cold and bathed in light {python/rook} ::

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rook
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who needs another thing to be sad about?

cold and bathed in light {python/rook} :: Dec 30, 2013 17:21:07 GMT -5

Post by rook on Dec 30, 2013 17:21:07 GMT -5

kasper libertine

the phosphorescence danced with us
the water washed us clean
so i hold on to all these scenes
close

The man's breath still stinks, even after he has stopped breathing. Bad breath is one of the few things in this world that really gets under my skin. It's a common problem, but it is so easily resolved with peppermints or brushing one's teeth. In Four we are not exactly short of these luxuries, and it irritates me so much to have to tolerate the stench of garlic fish breath. Disgusting, rank, foul man. He deserves to be dead, with breath like this.
The night is cold. Winter has taken over District Four, gripping to the shore with white fingers. Sheets of ice cover the ports, with waves frozen solid, making it seem like time has stopped completely. Winter is my least favourite month, as it makes my fingers numb, in turn making it difficult to work outdoors with efficiency. Murder is a tricky business. You need deft hands, and that is difficult in the cold.
I look at the dead man. His expression was one of shock (of course) but now he swears a vacant stare. The kill was easy. He was tailing me - seeing where I was going and what I was up to. The last thing he expected was for me to turn around on the spot and shoot him right between the eyes. Crafty bastard. I killed him where he stood. Heh.
I have been careless. It took me nearly five months to get my hands on a gun - a real gun! I only had one bullet too, and more do not come cheaply. I had no other choice. I didn't want him to see where I hide over the weekends and there was no other way to take him out so quickly. I've been very careless. Guns make noise, and that attracts Peacekeepers, the very thing I was trying to avoid in the first place. Fucking pigs. They should keep out of my business.
I have no doubts that the man works for the Peacekeepers, or was paid to tail me. He probably has a family of five or six, who will go hungry for the next few years, now that Daddy is dead. Not my problem. I'm actually happier that the Peacekeepers sent someone to do their dirty work for them - the last thing I want is to have to kill another Peacekeeper and draw even more attention to myself. Disposing of nobodies is easy, but when Peacekeepers go missing things get more heated. Of course. The Capitol just loves their shiny white knights.
I've dragged this body through the backstreets of Four for about twenty minutes now. I've had to get away from where I fired that gun, because Peacekeepers will swarm there faster than I can figure out an excuse. Through empty warehouses and cabins I have hid, avoiding torchlights and patrols, all the while dragging this heavy body. How has it come to this? Murder is in my blood. I am a Libertine.
First it was my mother, then a Peacekeeper, now I'm killing every weekend, like it's a normal thing. It's improper to keep doing this. I feel rude, and I don't like it. Don't lie. You fucking love it. You enjoy killing people, Kasper.
Do I? Admit that you do. Don't lie to yourself. Don't lie to me.
I reach a dim opening behind a large warehouse. It's not overlooked by any houses, and I spot some dumpsters. It's a good a place as any, I suppose. I let go of the man's arms and take a moment's rest. My breath is heavy, but I see it escape from my mouth and drift upwards into the night, lighter than the thin, winter air. How can that be? Don't get fucking poetic on me.
I grunt, grabbing the man by the waist and hoisting him up onto my shoulder. I throw him into the dumpster with another groan, closing the lid on his grave. I lean on top to the dumpster, exhausted. I could sleep here. I really could.

to my heart inside that’s pumping blood
through my veins and through my lungs
that breathe the air and spit it out
past my teeth and out my mouth

Last Edit: Jan 2, 2014 12:42:05 GMT -5 by rook

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Python
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cold and bathed in light {python/rook} :: Jan 3, 2014 13:15:17 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jan 3, 2014 13:15:17 GMT -5

Saber Hops

The dog’s ominous howling was making Saber’s task more tedious than necessary. Her orders had been simple; visit three times a day, feed the dog, let him out into the yard for a breath of fresh air and a bathroom break, then check the carpet and furniture for stains and signs of tearing. Her parent’s friends were away for awhile, staying with family on the other side of the district, and had hired Saber to babysit the pooch during their absence. It was for pay, of course; she never did these things out of the kindness of her heart. Right now, though, in the dead of a winter’s night when she could feel Mother Nature’s icy breath against her skin, she regretted her decision. The dog was howling like a lost wolf (and if she believed in bad omens, she would fight fear’s grip as the others would) in the yard, and she was desperately trying to silence the damned creature before it disturbed the neighbors. It’s not that she cared about their well-being, she would just rather not deal with another nuisance on such a frostbitten evening.

