| World of Harry Potter Forums http://wohp.net/forums/ | |
| The Truth I: Second Life http://wohp.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=4526 |
Page 1 of 1 |
| Author: | StephenJamesJuice [ Wed Sep 15, 2010 4:59 am ] |
| Post subject: | The Truth I: Second Life |
'What do you even do when you're not here?' 'Nothing really, mainly travelling and painting. Not a lot else to do.' "Please, just let me go. What the hell is wrong with you?!" His words ring out across the vastness of the abandoned boxing ring, the cracked walls peeling silently as a masked figure walks past, his gloved hands gently brushing the flakes of paint to the floor as he passes. His mask is black, with two eye holes exposing beautiful blues and a stitched mouth piece that moves slightly as he begins to speak. "I'm not going to kill you William, settle down." The mask moves, probably a smile but nothing is concrete. The masked man steps up into the ring, using the ropes to hoist himself onto the dirtied mat. In one corner of the ring is a large blank easel, the crisp white of the canvas offering obvious contrast to the dank browns and rusted oranges of the facility. In the other is a large empty sports bag. William, a short stocky man with thick ginger sideburns leans forwards invoulantarily, his wrists and ankles bound to the elastic ropes, his chest sticking out to somehow support himself, his eyes darting between the masked man and the childs paddling pool situated directly below him. "What the **** is this?! Drown me? You gonna drown me in this piece of ****?!" The masked man approaches, his dignified posture obvious in his strides before he comes to a halt, towering over William. He peers down at him then looks to the pool. "I'm not going to kill you William. I'm not a murderer. You on the other hand, well, i know i don't have to bore you with the details of your crimes so i'll just slap your chubby little face and insist you shut your mouth." The masked man raises his hand, watching William whince prematurely, his body shifting to the right to avoid the hit. The man's stiched mouth creases into a smile, his hand lowering to ruffle Williams curly amber lockes. He gently taps his head and waggles his finger as he steps backwards, kneeling down to inspect one of his long black sports bags. "Now i'm going to show you something William and you're going to cooperate with me because i think, the last thing you want right now is a flask of boiling sugar water trickling down your back." William struggles, the cable ties that restrain his wrists and such tightening with every pull. The masked man tuts, removing a small leatherbound journal from his bag and walks calmly back to William, holding the cover infront of him. "Read it." William grunts, his rage building up into vocal grunts before he screams with rage. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT WAS YOU! YOU TWISTED LITTLE PUNK! WHAT THE **** IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" The masked man shakes his head, his large gloved hand cupping William's face, his fingers gently stroking his skin. "William. Read me, the title of this book." William shakes his head violently, the redness on his skin now evident as his struggling allows the ties to cut deeper into his skin. The masked man sighs, watching the cuts develop. He kneels down, adjusting the paddling pool beneath William and looks up to him, his eyes following the drops of blood falling freely into it. "This is not how this works William, you know that. Regardless of who you think i am, there is an important request being posed to you as you hang so helplessly, consequences outlined to you should you not be willing to cooperate and still you deny me the simple act of reading the title of this journal. Your stupidity does not impress me William, now read!" The masked man raises his voice, slowly losing patience. William stops struggling, his dulling green eyes focusing on the journal before him. His top lip curls in disgust before he speaks, lowering his head as his energy is quickly drained. "Magical Door Theory: A brief outline of History by William Lenhurst, Michael Lenigas, Miranda Salle and Samuel Fallow." He coughs, spluttering into the pool, sticky mucas filling his lungs after years of smoking. He looks up to the masked man, his eyes watering, his body stressed after prolonged strain from the way he is tied. He speaks quietly once more. "I know it's you Lenigas, Samuel's dead and only you and Miranda maintain contact. You're after my piece of the journal aren't you! Well you're not getting it! You made your choice when you declared we hide our secrets from eachother. I begged you to reconsider but you wouldn't listen, you were convinced none of us could be trusted. The day Samuel declared only one person would travel to the beyond, he declared war on us all, hunting us for our secrets. He didn't deserve the chance to pass through, that's why he's dead and we're alive! **** Miranda, me and you could work together, i'd let you do it. I'd stand back! I swear!" The masked man, having removed a beautifull decorated brush from his pocket, places the book to one side, his knees bending as he meets William on eye level. "I've come to collect your secrets William. I have your journal already so i know you've guessed what comes next." William trembles, his body