VALENTINE'S DAY CATCH ALL 12th-17th

[tom_hanniger]

Who: Anyone and everyone who wants to participate
Where: Literally every corner of the known universe
When: Again with the questions...
Rating: BIG BIG HORRIBLE WARNING LOTS OF DEATH AND FIGHTING AND GRAPHIC EVERYTHING I think you might need an adult...
Summary:

THIS IS A CATCH ALL LOG FOR THE DURATION OF THIS SITUATION

Here's what happens. If you want interaction with HARRY OR TOM, if you want to have a short thread with someone discovering a BODY or someone who is WOUNDED or generally just want some blood and guts it happens in here.

THAT BEING SAID if you want to write a log? Do it. I'm just trying to control the madness in one place...as if that might be easier to manage. It also means the community isn't TOO flooded with bodies and boxes of chocolate so those wanting to bypass this event will have less to look at.

IF YOU ARE A VICTIM, YOU MAY POST YOUR DEATH POST IN HERE
I mean, you can if you want but also feel free to make an independent post. Up to you.

Comment in with a header including date and place for whatever situation you're doing so we can just keep track. I'll do the same.

Questions, comments, plurk or aim or pm me. x

Comments

02/12/2014 - Death Post: Martha Jones

[selfrespecting]

The attacks start happening on the twelfth of February, some masked miner appearing seemingly out of nowhere to start hacking away with a pick axe. Before much can be determined about what is happening or why, the injuries have already started, which means that now more than usual, the clinic is needed.

And Martha had been preparing, truly she had been, gathering recruits and getting Victor up to speed in the event that anything like this happened.

But as the wounded start showing up in search of help from Wonderland's resident doctor, they'll find a gruesome scene waiting for them.

The first thing that's noticeable is the mess. It's clear that Martha put up quite the fight against this attacker, as everything's been shoved off her desk, various cabinets are open, and there are all kinds of supplies scattered on the floor. There are a few blood stains splattered across the walls, and beds and other pieces of furniture have been shoved out of place.

Including one of the gurneys, which is where Martha can be found, having been propped up on it at the clinic's back wall, as if on display. There's no question that she's dead, as her chest has been ripped apart by some jagged weapon, revealing her chest cavity. Her heart's been removed and replaced by a pill bottle filled with candied hearts, the cheesy kind that say things like "I'm Yours" and "Be Mine."

Her eyes haven't even been closed -- no, they're wide open, as if taking in the destruction surrounding her.

This may be her first real death in the mansion, but it's clear that her murderer didn't hold back in the slightest. It seems that the clinic is going to be without its doctor during this dangerous time.

Good luck, everyone.

THE FORECAST SAYS TL;DR.

[unsleeved]

With everything going on, the timing couldn't be better for the medical training Martha'd offered a few weeks back. Not that the place doesn't usually lend itself to accidents, mishaps, and general injury, of course, but a psycho on the loose definitely calls for more than a handful of people able to help out. He's only been down here a few times yet, but even so- he's more than willing to use what he's learned so far (and the knowledge he'd already had from back home) to patch people up, do what he can to ease the strain that he's sure Martha's already feeling.

As it turns out, "strain" might be an understatement.

The sight that greets Daryl when he pushes into the clinic wouldn't have been out of place back in Georgia, and that's saying something considering the post-apocalyptic wasteland Daryl calls home. There's shit strewn everywhere, papers and equipment and all sorts of other things, chairs are knocked over, beds pushed aside, shoved haphazardly where they don't belong... And then there's the blood: splattered on the walls, smeared on the floor... Faint, unidentifiable footprints, all leading to a dark puddle toward the back, dripping down from the wall... And from the body that's been set in a gurney and propped up against it.

Martha's body.

His stomach drops, and he can feel the heat creeping into his face, his vision as soon as it dawns on him what's very obviously happened here. A struggle, a fight... A murder, and while there's no denying that he's upset about it, for the moment that's overshadowed by a quickly creeping rage, the kind that makes his arms twitch and shake and his heart thump furiously against his chest.

Without thinking he kicks a leg out, knocking one of the cots onto its side with a grunt and metallic clang.

"God dammit!"

...And once that's out of his system (he doesn't feel any better), there's no hesitation at all- Daryl makes his way to the back quickly and once he reaches her, hovers his hand over the gaping, bloodied maw her chest has become; somebody did this. She'd been in here trying to help, and somebody--

His face may be a bit paler than usual when he reaches his shaking hand in to dislodge the tiny bottle that's replaced her heart, set it carelessly on the desk... He can deal with that later. It's important, it means something, but not nearly as important as cleaning this up, getting Martha someplace where she ain't set up like some kind of god damn doll. It's a message, obviously, but he'll deal with that later, too. He doesn't flinch as he scoops her up, shifts the body in his arms and starts for the back room. He nudges the door open with his boot, careful not to jostle her as he twists to get himself inside.

And then, with more gentleness than one might expect from someone like Daryl- or anyone who's experienced the things he has, really- he sets her down on a cot, folds her arms over her ruined chest before digging around until he finds a sheet to cover her with. He won't have her exposed like this, he won't.

It doesn't take him long to find one, to drape it over her body... And before he sets it over her face, he closes her eyes, too. He's thinking she's seen enough.

And then he sits, for an hour, maybe two, until he's absolutely sure she isn't gonna turn, until the blood's stained most of the sheet in a sort of macabre Rorschach blot; maybe there's a message in that, too, but there are other things on his mind. The urge to do something, anything to make sure she doesn't is nearly overwhelming... But the rules are different here- no one's infected but him and so mutilating her further is terribly inappropriate, unnecessary... Even if every fiber of his being is telling him do it.

He doesn't.

[[ooc: OKAY SO. Daryl's gonna be around the clinic for a while, watching Martha to make sure she doesn't zombie out (because he can't help it okay) and probably cleaning shit up because TOTALLY NOT STERILE ANYMORE, so if anyone wants to get in on that, come across her, etc, I am down for that! Everybody loves Martha and I don't wanna cockblock the rest of Wonderland from being emotionally compromised by this horror.]]

02/12/2014 - It's A Pickaxe Party: Philip, Harry & The Doctor (with guest apearance by Amy Pond)

[radiopalkiller]

It was around Christmas the year before that Philip finally faced a choice: Cut all ties completely and bury himself in the tunnels for good, or abandon the endeavour, and face Wonderland on the surface. His future self clearly chose the former, and his story was not one of success. And if the outcome is the same, why not spend those days covered in slightly less dust and mud?

Still, he did find something down there, allegedly, and so Philip keeps dedicating one day per week to the process of mapping out Wonderland's underground.

This week that day is Wednesday, the twelfth of February. Outside the sun is barely even up yet. Down in the basement Philip adjusts the flashlight around his belt, without turning it on. The first few turns are child's play, and he could find his way with his eyes closed. Christ. It took breaking the habit to realise how boring it could be. He sighs, and shifts the pickaxe on his shoulder. Should've had another coffee before coming down, after all...

[tom_hanniger]

Philip should have chosen any day but today to be down there at all. Because today is the day Harry has finally had enough of watching. It's too close to the time- too painful to ignore, and he needs to stretch his legs.

Which brings him to the tunnels where he first woke up in Wonderland several long months ago.

And really, he just really hates being disturbed.

He hears Philip shuffling right away and turns, head lamp turned off, back against the wall. The man isn't too far away and Harry sizes him up immediately. He knows this face. He knows him as the man Tom was talking to about staying here.

Only Harry doesn't want to stay here.

