who have i become? i'm still old enough to die young [open]

[rosswood]

Who: Alex Kralie and you
Where: All over the mansion's interior
When: April 1st and April 2nd
Rating: PG-13 probs. there's some self-harm and thoughts of suicide in here, plus someone is getting murdered
Summary: Alex's inability to cope with his own emotions (or the lack thereof) causes problems
The Story:

kitchen; open; i'm static like a dead tv screen ( emotionless )

He opens the lighter with a quiet click and watches the stilling flame with complete disinterest. He shuts it again.

He has a purpose to fulfill. All's quiet in his head, at long goddamn last. No voice urging him on. No screams, no static, no tearing of stark white claws into the folds of his brain and carving them into jelly. It's quiet now.

It's his turn to burn.

He spends his flat moments gathering the requisite materials: a box of matches and a knife from the kitchen, lighter fluid from one of the closets. Whoever stands in his way will be dealt with accordingly. He has work to do.

[ooc: Evelyn has dibs on Taking Care of Alex but anyone else who wants to encounter him in his emotionless zombie state is welcome to!]

entrance hall; open; let this stranger have their death wish ( hyper-emotional )

He makes it as far as the entrance hall before panic creeps up on his chest and closes a tight fist around his throat, and he drops against the nearest wall and clenches his fists tight, jaw aching as he grits his teeth.

He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. Brian laughed, Sarah sighed, exasperated until he came up behind her with a chunk of rebar, Tim hadn't even wanted to be there, Seth was just trying to help when he left him to that thing underneath, Jay just wanted the goddamn tapes.

It doesn't matter. He did what he had to, like a hero. That's what he is. That's what he has to be, a hero, a hero, that's what he - what he -

A rage-filled sound tears its way out of his throat as he swings around and slams his fist into the wall. Then he does it again. And again. And again, until the skin of his knuckles is cracked and bleeding. Why didn't he end it right then, after? Who was he kidding, thinking he could escape when he should have slit his wrists and been done with it? Those are the rules, Kralie. You don't just get out and escape this shit forever and ever, you don't get to abscond with your sanity after getting touched with that blank-faced horror.

He deserves this.

third floor; closed to evelyn; if i pass on, then it's a mercy kill

He's compiled a list of potential threats, and cuts through the mansion with crisp, cold efficiency. The steps are cleanly outlined in his head, like something he's done a thousand times (has he? Maybe he has) - first step, kill the targets. A quick blade jabbing in and out of their neck should accomplish this nicely. Second step, burn the evidence. The jug of lighter fluid sloshes in one hand, the sharp tang of gasoline stinging his nostrils and causing his eyes to water.

But it doesn't matter. He has a list. He has a target. First, there's the kid that isn't a kid. Second, there's the one who somehow obtained knowledge of who he was and what he did (didn't they know he had to do it?), and third, there's Max. The thought should make him hesitate, but it doesn't. She knows about what hounds him, what haunts him, and there's only one solution to that. Kill her, kill the others, and then himself.

It's what's necessary.

He stops in front of one of the rooms and, without hesitation, uncaps the lighter fluid and begins to pour until it soaks through the carpet.

Comments

[nascensibility]

It was almost too easy to shut it out.

Having never had the luxury before it came as a gracious, grateful silence, a relief in the buffer put up between her rocky outcrop and the waves that kept threatening degradation. Entropy here happens slowly, death by a thousand emotional cuts and wearing the stone smooth, placid, and complacent.

She is less so in this moment, armed in Wonderland's halls with every intention of stopping further damage to this place, its people. Too many are trapped for too long, extra lives a temptation for those inclined to commit crimes. Having been the victim on at least three separate occasions Evelyn has neither list nor target, no specificity to her roaming beyond a logic-based need to protect what little there is.

"What are you doing."

It isn't a question. A dozen feet down the corridor a young man - the one she met before, that night when she walked in lucid dreams - clutches a large can and the scent of petrol fills her lungs.

[rosswood]

He doesn't look up from his task. The carpet is thick and heavy with the acrid reek of liquid waiting to be set aflame. All he has to do is finish the deed. There's the lighter buried deep in his pocket, a box of matches clasped in his palm.