When the dog was inside and her inspection complete, she cloaked herself in a heavy coat and walked into the empty street. The location was another annoyance in itself - isolated and silent in the backstreets of district four, and quite a bit of a walk from her house. Reports of disappearances and murders resurfaced from her memories, tickling and teasing her brain with “what ifs” and “be carefuls,” when she knew perfectly well that she was in danger in the darkness. She was without weapons, without physical defenses, and too far out of reach for friends, family or local heroes to save her. All she could cling to was the unlikelihood that she would bump shoulders with district four’s infamous serial killer.

She could calculate the odds in a matter of seconds if she wished; she knew the population, could estimate the number of streets and entertain herself with the idea of escaping the evening unharmed and uninterrupted, but the echo of a nearby gunshot soils such innocent plans. Without breaking her stride she found the nearest alleyway and slipped inside of it, careful to conceal herself within the shadows. The gun and its wielder couldn’t have been more than a block or so away, and if he had any wits about him he wouldn’t be out in the open. He would be in an alley, like she was, properly shielded from potential onlookers in their homes (meaning those who were restless enough to stir at this hour). No gunshots followed the first one. She assumed the wielder had executed his task according to plan.

For several minutes she sat frozen in place like an icicle. Escaping too early would risk exposure, and it wasn’t until she controlled her excited breathing (the human body’s natural reaction) that she even considered twitching a muscle. That’s when she heard the dragging; it overpowered the echo of footsteps, but there was no mistaking both when she heard them in the back of her alley. Fortunately there were garbage cans to obstruct the passerby’s view, and she remained blended with the shadows until she knew it was safe to finally step out of her hiding place. She would’ve walked home – she really should’ve – but her mind was racing and far too close to this newfound mystery to resist temptation. It couldn’t have been more than a block away, she reminded herself. Just one peek..

And that peek was enough to tell her a story. There were holes in the story that she wanted to fill, and she intended to do so. Why else would she be slithering through backstreets to find the abandoned warehouse? A perfect area to dispose of a body, and the closest one to the crime scene. The crime scene: she could still see every detail, every scarlet spatter her brain would allow her to snapshot. With one bullet there were very few ways one could steal a human life so swiftly: a bullet to the heart (too much spatter here, too much blood), a bullet to the neck (not enough blood), and a bullet to the skull (and there is no exit wound. There’s not enough blood for that.) After deducing the obvious, the questions had flooded. Did the bullet strike his frontal, his temporal, his parietal or his occipital? For a kill to have been executed so quickly the man must’ve either had extraordinary aim (unlikely), or he caught the victim with his guard down. That could eliminate temporal. He was likely attacked either from the back, which would mean the murderer was tailing the victim, or the opposite. The opposite was what intrigued her most. If the victim had been hired to follow the murderer, then perhaps this was the killer everyone had been searching for.

Another minute and she had eliminated parietal and occipital. They were still possible, but there was not enough blood at the crime scene. And there would likely be at least some brain matter had he been struck from the rear. So, the victim had been a follower, and now she was too.

Except Saber was not as stupid as the average victim. ~~Tell that to the overconfident fourteen-year-old tailing the serial killer.~~

She arrived at the warehouse before he did, earning her enough time to squeeze herself snugly between two large crates. She wasn’t at all surprised to hear him approach with the body. When she peered cautiously over one crate, she could see his silhouette hauling the corpse into the dumpster with a grunt. The murderer; this was him, he was actually here in the flesh. But she couldn’t see his face, the mystery was not yet solved.

When he walked off, she waited. And then she followed.