And he doesn't want Philip to help him do that.

So he waits for the man to move forward again before springing out from the left with impressive speed, a heavy, solid motion to slam into him from out of the darkness. He aims to disarm and claim Philip's pick axe as his own.

02/12/2014 - A Most Beautiful & Romantic Death: Evelyn

[nascensibility]

Getting out of one's personal slump and being productive was an important milestone in Wonderland - there was only so much moping you could do, and once Evelyn had set her mind to something there was precious little that could dissuade her. A book club, she thought, as they were infinitely overdue for one (she was certain one existed at some point, but people come and go, it was understandable). As long as they had a resident librarian puttering around the stacks, though, they might as well do something mentally stimulating.

Before the holiday carnage started there was a woman walking through the foyer, leaving an audio message on the radio.

"If anyone's read any good books lately," she began conversationally, "I'm going to be in the library and thought I might make a discussion group - nothing that requires assignments, just a little something...erm......can I help you?"

There was a man.

She assumed it was a man, of course, tall and broad, wearing a gas mask with a pickaxe resting on one shoulder. He didn't speak, and he looked like some dreadful throwback to the trenches of the Great War. Evelyn took a couple of wary steps back and addressed him again, sensing that his intent was not altogether friendly. He approached. She dropped the radio. Evelyn barely had time to scream.



The foyer is empty now, quiet but for a drip, drip, dripping sound, the source of which is only apparent when you bother to look up. Strung from the arms of the hall's chandelier is a contorted body, the full visceral effect one can only imagine seeing as she is twenty feet off the ground.

Beneath her is a misshapen puddle of red, arranged indelicately into a heart with the very same organ placed into its centre.

[medjaiardeth]

He saw the mess on the floor first. It took a moment for him to process that there was a human heart in it. He frowned as he realized there was a drip dripping from above.... He directed his attention up towards the ceiling.

He gasped, but no other sound passed his lips. Evelyn.

He looked around for a way to get her down.

FEB 12th: Lena and Harry

[claimyourself]

Lena hadn't yet heard what was happening to people in the mansion. If she had, she would have stayed holed up in her room. But as it was, she was on her way to the diner to grab something to eat, mind preoccupied with recent events.

Whether she chose to celebrate it in the correct month or not, February 11th was her birthday, and she was surely eighteen by now, in mind if not in body. It was supposed to be a milestone, but she wasn't sure if she agreed. Sure, she felt older, wearied from all she'd experienced here, but she didn't feel much different

These thoughts prevented her from realizing right away that she wasn't alone in the hall.

[tom_hanniger]

And it was sad, really, because Harry carried no real animosity towards Lena. He vaguely knew who she was and that Tom liked her, but she'd never done anything against him.

Maybe.. maybe that was just enough, though. Funny, having a friend is a crime, but this is Harry we're talking about and his logic isn't always linear.

Harry stood still in the middle of the hall, half turned away. He'd been on his way to pay a visit to someone he'd been meaning to find but there were just so many people in this place and it seemed no matter how stealthy he was he'd run into at least one person.

Poor ting, she hadn't done anything at all, but it didn't stop him from turning, sizing her up, and advancing. If only just to get her out of his way.

February 12th - Mary Margaret's Swan Song

[cinnamonie]

She'd been trying to find a quiet place to read.

Which, maybe, that had been her first mistake. Maybe she should have checked the network, been a little more aware of what was going on in the mansion. But she hadn't been, and she'd ended up in the Library, and whoever next decides to come in and check out the stacks will find something very curious in the corner. Depending on how far away they are, it might just seem like a figure with their hands pressed against the walls, as if bracing herself. Holding herself up.

Or, whoever sees the figure will know that it is a her, the closer they get to the figure. They'll be able to see it's a her - that it's Mary Margaret - and that she's not really standing at all. What's happened is that her feet are nailed to the ground, keeping her in the exact spot, and her hands nailed to the wall. As if she'd been bracing herself against something, before what could be a nail gun. The blood has clotted, congealed, pooled on the ground under each of her limbs. There are cuts, bruises, lacerations and gashes - whatever happened was extremely painful. Agonizing. There seems to be some kind of struggle where Mary Margaret had tried to pull free, or attempted to in the very least, but to no avail.

Her head is lolled to the side, her neck snapped. From the way she is hanging, it suggests that her neck was snapped after the nailing. From the top of her hands a good amount of skin has been removed, two hearts carved into the skin and muscle, but her actual chest untouched. In front of her on the wall smeared in her own blood are the words ROSES ARE RED.

Certainly not what she expected to have happen during her second event in the mansion.

Wow, I thought I was going to a comedy show and I walked into a funeral...

[boyhood]

Dreamshade would have been a far gentler fate for you.

<sub>[Snow White's--no, Mary Margaret's--body has just long enough to cool before her resting place receives a visitor, casual commentary included.

Arms folded, Peter Pan stands off to the side of the carnage, having walked around her in a half-circle, cataloging her wounds with a look that could have been idle interest or could have been pity. Not once does he touch her. He's not here for that, whether to care for Emma's family or to defile Snow White's remains more than they already have been by her killer.]</sub>

Don't worry. _{[As he sniffs and finally unfolds his arms, he speaks to her reassuringly. Softheartedly, almost.]} You can take your rest. It's well-deserved.

_{[He then crouches, pulling a empty glass vial from the folds of his clothes. He holds it out over the puddled blood on the floor for a moment before waving his other hand between vial and blood. When he's done, the vial is suddenly half-full of dark, red liquid. Stoppering the container, he puts it away and stands again.]}

Too bad, no prince to bring you out of this slumber.

_{[Peter gives her body once last look before he's gone.]}

12/13/2014 :: Death of a Queen(ish)

[kickassqueen]

Sure, anyone can just grab alcohol from their closet, but Charlie had motives. Ulterior ones that involved trying to find a Winchester or even a Harvelle to hang with.

Just in case, you know. It would make her feel safer, despite evidence disputing any kind of safety when in the vicinity of a Winchester. What could she say, she was willing to ignore history and stick to them like glue in situations that involved a crazed killer on the loose.

The bar was dead silent when she entered, which was odd enough, but she figured hey - she'll grab some whiskey and a glass. Make her drinking more authentic like.

It was the barest of sounds that caught her attention - the scuff of a shoe against the floor. Charlie spun around, shocked and then relieved when she recognized who was approaching her.

"Hey, pal. Kinda thought you'd already be here, you know. Prime spot for hiding out." She offered a grin as she held up the bottle of whiskey, shaking it. "Crazy stuff, right? With the hearts and all. Reminds me of this super creepy 80's movie - a Valentine's day serial killer kind of thing. I always thought, hey, someone should give the guy some chocolates! He's probably just lonely."

Honestly, the movie had freaked her out, but it was easy enough to joke about it when she was already on edge. However, he didn't answer her, instead moving silently in her direction. That was when she noticed it - the intent in his eyes, the steel in his movements. She lowered the bottle to the counter, her expression growing confused as he advanced.

She managed to choke out "..Dean...?" before the attack began.

There have been times where she'd been terrified right down to the soles of her shoes. While that terror usually paralyzed her, this time it gave her fuel to fight. She was like a woman possessed, unwilling to die at the hands of someone she knew (thought she knew). Sadly, it just wasn't enough to keep her alive.

When the dust settled, there was broken glass littering the floor. Charlie's body was displayed on the counter, her jaw not just broken but missing completely, giving her quite a gruesome appearance - and that wasn't even factoring in her chest, which was cracked wide open for all to see what she was missing.

