The Law of Judgement (Language, Violence, some NSFL)
May 4, 2014 14:46:42 GMT -8
Webmonkey, Wolf, and 1 more like this
Post by The Mouth on May 4, 2014 14:46:42 GMT -8
The text message was simple: An address, a favor repaid, take care of it.
He owed, so he went.
He arrived; officers were on scene, still cordoning off the area, just getting started. No one knew what was happening quit yet. Good, this can be handled.
He was planning his next step, chatting it up with a police officer when three women come out of the elevator, one covered in blood and clearly off her tits. McKenna was leading the pack, followed by the bloody woman, a third bringing up the rear.
His heart stopped; something that even the Embrace had failed to do. Plans? What were plans in the face of a Toreador exodus in front of a pile of cops?
Almost immediately the room came to a stop; Trista's will, her personality, her power filled the room. He responded in kind; the police trapped between two wills like wildfires.
Then McKenna left; thinking quickly he snagged the last Toreador; Magdalena.
He was going to need her help. He quickly told the officers to continue securing the scene but to not disturb the crime scene; to gather the building security tapes and then forget them.
He went to the top floor, Magdalena nervous, fidgeting. She wanted out. She wanted away. She hadn't seen the room yet.
The apartment door was hanging on its hinges, sad and broken of its purpose as a barrier from harm, to protect privacy. Past the door the blood started almost immediately.
It was his curse, his gift, but glancing through the room he saw everything. Everything. The door bursting in, the husband and his wife watching their shows on the telly - When he got there the TV was still on, asking to play the next episode in a Game of Thrones.
Husband quickly stands up, the wife does not scream, she runs for the playpen in the living room. Her goal is the safety of another door, not quite comprehending that a creature just went through her strongest defense like it was nothing.
She doesn't make it. She isn't killed first. The husband is, he challenges the intruder, is taken down and savaged, drained, fighting, weaker and weaker, bleak in the knowledge that he has failed as a husband, a father, as a man. When he is weak enough, mere seconds have passed, the wife has just gotten to the play pen. Wife is grabbed from behind, tearing at the neck and shoulder, she dies quickly as the blood drains from her brain and she goes into shock.
This is not satisfactory to the attacker. No blood pressure or heart beat means less blood flowing to the wound. It turns back to the husband, who has crawled weakly towards his wife. The attacker leaps on the 'food' and finishes the job.
Only now does the cry of the five month old child reach the intruder. It hungers still, the intruder, and now it has prey too weak to run or fight or live. It can take its time and savor every dro-
His mind stops, chokes. His own beast stirs in a sympathetic longing for the carnage, to be the thing that did this. He suspects his beast would have been worse; it would not have taken sustenance from this family.
But it would have painted quite the picture.
No, he must continue. The intruder grabs the child and the baby shrieks in pain and distress. In a horrid parody of a game common to parents and babies she puts her lips to the child's belly and...
He cannot. This cannot. It is, and it cannot be.
After the intruder is done, it drops the child on the floor with a sodden thump. The mother, on her back, stares at the ceiling as gravity pools the blood in her veins around her. There are dragged finger marks through pooled blood; the intruder licking its fingers.
The father, face down, reaching for his wife and child.
The child, a discarded vessel, like an empty needle behind a shooting gallery.
It may have happened like this. It may not have. The results, however, are the same.
He has what he needs. His plan has come to him. And he is a monster for what he is going to do.
He takes a serving fork and mutilates the wounds. He is careful to step into the blood where the other foot prints are. With care, and reverence he wraps the baby in a blanket, gets a trash bag, and a back pack from the hall. Husband and wife and have their wallet and purse shoved into the back pack.
Magdalena helps with all this, seeing the room but very carefully not seeing it.
He then tells Magdalena go downstairs and scream at the officers you saw someone carrying the baby out, a rough description of a homeless man with a beard. The remnants of a few pillows, glue, and the wife's make up are all it takes. It doesn't have to be brilliant. He runs down the stairs and out the back, into the night.
A few blocks away he stops. He punches a wall, strikes his thighs. He used to be able to do this with clarity, with purpose, with elan. What is different?
Ah, yes. The Blood Bond. It covers a multitude of sins; a fluffy lepers wedding duvet with smiling faces above, normal, loving, hiding the putrescent rot below.
He gets to Elysium just after Magdalena. He beelines for the Prince's office... And she stops him. She knows. He isn't bothering to hide anything, and she knows that Francis is stabilizing, coming back to himself.
She tells him that it is handled. He tells, sickened at himself, that this was above and beyond the deal. That she needs to see what was done. She agrees, and offers him anything he asks for the Disciplines of their kind, in turn she must have silence; his silence. She promises to handle it, and that a second incident will be death. He murmurs some lame threat against someone who isn't even there. Bella understands; Francis is sad inside, confused, unsure, angry.
His beast snarls in triumph, because he agrees to silence for a bribe.
He leaves the baby, the shoes, the bloody clothes with a homeless man. Even the 'murder weapon'. The corrupt police won't go much further; resources are tight after the Smith Tower. Revenues are down; people are fleeing. They will quietly make this bum rot in prison with as little sensation as possible.
This will disappear into the maw of Seattle.
He tries to go to Tacoma. But he can't face Richter, not now.
He can hear Selim whisper; 'And they will fear your name, Francis.'
He can hear Veritas in his robot voice explain 'Ward the Mortals from Caine's descendants and treat them with honor in all things.'
He can hear his own voice: 'Girls, it will be okay. I'm back. I'm back.'
He screams.
"Hello Ms. McKenna, I need to do a follow up interview with the principles to insure that I have everything covered."