Last Edit: Jan 4, 2014 15:45:50 GMT -5 by Python

rook
Veteran Member

2,361 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Sept 26, 2023 15:42:53 GMT -5

who needs another thing to be sad about?

cold and bathed in light {python/rook} :: Jan 8, 2014 6:18:09 GMT -5

Post by rook on Jan 8, 2014 6:18:09 GMT -5

kasper libertine

the phosphorescence danced with us
the water washed us clean
so i hold on to all these scenes
close

I shouldn't have used the gun. I really, really shouldn't have used the gun. I've never fired a gun before, not a real one. Sure I have a little BB pistol at home, but this was very different. It's heavier, harder to aim straight. The trigger is stiffer, too. I got lucky, I suppose. The shot was perfect, right between the eyes. The ideal kill - Instant with no mess. It could have gone any way, to be honest. Luck was in my favour, and that unnerves me, because luck runs out. Luck is fickle. Can't rely on luck any more. We've come too far for that.
The body will be found, no doubt about it, but they'll never find the killer. No fingerprints - obviously I'm smart enough to be wearing gloves, I'm no amateur. The bullet can't be traced back to the man who sold it, and even if it could he'd never say who he sold it to. I made sure of that. The only way they'll find a way to bring me down is with an eye-witness, and there sure as hell wasn't anyone around when I fired that gun. I'm pretty certain I kept out of sight with the body, too. I'm a very careful man. If I wasn't, I wouldn't have lasted this long. WE wouldn't have lasted this long.

I try to walk briskly, but my body shakes violently. I am cold and hungry, my stomach has been complaining since breakfast. My shoulders creak and groan, whilst my muscles are tense and sore. I have all the signs of exhaustions - What I need is a hot dinner and a good night's sleep, but I know in my mind that I won't be sleeping for a while yet. There is still business to attend to. The Peacekeepers are keeping tabs on me, as if that wasn't already obvious. It might be wise to stop by someone else's house tonight, just in case they have a second informant after me, or are somehow watching me right now. Maybe the man was meant to die. Maybe he was meant to lure me into a false sense of security, having dealt with him. I have to be careful. Get a grip, Kasp'. Don't get all paranoid on me.
This will probably be the first body they find. I've killed six people now, and five of them are hidden in places no one will find. They could bring me down if they found any one of them, because I was careless. I was careless with the bodies and careless with the evidence. I was lucky to hide them so well, else I'd be locked up, or even executed by now. I've learned from past mistakes. I now know not to be so stupid. I'm a Libertine - I adapt. That's what we do, right? You ain't a Libertine. Your name is Kasper Cowie. Quit pretending, as always. You're living a lie.
For some reason I want to start running. I feel on edge - Like there's something I've missed. The feeling hangs heavy in my gut and makes my heart skip a little quicker. It's just nerves, or adrenalin. My hands ball up into fists and my jaw clenches as I turn a corner, my walk becoming a bit more brisk. Just get out of here, Kasper. I have to keep a level head.

Where can I go? Not home. I have a suspicion that they're still watching me, trying to see where I bunk. If they find my hideout, they find three bodies. I can't let that happen. There's always the Libertine house - I'm always welcome there, but is it fair to put my siblings in such danger? This isn't their story. Mine is vastly different to theirs, and our chapters do not interlink so. Unfair is the only word I can think of to describe that route. So, I do not go to the Libertine house. I could go to my Mother's old house. I do have a key, and no one lives there, but of course there is evidence in that house too. I'm running out of options, here. Stop panicking and try to think clearly.
The Harborside Inn is another option, and probably my most viable. I know the landlady quite well - She's helped me out of quite a few situations. Tonight should be no different. She should be able to give me a room that is secluded and out of the way. I just need to lie low for a while, then things will be okay.

The gun is another issue. I need to get rid of it. If I'm searched by Peacekeepers and they find it on me, that's enough of a conviction by their standards. I need to dispose of it smartly, however. I was careful with the body, but perhaps not the gun. I've handled it many times without gloves on, so it's riddled with my fingerprints. That was bloody clever of you.
I slide left at the next junction, sticking to the walls and trying to prevent the weak light from highlighting my features. The air is heavy and stinks of rotting fish. It's a stench that I will never get used to, even after seventeen years of living in this district. The cobblestone pavement thins out into mud, and then I find I'm walking a dirt track. We're heading away from the docks and into the more populated area of District Four. Here there is more life, even at this hour.