Her heart was gone.

The top shelf behind the bar, the one with all the best booze, had been cleared unceremoniously and there was a simple, if messy, heart that was finger painted on the wall. In her blood.

Charlie's last clear memory of this will be the face of someone she considers family, stalking toward her with murder in his eyes and insanity etching the lines of his face.

a while later;

[righteously]

Things have not been going well in Wonderland. Dean didn't see Martha personally, not the way she'd been displayed. Daryl beat him to it, and a horde of well-wishers and mourners have swept the scene clear of most evidence. It's still got him in a shitty mood, anger and anticipation flooding through him even well after he'd come and gone.

And the thing is, she's not the only one. He's heard reports, they've been trickling in steadily like rainwater, other people dying at the hands of an unseen killer. He doesn't know who, doesn't know what, doesn't know if it's an event like Christmas had been- some warped holiday, wrapped around a knife. He just knows it isn't good, and he's got to find a pattern. There has to be a pattern, some kind of indication toward who's getting picked, why, how to prevent it.

It's with that in mind that he heads to the bar, notebooks in hand, intent on solving this like any other case.

He sees the glass first, glinting and powdery in the doorway, and he stops there at the entranceway. His eyes track slow motion across the floor, taking in the damage that turns into blood, turns into gore, turns into a shoe dangling from the bar.

His eyes travel up the body, and his lips part.

The body is missing a jaw, but it doesn't matter. He'd recognize that face anywhere.

Somewhere deep down, logically, he knows she'll be back. He knows death is an impermanence here unlike at home, he knows she'll be smiling again in less than a handful of days, but that logic has no place in him right now. All he thinks, all he feels, is the stuttering of his heart in his chest, slowing to a stop as dread runs through him.

"...Charlie...?" Breaks from between his lips, uncertain and uncomprehending and hitched at the end.

No, no, no-

The papers drop and scatter, but he doesn't notice. He's across the room in quick strides, boots crunching on glass and debris, hands coming up to the air beside her cheeks, teeth exposed, blood smeared across them. He raises his fingertips as though to cup her jaw, but it isn't there and they hover as though she's delicate, as though he can't quite manage to touch. "Charlie-"

They go instead for her hair, smoothing down the tangled mess of matted wild red, searching for a sign of life- though at this point, that would be a curse rather than a blessing, considering- considering-

Her chest-

He tears his eyes away for a second. Not because he isn't used to the sight of grizzly, gnarly, mangled bodies. He is. It's different, though, when it's someone you know, someone you love, someone- his eyes close, and his jaw clenches. The muscle thumps out a rhythm while he regains composure, and he swallows. Looks back up at her for one long moment, taking it all in.

Charlie's his responsibility. He's supposed to protect her, he's supposed to-

His face blanks instantly. From it's broken, open apology to something empty and hard.

There's a heart painted in blood on the wall. He's no idiot, this is his job, it's his life, seeing things like that and interpreting motive. It's a message, and it's for him. There's no question.

He'll put a fucking end to this, he will, but first...

But first, he gently lowers her body. Removes it from it's grim display, like a wax doll, like art. Lowers her into a resting position. Gently zips her coat to cover the gaping hole in her chest, to cover the macabre affair but also, irrationally, he thinks nobody should be able to see her skin like that, exposed. Her chest open to the public- hell no. When that's done, he carries her from the wreckage down the hall and toward his bedroom. She's laid onto the bed like it's a casket, like she's sleeping, without concern for the way her blood stains the fabric of his comforter.

He's not going to be using that bed until he figures out who he's putting a bullet into, anyway.

02/12/2014 - Aftermath of the Pickaxe Party: Amy and the Tenth Doctor

[likesimpossible]

It was all rather funny how the whole thing had happened. It started out as being just a bit of run-of-the-mill exploring that turned into a very violent, very bloody attack. And the Doctor's recollections of everything just kept flickering in and out in flashes, much like scenes from an old film made at home.

The attack itself was something he couldn't quite recall in its entirety, which might have been for the best. But he did remember coming round a corner and spotting Philip, who he'd only recently met, and someone who he'd never seen before this. The two men were obviously in the middle of a clash, and what with all the blood spraying about, it was fairly easy to tell who had the upper hand. He really didn't remember the moment he got himself involved in the whole mess, but it didn't seem too long before the man with the pickaxe was using it just a little too handily on him as well.

And then after that, time sped up, and there was nothing but lurching motions as he staggered down a corridor with Philip's help, his blood dripping onto the floor, something he couldn't see but could somehow feel, and then a different set of arms holding him up (and there was also the sound someone's lurching steps walking away from them), and helping him walk into a room that was too bright, too white-washed, and smelling too strongly of antiseptic and cleaning agents. But on top of that, although he could barely pick it out, masked as it was by the antiseptic, there was a vaguely sickening smell lingering in the air.

"I never liked hospitals much. Knew there was a reason for that," he mumbled a bit thickly to Amy, the one who was giving him a hand, although he hadn't quite gotten as far as to get her name. Or to remember it, if he had gotten it at all. Blood loss complicated that fairly well, although sketchy awareness or not, at least he was still managing to stand, even with assistance. With a bit of patching up, he'd be fine soon enough. "Gives me the creeps, you know."

[oncefairytale]

Amy had set out that day with her handy dandy tranquilizer gun in hand. She hadn't needed to use it before but with Crowley's warning and a keen sense of dread, she decided to be prepared. She moved carefully about the halls, keeping her ears and eyes open for anything amiss. One of these days, she'd actually learn to stay inside. It still wasn't that day.

She came across the two men staggering down the hall. And after a few words and curses at their stupidity, she took the Doctor and began dragging him to the hospital. Not that she knew who he was. Of course, along the way, she lectured him about the stupidity of walking out empty handed and trying to take on a pick axe wielding murderer on his own. She wasn't entirely sure he was conscious for most of her lecture, however.

Once in the clinic, she all but tosses him at a nearby exam table. She turned her back to him as she looked around, the one presence she was hoping to see worryingly absent. She began speaking without turning around.

"Well if you hadn't decided to get attacked or whatever you wouldn't need to be here. Only a bloody idiot would wonder out there without protection."

02/13/2014 - Revival Post: The Doctor & Martha Jones

[selfrespecting]

When Martha comes back from death, it's not a slow, easy thing.

No, it's violent. While she'd been laid out on an exam table with a sheet covering her for a whole day now, still and lifeless and cold, everything floods back in at once.

Which causes her to shoot up, the sheet falling off of her and pooling in her lap as she lets out something between a gasp and scream. Eyes wide, her gaze darts around as she feels over her chest for any sign of a horrible injury. But everything's fine.

The Doctor's sitting in a chair at her bedside, and while Martha registers that, she's unable to speak for the moment, her heart beating rapidly against her ribcage as if to remind her that it's still there. She's tensed, half-expecting that man in the gas mask to still be nearby, ready to go another round.

She's watched this happen to others. Owen had revived on this very table. And yet Martha's not at all prepared for how disorienting it would be.

She closes her eyes and does everything she can to control her breathing and lower her heart rate. She's fine now, she's safe, and no one is after her. The Doctor's here, she's going to be just fine.

[likesimpossible]

In the last twenty-four hours, the Doctor has experienced just about every emotion that's expected at a time like this. But at the forefront of them all has been anger and rage directed at the person who murdered Martha Jones. And having come across her as she had been left in the clinic only increased that rage. But eventually the rage leveled out into a cold fury that, at least for the moment, couldn't be directed at anyone.

