entrancelogs | VALENTINE'S DAY CATCH ALL 12th-17th

VALENTINE'S DAY CATCH ALL 12th-17th

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

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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.

That makes him laugh just a hair too exuberantly, but he doesn't care. Not that crash-landing the TARDIS is a good thing, but after so many times of nearly doing just that, he's grown used to the sensation, and it tickles him just a little, knowing it's not only limited to him.

"It does seem like something that happens often. Now that I think about it, deciding not to attend that lesson on time-travel proficiency may well have something to do with it." But at the time, he had other things to do, and sitting in on a class hadn't seemed terribly important.

"But really, you're doing beautifully." He supposes it can't be easy, patching him up, but really, she's doing a fine job. There's only one thing that concerns him about this scenario. "I wonder where Martha's gotten off to, though." It still seems strange that she isn't here, although he guesses she has a reason for it.

He focuses his attentions back on her, though, because something in her face is suggesting a bit of unhappiness. "Are you all right?" She doesn't look it, all of a sudden, which prompts him to inquire after her.

Philip almost makes it out of reach. When in doubt you run, spread across months and months of doubt, makes for an incredibly efficient exercise routine. So he runs and runs and runs, and when the pickaxe is hurled after him he simply runs on, so that it buries itself in the dirt behind him. Almost.

What the axe hits in truth is his leg, a sharp pain in his calf, and sharper pain still when the axe's grip breaks his stride and his chest hits the ground with a hard thud. The gun goes off a second time, as it is knocked from his hand, and spins hopelessly out of reach.

Philip gasps through the impact, and turns onto his back. He'd reach for the axe and brace himself for a struggle, but he'll have to struggle to catch a breath first.

Al nods as he takes the sponge, and even offers Daryl a tiny, wavering smile of thanks for his sympathy. "Okay." He sets at the stain with determination, as if removing all the traces of the horrible crime could reverse what had happened. It can't, of course, but the effort and concentration are something to focus on, an outlet for the anxious, angry energy building in the pit of Al's gut.

Unkillable is good for America's emotional well-being too when the alternative is having Daryl yell at him again. His nerves are frayed enough without the added stress of a good friend (one of the few close friends he has actually) refusing to speak to him.

Obediently he rummages through the available cleaning supplies (painstakingly reading the directions on a few of them because what the fuck is even in these things) before joining Daryl in getting the worst of it off. He's had experience getting blood and brain matter and bone (mostly) out of things.

"After this, think we can just set things upright and set stuff aside for her to organize when she's back. Y'know, so nothin' gets put outta place and she won't have to go lookin' once she comes to."

He talks mostly for the sake of talking. It's easier than the shock and questions swirling in his head. Much better than acknowledging the hunger for justice, or vengeance, or worse. He'll deal with that later.

"Good thing no embalming needs to be done, 'cause I hadn't learned that yet. I can cut and stitch just fine, dig a grave if need be, but when it comes to preservation I'm kinda lost. And none of the usual death rituals. I get the need for mourning, I really do, but there's so many ways to deal with it and I just... it's a relief not to for a change.

That a bad way to look at this? I dunno, I'm not used to people comin' back. Not even as undead. Unless you count ghosts but those scare the shit outta me. Don't tell anyone I told you."

[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.

Anywhere.

[The woods, the tunnels, wherever they have to go to get themselves out of sight, to get to a safe distance and buy themselves time to find the actual culprit.]

We just need time to show them you didn't do this, let them see Harry for themselves! We can hide. Even if it's only for a little while. There's no way everyone is going to buy that story, people here know you. They won't believe it. They can't.

[How could anyone believe that of him?]

But we don't have time to talk about it right now, we have to go and then we can call someone we trust to help us track down Harry.

Oh no, [A knee jerk reaction.] I'm not running away from this. I'm not going to cower in the corner somewhere and let Harry pin this on me.

I can't. I have to end this, Jo. I can't have him here. I can't watch our people die and then hide because Angel is a fuckin' asshole.

It's while Philip's struggling for that breath that the Doctor comes around the corner of one of the tunnels. He's been exploring them, doing his best to chart them out (in his mind, not on paper) and see what there is to see. And apparently, what's there to see is two men locked in a brawl with pickaxes.

One of them looks decidedly less well-off than the other, and even though the Doctor's unarmed except for his usual sonic screwdriver, he's already looking for ways in which to intervene. Maybe if he can cause a suitable distraction, the attacker will run off or be distracted enough to be temporarily stopped. But how best to do that?

It's not a well-thought out plan in the least, but the Doctor starts to wave his arms and raise his voice, hoping to draw the attention of the gas-masked, pickaxe wielding man. He's banking on his ability to run to see him through here, at least long enough to give the other man a fighting chance. It's desperate, and quite possibly foolish, but it has a very slight chance of working.

I'm not saying run away!

