Louis Donovan (strikethose) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-01-30 21:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, *news, louis donovan |
narrative+news update: marvel
Who: Louis Donovan
What: Visiting Cris's apartment + a spot of murder (narrative)
Where: Cris's apartment in Marvel
When: Tonight
Warnings/Rating: Violence
Louis knew where he was going. He didn't know when he'd last slept anymore, but he knew where to go.
A very few things felt ponderously heavy on his mind. It was as if he didn't have all of it to himself anymore - as if there were less hours in the day than there had been, giving him only so much time and mind to think about so much.
Protecting his sister from herself was at the forefront. Bleeding and meeting Micah, leaving places she was safe to watch a child? None of it was right. She needed to stay where she'd really be out of his reach, in another door. And Teresa. He stalked toward the apartment with too much purpose and energy for someone who'd worked a full day and not slept since...when? Had he ever slept? Had it been days, or had it been months? He wanted to find her and shake her and drag her somewhere isolated and quiet.
The other desire was less distinct. Micah should be stopped. Should be offered? Should be given? The words and concepts of it didn't feel like they'd been cut out with a hot knife anymore. The idea of it, the need, had grown too urgent. Micah had become too important. Escape. He presented a way out, if he timed things right, if he timed something. If he kept Sam safe, which was the first thing to be done.
He had been so angry when he was talking to her, ready to kick the door in when he arrived and...something, do something to her so she'd sleep and be quiet and not fight. Consciousness drifted in and out, like laying in bed on the edge of dreaming, unsure how long he'd been there, awake. He was at the door. He was inside the apartment. He didn't have a key.
His mouth was dry.
The apartment was dark, and he knew immediately that Sam and Teresa weren't inside. He had his hand on the doorknob, warm to the touch, as if he'd been standing there a while. He didn't bother calling her name.
Useless. She was an idiot, he was a fool, and his offerings were - they were -
What were his offerings? He was standing in the kitchen, holding a strand of blonde hair in his fingers. It would come in useful later, and that calmed him a little. He felt his anger cooling. Everything was going to be fine. He didn't realize he'd left evidence of his passing - a lamp knocked over from a stumble, and the TV left on, for some reason. He walked to the doorway, and felt himself drop off the map.
In the small hours, he watched two souls burn in closed coffins in the basement of a mortuary. Smoke went up and set off the alarms, and they would all come soon, the well meaning. There had been no time for careful selection. There had been a requirement, and he had been obligated to fulfill it.
Their flesh burned, but their screams meant something. His leash stretched all the way to a writhing nightmare, and skin cracked and pitted and scorched meant quiet.
He clutched the blonde hair in one hand. And then, maybe it would be over. He wasn't meant to hope things like that, but he clung to a shred of it still. And then. Maybe.
[News Update: Marvel]
[At 9:31 Friday night, emergency vehicles are called to the Gentle Valley Mortuary in the Bronx. In the basement, two corpses are discovered scorched almost to the bone, lying inside a pair of spare coffins that are nearly untouched. No accelerant is found on the bodies, and there is no DNA evidence. The bodies were so thoroughly destroyed by fire that they have yet to be identified.
There is growing concern that a serial killer is responsible, possibly a mutant due to the lack of evidence explaining how the crime was committed in any of the three cases. At least for now, the NYPD deny that they have any mutant suspects. They will state, though, that they believe the crimes are linked, and request anyone with relevant information call their tip line.]