For one thing, the Doctor's own encounter with the person who's quickly becoming a mass murderer left him with his own set of injuries. They've been bandaged and dealt with as best as possible, and all that's needed is time for them to heal. He's been very fortunate, considering that he's still alive, coming out of things with some cuts on his hands, a nasty-looking puncture wound on his left shoulder, and an unpleasant but not life-threatening gash to his side. All things considered, it could have been much worse.

In any case, his own state isn't a priority at the moment. Watching over Martha and waiting for her to come back is. And when she finally comes to, letting out a gasp that's vaguely reminiscent of a scream, he practically jerks to attention, ignoring the twinge that comes from moving too quickly.

He's cautious in his approach, but she's clearly tense, possibly even frightened of being attacked again, so seeing a friendly face, one she recognizes might help. Refraining from speaking, at least for now, he simply reaches for her hand if she'll let him take it, and waits with her as she calms herself.

2/13 - Sam, the Victim

[ofletters]

How this happened is anyone's guess. When people began to be murdered throughout the mansion, Sam had, expectedly, tried to do something about it. Armed with a fervent determination, the usual physical arsenal, and a lifetime of hunting monsters, the younger Winchester begins moving through the hallways the day after the first attacks, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes darting here and there for any signs of... well, an insane, brutal killer. He'd seen some gore in his life, but this was one of the worst he'd experienced in the mansion. And these people were his friends, his family-- There would be no way that he'd sit idly by as whoever it was who was slicing them up continued on his spree.

He's in the hallway when the masked man appears. Needless to say, the confrontation does not go very well for the already-weakened Sam. Post-attack, he's lying half-dead at the bottom of a flight of steps. Unconscious now for lack of blood, he has a number of gashes and slashes littering his body like strokes of red paint, and though he's breathing, it's barely anything at all. Were someone to come across him, it'd be easy to think that he is another victim, though there's no message, and he isn't, in fact, dead. Not at the moment, anyway.

[goesdown]

Crowley's sticking tight to the walls and generally avoiding most people. He doesn't have time to get caught up in their nonsense between Blake and Jo and trying to figure out what, exactly, is causing this so that he can stop it when it's all over. He still has to go out, of course, because he has things to take care of, but he's doing his best to keep to himself. Maybe everyone will just assume he's dead and leave him alone until it's over.

That's when he comes upon the Moose. It's the very same Moose who is part of the dynamic duo that he's pretty sure are supposed to take Tom out so that Crowley can do his thing.

He sighs.

"What have you done now, Gigantor?"

Once he's confirmed that Sam is still breathing, he hoists him up like a delicate princess and proceeds towards the infirmary, thankful that he's at least got demonic strength on his side.

"You're lucky that you're my favorite Winchester right now."

He uses caution as he navigates the hallway, because the killer could still be lurking around and truth be told if he pops up, Crowley is dropping Sam and running like the wind.

02/13/2014 and onward - At the clinic: OPEN

[selfrespecting]

It had taken a bit of time spent with the Doctor and Victor before Martha actually calmed down from the realization that for a whole day she'd been dead. The strangest thing is that she remembers nothing about that time. She hadn't been stuck in some dark void, she hadn't been dreaming...

And there's a part of her that's still scared even now. She's heard about some of the other deaths and seen the injuries first-hand. Between the Doctor and Sam, it's clear that whoever's behind these killings isn't going to stop until he's satisfied.

She wants to do something, but the idea of leaving the clinic honestly frightens her, a feeling she's not all that used to. So she'll stay here, with a gun close at hand, and she'll help those who make it here slashed up but still breathing.

Someone's got to find that maniac and put him down or capture him, but Martha realizes it can't be her. She already lost to him once, and she has no taste for killing.

She doesn't even head up to her room over the next few days, sleeping in the clinic to keep an eye on the patients overnight. Not that she gets much sleep, too keyed up and nervous that the man with gas mask will return.

02/13 - laterish in the day? after some america-related shenans probably

[unsleeved]

Despite his own medical knowledge from home- and the things he'd picked up here- the fact remains that Daryl is not a doctor, and there are people better suited than him to run the clinic in Martha's absence. He'd done what needed to be done, helped where he could help, but there'd come a point (and an utterly ridiculous video and text post to the network) when he'd had to step away for a while, see to other things while he'd still had the ability to do it and the stream of injured people had slowed.

Naturally Martha'd revived while he'd been out... Which is probably for the best when you realize that recently-dead bodies stirring around the guy who'd been living in zombie hell for the past year and a half before coming to Wonderland is probably not an ideal situation. Old habits die hard, you see... But no, he'd been out hunting down organs (and maybe heads, or maybe serial killers carrying heads), and by the time he makes it back, Martha is already up and about.

He stops awkwardly in the doorway when he spots her, shoulders visibly sagging with relief. It's not that he thought she wouldn't come back, of course... But knowing and seeing are two totally different things.

"You're back."

He figures he can get away with stating the obvious, just this once.

02/13/14 i'm welcome home ; edge of the forest ; kid's death

[builditstrong]

The thing about the Calamity, the thing he didn't really realize until now was a kindness, was that the whole thing was bloodless. People turned to ash in an instant or completely vaporized. The silence got to you quick enough, that and their stony gazes, but there was no blood. No one eviscerated and murdered, no chests cracked open.

He'd been sort of thinking that maybe he just wasn't affected by death at this point, but not anymore. Not after seeing Martha and the others.

He wants to find whoever has done this and put an end to them, for the same reason he was willing to cut through the last living Ura to save Zulf and Zia back home--these people are his family. Just because death isn't permanent doesn't mean it's pointless. In some ways it makes it worse. Whoever this is is going around killing people like it doesn't mean anything, when there's already so few of them, when they have to stick together to survive this place. If they can't trust each other, then what do they have?

He's not actively looking for the miner, but he is on the prowl, patrolling the halls and warning people to keep their doors locked. And on the ninth floor, he spots someone suspicious. Someone wearing a gas mask. Kid wasn't looking for a fight, but no way in hell is he letting the killer get away. Not when Kid has a chance to stop him.

He calls it in, but the miner is on the move, and Kid doesn't want to lose him. Kid pursues him through the mansion, always staying well behind, almost losing him a few times. He starts to get suspicious when the miner leaves the mansion entirely and sets off for the forest. Too late, Kid realizes the miner knows he's there. He knew all along he was being followed.

He stops at the edge of the trees, turns to face Kid, and Kid doesn't have time to hide or wait for backup. He has his hammer. He can stop this right here and now. He plowed his way through the ruins of Caelondia, the chaos of the Wilds and the last, desperate ranks of the Ura. The Kid is relentless. One miner won't be enough to stop him.

At least that's what he thought.

"Ya wanted a fight, yeah? Well, ya got one, asshole." They advance on each other, raising their weapons. Kid swings and the miner parries with the pickaxe, almost catching the head of the hammer. Kid notices immediately that something is wrong. Not just the miner's strength or speed, not just the impassionate gas mask, not just the pure murder in every movement--but something, something is familiar.

Kid isn't used to trying to fight in the cold and snow. When the pick bites into his shoulder, Kid knows he's in trouble. This isn't like his fights with the Ura--the Ura were always quick, striking like snakes, able to move faster than the eye could follow. They weren't sturdy the way the miner is. Kid is strong, but just not strong enough. He gets in a few good hits, slamming the miner in the stomach with the hammer and sending him careening into a tree with a blow to the shoulder.