becoming more and more motionless, the cuts from his wrists still spilling the occasional drop of blood. The masked man stands up straight, walking over to the easel in the corner of the ring. He picks it up and moves it directly in front of William before reaching down to remove a long pointed dagger. He approaches William whose eyes begin to roll into the back of his head, his body slumping forward. The man cups Williams face, holding it up right before bring the dagger up and holding it between his lips. He uses it to prise open his mouth and then slip the dagger up into the roof of his mouth. Blood begins to flow, filling Williams mouth. The man drops the dagger into the pool and brings his brush up and into the pooled blood. He turns, still holding up Williams head and uses the brush to begin painting. He speaks calmly as he paints. "Not long now William, your blood will paint the way." Once finished, he allows his head to drop, the blood spilling into the pool. The masked man reaches into his pocket and removes a small leather pouch from which he removes a small tab of paper. He carefully opens William's left eye and places the tab on his iris. He shuts the eye with his thumb and steps back, picking up the dagger. He leans over and cuts the cable ties, letting William fall face first into the pool. He collects the loose objects in the ring and packs away the easel, placing everything neatly into the sports bag. He watches William in the pool, slowly coming to. "William, right now you have a very powerful tab of acid raging through your body. As far as you're concerned, you are just another madman who succumbed to the might of London's nastiest gangsters, your debt to them no doubt drug related. They tied you up and tortured you for their money to which you eventually came to agreement. The men wore masks except for one, a certain Michael Lenigas, who in fact oversaw the entire event. You remember his face, his piercing blue eyes judging you at your moment of true weakness. Your transaction complete, you stumbled to the nearest police station, your mind a wreck as you try to explain to them your situation. The cut in your mouth is a scar you received as a boy, drinking from a glass that your pearly new teeth had accidently bitten into. The force of the hits they dealt you caused the scar to tear, filling your mouth with blood and the cuts on your wrists are evidence of their applied force to keep you tied to a chair. You've never seen this boxing ring in your life and could not describe it's location even if you tried. Your mind is a major blank and you come to the conclusion that drugs are bad, your lifestyle of dealing and violence is behind you since any real investigation into you would reveal the several murders you have had a hand in. So i suggest, if you remember anything from tonight, it is that because if you kill again, i will find you and won't have to waste my time convincing you of what happened since dead men don't have a memory, just a legacy. Your legacy however will be quickly forgotten and the world shall continue to turn." The masked man quickly exits the ring and returns with a wooden chair from against one of the walls. He places it in the centre of the ring and hoists William from pool and into the chair. He carefully deflates the paddling pool and rolls it into a cylinder, taping the sides to stop the blood from spilling out. He reaches up and disconnects a punch bag from its chain, opening it up and empyting it into a second sports bag that sits in another corner of the ring. He picks up the rolled up pool, placing it inside of the punch bag before reattatching it and hoisting it high above the ring. He turns to William, sitting in the chair, his eyes half open as his body reacts to the hallucinogenic. The masked man raises a hand and punches him square across the face, knocking him sideways with the chair, both of which crash into the floor. He picks up his two sports bags and turns his back on William, confident the scene is spotless before approaching the exit. He turns briefly, the stitched cloth mouth of the mask twitching to speak but nothing is said. He opens the door, the moonlight pouring in from the outside. The door slams shut, the masked mans voice heard from beyond. "Police please. Thank you. Yes, hello, i'd like to report a missing person..." |
|
| Author: | StephenJamesJuice [ Tue Oct 05, 2010 9:49 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The Truth I: Second Life |
Footsteps ring out upon the cobbles, a pair of finely decorated boots taking each step carefully along a bustling street in Paris. The sun shines brightly in the sky and clouds are minimal, birds fleeing the heavens to perch together in their flocks. The ambience of voices consumes the air as a smartly dressed Reece Fallow makes his way down the street, ignoring them all. His ocean blue eyes survey their faces as they pass, his thoughts not with them but with another. A homeless looking man walks beside him, his low inaudible tones rumbling as they speak quietly, his hand then quickly pocketing something before he turns to the right and continues walking, Reece briefly smiling to him before he leaves. He brushes the sleeve of his crisp white shirt and straightens his tie as he approaches a set of large glass doors. He pushes his pack to one side and presses one of his large hands against the glass, gently passing through the door. A young blonde receptionist turns from her work and admires his beauty, her eyes flickering around his features as he approaches. She bites her bottom lip and adjusts her bangs quickly, resting her palms flat on the table. He simply smiles, raising his right hand, his tattoos covered by the buttoned sleeves of his shirt. “Hello.” She smiles back to him and fidgets uncomfortably, clearing her throat before she speaks. “Bonjour! Mr…?” He frowns, rubbing the side of his face gently, his eyes scouring the room for a familiar face. “Mr Morgan, The Evening Telegraph. I’m here to interview Mr Michael Lenigas regarding his nomination for ‘The E.T’s Business Awards.’ An extremely prestigious award as I’m sure you can imagine.” The receptionist looks him over briefly, tilting her head before speaking in a thick French accent. “I presume you have identification Mr. Morgan because I do not recall Mr. Lenigas mentioning your visit.” Reece frowns, his face forcing shock as if unaware he would be asked such a routine question. He rests his arms on the desk and leans forwards with a smile, his fingers extending as he speaks in a hushed manner. “Well of course.” He turns his attention behind her, a series of televisions screening various CCTV footage mounted on the wall next to some filing cabinets. He points to one of the screens, a look of false concern on his face. “He however, now he looks like he left his identification at home.” The receptionist follows his gaze, foolishly turning around to view the camera. Reece extends his arm easily across the desk, a small metallic object concealed in his hand. He gently lifts the wire to the back of her phone, snipping the wire some way down in one swift motion before retracting his hand and resuming his lean, his eyes darting around to ensure he wasn’t seen. On the screen in question are several cars, all line next to each other in parking garage, a homeless looking man lingering besides a blue Fiat. He glances into one of the windows, his grubby hands pressed flat up against them. The receptionist gasps, he hand quickly covering her mouth as she turns back to the tall Ravenclaw. He gently tucks some hair behind his ear and sighs, shaking his head. “It’s sad. You can’t even leave your car unattended whilst you work without some wily vagabond ascertaining what is wrongfully his. I suggest you call security. You got enough guys to handle it? He looks a bit unstable.” She reaches for the phone nodding to him quickly. “We may be a small business Mr. Morgan but we have adequate security.” Reece frowns again, watching her tap the phone gently since no line can be heard the other end. She frowns in turn, rolling her eyes as Reece speaks. “I hardly think four guys are gonna stop this man if he gets in that car Miss, cars are… large.” She purses her lips, placing the receiver down on the desk and she shakes her head. “Four? Mr. Lenigas keeps a minimum of eight security officials on site at anyone time, this man will not be a problem. Can you please excuse me? The phones are down again and I need to report this, I’ll only be a few minutes. Watch the desk for me hm?” She flutters her eyelashes to which Reece smiles, bowing his head slightly to comply. She quickly stands, making a dash across the entrance hall in her heels, her arms straight at her sides as she moves. Reece watches her leave, shaking his head and applying his gloves from his pocket as his hand then reaches over to remove the electronic card, wedged in the front of her computer. He looks down at the name, ignoring her picture. He then turns on his heels with a smile and strolls towards a door depicting stairs on its face. He slides the card calmly through the device beside it and pushes the door open, walking through it before darting up the stairs. He wipes his forehead of sweat, his window of time closing as he approaches the third floor. He lifts the latch and walks through into a large corridor. Various names are written on plaques that identify each door with its owner. He walks slowly past them, his eyes searching for that name. He stops, his hand gently brushing a plaque and he smiles, muttering to himself quietly. “Michael Lenigas.” He opens his pack and removes his tatty leather-bound journal, opening it carefully. He scans through the pages, finding his Fathers’ entries. He runs his finger along the words before tapping the word ‘Safe’. He closes the journal and slides it back into his bag. He bends his knees and lowers himself to look through the keyhole of the door. He grins broadly and opens the door to a large office, the huge window giving a beautiful view of Paris. Directly ahead of his a large desk with paper neatly piled together, various pens and equipment, a small mug and an empty leather chair to accompany it. To his right are several bookcases and cabinets and to his left is a wall plastered with abstract paintings. His eyes linger on the artwork before widening quickly, the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. He rummages through his bag once more, removing his flask of tea. He dashes to the mug, pouring the tea quickly before screwing the lid back on and placing it in his pack. He then pulls up one of his sleeves, removing a small hourglass charm half filled with white powder. He bites the top and pours the contents into the tea quickly and turns placing the charm into his pocket. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Reece swallows and offers a bright smile, stepping to one side to reveal the tea. He quickly flashes the receptionists ID from a far and pockets it quickly, taking a step forward. “I’m James, Marie’s work experience. I’m studying in France as part of a foreign exchange programme. I have to say, I love the work you do here.” The man walks through the door, his eyes narrowed as he speaks. He wears a dark green suit with a black tie, his hair grey in places but slicked back and shining. His face is clean shaven, his hand reaching to rub his chin. “Receptionist Marie? She failed to mention this earlier.” Reece just chuckles, offering a slight shrug. “In all honest Mr. Lenigas, I think she has a soft spot for me. Man to man? I think she snuck me in here for work experience to er… get to know me.” Reece’s heart pounds in his chest, his palms sweating as he awaits a response and to his credit, Mr. Lenigas smirks, shaking his head. “Well, she’s got you making the teas, I guess she thinks she’s above that now huh? Well between you and me, I think you’re her type. That aside James, you can’t just walk in here, you knock and if there is no response, you wait until there is, you got me?” He points his finger at Reece, a stern look in his eyes. Reece nods quickly and scratches the back of his head. “That’s what I thought but Marie said to me that you’d value the tea over the intrusion. I asked if I should knock and she told me to just pop it on the desk and let you savour the sentiment. In all honesty Sir, I thought I’d be out before you got in.” Mr Lenigas smiles, waving his hand dismissively. He walks over to the desk and picks up the tea, bringing it up to inhale its steam. “Yes well James, no harm done, hm? Ah, early grey, I see you have a touch of class about you.” Reece nods again, approaching the door to leave. “Only the best Sir.” Mr Lenigas waves him out and nods before calling out. “Send Marie up here would you James? And thank you for the tea.” He sits down in his chair, sipping from the cup quietly. The moment a slurp is heard, Reece closes the door, remaining inside the office. He takes a deep breath and turns back to Mr Lenigas who begins to squirm uncomfortably in his chair. He looks down at the cup, then back to Reece, who simply smiles, turning the lock on the door. Reece tucks some hair behind his ear and speaks. “Go to sleep Michael.” Mr Lenigas slowly looses consciousness, his words stuck in his mouth as he slumps against his desk, his eyes flickering quickly. He eventually collapses into a heap on the floor, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Reece watches him, bring a finger to his lips to silence his noise. He shakes his head before walking over to the downed man. He kneels beside him, rummaging through his pockets until he removes a black slide mobile phone. He opens it and searches through the contacts before stopping on ‘Miranda’ His fingers work quickly to type out a message. ‘Something has come up, the key is in jeopardy, bring your journal and text me a place to meet.’ He sends the message, leaving it on the desk as he searches the room. He looks behind one of the paintings to reveal the safe. He grins broadly, admiring its obvious positioning before turning back to the sound of vibrations. He jogs over to the table and picks up the phone, reading the new message. ‘I’ve heard. William turned up at my house saying some very interesting things about you Michael. Samuel’s Cabin, he doesn’t use it anymore. Tomorrow night. Bring yours.’ Reece grits his teeth at her choice of location, a cabin he had once been interrogated by his Father in. He sets the message to unread and slips it back in to Michaels pocket. He returns to the safe and punches 1 9 5 9 into the keypad. The light turns green and the sound of a mechanical lock releasing is heard. He opens the safe, removing a journal and several sheets of paper. He leaves the money inside, shutting the door. He places the items into his pack and adjusts the painting accordingly. He turns to Michael on the floor and shoots a gun finger his way. “I’ll be seeing you Michael, don’t forget me now.” He turns on his heel and walks to the door, unlocking it carefully. He opens it, greeted by a single security guard, his hand raised to knock the door. He looks wide eyed at Reece, his bald head gleaming under the light. Reece panics, looking from side to side before thrusting his head forward into the face of the man. The crack of his nose breaking rings in his ears as pushes past him and darts to the stairs. The man stumbles backwards, holding his bloodied face, trying to feel his way upright. He blinks and looks up only to see Reece has already gone. His head throbbing, Reece sprints down the stairs, a grin sprawled across his lips, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He stops on the stairwell, a window looking out to the ally beyond. He lifts the window, climbing through it and lowering himself before letting go. He crashes into a bin below, landing on its lid and bouncing off it onto the floor. He holds his head, looking down at his legs before using the bin for support. He stands slowly and shakes his head. He then walks out, back onto the bustling street once more. He plays a story in his head, repeating himself over and over. ‘We met, he found me out, we got into a fight and he escaped. Don’t worry though, I know where he’s running to…’ He slips his hands into his pockets and makes his way to the train station, his thoughts no longer with Michael but with another. He smiles. |