He won't kill Lily Carver. Promises to himself that he won't kill her. But she has to understand what she did.
Lie that cold and stark logic within himself whispers.
Lie.
He owed, so he went.
He arrived; officers were on scene, still cordoning off the area, just getting started. No one knew what was happening quit yet. Good, this can be handled.
He was planning his next step, chatting it up with a police officer when three women come out of the elevator, one covered in blood and clearly off her tits. McKenna was leading the pack, followed by the bloody woman, a third bringing up the rear.
His heart stopped; something that even the Embrace had failed to do. Plans? What were plans in the face of a Toreador exodus in front of a pile of cops?
Almost immediately the room came to a stop; Trista's will, her personality, her power filled the room. He responded in kind; the police trapped between two wills like wildfires.
Then McKenna left; thinking quickly he snagged the last Toreador; Magdalena.
He was going to need her help. He quickly told the officers to continue securing the scene but to not disturb the crime scene; to gather the building security tapes and then forget them.
He went to the top floor, Magdalena nervous, fidgeting. She wanted out. She wanted away. She hadn't seen the room yet.
The apartment door was hanging on its hinges, sad and broken of its purpose as a barrier from harm, to protect privacy. Past the door the blood started almost immediately.
It was his curse, his gift, but glancing through the room he saw everything. Everything. The door bursting in, the husband and his wife watching their shows on the telly - When he got there the TV was still on, asking to play the next episode in a Game of Thrones.
Husband quickly stands up, the wife does not scream, she runs for the playpen in the living room. Her goal is the safety of another door, not quite comprehending that a creature just went through her strongest defense like it was nothing.
She doesn't make it. She isn't killed first. The husband is, he challenges the intruder, is taken down and savaged, drained, fighting, weaker and weaker, bleak in the knowledge that he has failed as a husband, a father, as a man. When he is weak enough, mere seconds have passed, the wife has just gotten to the play pen. Wife is grabbed from behind, tearing at the neck and shoulder, she dies quickly as the blood drains from her brain and she goes into shock.
This is not satisfactory to the attacker. No blood pressure or heart beat means less blood flowing to the wound. It turns back to the husband, who has crawled weakly towards his wife. The attacker leaps on the 'food' and finishes the job.
Only now does the cry of the five month old child reach the intruder. It hungers still, the intruder, and now it has prey too weak to run or fight or live. It can take its time and savor every dro-
His mind stops, chokes. His own beast stirs in a sympathetic longing for the carnage, to be the thing that did this. He suspects his beast would have been worse; it would not have taken sustenance from this family.
But it would have painted quite the picture.
No, he must continue. The intruder grabs the child and the baby shrieks in pain and distress. In a horrid parody of a game common to parents and babies she puts her lips to the child's belly and...
He cannot. This cannot. It is, and it cannot be.
After the intruder is done, it drops the child on the floor with a sodden thump. The mother, on her back, stares at the ceiling as gravity pools the blood in her veins around her. There are dragged finger marks through pooled blood; the intruder licking its fingers.
The father, face down, reaching for his wife and child.
The child, a discarded vessel, like an empty needle behind a shooting gallery.
It may have happened like this. It may not have. The results, however, are the same.
He has what he needs. His plan has come to him. And he is a monster for what he is going to do.
He takes a serving fork and mutilates the wounds. He is careful to step into the blood where the other foot prints are. With care, and reverence he wraps the baby in a blanket, gets a trash bag, and a back pack from the hall. Husband and wife and have their wallet and purse shoved into the back pack.
Magdalena helps with all this, seeing the room but very carefully not seeing it.
He then tells Magdalena go downstairs and scream at the officers you saw someone carrying the baby out, a rough description of a homeless man with a beard. The remnants of a few pillows, glue, and the wife's make up are all it takes. It doesn't have to be brilliant. He runs down the stairs and out the back, into the night.
A few blocks away he stops. He punches a wall, strikes his thighs. He used to be able to do this with clarity, with purpose, with elan. What is different?
Ah, yes. The Blood Bond. It covers a multitude of sins; a fluffy lepers wedding duvet with smiling faces above, normal, loving, hiding the putrescent rot below.
He gets to Elysium just after Magdalena. He beelines for the Prince's office... And she stops him. She knows. He isn't bothering to hide anything, and she knows that Francis is stabilizing, coming back to himself.
She tells him that it is handled. He tells, sickened at himself, that this was above and beyond the deal. That she needs to see what was done. She agrees, and offers him anything he asks for the Disciplines of their kind, in turn she must have silence; his silence. She promises to handle it, and that a second incident will be death. He murmurs some lame threat against someone who isn't even there. Bella understands; Francis is sad inside, confused, unsure, angry.
His beast snarls in triumph, because he agrees to silence for a bribe.
He leaves the baby, the shoes, the bloody clothes with a homeless man. Even the 'murder weapon'. The corrupt police won't go much further; resources are tight after the Smith Tower. Revenues are down; people are fleeing. They will quietly make this bum rot in prison with as little sensation as possible.
This will disappear into the maw of Seattle.
He tries to go to Tacoma. But he can't face Richter, not now.
He can hear Selim whisper; 'And they will fear your name, Francis.'
He can hear Veritas in his robot voice explain 'Ward the Mortals from Caine's descendants and treat them with honor in all things.'
He can hear his own voice: 'Girls, it will be okay. I'm back. I'm back.'
He screams.
"Hello Ms. McKenna, I need to do a follow up interview with the principles to insure that I have everything covered."
He won't kill Lily Carver. Promises to himself that he won't kill her. But she has to understand what she did.
Lie that cold and stark logic within himself whispers.
Lie.
