065. Coda

[samson]

[In the cabin, Brock and Molotov have been having a heated argument. As heated as an argument can be when it's completely silent, anyway. Gesturing wildly, choking gestures in the air, and a lot of pointing.

Finally, Brock manages to get her to understand he wants her to check on his car. It's important to make sure the Charger is safe, that the garage is secure; if worst comes to worst, they can pile in as many people as they can and make a quick getaway. Once she storms off to do as he asks (he's pretty sure she's going to scratch the paint deliberately but that's okay), Brock snaps open the journal and writes.]

[Like everything else lately, the following is written. Printed, actually; he's trying to make this as legible as possible so it can reach even little kids or people who aren't too literate.]

This is Brock. If you still need somewhere to stay, somewhere safe, I have a cabin southwest of the castle, off the main road. We can all take turns keeping watch, at least until we figure out wh

[The pen jerks to the side, leaving a jagged line and an ink smear.

There's the sound of... something... for about a half minute, sounds of violence. Blows landing, furniture being broken.

Then there's nothing.



And then the door slams. Hurried footsteps, stiletto heels on hard wood. The sound of something hitting the ground hard.

The pen touches the page again, the handwriting different than Brock's. A shaky, quick scrawl.



After, the sound of things breaking -- dishes, glass; fragile things that make noise when they break. Someone trying desperately to get the attention of someone. Anyone.]

Comments

JOURNAL

[samson]

[Yeah, he's probably not going to answer you.]

obvs written

[hard_talker]

[shit shit shit]

What happened???

NO, SILENTLY DICTATED

[molotov]

[It takes Molotov a minute to get a good grip on the pen again, her hands slick with blood.]

Something cut his plate out. They took his heart, it's just GONE.

YELLED LOUDLY

[heliotroping]

Did you see anything? Was anything dropped?

SHRIEKED

[molotov]

There are dead [hesitation as she glances at the creature in Brock's hand] things. Like deformed men, in straitjackets. My husband killed a few before they got him.

[hard_talker]

Fuck. I'm sorry.

[it feels lame to write, but he writes it anyway, because he feels like that's the most important thing that needs to be said, before anything else. everyone else will be asking her the important questions, anyway. but Brock was - IS - a friend, and to some measure, so is Molotov, and the only thing he can do is BE a friend]

[molotov]

[Molotov doesn't know how to answer. She doesn't really want sympathy or anything, even though she knows there's little else to be done. Finally, she simply writes:]

Da. Thank you.

[putuporshutup]

[The color drains from Meg's face. Again, it isn't someone she's ever met - but that hardly matters. One second he was offering protection and the next...

Her fist slams down on the table. This was really starting to get under her skin.

She won't go to the cabin herself, she's of better use in the right where she is - keeping at it with their research and looking out for those who had joined her.

Watching the discussion unfold over the journals, she realizes that the person who had called for help is none other than Moltov, and that it was her husband who had just been killed. Nevermind the fact that their only meeting had been as fake arch-nemeses in a fake magic prep school. She could only imagine how she would feel if it had been Cas.]

I am so, so sorry.

[She sat there fuming for another few minutes, then picked up another book, determined to find something that could stop more people here from getting hurt and losing loved ones.]

[molotov]

[Molotov doesn't know who this is, and responding to random sympathy is the last thing she really wants to do. But she's aware of the need for gratitude, for solidarity.]

Thank you.

[putuporshutup]

[Meg is 110% sure this isn't the time for getting re-acquainted, so she opts for simplicity.]

You're welcome. Stay safe.

CABIN

[samson]

[It's basically a massacre.

Brock is lying supine on the floor in the midst of a bunch of blood, broken furniture, and smashed dishes and glass. There are a few twisted, broken bodies strewn about -- humanoid but gnarled, wrapped in straitjackets. Brock's still got a death grip around one of their necks, which is pretty impressive, considering he's... probably pretty dead.

If you didn't know Brock has a metal plate in his chest, you know now -- his shirt has been torn open to reveal a perfectly neat, square chunk of flesh has been taken away over his sternum. Or where his sternum should be, anyway; he doesn't have one. There's just a gaping hole there instead, his heart clearly missing.]

[molotov]

[Molotov barely seems to have noticed these weird, barely human dead things that her husband killed. She hasn't even tried to pry the one he's holding away -- instead, she's knelt among the glass and wood, at his side, tenderly and shakily wiping away blood from what's left of his chest, pushing it back into the cavity. As if it would somehow fix the problem.

She swipes at her face as silent tears roll down, although she accomplishes little other than smearing herself with blood. All she can do now is wait. Wait for someone to help, someone to come, someone to do something. She keeps her journal at her side, glancing between it and the body of her husband, waiting.]

[deductiongeek]

[Southwest of the castle. That was all Conan needed to know. Already on edge after the first murder, it barely takes him any time at all to get to the cabin with his skateboard. He hadn't been there before, but the path was clear enough.

He runs in through the door... and stops at the sight of the blood.

Too late, already.]

[molotov]

[Molotov starts as someone comes through the door, ready to defend herself, but... oh, what the fuck.

A child? Really?

