The sun bled into the horizon, forcing an orange hue on anything it came across, casting long shadows in the room.
"Hugh", Reginald grumbled. Last night was a rollercoaster, but he was quite sure it was nearing nighttime. It was evening now, which meant he had slept a whole day away.
The slight banging headache was a precursor that he had overslept. He slowly sat up from the bed he was lying on. Looking at his room once over. He remembered every detail here thanks to the memories he inherited from the owner of this body.
The entire room gave a messy, disorganized, and depressing vibe. Paper strewn over the floor, and he swore he smelled something rotting around here somewhere, which made him wonder what state of mind he was in the last time he was here. It didn't matter now, did it? He was Reginald Fletcher now.
He noticed a note on the nightstand, probably from Nancy. She must have left. He didn't blame her; he had slept for a whole day.
He stood up fully, walking around the room.
Even though he knew everything about this room, actually seeing it gave an exhilarating feeling to the downtrodden vibes exuded by the room. He left the room into a corridor. At the end of the corridor was the living room.
The corridor was a spectacle in itself with white and black pictures, paintings, and whatnot. On the wall, he saw his picture with his daughter.
Although he inherited Reginald's memories, all the memories of his daughter seemed to be so hazy; if he thought too hard about it he got migraines. All he knew was that Reginald had loved her more than anything. What could have happened to make him thoroughly forget about the person he cared about the most? He didn't think the fact that he couldn't remember had anything to do with the transmigration or him. All the blame surely rested with the original Reginald.
He walked back to his room, straight to the closet. He looked through the clothing there and was quite curious about it. He looked at the Chesterfield overcoat, something commonly worn by Reginald, maybe both of them weren't so different after all, they shared a taste in coats.
He pulled out another drawer and looked at its contents. He knew what was there, but still looked in anticipation. A revolver and some bullets. Looking at the gun and having it in his possession made him feel safe, like he had agency in this world that had been trying to kill him ever since he arrived.
Slowly he caressed the weapon. The leather hilt and slick look were definitely aesthetically appealing. He loaded the bullet into their chambers and put the gun in his inner breast pocket. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to use it.
He left his apartment and went onto the street, and he wasn't surprised by what he saw. The nightlife was just starting, and could he be more impressed? The laughter, the color, and the wide range of people loitering around on the sidewalk. He could see horse-drawn cabs pulling their patrons and empty ones trying to get to their next location.
"Hello, Inspector," a cab driver hollered at Reginald.
Brad, a nice lad. He was his favorite when it came to rides always punctual. He looked on as Brad zoomed across the street. Maiden and not-so-maiden-like women walked the streets with their quaint little lace parasols; he didn't quite understand why they needed them this time of day.
The only things that seemed so out of place to him were the horses, even though he couldn't remember or draw reference from his original memories, he knew horses shouldn't have scales. Not to talk of such iridescent and glowing scales. The lamps gave out blue light, which, in his opinion, seemed eerie.
He saw a stall, his favorite. And walked slowly towards it. The storekeeper saw him and offered his greetings.
"The usual, inspector?" he asked.
"Make it double," Reginald felt like he was dying of acute starvation.
Soon his order was available, and boy, was he wolfing it down? Even the shopkeeper found it weird. This Inspector was usually cool-headed, but why did he seem like a vagrant now?
Reginald greedily ate his meal; he really hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and he was quite famished. He had been presented with multiple problems ever since he arrived. Why was he hanging from a beam in his room? Who was the woman who saved him? Why was he transmigrated in the first place?
After having his fill, he decided to go back home with a second serving as takeout. Slowly, he walked along the pavement, scaled horses transported their patrons along the street, and quite frankly, everything about this city seemed weird. He could swear he saw a flying giant bat with people on top.
For a Victorian-era style, the city's pavement was surprisingly clean, free of the usual grime he would expect. He spotted why: a dog-sized, multi-limbed creature, its flesh an unsettling mosaic of muted browns and greys, snuffling through a pile of refuse by a lamppost, its movements surprisingly gentle. Reginald recalled... The Garbage Grog from the deeper levels of Hell. Docile things, bred to consume the city's filth.