Then Kid misjudges, swings too high, and the miner catches the hammer with the curve of the pick, hooks it under the head and wrenches the hammer clear out of Kid's grip. Kid has a moment of horror to realize this is the first time he has ever, ever dropped his hammer.

Then the pickaxe is embedding itself in his stomach.

The miner doesn't stop there, shoving until Kid is crushed against a tree, driving the pick in deeper. Kid coughs and blood comes up, turning the snow crimson. The miner steps to the side and wrenches the pick, hauling Kid forward as he pulls the weapon free. Kid falls forward onto his hands and knees with a strangled yelp, one hand going to his stomach to try and stem the flow of blood. His vision swims. He tries to push himself back up and the miner cracks him across the jaw with the side of the pick. Kid feels teeth and bone shatter.

This is it, he knows. He's going to die. There's no fear, no resignation--maybe this'll be permanent, maybe he won't come back, maybe he'll never see Zia and Zulf and Rucks again, or Dean and Souji and Blake and all the others--but it doesn't matter. He has to keep fighting. Damned if he's going to let this bastard get away without even managing to slow him down. That's all he has to do, he just has to hurt him, just slow him down enough for Dean or someone else to finish him off.

He fights back like a cornered animal, blocking blows with his hands and arms, trying to kick the miner's feet out from under him, scrabbling for his hammer. His hammer was just here...where is his hammer? It's so hard to think, and he can't see anything through the blood in his eyes, can't hear anything but ringing in his ears. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's taking stock: blood loss, skull fracture, dead in less than a minute, find your hammer, find it, fight him, fight back--

His fingers curl around the shaft of his hammer and he swings blindly. He hits something soft; he hears a grunt and the crack of bone. Ribs, maybe. Good, he thinks as he slumps to the ground, as he tries to raise his hammer one more time. Good, if he can't breathe, then someone--someone can--

Then the pickaxe punches through the back of his head and Kid doesn't think anything anymore.

The miner leaves him a few minutes later and takes Kid's heart with him.

What's Valentines Day without a dead body?

[algidity]

[ Ever since he learned the news that Scott had gone back home, well, to say Isaac felt a little disconnected from everyone would be an understatement. He probably should have asked Allison to go with him, but he needed some fresh air. He knew about the murders about everything going on. Isaac was sure if he stayed still any longer he would literally tear his skin off or drown. Wonderland's full moon was pulling at his instincts. Skin feels like it's crawling.

It's what ultimately drags Isaac outside to go running and draw some of the stress out of him that's wound up taught. He's halfway on his way to relaxing the need to expend energy when the scent of blood hits him. His legs are already moving - hurriedly - and he lets his instincts take front seat just as Chris had told them to. Actual wolves are known to track their prey by up to a hundred Miles a day by scent.

What he finds is more horrifying than he expected. Blood on the ice and snow and then in the middle of the whole mess? A body, the body of the person he vaguely remembers talking about pizza to. Immediately he's darting forward to fall to his knees next to the body. Pale hands go to either side of Kid's throat to try to find his pulse. He doesn't find anything so the teenager leans down over his mouth trying to hear if he's breathing. The metallic tang of blood in the air is making him dizzy though and all he can hear is the thudding of his own heart in his ears. ]

Oh god.

[ He leans back before hands move to try to push on the wound on Kid's stomach, staining them red. Then he realises that the carnage of the other Wonderland resident's chest is clearly a fatal wound and... Isaac's hands move to hover over the gaping hole. He can't find the other boy's heartbeat over his own because his heart has been torn clear out of him.

He should call Allison. Before he can do anything the sound of movement has suddenly ochre eyes flickering up and towards the possible threat. If it's the person or thing that did this, he really doesn't want to be taken off guard. ]

02/14; Happy Valentine's Day~ (this is so not gruesome enough, I suck)

[itsahotone]

It happens, of all places, in the music room.

Santana is just there to put together a song for Brittany. She knows it's stupid to leave her room, she does, but she is stubborn and young and nothing is going to get in the way of her gift.

She didn't see it coming.

(She doesn't know how she didn't see it coming.)

She tried to run; of course she tried to run. She screamed, loud as she could as she told herself she was better than this; better than a horror flick female that's too weak, too stupid to fight back.

But it was so fast. She didn't see it coming.

It was a music stand. The bluntly sharp edges that helpfully held her girlfriend's song sliced through her throat, not heavy enough for a beheading, not clean enough for instant death. No, the jagged, ugly wound burbled blood onto the ground beneath her fallen body, did so as her limbs were carefully rearranged by this madman that she was so sure would never touch her.

She was gasping for air, her blood running watery with her tears. It was hard to see--the man's headlamp blinded her; it was hard to hear--the man's breathing was weirder than her own.

Was it a coincidence that she was still painfully alive when he put the sheet music in her hands? Not her own, not her carefully planned out serenade, but something else entirely. Valentine, by Kina Grannis. Was it only by chance that with her last gasping breaths, she saw the title? It certainly didn't mean anything to her at the time, just as knowing she'd be back soon didn't mean anything when she was scared and dying and wishing she had stayed with her girlfriend, in her arms.

Santana was just there to put together a song for Brittany. She knew it was stupid to leave her room, she did, but she was stubborn and young and nothing was going to get in the way of her gift.

Happy Valentine's, indeed....

[stoptheviolence]

It was stupid to leave the room.

But...well...Brittany.

Now, in her defense, she had good reason. Very good reason. Lockdown on no, there had been nothing about keeping silent over the Network. Or the mirrors. And certain people weren't answering either of them. She was worried. Worried enough to venture out on her own. Once she checked to be sure the coast was clear. And grabbed a lamp from her nightstand.

She wasn't that stupid.

It was a toss between Theme from Mission Impossible or Theme from Jaws playing in her head as she slowly crept down the hallway. By some miracle, there was no one in sight. Not even an ominous ping drop to disturb the silence. Just her foosteps. And the lamp chord dragging behind her. The music room was open. She visibly relaxed. That must be it. She'd gone into a place she felt safe. Sure enough, the moment Brittany walked into the room, she caught sight of Santana sleeping on the floor. She could have laughed in relief.

"That doesn't look very--" about three steps in, she saw it.

The blood.

And she screamed.

"Santana--oh my god, no!" Frantic, she took another three steps towards the girl, before flinching back. Help. She needed help. She ran to the doorway. "Somebody! Anybody! Please, she's really hurt...I think..."

The blood drained from her face as a past conversation she'd had came back to haunt her.

People've died here, you know.

Yeah, I know. People die all the time.

Her legs wobbled beneath her. No. No no no no. This wasn't how it was supposed to...not Santana...not today...

Pure instinct led her to abruptly shut the door, locking it with a loud click. Somebody was killing people, and she had just screamed. That was... No, wait, she could worry about that later. First, Santana. As it was, It was a miracle her feet managed to get her to the other girl's side, practically collapsing the moment she got there. Santana's head was in her lap at once, and the blood was everywhere. It came from her throat. Still pouring out. Brittany reached with one hand, trying to stop it. For all the good that did. All she did was get the blood on her hand. Santana's blood.

"No, please. Don't do this. Don't die on me. I don't..." Her voice caught in her throat. She'd never been so scared in her life. "I don't know what to do, Santana. Please. Tell me what I'm supposed to do..."

There was no answer. Nor would there be.