[Because she doesn't run, either. She doesn't run and hide and cross her fingers and just hope that things work out. She believes in action, and action is exactly what they'll need to stop this in its tracks before it can get any worse.]

It's not letting Harry win, it's just getting some space, regrouping so we can get this solved the right way.

I want this to end, too, and I want you to have closure and be done with this once and for all-- but I also don't want you to get shot.

Ff- I do not want to get shot- I just. Fuck!

[That is a fair point and he considers it. He really doesn't want to get shot.

But he doesn't know how to deal with this. He can't deal with this.

Without even thinking, he reaches for his meds. One, Tiny. White. The same sort of generic bottle that was found with Martha. But, naturally, seeing as they're all the same.

He swallows it dry.

Tom's about to have a fucking panic attack and he can't-

This is just-

Okay, no Tom, breathe. You can do this.]

What about the hideout, then? There's no way he'd know about it.

God this is actually just..disgusting. And, as someone who considers themselves relatively solid and not at all squeamish, that's saying something. And, admittedly, there is a part of him wanting to poke about at the wound and see what's going on, but this is James they're talking about and so things are entirely different.

He listens, nodding quickly though the instructions sound a bit like they're underwater and he's not sure he remembers them all but okay this is a plan. This is a good plan.

"Prongs, mate. Half of you is backwards.. I think you should stay here.."

Even if it's not too far, they are infinitely safer staying inside.

"Unless we apparate. Are you good for that?"

I just want you safe.

[She can't stress that enough. She doesn't think anything of it when he reaches for his meds; it's nothing she hasn't seen before, and not like she doesn't know what purpose they serve. Now is as good a time as any. The last thing they need right now is for him to have an attack and not be able to get anywhere safely.]

The hideout will work. We can call for help once we're there.

[Dean. They can call Dean. Tom and Dean may not be the best of friends, but Dean isn't stupid. He'll realize how off-base this is, and he trusts Jo -- she knows he would help anytime she asked, just like she would for him.

She reaches out to grab Tom's wrist with her right hand, shotgun still held in the left, pointed at the floor as she tugs him out towards the hallway.]

Let's go.

If James weren't feeling so rotten he would want to tease Sirius about the squeamishness, but this really isn't the time or the place for that. He's trying to look at his arm as little as possible, so he doesn't have to acknowledge how disturbing it is. He doesn't want to look down and see his arm mangled and out of place.

It'll be fine. It'll be fine because they'll find Souji and he'll fix it in less than a minute, and it'll be like it never happened and he'll never have to look at his twisted, limp arm again.

When Sirius first says he should stay behind, his face falls. He opens his mouth like he's about to protest - he can't stay here and let Sirius go off alone to find someone he's never met when that madman could be anywhere. This was different; there was a real danger out there now. But then apparition is brought up, and that sounds just perfect.

"I am. I'm good for that. I mean...just did it five minutes ago, so. Think I'll be alright."

Of course, that was five minutes of blood loss from huge gaping wounds he'd endured since then. Apparition required a lot of focus and he was really starting to feel light headed. He's never apparated under conditions like that before, and it's entirely possible he was only able to apparate before because the situation was so dire. It was either apparate or let the killer put a pickaxe through his skull.

But it has to be alright, because Sirius is not going alone.

"I'm good," he says again, more firmly. "I'll be fine."

Edited (I hate typos that make the sentence say literally the opposite of what it's supposed to AUGH) 2014-02-18 16:20 (UTC)

Daryl will be doing the same; anywhere he can direct his considerable rage that isn't another poor, unsuspecting table, is acceptable, and taking care of this mess before anyone else shows up here seems like the best use of his time right now.

"Holler if you need anything," he says, stepping toward the back. "Gonna be back here..." He grimaces as he approaches the gurney Martha'd been propped up on. All of this stuff is gonna have to go- ain't no gettin' that out...

At the sound of Emma's voice, Daryl stands, dropping the filthy sponge he'd been scrubbing with into the soapy bucket at his fit; the water that splashes up out of it is murky, dark... It's clear he's been at this for a little while.

"Martha. Someone got her." Someone, not something; been a while since he's had to say that. He's used to monsters pulling this kind of shit, but people...? He doesn't have quite as much experience with that.

It doesn't sit well, obviously.

"What're you lookin' for? She-- I know where they keep some of their shit down here."

She nods a little, giving him a tight smile that's noticeably forced.

"Just a broken arm. It'll heal," she tells him, matter-of-fact, but she knows that's not exactly what he meant. It was more than that. Was she okay? No. Given the situation, she was anything but. Knowing what she did -- however unhelpful that information may have been -- and not being able to talk to Tom about it openly had been an unwelcome weight on her shoulders.

She wishes she could say that this was just some monster, something she could hunt down and shoot and then they would be done with this, but Harry was human, human like the rest of them and somehow still a terrifying force, strong and fast and with no inhibitions.