|
| Author: | StephenJamesJuice [ Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:11 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The Truth I: Second Life |
The moon shines brightly in the sky, reflected in the clear waters of a lake that stretches miles amongst a vast woodland. An owl hoots in the darkness, the silence broken momentarily as a silent wind continues to blow. A light in the wood illuminates the surrounding area, its source being a window on the side of a small wooden cabin. The crisp texture of dead leaves and twigs snaps as a foot steps carefully upon them. The figure of a man carries the stride, his face hidden beneath a familiar black mask, its mouth stitched, and the eyes blue. He removes a mobile phone, punching in a number from memory and texting a message to it. ‘William, this is my new number. Michael. Meet me at Samuel’s cabin; I have some explaining to do.’ He then throws the phone out across the water, landing somewhere in the lake. Clad in black, the man approaches the cabin, the sound of raised voices now gradually becoming within earshot. He man makes a dash for the outer wall of the cabin, pressing himself up against it. He scoots to left, his head slowly leaning to gaze inside the window. Inside stands Mr Lenigas and a woman arguing. Her hair is a long chestnut brown, hanging down past her shoulders. Her face is sour and her nose crooked. Her long spindly fingers point at Mr Lenigas in a manner of accusation, her thick grey jacket swaying as she moves. The figure outside the window leans back, looking up to the stars, the stitched mouth moving as he smiles. “Miranda…” He leans to view once more, his eyes now scanning the room for something. Inside, an open fireplace roars with intensity, a large stag head mounted above the mantle. A small broken bed sits in one corner and various blood stains tarnish the floor. The figure lingers on the stains, briefly locked in a flashback. He shakes his head and grunts, maintaining his search. His eyes pass Miranda once more, her eyes meeting his. He gasps, snapping out of sight and turns to move, only to be confront by a fist that slams into his face. He stumbles backwards, Miranda now at the window watching. Michael retracts his fist and approaches the figure before slamming his other hand into the side of his head. The man falls to the ground in a daze, his eyes widening to stay conscious. Slowly he’s dragged around the cabin and through the door. Michael grabs his shirt and throws him into the centre of the room. The two look down at the figure, a smirk creeping across Miranda’s face before she speaks. “This him?” Michael nods slowly, crossing his arms as the man in the mask holds his head, groaning slightly. Miranda crouches down and tilts her head, her hand reaching for the mask. The grabs the top and yanks it off, Reece’s hair flopping into view. Blood runs from his lip and early signs of bruising forms around his eye. He tries to grin but at that moment feels Michaels foot surging into his side. “Hello James. Funny we should find you all the way out here. On another tea run?” Miranda shakes her head, running her finger down Reece’s cheek, her eyes momentarily sympathetic. “He looks just like his Father Michael.” Michael nods again, hoisting Miranda to her feet before walking around Reece, looking down at him the whole time. “Yes, you are your Father’s Son, that’s for sure.” Reece smirks, spitting some blood on the floor beside him before speaking quietly. “Kudos Poirot, what’s next? You gonn-“ Before he can finish, Michael grabs him by his hair and slams the back of his head into the floor, shouting into his face. “SHUT UP! Miranda, take his bag.” She reaches down, lifting the strap from his shoulders and slides it to her feet before picking it up. She opens it and removes one large tatty journal, his brown leather pouch and a flask of tea. She places the journal on a table and then opens the pouch. She tips the contents onto the table, revealing two small tabs of paper. She frowns, turning back to Reece. “What the **** is this?” Michael delivers another firm kick into Reece’s ribs and smirks, shaking his head. “Acid Miranda, he was going to drug us.” Reece just shrugs, rolling to one side, clutching his ribs. Michael grimaces and hoists him up before pushing him to his knees and grabbing on of his arms, forcing his hand palm down onto the table. He holds it in place, his lips inches from Reece’s ear as he speaks. “We know who you are Fallow, we know what you’ve come for. You thought you were so clever, what with William and me. I mean, even guiding us here was a smart move but you forgot to work out the finest of details. At the office, my safe was near enough empty. You left the money. You must have had a code. You know who else had that code?” Miranda frowns at Michael, placing her hands on her hip. “You gave Samuel the code to your safe?” She frowns, waiting for a response. “Of course I did, Samuel made that company what it is until his untimely departure.” He turns