Loren knows not what he's done. (skelterhelter) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-19 01:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | greg lestrade, irene adler, john watson, sherlock holmes, tate langdon, violet harmon |
Who: Tate & Jules & Anyone else who wants to deal with the horror.
What: Witnessing Vegas turn upside down. Creepy dead things that should not have followed Tate through, but did.
Where: Outside Passages, the streets.
When: During the door upheaval.
Warnings: Horror-ness.
When Loren didn't have the energy to think about death anymore, he turned to Tate. Tate was the candlelight flicker in a sea of darkness.. or perhaps just the darkness that swallowed the world's last candle. But Tate didn't mind being in charge, he could handle the heartache, whereas the guilt was eating Loren alive. The what-ifs wormholed Loren's mind until pain, vengeance, fury, and fear prodded at him with thick, grotesque fingers that refused to let him be. Tate knew about such things, he'd thrived in a house full of them for years, and as such.. he was simply better equipped to deal. It gave him time to plan, anyway. The house was lonesome, Violet didn't come around very much at all anymore, but Tate knew that she was alive. Alive in the mind of Jules and hopefully happier than she ever was when she was here on this side.. so he didn't mind. If she was content, he'd take the loneliness.
When the doors backfired and world went topsy turvy, Tate was struck face down in the hallway of Passages. The ripples of this new reality weighed him down, nearly knocked him out. Things felt hazy and looked kaleidoscope dimensional through the squint of his ebony eyes. He saw his door sway on haunted hinges and there was movement in the shadows that he couldn't quite focus on. Something horrifying, slithering wet across the floor until it moved past him entirely. The dead air of the hotel's hallway became instantly fetid, foul and rotten in a way that wasn't right at all. None of the dead things at the house ever smelled dead, not like so much bile and blood. What was that? What had followed him? Tate winced, his head throbbing, somehow not yet realizing that he'd been hit by someone until the heavy footfalls came. He could see them through his wince, the boots and the brush of a blood-splattered medical coat. He seemed to have company, although the idea wasn't immediately worrying as Tate didn't even understand where he was.
Rolling onto his back, he blinked up at the ceiling and spit the taste of death from his mouth. This was not the murder house. When his vision returned and his head stopped throbbing, Tate pushed himself onto his elbows and then slowly made it to his feet. His shoes were checkered vans with pen doodles along the graying soles. Crooked pentagrams and hearts with the letter V riding proud in the center. He was dressed for cooler weather, in loose jeans and a green t-shirt with white thermal sleeves bunched up to his elbows. Tate wiped the blood from his temple -- something had definitely hit him, but there was no sign of it in the hotel's hall. No slithering monster, no shadowman in medical garb. Outside however, he could hear roars and explosions in distant directions. With an imp's grin and a brief wobble to his steps, Tate rushed through the lobby and into the streets. Because that kind of chaos absolutely beckoned.