She wanted to cry. Her eyes burned. Her chest ached. Her vision blurred. Any minute, she would throw up. She knew it. Except, no. She had to be strong. For Santana. If somebody came, she had to be ready to tell them what happened. Except she didn't know what happened. She didn't know anything. Just that Santana was laying in her arms, dead, and she was getting blood all over her skinny jeans. One hand still on her throat, the other wrapped around her upper chest, Brittany leaned down and placed her chin on the top of Santana's head. Her eyes just barely caught a piece of paper to one side. It was soaked in red, save for a few sparse letters at the top: V--LEN-INE

Valentine.

Santana had come to work on a song. For her.

Brittany shut her eyes. Tight.

"All of my life, I have been waiting for, all you give to me..." Music only she could hear played in her head, the melody barely passing through her lips in more than a quivering whisper. One last song. "You opened my eyes and showed me how to love unselfishly. I've dreamed of this a thousand times before. In my dreams I couldn't love you more..."

A pause, and she nearly missed the next beat as her voice threatened to crack.

"...I will give you my heart, until the end of time..."

The tears rolled down her cheeks now. Hot. Wet.

"You're all I need, my love...my Valentine."

She buried her head in Santana's hair.

And she cried.

2/13/2014 - This is my year of living dangerously; (Jo & Harry, late in the day)

[lightgunhustler]

Jo felt that the fact she was able to get away from Crowley at all was proof enough that he had no intention of hurting her, just like he seemed to have no intention of hurting John-- but all the same, she was eager to put as much distance between them as possible, fumbling for her phone as she made her way towards the room she shared with Tom on the fifth floor. She left an anxious message for James while en route, intent on grabbing a few necessities from the room and then planning to keep moving-- taking Tom with her if he was there. If he wasn't, she would track him down.

She'd been told not to warn Tom, to let him handle this himself, but she was doubting her ability to honor that promise. There was no way she was leaving him alone while this ghost from his past was on the loose. She knew what it was, knew that if she saw him she was supposed to fire and then make a break for it, but she'd also seen the echo of the mansion's memory replaying itself on loop.

She couldn't watch that again. That couldn't happen. Too many people had died already; Tom could not be counted among all the casualties.

What his future self had asked of her was way too much. There was no way she was turning a blind eye, no way she was just standing by and letting this happen. She was a hunter, a term she'd always thought of as being synonymous with hero, and ignoring her job here wasn't an option. She trusted him, respected what he asked her to do and thought she knew why he'd done it, but she couldn't follow his direction. Not if she wanted to sleep soundly ever again.

She tucked her phone into her back pocket when she hit the landing, heading down the fifth floor corridor as quickly as her legs would carry her, at the alert and anxiously glancing back over her shoulder every few steps -- just in case.

[tom_hanniger]

That's good. Look behind you, watch out, something could be lurking in the shadows. Salt and knives and silver bullets, these things cling to the body and sting the senses. They carve and kill and protect.

Good. Keep them close.

Look out behind you.

A pity, then, when the danger is right in front of you, turning the corner with heavy boots and filtered breath.

A pity, then, when he sees you, knows you, and his pace only increases.

He's been looking for you, beautiful. A few little choice words to carve into your chest.

Stay away from his boy, you'll hurt him.

And it's a god damn wonder Harry can move as fast as he does with all his equipment. It's a marvel his boots can be so heavy and yet he is so light footed, gunning towards Jo as fast as he can, reeling up and throwing his axe ahead of him as he goes.

[cumcrapula]

Haymitch has spent the last several months believing that it was only a matter of time before this place turned into a bloodbath. It's an arena and he's known this in his heart all along. At the first signs of killing, Haymitch doesn't sit back and hide. Katniss is out there and he's going to see her to the end of this, just as he'd been prepared to do in the Quarter Quell.

He gets himself several knives and from the closet in his room and a bow and arrows just in case he finds her without them. Then he sets out to kill.

His device is left in his room and he's not going to use the network to find anyone, because then they can use it to find him. He doesn't need fancy technology. It's kill or be killed.

When he's attacked, he's not off guard, but he's overpowered anyway. Having had just a little too much to drink on the fourteenth, his quick fighting is mixed with stumbles and delayed movements. It's only a second too slow, but the pickax digs into his thigh and he recognizes a deadly wound when he sees it. Without medical attention, he's not surviving something that deep.

Still, he struggles until the end, stabbing at the figure in the mining gear with desperate grunts and angry yells. If he's going down, he's doing his damnedest to take out his killer, too.

The pickax digs into him twice more--once in the shoulder, bringing him finally to his knees, and then once in the back. He falls face first to the ground, struggling to push himself up again and ultimately failing as the blood pools under him.

He watched the figure retreat and it's only in that moment that he wishes he'd had his device on him so he could have sent Katniss one last warning.

***

His body lies in the hallway on the eighth floor now, blood pooling in all directions around him. There are several knives littering the ground around him, most of which seem to have been ineffective in his defense, and there's a bow at the edge of the pool of blood to match the quiver of arrows still on his back.

Happy Valentine's Day.

[airshipswank]

Stay inside. Lock your doors, and wait. If you absolutely must go anywhere, do not go alone. Stay alive. Stay safe. The warnings transmitted to them were more than abundantly clear.

...Small wonder then, that Buckingham saunters through the corridors by himself, as though his bravado could not possibly demand anything less. He is well-armed as ever, and more than confident that any confrontation would leave him victorious.

Small wonder still, that the commotion coming from the floor below does not turn his steps away, but quickens them instead. And yet, alas, by the time he finds his way the corridor lies deserted.

That is, deserted of life, not quite so devoid of the struggle's echo.

Buckingham approaches, curiously.

The display does not faze him, but neither is he enlightened by the sight. A man, but his face is pressed to the ground, and by built alone the duke recognises no familiarity. He lazily kicks the man's leg, but there is little to be confirmed beyond what the blood has not already told him.

The duke looks around. The corridor is empty still. Turn him around, perhaps? Have a glance at his face, at the very least, perhaps see to finding him a better resting place until he wakes....

Mhh, but all that blood on his doublet, for a stranger who might possibly be no more interesting in life than he is now, in death?

No, he should think not.

Buckingham shrugs, wipes the blood on his boots on a clean spot of carpet, and turns to leave.

2/14 | James Potter | Closed to Sirius

[pottershotter]

James knows they aren't supposed to be out alone, and it's a good idea. It really is. It's the best way to keep everyone safe, but he doesn't feel particularly bound to it himself. There's a murderer on the loose, but James fully expects to be able to catch him if they cross paths. From what he understands, it's a Muggle and while Muggles can be strong in their own right he still has his wand and he's not expecting it to be much of a struggle to restrain the killer if he's attacked.

But, that's not why he's out.

The truth is, Remus has been missing for several days. His room is empty and any sign that he was ever around is gone. James has been here many times before though, so often that it's become routine. He waits, because if Remus comes back within a week or so he'll remember everything. It's been almost that long now, but the full moon will be tonight. He can't imagine how hard it would be to suddenly be pulled back to Wonderland and be forced to immediately deal with the full moon, no matter when in the month it was for him at home. So, he's doing one last sweep of the mansion, to make sure Remus hasn't turned up again and to ease his mind, though he knows he'll be tempted to look again when the moon comes out.

As he makes his way up the stairs, he catches something in the corner of his eye, down one of the halls. It's not Remus; it's a dark figure in gear James doesn't recognize, wielding a pickaxe. James freezes and stares, watching for a moment at the figure walks away. That's the murderer. It has to be.

He raises his wand, but before he can wonder if he can manage something non-verbally, the man stops.

And he turns.

And James is standing there, wand raised.