to Reece, his lip curling in disgust. He slams his fist into Reece’s hand and grins broadly. Reece yelps in pain, his eyes watering as he screws up his face in pain. Michael tilts Reece’s head back, speaking to him. “So as you can imagine, it wasn’t hard to work out that Psycho Fallow number two was on the loose. You twisted little man, all this for doors? You chasing her face like your old man? He would have done anything to see Wifey dearest again.” He chuckles, mocking Reece with his laughter who now starts to struggle, gritting his teeth together tightly. “Ho ho, no we have a reaction. Does mentioning Mummy make you feel human boy? Does it?” Reece struggles again, his arms trying to overpower Michaels grasp but to no avail. He slumps back onto his knees, his hands held out on the table. Michael turns to Miranda. “Your ‘doors’ young Fallow are a lifetime of work away. Our scepticisms kept the group conflicted but it was healthy confliction, it kept us thinking outside the box but oh no, not with your Father. His conflictions just spawned outrage amongst me and my peers. He became delusional and selfish, his goal to steal our parts of the journal and find the door himself. The original piece we based this on, a leather-bound journal, the one you had on your person is the same journal your Father filled with blood. The twisted maniac believes that blood, the life-force of us mere mortals would illuminate symbols within the pages of the journal, those symbols which could then be translated into coordinates.” He shakes his head and slaps the back of Reece’s. “Stay with me. No-“ Reece cuts him off, an unusual rage consuming his voice, his neck straining and his eyes wide as he shouts. “DON’T SPEAK TO ME LIKE I DON’T KNOW! I’VE MADE MORE PROGRESS WITH THIS WORK THAN ANY ONE OF YOU COULD DREAM OF!” Michael smirks, ruffling his hair with his hand. Miranda paces back and forth before crouching down to look at Reece. She smiles. “Oh? Have you ever passed through a door young Fallow?” Reece slowly shakes his head, the two others now laughing at his gesture. She stands, brushing her knees down, careful not to have gotten blood on her. “No that’s right. Neither did Daddy, neither have we and neither has William. Some thought we were fools but we gathered information that just kept supporting the idea, it was only a matter of time. Your Father wanted to rush things. We all agreed to keep separate journals, to broaden our information lines, to document personal experiences and findings. We agreed after so many years to put the journals together and find us our door. Your Father couldn’t wait apparently and much like you, came after us, one by one. He started with me however.” She grimaces, pulling down the collar of her jacket to reveal a long scar starting at her neck and seemingly running down to just above her left breast. Reece looks to her, a twinkle in his eye as he then looks to the table, formulating a plan as he speaks. “Your History lesson is welcomed since I’m in no position to.. hm, not listen. Just talk as you see fit guys, I got all night.” He smirks up at Michael, the sound of a car pulling up just audible for someone listening. “Not to mention you’re both about as interesting as dead cats.” Reece winces, ready for his consequence, a though playing in his mind. ‘Have to time this right, have to time this right.’ Michael’s lip curls and he raises his fist to slam into Reece’s hand, briefly letting go. In that time Reece reaches into his boot to grab his blade, quickly slashing across the legs of the table. In one motion Michael slams his fist onto Reece’s other hand, the table then collapsing. Michael stumbles forwards, bumping his head into the wall and Reece spins on his rear to kick Miranda off of her feet. He grabs the journals and flask, placing them into his pack only to look down, a paper tab now stuck to the bottom of his sweaty hand. He rolls his eyes, looking at it before running to the centre of the room. He picks up his mask and runs over to Michael, quickly trying to stand. Reece’s foot slams into his face, pinning him against the wall. He throws the mask onto Michaels head and releases his foot. He grabs a splinter of wood and reaches around the back of the mask, pulling it tight and using the splinter to pin it in place. As Michael struggles, Reece bats his hands away and stamps them both, disabling them briefly. He turns to Miranda, now lunging at Reece who lowers himself to spear her to the ground. He removes the last tab of paper and forces it into her mouth, rolling off of her quickly. He wraps his long arm around her neck in a sleeper hold as he searches her quickly and removes her journal, a broad grin forming across his bloodstained lips. She slumps to the ground unconscious and Reece runs to the window, sliding it open, the door to the cabin slowly opening in turn. He dives out, leaving the window open and crouches outside the cabin as William Lenhurst enters. William looks at the mess and sees Miranda lying on the floor. He runs to her, looking around the spotting the masked man slumped in the corner. His eyes widen, unsure of his fear. Images flash in his head of the same mask terrorizing him nights ago. He gasps, running to the figure, his hands aimlessly batting his own head in an attempt to remove the mask. William removes it to reveal Michael. He stares at him, baring his teeth in anger. “I knew it. I knew it, you sick **** what did you do?! WHAT DID YOU DO?!” His words become fainter as Reece makes his way through the woods, panting heavily, his mind becoming slightly warped from the acid that was soaked into the paper. He limps quickly, pushing past the trees into the night, his luck having saved him this time. The nearest floo would be an hour or so away which meant returning to Hogwarts under the influence of his own tools of manipulation. He passes through the fire, landing in the great hall, his eyes dilated and his vision obscured. He limps past the great tables, applying bandages to his fingers before stumbling through the doors to the Entrance Hall. He turns to the corner of the room, offering a polite smile to Rowan. "Hello." |