People were getting hurt. People were dying, and it was because she hadn't managed to do her job properly since this whole thing started.

Disappointment, apparently, is something that's weighing heavily on the both of them.

"I'm more worried about you, Sam."

While he's sure he hadn't been followed, he lets her check the area behind him; after what she's been through- what they're all still dealing with- he don't blame her for being a little paranoid.

...He may just turn to peer down the hallway himself, actually. Can't be too careful.

Once he's satisfied it's reasonably safe, though, he turns back to Martha, and when he does, it's hard to miss how worn out she looks. He frowns.

"Fine," he says, though it sounds a little hollow. "How you doin'? You wake up in the back? Wasn't sure where else-- Needed to keep the beds clear."

He's operating on the (incorrect and entirely illogical) assumption that she knows who'd found and moved her, and so he continues without much pause, craning his head to get a look at the people in the beds: "Lookin' like that was a good call, Christ... Got more people than when I left."

Normally he's all about silence whether regardless of what he's doing and especially when he's doing something important... But he wouldn't deny that the constant stream of words coming out of America's mouth are helping. Scrubbing this up isn't exactly the best thing to take his mind off of what'd gone on in here, and even though the subject is just as dark as anything he could be thinking about... He responds well to frankness, as usual.

Distance is a good thing.

"Right. Thinkin' this is the first time she's-- Ain't gonna be long." He raises a brow. "Embalmin'... Didn't even think of that. Ain't somethin' we do back in Georgia..." He trails off there, dunking his sponge into the bucket before bringing it back up and giving it a squeeze.

"No such thing as a bad way of lookin' at it. Don't change nothin' anyway--" And then he frowns. "You got ghosts back home?"

Ghosts aren't something he gives much thought to... Ever. Not even here, not even with the specters that'd been everywhere during Christmas. Casper, you aren't even a blip on Daryl's radar.

As if Martha wasn't having a bad enough day.

After her death and the subsequent clean up, America had no intention to return to the clinic any time soon. For a while he teetered on the edge of facing the bleak reality of the situation. He almost settled into the emotional numbness where he no longer felt the recoil when people started dropping like flies, violently and with undeserved amounts of suffering. It's the same sort of feeling he gets when the general hectic absurdity of his life is stripped bare and he's left looking at endless corpses and carnage.

But then he had his head chopped off and suddenly life was normal again. 'Normal' for America of course meaning 'absolutely fucking insane' to everyone else.

Horse thieves are not his favorite people and more often than not it's a crime that carries some serious punishments, but America rationalizes that it's no harm if he just borrows this wonderful black horse he's found for a while. He'll give it back. The damn thing bites almost as much as Jackson, and it likes to step on his foot every time he dismounts. Good thing he doesn't have a head to kick.

There are two reasons for his borrowing. The first is practical: his usual Utahraptor mount can be given to his more vulnerable friends for their protection, because when there's a serial killer running loose the obvious solution is to ensure protecting using prehistoric carnivores. The other, more frivolous reason, is that he has a thing for urban legends and thus has played the role of headless horseman for Sleepy Hollow, NY many times. Sometimes he even got France and his guillotine to assist him for an authentic experience. Sometimes he'd even do it when it wasn't tourist season, thus prompting the ire of townsfolk who just wanted to go to the grocery store without some asshole playing dress up on Main Street.

They are so sick of his shit. Soon Wonderland will be too.

Martha can hear the stomp of galloping hooves down the hall before she sees the horrific sight in the doorway. A large black stallion tosses its head and rears anxiously, eyes rolling until the whites of its eyes show. Astride the energetic beast is a body whose organs are being held in with all sorts of shit that include, but are not limited to, duct tape, staples, and glue. The neck is an exposed, bloody mess. The top of the spine protrudes with ripped bits of sinew.

The illusion is shattered by the horseman's dress though. The awful shirt and dirty jeans give a pretty good idea to the rider's identity.

In fact, America thinks he's so recognizable, that he has no qualms hopping off his horse and throwing his arms out energetically. He stands for a moment, leaning back as though internally yelling, HUG ME BROTHA and tromps over to Martha to throw her hands around her.

He does not see anything is wrong with this picture.

Having someone to talk to about such grim things is a weird sort of solace that brings about a few pangs of homesickness. It's the sort of peace he finds in talking to Russia, or rather having Russia patiently listen while America fails to keep all of his fears and darkest thoughts in and watching them overspill onto the floor like dirty rain out of a clogged gutter. Not quite comforting, but it relieves the pressure of trying to keep things bottled up all the time.

"First time, right, there's five, right? I need to brush up on that stuff. Not that it applies to me unless an event makes me human, but that ain't the case right now. Definitely don't feel like it."