Halfway through his journey, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a strange fellow making a beeline towards him. He quickened his steps, but this guy kept getting closer and closer, all while walking calmly. He only wanted to have a good evening stroll, not be plagued by some stalker. The man kept getting closer to him at an alarming rate. Making up his mind, he burst into a full throttle. The man didn't seem to increase his pacing but his speed was definitely off the chart.
Why was everyone he met in this world so fucking fast? Soon, the man was within arm's length. Reginald reached for the gun in his chest, all the while vowing not to hesitate. This world was definitely dangerous. He didn't want to die right after transmigration.
Hands in the inner breast pocket, fingers on the trigger, he was ready for the worst. He dropped the bag in his other hand. No food was worth the consequences of delayed action when it came to violence.
The man was moving towards him from behind, and Reginald could see him stretching his hands to his shoulders, his left shoulder. Reginald was prepared and had already whipped out the gun. He turned, aiming his gun at where the figure's head was supposed to be, but to his surprise, no one was there. But he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Reginald felt a chill down his spine, at the thought of what such a figure could have done to him, could do to him. He slowly put his gun in his pocket; there was no point in wielding it anymore. He turned slowly to face this silent enigma.
He finally had a look, and the man was wearing a coat, different from his own. The man's coat was bigger and had seen better days and was missing multiple buttons. He was wearing a hat that almost covered the entirety of his face in darkness. The man slowly lifted his hat to present his face.
Reginald drew a sharp breath as he saw who it was. He knew who this was. He was an old friend and a more recent enemy. His name was Mann, and they were rivals back in the police academy. While he was deployed to the Clean-up Department of the National Defense Guard, Mann was deployed to the Attack Department. This created a disparity in their status. Making it easier for him to bully Reginald.
"Hey Regi, you look good," he said with a cheeky grin, but his red eyes pointed out that this was not a compliment.
Mann had hated his guts, from day one. And the feeling was properly reciprocated by Reginald. But somehow Reginald's daughter brought them together. Mann, despite his disgust for the father, couldn't help but want to shower this little girl with love, like she was his; he genuinely cared about her.
"Frolicking, down the street, dressed in a spotless coat, you are living the life, man. Yeah, for a man who killed his daughter, I have to admit you are doing great. Tell me, how does the position of Inspector feel like?"
Then came the heartache again, from Reginald's chest. Did the original Reginald have something to do with the death of his daughter? Was that why he tried to kill himself? No, that couldn't be. Even though he didn't inherit the memory of his daughter, he inherited the love he had for her.
"No, I didn't," Reginald retorted weakly.
"What" Mann dug his fingernails deeper into his shoulder. Burnt marks started to appear on Mann's face.
Reginald knew what that meant. In this world, there were people with abilities. These abilities came from Hell. Either by consuming and gaining the abilities of abyssal creatures or by enslaving them, you gained their powers. The essence of Hell flowing through this individual left a temporary mark that looked like a scorch mark from a fire. This made people generally call them 'The Scorched'.
"I don't remember"
Mann looked directly into Reginald's eyes and stared, intensely searching for any signs of a lie, but he got nothing. He burst into a bout of laughter. Digging his finger more deeply into Reginald's shoulders.
"You coward, you took the easy way out. You choose to forget about her. You choose to forget about Marigold"
The name fell like a bell tolling in his ears, clearing a fog in his head. Her name was Marigold, and his daughter's name was Marigold. A blurry face started to form in his mind, with blond hair.
"Tell me what happened, please. I beg you"
Reginald couldn't help himself; the influence of the original was still too strong.
"You didn't deserve her, you never did." Grief was apparent in his voice.
"I should kill you, I want to kill you right now "
His eyes squinted with killing intent. He let go. He backed off. And just walked away, in his lonesome.
"Please tell me what happened" Reginald couldn't help but call out.
"Till we meet again, Regi," he muttered under his breath as he walked ever slowly into the night.