I'm going to post the first two paragraphs of a story I started awhile ago. Each person continues the story for as long as they'd like. The only rule is that you can't follow your own post. This'll be stickied, since I can do that sort of thing.

If you have any questions or comments about a post in this thread, please go here: http://www.imwan.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=300889#300889

The Wages of Sin

A heavy rain beat a staccato rhythm on the cracked sidewalk of Penance, Minnesota. The tall, thin man pulled his long coat tighter around himself. He had been walking in the rain for so long he couldn't possibly get any wetter, but human instinct, something buried deep within, made him seek shelter from the deluge. Despite it all, he was still human. That, before anything else.

It was an old town, founded years ago by a shipwright's family. The fishermen came later, along with the craftsmen and tradesmen that build a community. Now, it was a factory town, though one that had seen better, brighter days.

The paper factory loomed before the thin man, its explusory stench somehow filling the sky in spite of the rain that should logically have cleansed the output of the smokestacks. Each step he took toward the entryway seemed to make a slightly louder splash, as though in warning. He kept his pace consistent, even though the rain slapped cold against him.

He reached the awning and slipped beneath it, shaking the moisture from his long coat and nodding at the old man clinging to his cigarette and hunching his faded denim coveralls around him. "Old habits, yeah?" the thin man asked the old-timer.

The old man nodded and turned his attention back to the sky. He never even saw the blow coming, and silently went down in a heap. "Now if only I'm not too late", thought the thin man.

He didn't consider himself a violent man, but rather, a man who knew when violence was called for. Strangers who looked in his eyes saw that with a clarity that chilled them. He stepped over the fallen figure, pausing for a moment to bend down and pick up the still burning cigarette. Spoils of war, they used to call it.

The rain stopped for a moment and he heard a murmur of voices from inside the next room. He finished the cigarette, and looked around for another way into the inner office. He counted six distinct voices, maybe seven. He could take a beating if he had to, but he didn't like it, and they wouldn't like what he'd have to do in return.

A window around the corner gave way easily enough. He pulled himself into a small utility closet. The air inside hung heavy. Mold clung to the walls, and spider webs knotted the corners. From there a hall, and an office, and another hall – the voices were all the direction he needed - and finally the inner office, six startled men ready for a fight, faces twisted and angry at the intrusion.

By the time he was through, he had broken two jaws, three arms, and a matchbook of ribs. One of them, the fat one with doughy ears and fake hair, was in the corner on his hands and knees, vomiting. Two others moaned and would not stop.

The thin man was not even breathing hard. He didn’t need to. It had been easier than he expected. No need to spit out a tooth or snap a finger back in place this time; they went down easy. Not that that gave him any solace. He didn’t like having to do this. Never did. But a job was a job. You get in, do your business, and pray to whoever it is that gets you through the night that you won’t have to leave any corpses behind.

This time, no corpses. That was good.

Outside the rain fell in an increasingly violent torrent.

“You boys,” he started. “Jeez, you boys should give a guy a chance to explain himself before you go giving him the what for. None of this would have happened if you just talked all nice like to me. That’s all I wanted to do. Talk.” He lit another cigarette, took two drags, and snuffed it out on a wall. “Hell, I can’t smoke right now. Smoke and blood, the smells don’t mix.”

The fat, vomiting man began to cry.

“Anyway, look,” the thin man said, “I think you know who sent me, and I think you know what he wants. Just show me what I want to see and I can be off.”

Outside, lighting tore the sky and thunder shook the windows.

The one with the mouth, naturally, was the first to speak, after coughing up some red.

"Nothing here to show you, asshole," he said. Without the front teeth, the last word came out ath-hole. "You too late by half."

The thin man stepped around the vomit and over the blood to get closer to the chatty one. He knelt down and made eye contact. The kind they always tell you to avoid in the yard because it's a sign of aggression.

"You plan on keeping both those eyes, you'll direct me to where I need to be to see what's not here any more," he said, all calm and quiet.

Mouth blinked twice, rasped once. "You gonna need a boat," he said.

As he stood up he grabbed the man by the back of his collar. The mouthy man made a little sound as he was dragged to his feet. The thin man let his eyes make a slow circle around the room, meeting those of fallen men who were waking up.

