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

[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.]

[molotov]

[When Conan gets away, Molotov gives up, and just collapses in the corner herself. What's the point? People are beginning to flood the cabin, but no one wants to help, no one wants to give her Samson his real due respect. They all just want to examine him like a piece of meat, and Molotov doesn't give a damn about whatever they're chasing anymore.

So she just stays tucked away, silently sobbing into her hands, and waits for everyone to leave. She should never have called for help, she should have known better than to trust these people to treat Brock like a person who mattered and left her a widow.]

[molotov]

Too late.

[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.]

[sworn]

[She stands a bit away to give him space, hands on her hips and still very much not turning to look at the body. She's seen many in her time, but it's never easy to see one that belongs to a friend.

It's how he knows exactly what he's looking for that intrigues her, and Vereesa leans forward with interest. She watches and waits to see if he can find anything, even the smallest of clues.]

[sworn]

[Hey, you know who else is a widow? This gal. They were never on the best of terms and she's probably the last person Molotov would want to console her, but seeing as Vereesa's not exactly in the right state to play Sherlock (and Sherlock is because that's literally who he is), she glances away and notices her in the corner.

Her heart is heavy, and she knows exactly how she feels. She approaches with caution.]

[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.]

[hard_talker]

Shit.

[there are a few idle dots as he taps his pen on the page, fretting]

I'm sorry. I hope they don't stay too long.

[molotov]

Mark, find Ezio for me. I want Ezio.

[hard_talker]

Okay. [he nods, frowning.] I've only talked to him a couple times but I'll try.

[wizard_redfive]

[Dairine watches this scene and mentally sighs. Honestly, what did Conan expect? Extending her telepathic abilities a bit, she sends him a private message via thoughts. Have fun with Dairine speaking directly into your head, Conan.]

Having some trouble there, Conan?

[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.]

[mal_addict]

[While Bond deals with the kids, Maladict carefully and methodically starts removing the creatures from the cabin. People can play with them all they like, but they're not doing it here, in his space.

Brock himself, she avoids. Partly because of the blood, partly because she can't even admit to herself ho much it hurts to see him like that. Stupid friendship]

[sworn]

[Hey HEY HEY! Excuse you, sir! ...Miss? Vereesa can't tell at the moment. It's not important. She approaches Maladict and grabs onto one of her wrists to stop her. Just where do you think you're going with those?

With one hand, Vereesa points to Sherlock, who is currently looming over one of the minions and examining him. Then she points to the minion that Maladict is trying to dispose of, aka the evidence. She raises her palm upward, the unspoken signal of "Well?"]

[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.

[molotov]

[Molotov looks up sharply, and eyes Vereesa with suspicion, then decides she doesn't care anymore and just buries her face in her knees. They can't talk anyway.]

[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.]

[mal_addict]

[Maladict looks at Sherlock poking away at the minion, then turns her head back to to Vereesa. She points at the minion in her other hand, then at the door. Then she points at Sherlock, followed by the door again. He can look at them outside, gosh.

She makes a wide sweeping gesture at all of the carnage, then points at Molotov. Woman don't need to have all this mess inside her own home]

[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.]

[sworn]

[She may get her hand sliced off for it, but she reaches down to place a firm hand on Molotov's shoulder. They might as well be strangers, so she won't try to comfort her any other way, but she does want her to let her know that she understands.]

[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]

[Vereesa narrows her eyes. Apparently the integrity of the actual scene means nothing to her, but she does have a point. With a roll of her eyes, she concedes and puts her hands up. She'll have to walk over to Sherlock and figure out some way of spelling it out to him.]

[deductiongeek]

[He freezes and scowls as he tries to figure out where Dairine's voice had come from.]