InsaneJournal

Who: Shane (closed, narrative)
What: Shane can never, ever have sexual thoughts because whenever he does HORRIBLE THINGS HAPPEN.
Where: Around the building.
When: After this and during/after this.
Warnings: None.



After James left his apartment, Shane went back downstairs. It was getting late into the night now, but he needed to get out, walk off what had happened, drink in enough of the biting air to clear his head.

He took a cigarette with him, having a rare smoke and taking a long walk. This time of night he was usually out working a job, or researching during the lead up to one. The night felt very empty and very long. He tried to think about nothing, just settle into his coat with his shoulders pulled high against the wind like everyone else on the street this late, but he couldn't. So he smoked, and he discarded the cigarette when there was nothing left of it, and he stood in the icy air regarding the streetlights.

By the time he got back to Bellum he felt a little calmer for moving, at least until he stepped into the lobby.

He was hit by a rush of warm air, laden with scent. Something was wrong with the the way the lobby smelled. There, that was Boyd's scent--she was frightened, or had been when she'd been there only a few minutes before. And Daniel's, equally thick with fear, heavy as well with something sour, as well as several unfamiliar male smells tracing and weaving around those left behind by the residents just passing through the building.

He took the steps two at a time going back to his apartment. He'd left his phone behind when he went out--stupid stupid--and he checked it. One missed call, from Boyd.

He went up the rest of the stairs, trying her phone as he climbed. It rang and rang, and by the time he was getting her voicemail he was almost at R1.

The door was ajar, and he was struck by that sour stench, now identifiable as sickness. There was no one in any of the apartment rooms he searched, but in the kitchen he found Boyd's cell phone, vibrating with one missed call from him.

He picked it up, checking the bathroom and pulling back quickly. Something was obviously very wrong with Daniel. One of the unfamiliar men from the lobby was also present up here, as was another, more familiar scent. When he tried to place it, he thought of the elevator, then of dogs. Vlad. Whatever had happened here, Vlad had been here for it.

He flipped open Boyd's phone and dialed the last number she had called. It definitely wasn't 911. Whoever it was, they might give some indication of where she'd gone.

There was no answer right away, no voicemail indicating who the owner of the phone was. Fuck.

So he went back two numbers and contacted a hospital. He was already going back down the stairs when they asked him why he was calling. He wished Boyd didn't have so many names, and he tried a few, calling back more than once in more than one voice, trying the vague (a man and a woman checking in, the man very sick) and the specific (a Daniel and Ainslie, possibly with a Vlad in tow). Nothing.

So he went to the hospital, catching a cab across town. He checked the ER and intensive care, and no one seemed to have seen anyone matching the descriptions he gave. It didn't help that he didn't know exactly why Daniel was so badly off--were the wounds infected, had he made good on the promise of the whiskey-thick air in his apartment and tried to drink himself to death? Maybe it was as simple as another suicide attempt.

It was well past dawn by the time he got back to the building, and he pulled out Boyd's phone again. He'd tried the mystery number more than once during the night, but he tried it again. Right now, it was the only lead he had.