Her first instinct is to throw him out, but there's heart-stealing monsters about, so she can't do that. With a sniffle and another blood-smearing swipe at her cheek, Molotov shakily stands and tries to herd this little boy toward the kitchen area, the only place that is even relatively far from all the blood.

She'll put him in the garage when more adults show up.]

[mal_addict]

[As with most castle shenanigans, Maladict hasn't really concerned herself with what's been going on. It's other people's problems, after all, why should she care about what happens to them.

But the sounds following Brock's message, the blood seeping into the pages, it's enough to make her pay attention. Much as she's loath to admit it, Brock means an awful lot to her, and she's racing off towards the cabin before the message of help begins to appear.

Vampire speed is a helpful thing, and she soon bursts through the doors. The scent of blood hits her first, her eyes beginning to glow before she does her best to push it back down. Now is NOT the time. She steps a little closer, taking in the carnage in front of her, well, at least he gave one hell of a fight. But these things...whatever they are have made a terrible mistake, because now they've made it personal.

She steps a little closer to Mol, just so the other woman can see she's here, not sure the best way to deal with this. Mal is about fighting and snarking, not comfort. The kid....well, what the hell was a kid even doing there?]

[assassino]

[Ezio arrives not too long after Mark told him –– as fast as his horse would take him. Maximus is left untied out front and he strides right into the cabin, looking around for Molotov but unable to call out.

Not that it takes him long to find her, anyhow, not with others milling about and Molotov herself outstanding with all that red hair.

And red blood, too.]

[molotov]

[The red hair and red blood are curled in a ball on the kitchen floor. The others have crowded her away from her husband, while they examine and inspect the corpse like a dog in a show. She lacks the strength to fight them now -- she's given up.]

[assassino]

[Ezio moves towards her, crouching down to her level when he comes close and reaching a hand out the gently touch her shoulder. He doesn't want to scare the shit out of her, or anything.

He wishes he could speak.]

[sworn]

[By the time Vereesa arrives, there are already several people in the cabin. She closes her eyes and winces, the smell of blood overwhelming her and causing her to grip the door frame before she moves forward. No matter how seasoned a ranger she is, she'll never get over that smell.

While everyone is swarming Brock's body, something that Vereesa decidedly does not want to see, she's looming over the humanoids in straitjackets, kicking one over with her foot to expose its face so she can get a better look at it.

She kneels beside it, and starts feeling around for anything that could give them more information.]

[workaphilic]

[Sherlock showed up late, as well. There wasn't much to help with, from his perspective, and he (correctly) assumed there would be plenty of people to leap to provide moral support.

For all his bluster, he knows what he isn't good at, and moral support to a stranger is one. The extra people provide the distance he needs to get information without interrupting grief.

He hovers behind Vereesa, hands in his pockets, a smidge too close, ostensibly waiting his turn. But at a scene like this, every bit of information is useful. He waits, and he observes.]

[sworn]

[Perhaps it's because she's allowing her emotions to cloud her senses. One of her closest friends is lying dead not far from her. Or it could be the man hovering over her shoulder. Either way, Vereesa isn't finding anything and in her frustration, she shoves the body aside in anger.

Inhaling a deep breath, she wipes an eye with the back of her wrist and stands up, gesturing for Sherlock to take a better look as she clearly needs to pull herself together first.]

[workaphilic]

[His gaze catches, and there's a brief moment before the body gets his attention where he watches her. His expression is impassive, but it isn't calculating the way it normally is in situations like this.

The voicelessness, maybe, taking away his edge.

He inclines his head, barely a nod, and sweeps his coat behind him so he can crouch. He examines the body carefully, methodically, years of practice behind where he looks and why.]

[gottaknockhard]

[A message like that tends to draw out a crowd. Spike shows up at the cabin when the investigation is nearing a close, only he doesn't go inside or do anything to draw attention to himself. Either he's still in shock that anyone could take Brock of all people down, or he sees all he needs from the window. He's dead.

Murdered gruesomely is a better way to put it. He recognizes some of the same faces that were in Sheena's room, and a paranoid part of him wonders if they'll draw a connection by the time someone else he's friends with turns up ripped to shreds. He knew it'd happen someday.

It's only when he sees the other corpses on the ground that he puts his paranoid theory on hold. ... Turning away, he lingers in the shadows, lost in thought.]

[ofhope]

[ Joshua just likes to check on all the deaths once it's apparent they've happened, although normally he keeps enough of a distance not to be noticed. This time someone interesting is at the scene, though, and he vaguely recalls that those two were friends. How...funny.

Risking being seen now by any of the others, and hardly caring, when Spike turns his best not!friend is there, a curious look on his face. Since he was already sneaking up, he has a message ready written on his open journal. ]

Not enjoying the mystery?

[gottaknockhard]

[He stares blankly at Joshua and the message in journal, blinking like he's expecting him to disappear after the first or second time. Despite how stupid it may look, he opens his mouth out of habit, forgetting everything for a moment.

Finally, his senses seem to come to him; he shakes his head and holds a finger to his mouth. Sure they can't talk, but that doesn't mean they can't make noise, and he'll be damned if he's letting Joshua inside.]