He can feel his blood run cold, and immediately regrets not taking his invisibility cloak with him, but it's a little late for regrets now. Instead, he hardens his expression and casts with a quick and swirled wand wave. Meanwhile, the stranger, now his attacker, is running toward him, weapon raised.

"Expelliarmus!"

It misses, though it does manage to knock some decorative things off the wall. But ultimately, it only shows exactly what his wand can do, and it doesn't slow the man down. James staggers backwards and up a couple of stairs, hoping to put some distance between them even if it has to be up and not away. It all happens very quickly though, quicker than James could have ever anticipated.

He raises his wand to try and disarm him again, but the stranger swings hard and the pickaxe digs into James' arm, at the elbow. The accompanying noise is sickening - bone being cracked and forced apart as the joint is separated with a quick twist. Sharp pain shoots through him and he cries out, dropping his wand as his hand goes limp.

The pickaxe is yanked away and James drops himself down to make a quick grab for his wand with his other hand, but with that move he loses any height advantage he had. This time when his attacker swings, the pickaxe strikes his shoulder - deep into his shoulder. Along with the crack of bone there's an audible pop, one James is familiar with from Quidditch accidents. But the pain is entirely different when there's an object lodged into the socket, forcing the separation from inside. And then it's ripped out and James feels something tear and it's agonizing. He sees blood when the axe is near his face.

He's breathing hard now, gripping his wand so tightly that his knuckles are white because he can't lose it, not when he can't get another one. And this man in the strange uniform is looming over him, pickaxe raised.

For a moment, James is certain he's going to die.

But then in a desperate move, James shuts his eyes tight. There is a loud CRACK and then he's gone and the pickaxe is being swung at empty air.

The noise is equally loud when James appears suddenly in his room, but since he had originally been low to the stairs he appears in a similar position near his desk. It actually wasn't a bad attempt - he only missed sitting in his desk chair by about six inches, but he's far enough away that he quickly wavers and loses his balance. The chair knocks over and on his way down he tries to grab the desk with his uninjured hand to keep from falling. He can't do that and hold onto his wand though, and his efforts just make him scatter half the desktop parchment in the air.

He lands roughly, with a loud and pained groan, but then he just lays there and breaths heavily for a minute, still reeling from the adrenaline of the last minute or so and silently marveling in the fact that he's alive.

[solemnly]

Frankly put, Sirius nearly pees himself.

It's not that he's not used to the sound of apparition, it's more the fact that there's a muggle murdering spree going on for whatever reason and James though that meant it was a great time to go on a stroll.

Well, look for Mooney, which IS IMPORTANT, he isn't denying it, but they have ways of keeping in contact. They have plans and protocols. Sirius hasn't been in Wonderland long enough to feel like he owns it (something that might eventually change). He doesn't know the dangers that present themselves here. This isn't like school, this isn't dodging teachers and detention and the occasional troll.

This is people dying left, right and centre and he really doesn't appreciate James out in the middle of it.

But it had been Stay here, Sirius, someone has to be here if Mooney shows up, Sirius. No sense in us both being out there, I'll be right back, Sirius. The anxiety had built to a level he is barely able to contain. And so he'd spent the short time James had popped out for a quick look pacing figure-eights into the floor boards, wand tightly clutched, jaw locked, body tightly wound and ready to spring.

This isn't who they are. They don't hide and wait. They don't go off alone, this is madness.

And so when James comes crashing in, not by way of the door but by way of magic, the sudden shock nearly pulls Sirius from his own skin. He even lets out a little noise and whips around just as his dearest friend sends a flurry of parchment into the air.

It takes him a moment to realize James is falling, and another to see that's he's hurt.

He's across the room in a heartbeat with a gasp, and scrambles down to his knees.

And there's blood. THERE IS SO MUCH BLOOD!

"James!" No time for nicknames.

"What happened?" He goes to grab him but recoils on the chance he'll do more harm than good.

"Answer me, say something-"

02/14/2014 - Death Post: Seta Souji

[eatsyourscience]

Though Souji is aware of the danger unfolding, and though he's wary, he's determined not to be terrorized by it. He goes to the diner like normal, and cooks for anyone who shows up--though it isn't many, under the circumstances--and he wipes down tables and mops the floor.

Despite all his experiences at home and in Wonderland with the unexpected, he's still taken off guard by the blinding light shining from the headlamp on his next might-be-diner.

Whether it takes a long time or a short one is a moot point; the outcome is the same either way. It isn't an appetizing sight and the smell is worse: gore with a slight hint of sugar. Souji's body is on the counter, like a carcass on a butcher's cutting board if not for the tiny candy hearts scattered in the blood pooling around him. There are more of them stuffed into and overflowing from Souji's shattered and crushed chest cavity.

Though the dining room is largely still in order, in the kitchen is in disarray. Many of the utensils are missing from their usual places, and although they aren't all easily located, the lesser wounds on Souji's arms and torso make it easy to see what they were used for. In a small, unintentional sort of consolation to whoever happens to find him, his eyes aren't open and staring, though that's only because the blood streaking his face made him squeeze them closed as he died.

It's a much greater, but equally unintentional, consolation to Souji himself that this is his third death and everything will be over by the time he revives.

[breakthecurse]

Tohru has felt very much the same. The diner has always been a safe place for people to go to during events, so she feels it's important to try and keep things going normally and to give people shelter if they need it.

She's been saddened by the deaths though. She knows many of the victims personally, some better than others, and she hasn't been unaffected by them. But, it seems important to continue to work hard and try her best for everyone, for their sake.

So, she heads to the diner for her usual shift. She expects it will be quiet, like it has been the last few days, so she's planning on using the time to prepare Valentine's chocolate for people. They might not be able to be delivered until after the holiday, when this event is over, but it's a good time to get them made and packaged.

When she opens the door though, her stomach sinks. There's a smell she can't quite place, and it's very...quiet. Souji's a quiet person, but the diner is completely silent.

"...Souji? I'm, um. I'm here for my shift. ...Are you here?"

There's no reply.

That's not right. That's not right at all. Something's wrong here. So, Tohru slowly goes into the kitchen and lets out a scream at the sight before her. She covers her mouth hastily, in case the culprit is still nearby, but her eyes start to water and she feels like she's going to be sick.

He's...Souji's...someone cut him open. The room is torn apart and he's laying in a pool of blood. His eyes are shut and he's far too still.

"...Souji? S-Souji?"

His name trembles out of her mouth but he's far too still. She steps backward, slowly. A couple of candy hearts are crushed under her foot.

"...help. I have to..." Another wave of nausea and sorrow hit her, but she chokes most of it back. "...I-I have to get help! Someone!"

And then she turns and she runs. She's not sure where she should be or what she should be doing, but she knows she has to seek help. She can't do this on her own. She can't. Not when Souji's....

Her hurried steps leave faint red footprints behind.

Feb 14 - evening - Death Post!

[ex_alighthouse135]

Elizabeth is yet another victim of the killer rampaging through Wonderland.

Her body is discovered on the evening of the 14th in the stairwell between the 4th and 5th floor. It appears she was probably on her way back to her own room when she was assaulted. Her body is mangled, but whoever attacked her was in a hurry. There's a large hole in the wall where something sharp was lodged and a matching hole going through her right eye and through her head.

The weapon isn't present but whatever it was is sharp on both ends.

Needless to say, it's a bloody and gruesome looking scene. The white dress she's wearing, a little more fancy than her usual attire, is splashed with blood.

