Logan Echolls (i_didntdoit) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-02-07 21:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | charlie crews, logan echolls |
Afterlife exaggerations? (Narrative/Open)
Logan looked down at the spreading crimson stain on his shirt. He put his hand to the newly made wound.
"Hm. Well, that is not how I thought this would go down," he said with a dry laugh.
Really, this wasn't funny. Not at all, but he'd been on a reckless tear ever since Veronica had not returned from her internship with the FBI. Anything to find her, to make sure she was safe and get her home.
Keith showing up on his doorstep at summer's end hadn't been what Logan expected. With the news that Veronica was missing, Logan's stomach had dropped out. Not again. Not another ex-girlfriend.
His father was gone, beyond blame for this mysterious disappearance. Besides, Daddy Echolls always did like to leave a body, Logan thought with a twist of hatred for the man.
Logan never had been much of a detective, but for Veronica, he would follow any lead. He'd gone to confront Gory Sorokin, the man responsible for posting a racy video of Veronica and her other ex-boyfriend, Piz, online. He'd figured that Veronica might have gotten herself in over her head with her revenge mission against Sorokin. If he'd done anything...
Logan closed his eyes, the pain from the chest wound was now receding. When he'd banged on the off-campus housing owned by that maggot Sorokin, well, Gory Sorokin had been expecting somebody all right. Maybe he'd even been happy to pull his gun on the guy who'd hit him in the face in the school cafeteria.
Somehow, Logan had a hard time caring about the motivation. He just knew that he'd failed. So much for getting information about Veronica, he chided himself.
At some point in time, Logan realized that his back was against a solid, slightly spongy surface. He moved an arm and winced as it scraped against something that felt like cement. Logan opened his eyes, and blinked in an attempt to clarify his surroundings.
He wasn't sprawled out on Gory Sorokin's front porch. As far as he could tell, he wasn't even in Neptune. Skyscrapers stretched toward the night sky on all sides of him. He sat up and looked down at his shirt. Blood-his own blood, from what he could remember-colored the front of the shirt. Logan reached beneath his shirt to the point where he'd felt the bullet impact. Nothing. Well, not nothing. Skin and muscle, but no hole, no goosh of blood. He lifted up the shirt and checked underneath it. There wasn't even a mark. No sign of the wound that must have stained his shirt. Nothing.
He got to his feet and looked around the cityscape, mystified.
"I knew all that 'hell is fire and brimstone' talk was an exaggeration," he remarked aloud to no one in particular.