"W-we ain't gonna say nothing..m-mister." One of them croaked out.

"No, you're gonna talk plenty. And you ain't gonna make up no bar story about how a gang of Mexicans busted in here, or nothin' like that." He held the gaze of the man he spoke to, feeling no satisfaction from the slight shiver of fear he got in return. "You tell 'em Cain's comin' for him," he said, brushing his white hair back from his face. At the sight of the upside-down cross carved into the flesh where his left eye used to be, the mouthy man quickly looked away. A low sob escaped before he could quiet it.

"You tell 'em we'll be back." No one spoke as he dragged the man with the mouth out the front door, and into the darkening night.

"When I said a boat, I didn't mean a boat," the broken man said.

"I don't know what that means," Cain said, tired of dragging his charge, annoyed by the taste of blood in his mouth. "You got a name?"

"Martin," he said, and farted loudly. He made a face, because of the smell. "Sorry. I meant that it's a long way," he said. "You'd need a boat to get there. Like, metaphorically."

Cain looked at him a long time before speaking. "I'm thinking about killing you, Martin, because you disgust me. Change my mind. Make sense. You have three seconds."

"It'll take you longer'n that to get where you need to go without me" Martin rasped nervously, although his voice somehow conveyed the hint of a mocking smile. Cain paused for a second. "Who said I was taking you with me, you stupid bastard?" he whispered. "Some thing's don't need sayin', do they?", he replied, as he returned Cain's unblinking stare. Then, he did something Cain hadn't expected. Martin began to smile.

The rain suddenly began to ease somewhat, and Cain released his grip on Martin's shoulder, virtually throwing the bleeding and broken man from his grasp. He felt unclean, somehow, just from having touched him. There was no way he'd run - nowhere to run to, even if he'd been able to. Cain hadn't exactly been gentle with him. This man disgusted Cain in more ways than he even had words for. The smile made him even more repulsive than he'd been before.

"You're wrong, you stupid piece of shit. If you don't start telling me what you know I want to hear, you're dead. Think that's funny?".

"No, can't thay I do". Martin's smile flickered out like the flame of a candle as his lisp reminded him of his shattered tooth. Or perhaps it was the look in Cain's eyes that made his smile wane. Either way, with an empty expression on his face, he continued. "I'm the only one who can get you there, Cain - yeah, I know your name, don't look surprised". Cain silently chided himself; this bastard was as perceptive as he was ugly. "Cut the shit, Martin, or whatever your damned name is. Just tell me...the boat? What do you...."

Cain was cut short by the sound of footsteps in the distance. Martin's smile returned. "That'll be yer boat comin' in, Cain" he chuckled, and his brittle laugh transformed into a hacking cough as his tooth (and a generous amount of blood) flew from his mouth and hit the pavement.

* edited to remove a stray word, and to italicize one other word.

"Then I don't need you, do I?"

Cain slammed Martin's head into the pavement. Not hard. Well, not hard enough, anyway. Just something to remember him by in a few hours time.

The footsteps drew closer, as Cain straightened himself. They were a dead giveaway, but he didn't need them. He knew who it was by the perfume wafting towards him.

"I didn't expect you to be here," Caid said. "I figured you and Daddy's money would be long-gone by now."

Rachel turned the corner, coming into full view. Cain didn't look. He didn't have to. He knew every inch of that frame, backwards and forwards. The contempt he felt for it, however, was not bred by familiarity, but rather history.

She practically slithered up to him. "But I expected you, Cain."

Like sex unchained, all hips and lips and pouting eyes, she was there. She was there, and just like that his job took a hard left. It wasn’t easy having her here. She invited weak knees and weak minds. Her glance was a punch to the gut; her hair spun gold. Fool’s Gold, maybe. But gold nonetheless. Time was he would have cast himself into the fire for her.

Not now. Not anymore. But he couldn’t deny that her presence was a twist his sordid little tale did not need.

She was touching him. Her hand was satin on his shoulder. Why was she here?

“I’m busy. What do you want, Rach?” He did not meet her eyes.

