Peter Hale is basically satan in a v-neck. (notfireproof) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2015-02-08 00:23:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !trigger warning, peter hale |
Characters: Peter Hale.
Location: Abandoned warehouse district.
Time: 7 Feb, within hours of this.
Warnings: Arson, violence and death.
Summary: A twisted sense of justice.
Status: Narrative, complete.
The warehouse district reeked heavily of accelerant, though Peter couldn't be certain if it was just because he was that much more sensitive to the smell. Inside, Peter could hear the pair of heartbeats, still pounding with adrenaline, louder than their voices but not moreso than the anger that brought him here, but Peter wasn't a stranger to wrath, not since the dreams had started. Unlike the anger he felt in the beginning of these dreams, this was lucid, the type of slow burning fire that outlasted the explosive kind. Among all the scents that clung to the charred bookstore, only two existed both inside and outside of the store and Peter had tracked them to this district like a predator following the blood of a wounded animal. It hadn't been difficult to locate the bookstore where Cora and Helena had been nearly killed and it had been less so to find this pathetic block of abandoned buildings. It was almost infuriating how predictable these men were, but Peter wasn't here to critique their ability as criminals. Peter ripped the lock from the door and calmly slid the door open, listening to the heavy rumbling of the metallic slab as it slid in the worn tracks. In the distance, Peter could hear heartbeats speed up as voices dropped to brusque whispers of accusation. As he walked through the littered ground floor, Peter thought about Cora, hospitalised with burns and requiring oxygen, thought about Helena and her daughter. Around him, the thick scent of lighter fuel and gasoline wrapped around his throat, forced the air out of his lungs and made the scars that never quite healed from his old dreams ache. The dirty, crumbling walls erupted in flames and if the crackling noises didn't echo in his ears, it would have been hard for Peter to tell himself they weren't real. Fire had shaped and defined the Hale family as they existed in Beacon Hills and it was bleeding into Orange County. The fear that it could all happen again, that it would be so easy to burn his entire family to the ground one more time pushed him forward. Even if this threat disappeared and went unnoticed, Peter would make an example of anyone who tried to take away those things he was willing to kill to protect. Underneath that thirst for vengeance rested something Peter didn't want to name, but it made him weak, made him violent and broke the quiet, forgotten heart he didn't want to own. That fragile, worthless thing had the greatest power over him, despite any statement he could make otherwise and it was the seat of that fire that he could never escape. Though the inferno twisted and burned inside of him, his face was clear of those emotions, a smug, taunting twist of his lips and bright blue eyes were the only things that he showed. Weeks with this strength made it grow exponentially until any feeble attempt the two arsonists made to fight back, they didn't have a shred of hope. Neither of them begged for their lives, not that it would have changed anything. They made no attempts to justify themselves, to explain their attempted murder as anything more than an accident. Peter didn't ask for answers, didn't care about their reasoning. The first man died quickly, but the second started talking as he suffocated, talked about the way the aroma of burning skin and hair sunk into his blood and clung to the inside of his nose and how he couldn't live without it. Crawling along the floor, he reached for something that Peter recognised as a lighter with just enough time to step back as what he knew to be gasoline went up in flames. The body of the first arsonist, laying face down in a pool, caught and the smell brought back memories of the Hale House fire. It would have been easy for Peter to escape the building, leave the two of them to burn, one of them on a twisted pyre and the other alive, but he hadn't come here to let them die on their terms; they were going to die on his. Despite the voice of reason telling him to cower away from the flames, he made his way through them, hand wrapping around his throat and feeling the snap of his neck. As the body dropped to the ground, Peter regarded it with a detached gaze. There was not even a scrap of remorse in him and maybe the dreams had made him into the monster he had feared becoming. The apathy, the embers of ire, protected him in a way that he couldn't describe and didn't expect anyone to understand. Peter existed in a world of grey, where good and evil weren't the absolutes everyone wished they were. This world was as cruel as it was forgiving, where selfishness and cowardice combined with violence could shield precious things. Peter hated this world, wished that he could change it, but it was impossible and he wasn't a hero and he wasn't going to fix this broken thing; he was too selfish for that. What he would fight for were the things he didn't want to lose and the rest of the world could be damned for all it mattered to him. He never claimed to be perfect, wouldn't say he cared about everyone who didn't matter. Altruism didn't exist and every action had a motive — regardless of if it could be justified, nothing was ever selfless. |