Simon will just LIVE in this booth forever. (magienoir) wrote in yegods, @ 2011-09-25 15:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !mini-log, c: hiro, c: mickey, c: simon |
Zwickau.
WHO Jocelyn "Mickey" Samuels, Hiro Ishikawa, & Simon Renaud
WHERE New York Marble Cemetery
WHEN September 30th, 2011, Night (PRE-DATED!)
RATING PG-13
SUMMARY Mini-Log! The intrepid sleuths return to the scene of the crime and witness portents of DOOM.
STATUS Complete
Despite the copious rains since the week before, the leaves on the trees are only starting to sag, giving way to the inevitability of autumn, but refusing to let go entirely. There's a kind of sickliness about them, as if their resistance to changing colors and dropping from the limbs of the trees is symptomatic of something cancerous. A few have blotches of yellow on them, making them look somewhat worm eaten and mangy. Yet, they cling to the branches, growing grotesquely heavy, verging on decay. The temperature is hanging in the 70s, rising from the 60s of the week before, which has perhaps contributed to nature's confusion about what it ought to be marking off next on a millennia old to do list. The weather is at odds with history, lending a discomfiting sense of the unnatural. In short, if one was looking for a better night to go poking around graves for a thrill, it's unlikely they would find a better one. At least, not until that time when, at least, the leaves do give in and fall away to form mounds to be raked up by the groundskeeper.
It's a cool night, despite the relative warmth of the day. A mild breeze drifts through the trees of the cemetery, shuffling their leaves, pulling petals from bouquets on the graves, and whispering secrets. It's a little cloudy, too, though the moon is still shedding its light over the tombstones and landscaping of the New York Marble Cemetery. Now and then, though, a cloud slithers across it, momentarily sending the world into would-be darkness, except that they are still in New York City, and so it is never fully dark. The lights from the windows of the trendy East Village apartments framing the cemetery break the darkness where the moon doesn't. However, many of those lights are starting to blink out. It is very late at night, and even though it's Friday, it's probably odder to not be on the way to bed right now for many. Which also makes it an excellent time to be poking around the cemetery. Sure, there isn't really a 'cover of darkness,' but there's also no one really around paying attention.
That's why Simon is here now. A strange letter and a frustrating dream (because of course Hecate couldn't recall to visit him on his birthday, but she could make some time to pop in and ask him to 'play nice' with his brother) have forced him to take some interest in the case of the bone snatchers. So a half-brother has appeared. He even knows he's being toyed with by both mother and half-brother, which infuriates him. What's so great about this man that his mother is... is... siding with him like this? Because that's how he sees it. He doubts she's said much about him to the other. The fact is, he knows she's playing with his head again, but he can't help it. He has to find out about this man. He has to destroy him.
The sooner, the better, and then maybe next year, Hecate will remember to visit on his birthday.
He takes a cab over, eyes closed most of the way, and is dropped off a block away. Even as he starts down the street, the weird visions - the waking nightmares - began to slip out from the shadows and cracks and spaces of light around him. So he takes to jogging to get to the cemetery. It isn't that far of a run, but even so, he's a little out of breath when he leans against the iron bars, eyes closed tightly, gasping softly. The next step is getting inside. The quasi-Victorian style gate is not short, and the top has sharp fleur-de-lis designs. However, the grave robber managed to do it, so Simon feels that he should be able to as well. He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and manages - with great awkwardness (and so it is good that no one else is around right now) - to scuttle over the fence, landing on his side in the grass with a soft oomph. He blinks, winces, and then slowly gets to his feet, checking just to make sure that he hasn't attracted attention. All is quiet, though, aside from someone laughing far down the street.
He starts for the crypt, no longer sealed with police tape and closed off. Stopping before the mausoleum, he gives a quick look around, and then creeps up to the door, gingerly testing it. It opens easily enough, and no alarms go off. A single beam of moonlight filters over him into the vault. Simon stands, a singular black clad form, framed by the door and the shadows within. For a long moment, he stares inside at the empty, moonlit resting place - or what would be an empty, dimly lit room to anyone else. And then with a soft gasp, he backpedals, tripping, falling, and scuttling on his hands and feet to get away. Only, the moonlight has seeped over the entirety of the cemetery, and there is no escape from the truths unraveling from the darkness. He knows he just has to close his eyes, to think of something else, because he can do this sometimes without completely panicking, but like watching a train wreck in slow motion, he can't seem to look away.
As each second passes, his ability to school his mind and take charge of the situation slips away. Where is the gate? Past that thing? No, he can't go past it. He has to find another way. He scrambles around blindly. One minute goes by. He finds himself stuck in an elaborate floral arrangement. In his mind's eye, it drags at him, pulling him towards the earth, and he screams, wrenching away, yanking the wire off of his arm. Three minutes. Leave now, now, now, he thinks, but as he finds the gate, he recalls that it's locked. He wildly shakes at the bars, but they barely even make a sound, tightly shut as it is. Five minutes. He turns, back pressed to the cold, metal bars, and stares in horror at the seemingly empty lines of tombstones and trees. He can't stay here, though, because it's coming. Like a rat trapped in a box, he runs from one corner to the other, searching for a way out, but the cemetery only has one gate, and it won't open. It's coming, though. It's definitely coming. It will swallow him if he doesn't escape. His breath comes so sharp and fast that he can't seem to gather enough oxygen, and his eyes fill with little sparks. His knees give out, and he sinks down next to the mausoleum.
How much time has passed? He doesn't know, but more of the windows have gone black, and the moonlight has grown only stronger because of it. He begins muttering softly to himself. The world is dark and disturbed, and there seems no way to avoid that, so he slowly staggers to his feet. Like some sort of cat burglar version of Ophelia, his clothing and hair are in disarray, his face abnormally pale, and his eyes flash with an unfocused gleam, as he wanders through the rows of tombstones, by turns talking to himself and then laughing wildly.
"C'est à venir. C'est à venir. The conduit funnels the darkness, and l'obscurité mange tout. L'obscurité est en lui. It's in me. No, no. No, it is coming, but it is not..." he stops, staring into space. The wind sifts through the trees, tousles his hair, but he is utterly unmindful of it. Whatever he's focused on shifts, and he blinks, moving forward once more, tapping the top of each tombstone as he goes. "Maman, avez-vous fait votre choix? L'obscurité va tu manger, aussi. The darkness will swallow me, too, Maman. It's coming, but you don't care. You don't care." He laughs, one hand going to his forehead, as he tosses his head back. "Coming, coming, coming."