“Too busy to talk to me? Cain, sweetheart, you always had time for me.” She leaned close. Whispered. The flesh over his eye began to itch. “Daddy said I might find you here, Cain. He knows what you’re looking for, and he knows who sent you. Pretty big stuff, even for you. Come on, baby. I’ve got a limo around the corner. It’ll take us to Daddy’s. Come talk to him and I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

Why was she here? Why was she so damn close to him? He smelled strawberries and saw black lace; heard a snatch of opera, distant. They were in a bedroom. A fireplace. Black lace. Red wine and strawberries. Sweat. Cain was beginning to sweat. Opera. Opera and strawberries and black lace.

He pulled away. “Get the hell away from me!” He was breathing hard, and his head was reeling. “You ain’t gonna do this. Not now, sweets. Not anymore. Get back in your damn limo and tell daddy I’m done filling caskets for him. You hear? Tell him I’m done.”

She frowned, and for a fleeting moment his heart quailed. “Cain, baby, I don’t think you mean that.”

“I damn well mean it.”

He had to fight it. Had to. Martin coughed more red into the mud, but they paid him no mind. Just Cain and Rachel, their eyes on one another like toy soldiers in a silent war. “I mean it,” he said, but he didn’t mean it. And he damn well knew he didn’t mean it. Finally, she smiled.

“Well,” she said, her eyes suggesting possibilities, “I know you better than that, Cain. You never could turn down a tough job, especially not a job with … benefits. But if that’s your choice, I’ll let Daddy know you’d rather stay on with your new employer. Say,” and she stepped closer, “do you remember that night in Venice, when we—“

“Go to hell, Rach. You and your daddy both. Just go to hell.” And the war between their eyes ended. He pulled Martin up by the back of his neck and shoved him down the muddy lane from which he had come. “Get up. We’ve got business. Move!”

Cain turned his back on her soaking wet dress and honey hair spilling over shoulders of milk, turned away from the taste of strawberries and wine. He turned his back, and his stomach was in a knot, and he wanted something to hit, something he could hit until he couldn’t feel his hands.

Rachel watched him walk away into the grey chill, and she smiled. Daddy would be pleased.

In a darkened alley, sheltered from the rain, Cain got down to business.

It only took a few broken fingers and three backhands to Martin's already ruined face before he found out what he needed to know. Even though Cain wore leather gloves, he could feel the warmth of the other man's blood on his hands as he lashed out, all the while trying not to hit too hard, but just hard enough. He tried hard not to think about the blood, and how he'd need a new pair of gloves after tonight.

'The Boat' was a location - a trendy uptown bar with private suites which catered to an exclusive clientele. A place where the rich, and the corrupt, came out to play. Martin spat out the location as quickly as he spat out his remaining teeth, and Cain knew what Martin had meant when he'd said it was "a long way".

The Boat belonged to Rach's Father. There was no fucking way he'd get within a block of the place before he was recognised. Cain knew that bastard of old - he'd have his men out on the street watching the place. Hell, he probably owned the whole damned street, and everybody who lived there, if he was running true to form. Rach's Daddy hadn't got to be the kind of man that he was by being careless.

Neither had Cain.

"Can...get ya...get ya in....". Cain had almost forgotten Martin. He looked down at the man lying down on the ground before him, the man whose blood seemed to flow onto the concrete and blend with the shadows around it.

"Bullshit, Martin. A piece of crap like you would say anything. I've seen a hundred like you, and they all wind up in the dirt, lying to save themsleves. What makes you think I'd be stupid enough...."

"Pocket...". With the broken fingers of his left hand, Martin feebly indicated his jacket pocket. Suspecting a trick - or, at the very least, a knife in Martin's right hand (Cain paused...had he broken the fingers on the right hand?) - Cain crouched down, his eyes never leaving those of the other man's. He retrieved a small plastic card. He allowed himself a brief glance at it. Cain recognised it as a swipe-card of some kind. It bore no writing or markings that he could see in the half-light of the alley, but there was something strange about it. He removed one glove and touched it carefully - it had a strange texture, some kind of raised pattern on its surface.

"So...what do I do with this, then? Is it supposed to get me into the place?". There was no reply from Martin. There wouldn't be. Cain looked up and into Martin's eyes as he spoke. Martin's eyes were closed, and he was out cold. Cain couldn't hear him breathe over the sound of the rain on the rooftops.