|
| Author: | StephenJamesJuice [ Sun Oct 10, 2010 10:53 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The Truth I: Second Life |
A soft orange light illuminates a small green tent; paper carelessly discarded all across the floor and the tall Ravenclaw boy sits amongst them, his hand carefully transcribing a sheet before him into his large leather-bound journal. His ocean blue eyes trail across the page, rarely blinking as he writes. His legs are crossed and the hood of his jumper is pulled over his hair, only stray locks sprawling out from beneath it. He wiggles his toes quickly, his bare feet catching against the tent occasional as it droops in towards him. He frowns, briefly turning to look at it, arching his body away. He points at it quickly, his finger shaking silently. “Now now dear, let’s not do something you’ll regret.” He smirks, turning back to his work and narrowing his eyes. He turns from page to page, double checking as he copies from the paper into his journal. Time becomes absent as he works, his mind consumed with each page as he carefully reads then transcribes, first outlining and correcting all mistakes then referring to what he has already to eliminate information that conflicts with what he has gathered already. He yawns loudly, his intake of air prolonged so he may rest his mind for just a few seconds. He rubs his eyes with balled hands, his knuckles carefully clearing the corners of any dirt. He shakes his head quickly, some more of his hair now wriggling free from under the hood. He glances down to his journal before scanning the small space of the tent. He leans backwards, reaching around for the next sheet, his charms and bracelets jingling together as he manoeuvres. As he picks it up he begins to read it with tired eyes. ‘We refused to talk of it again, for all our sakes. Samuel has lost his mind; he was in no stable condition to pass through Foris. Even his approach to revealing the coordinates had worried us for a long time but me more than them. I watched him time after time, pulling into my house these homeless men and women. He’d take them to my basement and asked me to trust in what he was doing. I told him I did because I feared him, what he’d do to me if I told the others where it was happening. I mean they know what he did to them, the ‘blood palettes’ he’d call them. He believed the power that ran through people, the blood that pumps through our veins would be a sufficient sacrifice to somehow appease the Doors. This is science, not God! You can not appease something without conscious thought; it’s a waste of time! He won’t listen now though, not now he thinks he has proof. We found Foris using his coordinates, each person having been bled for their number, though I won’t pretend I know what goes through his head. It was so beautiful. An unlimited flash of light pulsating within a mechanical metal frame, its exterior spaced evenly with several protruding triangles. We’re still not sure how Samuel had led us there since his word had often been deceitful or another web of manipulation. In correspondence to the coordinates, we ended up just outside of Calais, France. We poked around in the day time, chatting with locals, identifying missing person’s records and the usual. A surprisingly high rate I can tell you and several people confirmed to have had people simply vanish; no reason, no warning. Later that night however, the strangest of things occurred. The sky flashed like it was daytime, an instant thing that lasted mere seconds. The clocks had stopped, our watches were still and from the corner of my eye I swear to this day I saw water flowing up from the tap. I blinked and looked around for the others. Samuel had rushed to the window, pointing wildly out into the distance. Michael just rolled his eyes but William had paid attention. There was a light in the distance. That night, one of us would go through…’ Reece stares blankly at the page, his mouth hanging open as his grip tightens on the page. He looks up, with no concern for the next page, his lip trembling slightly. He doesn’t need to check again, he knows it was from Miranda’s diary. He shuts his eyes, processing the page before grinning broadly, the paper now screwed up in his clenched hand. A confliction of emotions rushes through his body as he drops the paper, trying to stand. “You let my Father in. The way you speak of him, your concern, your anger and your fear. You loved him but he, he didn’t love you. He loved my Mother not you. He.. he” He frowns, something dropping and he grits