"Taking care of some personal business," he says shortly. He doesn't look up to confirm whether or not he recognizes the owner of the voice. What would be the point? If she's here to stop him, all the more reason to complete his job faster. "Don't worry about it."

Of course, it's doubtful it'll be that simple, but he has his knife stowed away in case of trouble.

[nascensibility]

Eyes drawn to the slick arbiter of destruction soaking the floor Evelyn is too reminded of another resident in Wonderland who suggested arson as a means of better understanding this place, that fire was cleansing. Seeing as she has no plans to subscribe to archaic modes of thinking regarding the betterment of those bound to this world in the foreseeable future, Evelyn strides in to catch flame before it is struck.

"Alex."

That's his name, isn't it? It feels odd on her tongue, heavy like a dead weight that needs to be shed. Reason first. Reason first. At his side Evelyn reaches for the hand balled into a fist, hiding flint.

"Your personal business is about to be everyone's business. Stop." A caveat: "Or I will make you stop."

[rosswood]

He steps back, seemingly retreating until the lighter slips from his pocket with a silvered click of spark popping into flame. He holds it over the damp patch on the ground, a latent threat.

"Keep walking. This doesn't concern you." Besides, what can she do? He's the one with the lighter and the knife. He's the one who can reduce this place to wood and ash if she doesn't walk on by.

Everything's muted, grayed-out. All the easier to ignore something that doesn't involve you, right? Why can't she do the same?

It'd be so goddamn simple.

[nascensibility]

Reason attempted.

While it doesn't involved Evelyn directly, she can jump to several conclusions - all of which have a likelihood of endangering lives and engendering more violence. Easier to deal with the problem at the source, cutting the head off of the snake. Alex steps back and she watches him move, watches the glittering lighter pulled from his pocket and snapped to a flame. For a long moment she waits and he expects her to turn and she does, almost.

There is a distant part of her more capable of this than she, deep in her bones and cells, in a past she cannot fully remember or completely forget. It is that part that finds it an unfathomably simple task to dart in, sweeping his arm out of the way with practised ease before slamming a shunt into his sternum with the meat of her palm.

The lighter skitters against a wall and lands several feet away.

"Now it does."

[rosswood]

She moves quick. He should've anticipated that. Or maybe expected something to come of that threat of hers. Simple as dropping the lighter and watching the flames roar to life, but it's gone from his hands now. His expression hardens.

"You shouldn't have done that." He winces as he rights himself again, slips the knife from his pocket and holds it ready at his side. Pain is inconsequential. At least his skull isn't splitting apart at the seams.

It's already better here than it was at home. Here's what he has to do.

"I'd rather not hurt you," he says evenly. She's not any danger, she's not on his list of necessary targets. But it's doubtful that will be sufficient, so he circles and prepares to put the knife to use.

[nascensibility]

She moves quickly but the motions themselves are not entirely hers, something alien about the way it feels more like a reaction than intentional. It reminds her too vividly of an afternoon in Hannibal Lecter's apartment, when something inside of her had snapped at the sight of all that blood, puddles on the floor and Will Graham sprawled on the carpet. Back then it had been anger that drove her to pick up the nearest sharp object, but this?

This feels detached, and in a way, easier.

"The feeling is mutual."

Evelyn watches the knife - almost bored, and the sensation is off - and takes a deep breath.

"But if your intentions are to set this place aflame and kill people with whom you have personal grievances, I advise you seek counsel. I told you before. I will stop you."

[rosswood]

"It's not that simple." Sounds like a stupid cliché the way he says it, and if he had the capacity to feel revulsion, he'd be cursing himself for vomiting up such a hackneyed phrase. But it's the truth, so it works.

"It's for everyone's good." She isn't about to move. He'll have to take matters into his own hands. "It's better like that."

And then he lunges, bringing the blade up to aim for the meat of her shoulder. A good puncture there will incapacitate her, might even be fatal if he gets the cut just right, but she should have known to move when he offered her the chance.

It's better like that.

