wu_lo (wu_lo) wrote in rrinitiative, @ 2013-01-13 22:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | day ten, wu |
The wrong things
Characters: Wu
Setting: Kitchen, his room (afternoon)
It had been a very long time indeed since Wu'd had any reason to do this, and if he hadn't had the reason? It might've been fun to pilfer the forks from the kitchen along with a fondue skewer, pocketing them discreetly as he lingered over a cup of coffee. With his mug of tea given to Becka, he'd needed something to distract, some object to curl his angry hands around between each new grab.
But with this reason, Wu wanted to kill a man. The problem, as ever, was knowing who.
There had to be roughly over thirty of them in the facility between both genders, and despite the last few days for him, he would bet at an even split. So fifteen suspects, with him excluded. The doctor and the boy Becka had fancied were another two that seemed unlikely, from Wu's experience with men who would commit such crimes. So thirteen? Or could he be wrong?
After all, what did he know? As much as Becka; that she'd been attacked last night, without sense of the time it happened beyond 'during the blackout'. Her attacker had used protection, had kept from speaking or being seen, had really left Becka nothing insofar as clues...
With a touch of reductive reasoning, though? It was a start unto itself, and the thought that Wu could've been a decent detective had him smirking as he left the kitchen, heading back to his room with rapt focus on the name plates beyond each door that he passed. He would check these rooms when his tools were prepared, seek out the leads he had in mind, and when he had something to support his instinct? Then others would know.
But even gaining that evidence, that was the task to keep his focus on, and the reason for solitary moments back in his room as he gathered his things. The list Becka had inspired was tucked away with a half-finished letter to Wren, his clothes were pulled from the closet and laid on the bed, and all the remaining chrysanthemums were stripped of petals. With them bagged and ready for later use, he finally turned to the plundered forks.
The tines were bent back slowly in strong fingers; first and last prongs twisted in opposing directions with little terse murmurs from Wu. Then? With equal parts care and force he would tuck them into the edges of his desk drawer, popping it shut hard enough to put deft crimps here and there. Each was inspected in turn, one crimped more and the other pounded out for less, both critiqued by the tips of his ring and pinky fingers for depth. He'd been twenty years old when he was taught this, and the inked name of his first prison hadn't even fully healed... it had been a good day, the day Wu learned to make prison lock picks.
Using them here, in the strangest prison imaginable, to catch a dog among wolves? It was going to be an even better one, when the day came. He knew what to start looking for, and had the tools to get in close. Now it was just a matter of picking a name and a door.