|Newt has dreams (innumerable) wrote in doors,|
@ 2014-03-19 18:27:00
|Entry tags:||hatter, james potter, supergirl|
[Those who visit the hotel are greeted by a gruesome sight. Bright, bright red on yellow and once-sumptuous green, blood paints the dry, old wallpaper in Pollock-pretend, abstract expressionism of a crime. There is nothing jellied, no brain matter speckled here and there, though there is the white of chipped bone playing confetti. If there was a celebration, it was with viscera and the rank smell of carbonite.
Shane found Jude Murphy in the hotel lobby, and he shot him first in the meat of a thigh, aiming for spigot of femoral artery. Then twice in the chest, one in each lung, membrane tearing in spurts. He intended to kill, maiming and warning, mercy having gotten him nothing but a sister filling her veins with black tar and those tiny rusted hooks of addiction. Fuck that.
He was fucking pissed, so fucking pissed. Sweat rimed sun-scoured skin. He couldn't get to Chloe, or he would have shoved the muzzle of his Beretta M9 between her perfect fucking teeth, caving them into blood and iron and blackness, and fired into that useless fucking brain of hers. He would have made fucking art with the caved and gaping shell of her brain pan on the bland hospital walls and the flimsy hospital shift. Amelia would have been fucking jealous. Because, you know what, the bitch needed to stop, she needed to fuck the fuck off, and it had become clear that ending her miserable life was the only option, the only recourse for this bullshit. -- But it wasn't an option, was it? Fucking no. Of course not. She was under guard.
So Shane devised a workaround. He would go after her siblings (he was undecided as to whether or not that included Clementine). Each one, with a warning signed off in their blood, until he killed all of them, if she didn't fucking stop her bullshit, until she didn't so much as say one fucking word or think one fucking thought about Sam or the Alexanders or goddamn Neil Donovan. He would make her so fucking small and alone, and make her life so fucking painful, he would remind her just how hated, despised, and ugly she was, she'd kill herself to get out of it and save him the goddamn waste of ammo.
He knew they came to the hotel, all of them. So he laid in wait, and when Jude Murphy came out of the crooked door down the corridor as long and red as a throat, Shane shot him three times. One, two, three, in a blast of calcium-white carbonite. Did he relish in it? No. But he didn't flinch. He did what had to be done, because no one else would.
He didn't say a word.
His plan already started going to shit though, yeah? Of course it was. Clementine was there (he couldn't shoot her. He couldn't do that to Graham), and amid the wetness of the blood, she dragged the body of her dying brother into a door Shane had no key too. He didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do. Fine.
He left the blood on the walls and spilled on the carpet, and he disappeared too.]