[nascensibility]

It's a guarantee that he has his own reasons, misguided as they might be, for wanting to punish others. Evelyn is certain that if very particular people were still in residence, she would feel the same way - but they aren't, and so she doesn't. It's a privilege she has over him in his petrol-soaked mania, his eyes glassy as his fingers tighten around the knife.

He doesn't know how to use it the way that he should.

It shows when Alex jerks forward to cut her, catching fabric but no skin as she swings out of the way and uses his momentum to jerk him to one side where he might lose his balance. With a small amount of space secured she reaches for the trench knife strapped to her hip, curling her fingers through the brass knuckle handle.

"You're a little boy throwing a tantrum," she replies dispassionately, stepping in to catch his arm with a warning.

[rosswood]

"I'm trying to fix things," he insists, but she slips out of the way like oil and he's left slashing at cloth and thin air. He jerks in her grip, attempting to dislodge her.

She doesn't understand. Just like back home, no one understood. They all cried out in horror and misunderstanding, shock stamped on their stupid faces when he came at them with rebar or waited for the faceless thing in the windows to take them. They didn't know what he was fighting for, and neither does she.

"Get off," he says, drawing the word out, thick with warning.

[nascensibility]

Evelyn isn't so underhanded as to direct her knee anywhere between his legs - a considerably low blow even when fighting dirty - and so she pushes him against the nearest wall, pinning his knife and pressing the blade of her own under his jaw. The desire to cut deeper is an intoxicating one, well-deserved, and whatever threat Alex posed could be snuffed out in an instant.

"I told you." Barely more than a whisper. "I will make you stop."

[rosswood]

Then do it, the angry urge bubbles up beneath the icy veneer, and he forces it down. He's useless in his emotional state. Just some lost, crying little boy who can't do a thing to prevent the inevitable. This is better. He just needs to get the upper hand.

"You know I'll just come back," he says coldly, and lashes out with his feet, attempting to trip her up. He can feel the cool sliver of blade against his neck, cutting deeper thanks to his struggles.

[nascensibility]

"Not if I bury you," she says coolly, and the comment alone would send a shiver through her if she had the capacity and wherewithal. Alex tries to kick out and she sets her stance more firmly. She could bury him, yes, in a heavy box in a place no one will find, where he'll come back and be trapped. Where he'll never pose another threat to anyone.

Too close and too intimate to be in this position any longer without wanting to be sick in his presence - for the murders, the fire he could have caused, the potential for danger - Evelyn peels the knife away from his throat

and slowly slides it into his gut.

[rosswood]

He grits his teeth. Bury him. Like the red-eyed freak. Like the dirt they turned over his corpse, like that'd be enough to put him down.

He doesn't get the chance to follow the thought through, because then she follows him through and feels the blade slide through those wet bags of organs strung all up inside him, cutting into his wrung-out liver like a knife through butter.

Like how the kid did it. Slammed the knife into him. Easy as falling asleep.

"Y-you're - " he chokes out, but doesn't make it any further. His vocal cords have hitched, the words made brittle. He tries to grab at the knife buried in him, as if that would do anything.

It won't matter.

He's already fading.

[nascensibility]

The internal bleeding is the least of his worries but she doesn't make a point of telling him that. The ease with which she presses in is startling, startling and it shouldn't be, it takes so little effort to break the skin when the knife is sharp enough. Evelyn's is, but she won't prolong the inevitable by making him suffer for longer than is necessary.

"Yes."

It's airy and detached, as though she were not experiencing the action in its entirety but watching from above. Releasing his arm to take a fistful of his shirt, she holds the blade firm and keeps him from slipping too quickly to the floor as he begins to sag.

[rosswood]

God...goddamnit. Not again. People are always trying to step in and keep him from doing what he's got to do. They can't understand. They have no idea what he's had to live through, what's left for him to do. And now he's failed. Again.

If he had the energy to be angry, he'd be spitting obscenities as he sluggishly bleeds out. The capacity to be furious, to be outraged, to be anything other than blankly exhausted while the life seeps out of him. There's nothing to say to that. No commentary to be dispensed. No vengeance to be sworn. He's doing his job. And she's doing hers.

Next time he'll be certain to ensure no one's around, he affirms to himself privately, and that's his last coherent thought before it all spirals into nothing.