2/14 - Derek "Bad Doggy" Hale

[triskeles]

With the murders that are happening around them, Derek can't help but be on edge. In combination with the full moon, everything is even worse, his nerves frayed and his senses honing in on every little thing. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that yet another holiday is thrown into chaos, considering how Christmas went, but New Years had given him some semblance of hope that they could avoid another holiday disaster.

Apparently not.

It's when he's heading back upstairs to the ninth floor that his unease increases, but he doesn't catch the cause of it before it's too late.

The stench of blood hits his nose, overwhelming everything, but the pickaxe hits harder before he even has a chance to turn around to face it. Truth be told, it isn't the first time that he's been cracked in the head-- far from it-- but it doesn't change the fact that it actually catches him completely off guard. The werewolf staggers forward, and from there on out it's all downhill.

Typically faster and stronger than a human, the attack disorients him enough even as it rips a snarl out of him, pained and angry. In the end, it's all the assailant needs to incapacitate him.

In a relatively peaceful, if active, corridor of the fifth floor, passerbys will find a man sitting upright against the wall with his head bowed forward. There's blood everywhere on him, staining the wall and the floor around him, but the most distinguishing features of the scene?

Mixed in the blood, very faintly, is a black ooze. This is not of the killer's fault, unless one knows that it's a sign that his body was trying to heal itself as it was attacked. But it had no chance, between being wailed on and-- well, it's not particularly difficult to miss the fact that there is a gaping wound in Derek's chest cavity. It's been torn into him roughly, ribs broken and flesh gouged into to take his heart.

To completely take his heart. There are no signs of it anywhere. Here, at least.

Written above his head in sloppy fingerpainting, in his own blood, are the words BAD DOGGY.

Happy Valentines Day.

i literally hate everything jfc

[hypercompetent]

It's Valentines Day.

To say Stiles hasn't been looking forward to this would have been, actually, a lie--he's been single for literally his entire life up to this point, and for as many flowers he's gotten Lydia that have been thrown away, most of them have been pretty shitty. So today's gonna be different, somehow. In this thing that they're not defining, it would probably count as a big deal.

But by three or four, there's been no sign of Derek anywhere. And that's cool, they do their own thing, but there's supposed to be some kind of a--celebration, or something, tonight. And Derek? Derek doesn't just disappear.

(Unless he finally wised up and realized that this "thing" was stupid. Stiles wouldn't blame him--he wouldn't want to celebrate Valentine's Day with himself, either.)

But when six in the evening rolls around and there's no sign of Derek, he starts to get antsy. Maybe he did get ditched. It would be just another footnote in the long series of Stiles Stilinski's crappy relationship story, and he's sitting on the bed pondering that when there's a knock on the door.

He jerks out of his seat and drops his device on the floor, trying to deny the fact that his stomach twists in a mix of relief and worry and a secret flood of joy, then ambles over to the door, pausing for half a second to fluff his fingers through his hair and tug down his shirt, pausing in the mirror and pulling open the door, "Yo--"

It's not Derek. It's just someone standing there, with an innocent looking red box. Stiles blinks and looks down at the box, shaped like a heart, and takes it. "Thank...you?"

And the guy's gone.

Stiles shakes his head--weirdo--and gives the box a shake. It's probably for Derek, but curiosity gets the better of him and he rips the tape holding it together, and something red comes off on his fingers.

He doesn't notice it until the lid comes off, because he's too busy staring at the contents of the box; there's a heart there, a real, human heart, absolutely soaked in blood and a thick, viscous black substance. After a second or so, it convulses, spits out more black oil, as if it's trying to heal itself.

Stiles' stomach is up in his throat in half a second--the box clatters out of his hands and he immediately retches, shoving halfway across the room to throw his head over a trashcan and vomit, and it's only then that he can come back with shaking hands, horror written on his face, unable for once in his life to find a word to say, because not only is that a heart, but it's a werewolf heart.

The box is left on the floor and Stiles is gone, slamming out of the room and shoving through the mansion, heart pounding against his chest breath gone two seconds from panic no no no no--

It had to be Derek's. It had to be.

CONCLUSION; Jo, Tom & Dean

[lightgunhustler]

[If she could have willed herself to run faster, she would have.

She didn't have time to address the broadcast that had been sent out, couldn't spare any number of moments to respond and inform Angel of just how wrong he was. With all that had been going on, it would have been beyond stupid for anyone to go after Tom if they actually believed he was the killer -- but she had to assume that someone would, and that someone would also be angry and reckless enough to do exactly what they had been told not to do.

It wasn't true. There was no way it was true, no doubt in her mind that people were looking to cast stones because Harry had kept himself so well-hidden, but she had seen him. She'd fought with him, had her damn arm broken as she tried to get away, narrowly escaping only to find Tom himself and confirm that everything he'd told her about Harry and his world was true.

If any of these people actually knew Tom at all, they wouldn't have been able to accuse him. She was sure of that. He may have been a lot of things, but a killer wasn't one of them. Hell, he couldn't even bring himself to cook because he couldn't stand the sight of raw meat.

This was right out.

She wasn't quite out of breath when she reached their bedroom door, but almost-- she let herself in and almost stumbled through the door in her hurry, snatching up her shotgun from where it was resting against the wall beside the closet.

Just in case anyone came after them.]

Tom?! We have to move, now!

[tom_hanniger]

[Simply put, this is a fucking nightmare.

It's a lie. It has to be. There's not a single piece of Tom that believes he would ever do this. How would he be capable? Why would he do it?

Why would he do this?!

He has to really think about it, mulling over Angel's words, seething with anger at the accusations, how eager the population is to believe it, how quickly he's been turned on, how quickly he's been thrown under the bus.

These people are his friends, his family, and this is a betrayal. And it rocks him to the core.

Jo comes barreling through the door and he jumps. There are some things strewn across the room, victims in a fit of rage. His knuckles are bleeding, matching a dent in the wall next to the door but he's still him.

He's still Tom.

And yet--

And yet how can he be sure?

Fuck, no, there isn't room for doubt. He can't allow himself to fall down that hole, he's too easily manipulated, too self destructive. And he knows himself well enough to know he would never, ever hurt the people he cares about. ]

Where?

[He doesn't ask why, he knows why. Angel's just sent the entire fucking mansion after him, the bastard. Fucking asshole!

But- then-]

Jo, there's nowhere to run.

2.14 | stiles stilinski

[hypercompetent]

The thing about not being a big damn hero is that sometimes you're a big damn hero.

In Stiles' case, it's usually involving people important to him. Would he jump in front of a bus for someone random? No. For someone he loved? Consider him dead. In this case, it's more of the latter--Stiles is still reeling from the "gift" he got earlier in the day. The sight of the heart in his hands, literally, is something that's going to haunt him for the rest of his life, the fact that it was still convulsing as if it could heal itself back into Derek's chest. And he wasn't thinking, how could he have possibly been thinking, and it had taken Stiles all of ten seconds to tear out of the room, slamming down the hallways as he looks for something, anything, a body or a murderer or something, and it's when he tramples down the stairs yelling for anyone he can (Isaac, Allison, even Dean, help), Stiles makes it to the fifth floor and downright freezes, because there's a body that looks too familiar against the wall.

There's enough time for a "--oh my god", horrified, and he stumbles forward, feeling the bile rising in his throat--

--and the pickaxe comes out of nowhere, slamming him in between his shoulder blades, and Stiles hits the ground minutes later in a bloody mess, back and neck sliced to pieces, sprawled out like he might as well already be outlined in body chalk.

He didn't even have time to scream.