Cain took his pulse. There still was one. He stood up. "Fuck!" he said, to nobody in particular, and hoisted Martin onto his shoulders. He staggered off, out of the relative shelter of the alley, and into the rainy night.

The rusted old shack at the end of dirt track leading down to the lake was called "Dotty's Bar" by everyone but Dotty. She called it "The Lakeview Tavern", though the only time anyone got a view of the lake was when they staggered out onto the back porch to piss in it. It would have been a second home to Cain, but he wasn't one for homes. Still, he'd spent plenty of nights enjoying the view himself, and it was a safe spot to question the shallow breathing lump slung over his shoulders a bit more gently. Death and Cain were too familiar with each other, and he had no interest in starting up the friendship again.

As soon as he walked in, Dotty nodded toward the back room. None of the regulars so much as glanced at him. By this time of night, that kind of physical exertion was beyond them. It was six o'clock, and most had begun their march to oblivion just before noon.

The sour smell of urine drifted in through the back window. Dumping his burden on the floor, Cain locked the door behind him, and closed the shutters. He peeled off his gloves and still dripping duster, hanging it on a nail by the door. Mud and grime and blood dotted his gauntly-muscled forearms. His hands still shook, though whether from anticipation or fear, he couldn't say. Not fear of Rachel's father or his thugs. If necessary, they were meat and bones left bleeding on the floor. But he'd had enough of blood-stained floors. He wanted to get what he was sent for and get back on the road. The groaning, quivering mass at his feet was what happened when he stayed in one place for too long.

INTERLUDE 1

He hated the city. Burned his eyes with its stench. When it rained, the walls bled decay. Sheets of rot sliding down the face of every building, the streets a sewer of filth and mud and maggots.

He hated the city.

Yet what could he do but wallow in its filth? There were things he had to get done. Very big things. If that meant swimming in a cesspool for a while, well, he’d take a dip. “Scotch,” he said, and the movement behind him was of loathing and fear. His drink came, ice tinkling like angels, and as the booze slid into his belly he felt a warmth this city could not provide. This wretched, wretched city. Out there on its wet and dirty streets cars fought for position, lemmings clamoring to be first off the cliff. Cigarettes softened the sidewalks, a carpet of cancer. Empty eyes stared from empty doorways, alive but tasting death. The stench and smell and ...

No. No more. “Have we gotten word?” he asked. “Anything yet?”

“Nothing.” The voice was small. “It’s been four hours, but nothing so far. We ... we expected a call earlier than this. The rain, I think. It’s ... maybe it’s the rain.”

His scotch was empty, the angels silent, and the small voice more intolerable than usual. It cut. No, not the voice. It wasn't the voice cutting him. It had to be the light. He hated the light. It probed into corners, revealed things better left undisturbed. The light was not good. He did not want it to see him. But no time for that, not now, not with things in motion, with things so close. He looked at his glass and wished for scotch to appear.

“Send two. The one with the hands, make sure he goes. If he’s on something else, pull him. If this is a break, I want it sealed now. But tell them Cain is to come back here alive. Do you understand? Alive. No playing with this one. He’s got a role to play still.”

Footsteps, and the small voice was gone, off to push broken little chess pieces on a broken little board. There was only him now. Him and his thoughts; big, black thoughts of a time when things would move at his command. Not small things with small voices, but big things; grand things; people and places and … her. He wanted to move her. Fuck her father. Fuck what he had done, how her father broke him and burned him and pissed on the ashes. He’d move her, and Daddy would watch.

But first there was this Cain business. He had to get that out of the way first, get his prize in hand, arm himself with what Cain could bring him, keep that ghoul of the streets on his side, and then ...

And then?

Then they’d know his name.

END INTERLUDE

It took less time than Cain had thought to find out what he already suspected; Martin knew sweet fuck-all. It also took Cain almost no time to reach the conclusion that he was being invited to walk right into a trap. Not that Martin had actually told him that outright, but it was clear enough. Through pain, terror, and his shattered teeth he told Cain he'd been given the card by a man named Vernon, and that he'd been told to expect Cain, to attract his attention, to make sure he got it.

