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

[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.]

[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.]

[workaphilic]

[If he is finding clues, they must be very small indeed, because his expression darkens unhappily the longer he goes on.

He works his jaw, wanting to speak and having to constantly remind himself that he can't. Eventually he stops what he's doing entirely and flips a notebook onto the floor beside him. He writes, an overflowing of data and small details, everything he's observed in the last few moments.

Not very much of it is helpful.]

[sworn]

[Her eyes narrow as she reads over the small letters from where she stands, keen eyes picking up his observations. Unfortunately, she doesn't see much that she didn't glean herself, and she brings a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

She would kick the body of the minion of Sherlock wasn't still beside it.]

[workaphilic]

[He straightens, his attention now directed at Brock's body across the room. He couldn't get what he wanted from the minion, now he clearly thinks he'll find it with the victim.

He doesn't go immediately, though, not with the swarm of people. The crime scene is beyond contaminated now, anyway.

This is the problem he has with friends and family on a crime scene. Grief lingers, and he often doesn't have the patience to work delicately around it.]