He scrubs extra hard at a spot trying to make sure, and yep, the wall cracks a bit under his strength. Time to calm down a bit. It helps to hear that Daryl doesn't think he's a complete insensitive freak for looking at the situation with a measure of positivity. Death is always painful, but it doesn't have to be as painful here.

And he even looks placated until the ghost question arises, at which point his almost calm stare twists in disgust.

"I hate ghosts they are always haunting things and need to stop just go be dead if I say they're not real maybe they will go away forever," he whispers harshly. The undead aren't a problem, but ghosts freak him out like nothing else.

[He can't argue with that. He can't argue with anything Jo is saying because it's all true, he just feels like such an asshole.

Actually, he's so furious he's about to go into meltdown. So easily turned on, so easily betrayed. And by what? A scent? What the fuck did that even mean?!

But still, now there's a target on his chest, he can't stay in their room. He knows that.

Jo grabs her gun and his wrist and he follows, casting a glance over his shoulder to locate the cat.

He doesn't get to say good bye.

The door closes and they run. Run down the stairs, through the halls, like they're being chased by Hell hounds. If they keep pushing, keep going, careening around corners and vaulting down the stairs then their chances of getting outside alive are pretty good. And, in fact, they succeed.

Out of the house, across the lawn and into the forest to the Resistance's bunker so fondly referred to as Fort Potter-Dixon. Tom doesn't know Daryl very well and has no interest in knowing James anymore, but he has to hand it to them - they can make a mean fort, hidden from just about anyone and anything.

Good, they'll need to safety.

They get inside and slam the door, chests heaving, faces flushed and sweaty and he is so humiliated. There aren't words for the kind of angry Tom is. For the hurt. And all he can hear is the sound of his heart thundering in his ears and that nagging shisper in the back of his head jeering You Should Have Known Better, You Should Have Known Better.]

Sirius is having a hard time believing that his friend is anything near okay but what choice do they have?

"Alright..hold on, then."

He nods and gently tries to find a way to get a good grasp on James, so they can travel together. And it is with a loud CRACK that they do, appearing exactly one floor above in the diner.

In the diner covered in blood and broken glass.

In the diner covered in blood and glass with a body laid on the counter and oh Merlin is that a body!?!

Like a real dead body?!

"James.." Sirius says quietly, blood draining from his face, mind racing with all the possibilities of what could be happening and what might happen, eyes locked on the sight ahead of them.

"Please tell me that's not your healer friend..."

Apparating was not the best of ideas, but again, what choice did they have?

It's easy enough to focus on where they're going, but for the most part James relies on Sirius. He has an infinite amount of trust in Sirius and knows he won't splinch them together or anything. But apparating is dizzying and while that's normally a thrill he loves, the room is still spinning when they arrive. James staggers and holds onto Sirius as well as he can, leaning heavily against him so he doesn't fall. His stomach tried to drop all the way to the floor when they arrived and for a minute James keeps his eyes on the floor, trying to will himself not to be sick.

It takes him a moment to notice the glass, and the blood. Blood that isn't his own. He slowly, slowly makes himself look up.

He stares. And he grows far too quiet.

He can feel himself tremble, and he grips Sirius' shoulder tighter than necessary, hauling himself upright. For Sirius it was some stranger, an unidentifiable body with candy hearts shoved inside. But for James...for James it was Souji, dead on the counter and sliced open like a piece of meat. It's a nightmare. It's worse than a nightmare, because it's all right there and too real for words. Sorrow builds in him until he snaps and lets it out.

"No. ...No, Souji! Souji!"

There's no response. He moves like he's going to pull away from Sirius and rush over, but as soon as his weight shifts it becomes apparent that he's still very unsteady on his feet so ultimately, he doesn't. He hovers there, unsure of what to do. He's still wide-eyed and horrified and paler than he's ever been.

He looks at Souji the way he would if it were Sirius or Remus there, or even Peter.

But then, he can't look anymore. With a shaky breath, he shuts his eyes tight and tries his hardest to keep from outright sobbing.

Two people fighting? Martha glances up, studying the Doctor for a moment. He's hard to read even on a good day, and so she can't be certain that one of those people was the same person who attacked and killed her. It seems likely, though.

There isn't even an event going on, is there? So then what is this all about? She's never heard any warnings about a man in a gas mask before, so she's at something of a loss for who her murderer is and why he would have any sort of problem with her specifically.

"Not sure you would have stayed out of it, even if you had known," she says with a tiny smirk. It helps to make light of the situation, to make things a bit easier on both of them. "You should heal up right quick, though, yeah?" The Doctor regrew a whole hand, some cuts and scrapes shouldn't slow him down for too long. Not that Martha wanted him going after the killer -- no, that sounds like a terrible idea, in fact.

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Page 5 of 10

VALENTINE'S DAY CATCH ALL 12th-17th

2.14 | stiles stilinski

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