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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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...

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.]]

Victor came in for his shift to find an unfamiliar face cleaning up. A volunteer, perhaps? He moved forward to greet the man, but stopped when he took in the scene in full. The smell of cleaner didn't fully mask the blood. There was a very unpleasant feeling beginning to rise in him.

"What the hell are you doing? Where's Martha?" But he didn't wait to hear it. Victor almost knew... He pushed his way through the clinic searching for her. The man already covered her body. Victor pulled the sheet aside and saw her.

It felt like breaking. His friend, dead. Heart gone. And he could do nothing, because resurrecting her would go against what she wanted from him.

"Dammit," he swore.

Edited 2014-02-12 16:52 (UTC)

Daryl's in the process of scrubbing some errant specks of blood from one of the walls- and god help him is it hard not to think of how they got there- when the guy heads in- Victor, the other doctor, the guy who'd helped with Ruby...

He's not thinking about that now, though. If he weren't so distracted he might have tried to stop him sooner, but when he approaches the back room Daryl steps back from the wall, gestures at the door with his bloody sponge.

"Wait! Don't--"

It's too late, though. Dropping his arm, Daryl looks away as Victor pulls the sheet aside, both because he himself doesn't need to see again... And because the guy deserves his privacy. It's... It's bad.

After a few seconds he speaks up.

"...Tryin' to clean it up, place can't stay like this." Back home, it's dirty or nothing, but here, well..

The first thing Martha'd showed him is how to keep things clean, sterile... It's all he can do for her now.

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.

Edited 2014-02-12 18:37 (UTC)

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.

Al is already off-kilter when the attacks start, and it doesn't take long before he's gone dashing down to the clinic to try and help Martha--even if it's only helping with minor first-aid, he knows he needs to do something.

But it's not the usual clinic that he finds, and a cold weight drops in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the half-cleaned blood and the covered gurney--and no Martha in sight. "D-Daryl? What...where is Martha?"

Please, please tell him what he's seeing is wrong.

Off-kilter, yeah, that's one way to put it. Daryl's used to death- and in fact the scene he'd stumbled upon in the clinic had been mild, by his Georgia's standards- but a masked lunatic, another person being the cause? That he ain't familiar with. Killing other people for sport isn't some thing can grasp... Not that he has any desire to, of course.

He's kneeling when Al walks in, working to scrub a particularly stubborn splatter off of the side of the desk, but he straightens immediately at the sound of the kid's voice. Shaken, not that he'd expected otherwise. He hasn't had a hell of a lot of time and it's been slow going by himself, between checking on Martha's body periodically and the fact that there'd been a pretty huge amount of blood. Everywhere. It only looks a little better than it had when he'd arrived.

"She's... I brought her in the back." He ducks his head, clenching his fingers around the sponge despite the way the action makes the nicks and cuts on his hand sting as the cleaner works its way in. "Couldn't do nothin' else for her."

Al stares at Daryl for several seconds, hearing the words but not wanting to comprehend them. His eyes flicker again to the gurney and his stomach twists up painfully, forcing him to grip the doorframe to stay upright. "But...why...? She never hurt anybody!"

It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair! It was the only thought could really form right now, the heavy sense of despair falling hard on his shoulders.

Daryl, too, peers over at the back room before answering.

"That ain't how it works."

It's... Probably not what Al wants to hear. But it's the truth, no matter how terrible, and Daryl isn't one to sugarcoat things.

Al ducks his head, biting his lip against the tears. He knows Daryl's right, he knows, but...it shouldn't be. It just doesn't sit right, and it never will.

"I...I came to help, what with that person on the loose..." He sniffles and scrubs at his eyes. "I...I should help you clean up in here." It would be something to do, something constructive to focus on. He wants to just collapse and weep, but the clinic needs to be up and running right now.

Victor observed Martha for a moment longer, the grief at her loss hardening over into medical observation as he noted her injuries and the candied hearts in her chest cavity. Once he took note of everything her body showed him, Victor carefully covered her again to give her some peace. All his emotion was pushed firmly down.

