Who: Vlad What: A narrative. Where: P3 When: After this. Warnings: None.
It had been years since Vlad had felt any semblance of fear. It was an emotion his father did his very best to stamp out of him, but whether he was successful or not was never known. Perhaps he was, or perhaps all he managed to do was bury the fear so deep within his son that it gave the illusion of vanishing completely.
Vlad didn't know if what he felt at this very moment was fear, but it was the closest thing to it he'd felt in an eternity.
Helena. She was going after Helena, something not even Emil himself had ever done. Despite his insanity, despite his desperate thirst for vengeance, Emil had never gone after Helena. Never gone after the innocent.
There was no doubt in his mind that Esme had gone insane. She no longer cared about anything, and that served to create the most dangerous person of all. He, at least, still cared about being caught - he had to be careful. She didn't. She wanted to hurt him, to rip from him the one thing she thought he might have some sort of feelings for.
And damn her to hell, she was right.
He wanted to turn his computer off but he left it on, in case Helena or Peter replied. He had to warn them - this was no time to play games. They had to know what was happening, whether they thought him insane or not - as long as they were aware and safe. He paced around his apartment like a man possessed, gnashing his teeth together as he tried to think of solutions to this problem. Esme was on the twelfth floor. He was one floor above, while Helena was one floor below.
He had to figure out a plan of action. First: he needed to inform them of Esme's intentions. Somehow, after that, he needed to protect them - especially Helena, although Peter could be a target by default. He wondered if Peter knew how to shoot a gun, and how he would feel about having one. He wondered if he would consent to having a security camera outside his apartment.
Cain and Abel watched from under the table. Vlad considered giving one of them to Peter and Helena, for extra protection. He momentarily entertained the idea of killing Esme now, before she could do anything, but decided against it. Self-defense would give him an excuse, a reason.
He kept seeing his victims, over and over within his mind, like flashes of a movie. Their throats torn open, blood drained, mutilated and ravaged. They all had Helena's face, her dark hair thick with blood, her once-lovely face scarred and torn.
Was there anyone he could get to help him? Kane? The man from the roof, Daniel? Should he tell the Landlord and hope that he could do something? He couldn't ask them to move in with him, could he?
Vlad checked his computer every minute. He paced some more, dug out some scotch from under the sink, and took a swig straight from the bottle.
And then he threw it against the wall.
"Look what you have done, Emil," he growled to the empty air. "Not only have you driven your gypsy whore into madness, but you have also endangered Helena - the one you tried to protect from me - and in doing so condemned Esme to death. Are you happy, Emil? Wherever you are, are you happy?"
There was no answer, merely the sound of low growling coming from beneath the living room table, as if voicing their agreement.