his teeth. Then in a fit of rage he throws his arms either side of him, thrashing the tent around him before tearing through it. The trees loom over him, the amber sunset only just illuminating the greenery. A large bush sits in front of him but he simply storms through it, grabbing his hood with both hands and pulling it down quickly before screaming at the top of his lungs out across the fields before him. His anger surges up from his stomach and out of his mouth into the world, his voice almost breaking as he yells, his hands tightly clenched. “You’re a ****ing monster! Your madness is my madness, your burdens now mine but even after everything you put me through, I still felt every inch of remorse for your death. You ruined her memory with that filth; I hope your flesh burns in the hells. ****! **** **** ****! “ He screams out across to the horizon, his eyes streaming with tears, his face locked in a grimace. He stops and grits his teeth before letting himself fall onto his rear. He sits there quietly, staring out across the country fields before clearing his throat. “Now though Father? Now I look back to that night and I smile. I smile because I know what a plague you have been in every life you have touched and me ridding the world of you was my own selfish gift to humanity. I thought I was just like you, I thought I could conduct myself like you did but naturally I’ve always known better, just never had the courage to admit I was wrong. Well here it is big man, I’m wrong. Best of all though. So were you. Ha. **** you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.” He turns his head to look at the tent and grumbles, shaking his head. He runs a hand across his face, breathing heavily before he stands. He wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper and glances at his overturned pack. His small box of paints now half open against the grass. He smiles and walks over slowly, bending down to inspect them. He opens it up, a large slice of cake wrapped in Clingfilm is sat slightly squashed on top of his brushes. He grins, running his fingers gently across the top, a small squeak sounding as he does so. He tucks some hair behind his ear and grabs the box, turning on his heel quickly to walk back to where he had once sat. He sits cross legged and holds the box open with one hand, smiling upon its contents. “And in you is my salvation.” |
|
| Author: | StephenJamesJuice [ Sun Nov 07, 2010 10:43 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The Truth I: Second Life |
Dear Diary, I'm not ashamed to say I've come crawling back. There i said it. I'm happy to have made it back here, this dark void of seclusion. Overly dramatic but all in all relevant. So far the journal is almost complete. I've transcribed page upon page within the time I've spent here and i fear my left hand shall now stop functioning. Then what will i do? If my hands were robotic pain machines as per my request to the ... Come to think of it, i never actually requested anything, no sorry Diary, I'm getting mixed up again. A scarf is crucial this time of year! When it's not warming a sensitive neck or accessorizing those Winter Jackets, it's also a deadly weapon should i need to subdue someone with their back to me. I mean that's the dream isn't it, everyone with their back to me. No illusions, no nonsense, just straight up expression. It'd make the perfect fancy dinner, i can tell you that much Diary. Me with my plate on the table before me but them, haha, they would be sat AWAY from the table and would more than likely spill something in their laps because of it! My previous encounters with my Fathers friends have proven worth while if not morally conflicting. One dead, one caged, one missing. I panicked Diary, they had forced me into a corner. It's the missing one that concerns me Diary; how much did she remember? Who will she tell, when will she find me, where is she hiding and WHAT happens when we meet next? She knew my Father, intimately, in so many ways this means she knows me, my methods, my drive. I can hate him Diary, i can hate him and laugh at his wisdom but some things still ring true. A flawed logic but it carries a sort of sentimental value. It's served me well enough for this long, i maintain a basic existence and pursue the various depths of my insanity. Or sanity depending on what proof i actually find. Proof is work Diary. Point is, she has become a risk. Any number of things attributed to her could cause all of this hard work to come undone and I'm sorry but no, she's not getting the chance. Just another nameless substance on my metaphorical plate. Joy. I wonder how Rowan is Diary, I'm curious to see how her experiments are going, that is of course unless she is swept off of her feet by the whirlwind of drama that gradually surrounds her. The eye of the storm is drawing near and it could prove a huge distraction standing in the way of progression. No matter, something bigger has cropped up, hasn't it Diary. It's that time again and there is a game to be played. Construction of the grounds begins tonight Diary, i expect you'll lend me your hands. I need to confirm it first, see it with my own eyes. It's going to be magical. Until next time, Turrah! |
|
| Page 1 of 1 | All times are UTC - 7 hours |
| Powered by phpBB © 2000, 2002, 2005, 2007 phpBB Group http://www.phpbb.com/ | |