If he meant nothing to Cain - and he didn't - Martin meant even less to those whose errand he was running. They knew what Cain was capable of, or had once been capable of, at any rate. They'd thought they were sending the poor, dumb bastard to his doom. He was done doing Rach and her Father's dirty work, and there would be no more killing.

"No more", Cain's own voice surprised him, shocked him. He hadn't meant to speak aloud, and the rasping whisper that emerged from his throat seemed like the voice of someone very far away. Not even like his own voice at all. Martin, lying dazed upon the floor, stirred at the sound, and groaned something incomprehensible.

Cain took a deep breath, downed a glass of water, then hoisted Martin up into a rickety wooden chair so he was sitting, slumped, at the table. He seemed not even to know where he was at this point. Probably better that way, Cain thought. If Martin was just another pawn in Rach's Dad's perverted little game, then this Vernon was the rook. They'd never actually met, but Cain had been in 'Daddy's' employ long enough to have heard Vernon's name, as well as a few stories about the guy. None of them had had happy endings.

He looked again at the card. A white, credit-card sized sliver of plastic, with an ornate design in relief on its surface, it wasn't like anything he'd seen before. Was it a swipe-card, as he thought? There was no magnetic strip, but then what the hell did Cain know about the latest advances in swipe-card design? Perhaps it was a membership card of some kind, Cain thought, as he turned it over in his hands, almost hoping he could decipher its purpose just by staring at it as hard as he could.

He looked at the clock above the doorway - Christ, well past ten. He needed sleep. He wasn't going to get any more out of Martin, and he certainly had no intention of going anywhere near 'the boat' in the state he was in now. If he looked as bad as he felt, it was a wonder even Dotty had let him through the door of her 'establishment'.

Cain slipped the card into his pocket, took his jacket from the nail on which it hung, and headed for the door.

He stepped out into the bar and gave Dotty a nod. She'd make sure Martin didn't go wandering off. His legs felt heavy as he walked across the room. Not just the day catching up with him, but all the days that came before. He stepped off the front porch just in time, as a burning stream of bile shot from his mouth. Dropping to his knees, the sharp gravel cutting into him, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"I thought you were out of this, Cain." Dotty stood in the doorway, her usually smiling face lined with concern. "The way you left town last time, I didn't expect to see you back." Cain picked himself up. Drew a breath and tasted the vomit.

"I count you as a friend, Dotty, but don't presume to know me." Without a look back, he started walking back toward town.

"I know you well enough to recognize fear," she said to herself as she watched the tall, thin man walking like a man walking to the gallows. "It was fear that drove you from here, and now it's fearing dragging you back."

Cain made his way to the sleazy dive he'd arranged a room at when he had returned to town two nights ago. Two nights? It seemed like forever right now. He knew better than to fall back into old habits, so he hadn't picked any of his old haunts. Instead, he picked a lousy hotel in a lousy area...just the place no one could find him.

He passed by the desk clerk and trudged up the stairs, down the hall (ignoring the sick sounds coming from behind the doors to the other rooms.) and into his room. He fell on the bed and was asleep almost immediately. It was the same deep, restfull, dreamless and boring sleep he always had. Cain had an uncanny knack for refreshing himself quickly with much less rest that most people. He figured it was due to his attitude. He didn't have a worry when he was asleep.

He awoke about 90 minutes later, opened his eyes, and saw the barell of the gun.

“Boss ain’t happy, Cain.”

He stared into the barrel of the gun, trying to focus, trying to shake the sleep from his throbbing head. His eye stung. He could still taste vomit.

“Still working on it,” Cain said. “Tell the boss I’m still working on it. They weren’t as … forthcoming … as I’d have liked, but I got what I need.”

“You didn’t even call, Cain. You were supposed to call. Boss thinks you’re cutting out on him.”

“I’m not cutting out.”

“Better not be, Cain. I’m not the only one on you tonight, you know?” He eased back, the gun still fixed on Cain but no longer in his face. His left eye twitched, two, three ticks at a time. “Yeah, one more on you tonight, too. Boss knows you were talking to the pussy, see? Don’t look surprised. He gets news fast. He’s not happy, Cain. Be lucky I’m the one who found you. He’s got Monk out there, too. Monk is looking for you.”

