccentric's avatar
I love what you've done with this world so far. I always get a good laugh out of the crazy situations, but at the same time it makes up a serious and engrossing story.

I just love your story-telling skills especially. I could be here all day praising all the little details I loved, so I'll just say that I loved the whole thing and save everyone a lot of time.