My deep brown eyes lightly scan the area for Peacekeepers - Looking for a flash of prestine white amongst the drab blur of grey. None. I relax a little, setting my sights on the Inn, which is across the square. I make sure to conceal the gun, throwing the base of my trench coat around my legs more an-

The gun.
What?
Where's the gun?
Fuck... FUCK!!
I stop dead in my tracks, and for the first time in a long time, I am afraid.

to my heart inside that’s pumping blood
through my veins and through my lungs
that breathe the air and spit it out
past my teeth and out my mouth

an hourglass is just a glass with sand inside

Python
Retired Staff

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Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Oct 27, 2024 23:26:22 GMT -5

cold and bathed in light {python/rook} :: Jan 24, 2014 23:29:40 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jan 24, 2014 23:29:40 GMT -5

Saber Hops

Silent as the wind she needed to be; a sly shadow beneath the moon, the stars and the clouds hovering eternally above their sea. She could hear every pound of her chambers as if it were a hammer against her ribcage, pumping blood feverishly into every limb as they padded across soil, mud, and cobblestone, cautiously avoiding stray sticks and litter scattered occasionally in the filthy places they didn’t belong. When the ground was soft it was simple, and she could be as quiet as a mouse scurrying along, following the shadow of a man who perhaps might be a shadow himself – a creature of darkness with blood tattooed into his flesh. Despite the dangers and the risks and the warnings in her logically-tuned brain the mystery was whispering her name like a taunt. She was so close to seeing a face yet so far, and closer to dancing with death than she had ever been.

Questions rattled her brain as she tried to focus on her careful footsteps. The more you take, the more you leave behind, the riddle said, and this was true of both of them. When his shadow was out of reach there were imprints in the dirt – very faint, but easy to spot to the trained eye. She wondered where he was going and why he had chosen a warehouse dumpster as his disposal site. Of all locations, why something so sloppy? The matter of convenience should never be on a serial killer’s agenda – unless this wasn’t the infamous killer? Perhaps this was a random killing, or something gangster related? The man following him could’ve been seeking vengeance of some sort. As she slinked from shadow to shadow, concealing herself whilst keeping blue eyes locked on the target she tried to piece different fragments of the puzzle together. There were several combinations. She need only narrow it down.

Upon hitting the cobblestone trails she was forced to slow her pace to gentle tip-toes to avoid shuffling sounds and echoing footsteps. She kept a larger distance between them as they passed the docks. Tethered boats rocked back and forth from the waves’ caress, the moonlight bathing their surfaces in white. The cobblestone thinned to mud, and Saber could quicken her pace once more. She didn’t know where he was heading or why – his hideout, maybe? Certainly not his home if he was an experienced murderer. Disposing of a follower meant there could be more numbers tailing him. Who knew how many shadows he could have? It was in his best interest to retreat to a safer location away from any evidence. No matter how skilled he was, there would always be evidence in his abode.

A soft thump against the dirt drew her out of her thoughts. She had seen a lick of black flickering against dimly-lit soil, but expected it only to be a trick of the imagination on a wild night. Whatever it was had fallen from the killer’s clutches and landed in her path. It was a pistol – slick, black, dotted with either mud or blood and covered with what she knew would be invisible fingerprints. The murder weapon. Solid evidence between her fingertips. As she inspected the device she found that it was unloaded. This didn’t necessarily mean the man was unarmed – but if this was his only gun, and his only bullet had been wasted on his victim then she had nothing to fear so long as she kept her distance and used this blessing as blackmail.

His destination was clear now; the Harborside Inn. Welcoming, comfortable, and perhaps he knew some of the staff. The crowds had waned long ago, leaving only strays to wander obliviously in the night. She expected him to continue forth after he surveyed the area and walk into the hotel, which would force her to abandon her chase and secure the evidence for herself. Instead, he halted in his tracks, hands patting himself down as if searching for something. She held the pistol gently in both hands to avoid smearing too many fingerprints. He would find empty pockets and retrace his steps to retrieve his prize. Her current hiding place was not conspicuous enough – he would either spot her on his journey, or she would have to reveal herself. Either way, she was trapped. The idea didn’t faze her in the least.

”Looking for this?” she called out, stepping into the faint yellow lighting. It highlighted just enough of her features to reveal a stoic expression with eyes twinkling mischievously.

Last Edit: Jan 25, 2014 15:05:07 GMT -5 by Python