"That's thoughtful of you," Victor answered evenly. "I'll be up front in case we get any patients. No one will come back here."

He was told that people resurrected here on their own in a day or so. Yet five times was the limit... He hoped that this was not Martha's fifth time.

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.

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.

Edited 2014-02-13 08:01 (UTC)

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.

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."

Edited 2014-02-13 15:16 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Any glimmer of optimism Daryl may have felt about there being even an iota of justice in the world had died the second that little girl'd stepped out of Hershel's barn... But even so, it never gets any easier.

He'd be worried for his sanity if it did, honestly.

He gives Al his privacy to do what he's gotta do, pull himself together, and keeps his eyes trained on the soapy grime that's separating into cracks in the floor until he speaks up.

"Gotta keep the place in workin' order. Here-" And he extends his sponge to Al with a jerk toward the spot he's been working on. "Take care of that, I'll see to the back."

The gurney. The... The bits. This ain't Georgia; kid don't need to see that.

And even though he ain't much for comfort- and he don't know Al as well he knows some people here- he gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze as he makes his way to the back. It's all he's got.

As per usual, America is late to the chaos.

He isn't a world power nosing into everyone's business, always on the alert for problems to insert himself into, or at least loudly voice his opinions about. He's young and hurt and struggling too much with his own problems to be much use to anyone, as much wishes otherwise, as much as he tries to be something better. So after studying some of the medical textbook Martha had given him, America makes his way to the clinic. The only trepidation he feels is seeing Martha face-to-face for the first time since his mental collapse. Impending awkwardness and performance anxiety are his only worries.

Until he actually arrives in the doorway to see the frantic disarray of the clinic, the bloodied sheet that undoubtedly covers a corpse (a sight he's all too familiar with), a friend hunched over with only the weight of loss can bring (a sight he wishes he wasn't familiar with). America's first response is to just stare in confusion. He has to blink a few times to make sure this is real, it isn't just another hallucinations his mind has fabricated from nightmares and memories.

"Um."

His feet move automatically toward Daryl and the blood soaked sheet. His mind is still processing what's happening, taking everything in and filing it through channels that have collected some dust in the absence of war. It's only one body, is his automatic thought, much easier to deal with than fields of corpses interspersed with the wounded. No hurry to identify the dead before the bodies bloat beyond recognition, no need to shoo off opportunistic pigs and wildlife that aren't discerning between the dead and wounded, no worry of insects or disease or countless dead horses that need to be burned. Just one body and one distraught friend.

America assures himself that this is entirely manageable.

His shoulders straighten and a strange sort of detachment settles over him, smooths out his expression into curiosity and the vague sort of sympathy of someone who is holding off on mourning, whose emotions have dislodged and are waiting to be picked up again.

"What's the situation?"

Not the expected reaction of someone who usually wears their heart on their sleeve, but he's seen enough death that it's become routine. Even someone who wears their heart on their sleeve can't live for centuries getting upset and panicked at every death, no matter how violent or bloody.

LOOK AT THIS PAIR OF STOIC BADASSES.

Honestly, Daryl's glad to have somebody else in the general vicinity who can keep a clear head despite the situation, maintain some semblance of relative calm... Even if during their last interaction the both of them had been anything but.

And so while he bristles slightly at the (probably incorrectly) perceived slight, he doesn't let it get under his skin like he would any other time. The guy's right: the show must go on in here, and they both have their places for the time being; Daryl offers Victor a stiff nod and no argument.

"Good. ...There a key for that room?" It's not that he's looking to forbid people from going back there, but... There should at least be some warning. It ain't pretty, that's for sure.

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Page 1 of 10

VALENTINE'S DAY CATCH ALL 12th-17th

02/12/2014 - Death Post: Martha Jones

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

THE FORECAST SAYS TL;DR.

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

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FEB 12th: Lena and Harry

February 12th - Mary Margaret's Swan Song

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

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

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

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2/13 - Sam, the Victim

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