Cain hoped his poker face was working tonight. Monk? That worried him. The boss didn’t call Monk out for just anything. With those hands …

No. No, he couldn’t think of that right now. Right now he had to think about getting out of here without any extra holes.

“Fuck, Jake, the boss doesn’t think I’m gonna work for them again, does he? No chance. I’m on this. You go back and tell him no more than twelve hours and he’ll have it in his hands.”

Jake smiled, tick, twitch, tick. Steadied the gun again. “Too late for that, Cain. Boss thinks this might be a slip. You’re off the job.” His sweat smelled like piss. Tick, twitch, tick. “And you know what that means, Cain.”

Jake’s eye went into a flutter, rank sweat drenched his brow, and his steel came alive.

Three gunshots. Smoke, and then silence. And then Jake knew he had made a mistake.

Cain smiled. He opened his hand and showed Jake three bullets. The cross carved into the flesh from which his eye used to stare pulsed red.

“You shouldn’t ought to have done that, Jake. I was all set to see this thing through, but then you had to go and do that. Bad choice, Jake. Now you won’t get a chance to tell the boss that from here on in, I’m on my own.”

Jake began to piss himself. The piss wouldn’t even get a chance to reach the floor.

There would be no sleeping now, Cain knew. Not for a long while. As he looked down at the mess on the floor that was once a man, he knew he'd have to pay for what he'd done, and he didn't have time for that. Penance. He laughed a scratchy, bitter laugh. He thought back to the last time. Laid up in a cot in the back of Dotty's, feeling every cut and every blow. Every shattered bone. Compared to the first time, that was easy. Not that easy was a word that ever fit dying.

Stepping over the carnage, he walked to the window and peered through the crack between the curtain and the wall. If it was him, he wouldn't have parked out front, but then, if it was him he would have played it a lot quieter than Jake.

"Guess that's why I'm standin' here and you're not," he said to what he thought was probably Jake's face. He didn't always remember what exactly he did when the killing rage came on him. Small comfort, that.

He lit a cigarette to cover the stench and waited for the cops. The cat was out of the bag and he needed some time to think. Jail was as good a place as any for the night.

It was then, just as he'd almost finished his cigarette, that he heard the footsteps outside the door. It wasn't the cops - he'd have heard them, seen them from the window.

Before he heard the voice, he knew it was Monk. Cain leapt out onto the fire escape, and ran, he ran like his life depended on it. He heard Monk behind him, calling his name, then laughing. He heard and felt the rattle of the fire escape as Monk leapt onto it, and he reached the pavement below. As he bolted, his breath coming in short gasps that seemed to tear at the inside of his throat, he heard the sirens. But even these were still not close enough, not loud enough, to drown out the sound of Monk's footsteps on the rain-soaked concrete behind him. He noticed Jake's old Ford as he ran past it. He was starting to panic, and that would do him no good at all, that much he knew for certain.

Cain stopped running, and whirled to face one of the few men he'd ever truly had any cause to fear.

Cain was in no shape to face Monk. He didn't have the power right now. He'd expended too much, slept too little, and he'd killed too many. Cain didn't like to kill. He didn't like it because it chipped away a little bit of his soul, but he mostly didn't like it because it was WRONG. Necessary, yes, it was necessary sometimes, especially when you stalked the pit of the city the way Cain did. But that didn't make it right. At least it didn't make it right in Cain's eyes. Maybe that's why it affected his powers. Or maybe his powers affected his views. Either way, the result was the same. Cain could repair those chips in his soul, but it would take time. Penance came when and where it chose, Cain couldn't rush it. And all this gave Monk an unimaginable advantage at this moment.

Monk didn't have any problems with killing. In fact, he revelled in it. It seemed to renew his energy, his powers. Perhaps it was this way because of the source of his powers, or perhaps it was just becasue that was the way he was. Monk had jumped at the chance to go after Cain tonight. It was just what he needed. The boss said to bring Cain back alive, but Monk had no such intention. Monk had his own, personal contract to fulfill, and it took priority. It was a contract of blood and debt, that he agreed on when the demon gifted him with his powers. It was a contract that would only be completed when Cain and the others were dead.