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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:11:11 GMT
- A CUP OF COFFEE -
Luke traversed over the wild landscape of the city. His frequent pauses were not to catch his breath in the untimely cold, but to check his phone, the address. In the end, it was only when he was halfway toward his journey, contemplating the heroes left behind at the bomb site. It was only then when furrowed eyebrows revealed the hint of a change in plans, and Luke found himself heading to a place of familiarity, a diner. To him, it was a different a diner, a different locale to set about new memories. Not the one like before, that was one that was preserved for himself, and for James. And so, as he changed route after calculating the best route, it would only take a matter of minutes before he found himself walking from a nearby alleyway, greeted by the busy street as dormant car wheels tucked themselves against the snow. The damp firefly-like lights of moving vehicles shone through the flurry of snow, somewhat lighting his path as they passed by.
As Luke walked toward the cafe which had the large letters of its name embellished above the glass door, ‘Cafe Nero’, he reminded himself to be tentative. This was something he had been planning for weeks and he wasn’t about to get himself in another situation, not like before. But he realized Rick and Orlando would get their comeuppance eventually, but right now he needed to deal with one mess at a time, to divide and to conquer.
The cafe, ‘Cafe Nero’ was somewhat absent. Most of the people there, giggling girls with gorgeous sweaters that nursed their hot coffee and chocolate, letting the steam escape and dance lightly upon their lips with every word they spoke. Others were guys, wrapped tight in leather jackets either with their friends, browsing their phones or doing some other menial task for the day. It was clear that a lot of them saw the snow this morning and wrapped up warm. Luke on the other hand still felt the chilly air send shivers down his spine, even with his own jacket and warm wear.
He looked around, trying to pick out the few customers that were there, and yet there was nobody. Nobody important that he could see, nobody that looked like the guy that he was looking for. In the end, Luke simply decided to wait and stepped up to the barista to order something. As he mused over his options, he started to get worried. What if they were a step above them? Did they contact the others involved? Were they coming for him now? Knowing that paranoia wasn’t going to help him and he was able to defend himself if anything happened, Luke settled on his espresso.
“A large caramel macchiato please,” said Luke, almost mumbling as if his quiet voice would make his intentions hidden away under a blanket of his facade. The barista smiled and started preparing his drink immediately. A simple glance over his shoulder, as he heard the bathroom door swing open and close, revealed that nobody was behind him. Either he was set up or he was going to be-
“Make mine a large too please, I’m paying,” came the calm smooth North Carolinian accent of the man he was looking for. He was slightly more imposing, being nearly an inch taller than Luke, almost reaching James’ height. Luke glanced up at the somewhat imposing figure of the man who smiled back at him. With his scruffy blonde hair and green eyes kept behind his black glasses that matched his somewhat formal attire (a white shirt adorned by a black blazer and dark trousers), Luke could imagine why some people would find him attractive. But Luke didn’t.
“Here you go sir, that’ll be twenty-two ninety-five,” explained the barista, a smile emerging upon glossy lips. The charming guy fished out thirty, handing it to the barista and silencing her with a wink. A blush revealed that she was ready to keep the thirty, as long as he insisted and Luke felt himself on autopilot, grabbing his large beverage, mirroring the man beside him as they walked together towards their table and set their drinks down.
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:14:27 GMT
- THE STUNTMAN AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER -
Luke and the handsome stranger made themselves comfortable on the table. It was the sound of the door opening letting the wild winds claim their place at the entrance of the cafe before the glass door shut. The sound of the two sipping their hot beverages that allowed them to cool the ice as they exchanged a glance and a smile. Truth be told, Luke had to admit that the man sitting across from him was handsome, charming, charismatic. They were far too old for him being in their early forties, but at the same time, Luke could now recognize why so many people had fallen for this man. When the scent of a trap smells ever so sweet, you can watch how the curious get killed. It was only when the man placed his cup down, gently on the table, moving his body smoothly and allowing himself to be open as if to convince Luke he was no threat, that they began to talk.
“So, I’m glad you got my message,” chuckled the North Californian, his smooth crisp accent allowing Luke to fake a smile as he took another sip. “Sorry about the inconvenience. I just figured it’d be great to meet you first, see what you’re like before we...” His voice trailed off, a smirk appearing upon his lips. Luke was disgusted by the insinuation but his smile hid that away, tucked it behind a mask as he just laughed to himself.
“Take photos,” finished Luke as he watched the North Californian smile with him and take another sip. A couple of the giggling girls from earlier had decided to leave at this point, allowing a great absence in the cafe. If Luke was able to go alone, he would love to go here with James, but certain places had preserved memories, and Luke knew this place would preserve the start of horrific memories to come.
“Take photos,” repeated the stranger. Luke knew he wasn’t exactly a stranger, not after having spoken to him before. Yet the distance between the two could only cast them as strangers and no more, not acquaintances and certainly not friends. For strangers knew nothing about you. “So what is it that you do, Kay, is it?” Luke nodded slowly, the name still stung somewhat. “Alright, Kay. So what is it that you do?”
“Nothing much,” started Luke allowing him some time to go over the last minute details of his lies. He had tried to keep the information on him limited and knew that too much would cause him trouble in the future. The stranger raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
“Really? Just that I mean with your fancy gear and your gun...Are they real?” questioned the stranger, leaning in, posing as if he were actually interested. Luke already suspected that the stranger was starting to garner suspicion and he had to stop that dead in his tracks before he could ever expect to deal with him first.
“No. I’m actually a stuntman, I do all sorts of stunts for movies and whatnot. I just got back from a shoot,” lied Luke, and with it, he was relieved to see the stranger smile. “And what do you do?” Luke added, eager to switch the topics. The stranger continued smiling, as they reached in their brown bag that was on the floor. After a few moments, a camera was in the hands of the stranger.
“I’m just a photographer.”
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:17:42 GMT
- CHESS -
“You’re hurt,” noticed the photographer.
“What?" replied Luke with the voice and expression of nothing else but concern.
“I mean you’re arm. It’s bleeding," the photographer explained as he nodded towards Luke, concerned eyes coerced his own sight to the deep cut that still drooled blood beneath bolted on shackles of apparel. Luke had managed to use some material to tie it around his cut, hoping that the probable laceration wouldn’t succumb to infection and only now noticed the blood that had somewhat all but seeped through the tight cloth. Luke chuckled lightly, laughing it off as he hoped to impose a new air of serenity as he thought up a lie. The perused lips of the photographer remained unconvinced in the comforting cafe’s air.
“Oh yeah, it was just some cut I got on set, no big deal,” Luke smiled as the photographer slowly nodded in understanding. It took a few moments before his eyes wound themselves away from the wound. They instead decided to succumb themselves to the pleasantries that warmth could bring amidst the freezing crevice of the city in the wintry afternoon. Luke, relieved, was still determined and had other ideas, not only for this conversation but for the pleasantries the photographer possessed. “So what kind of photographs do you take?” Like a move in their own game of chess, the photographer took their turn to smile.
“Was my portfolio not good enough for you?” joked the photographer, a wide smile on his face and a wink from his eye. Luke, pretended to be enamoured, his heart racing not from likeness but from fear. The photos Luke saw meant that explicitly so easy going meant that whatever was hiding was something that was nothing more than his eye’s egregious grief.
“I think that it was,” commented Luke, his move and his smile become a smirk that sickened him to his stomach as he leaned closer, the queens, their hands, getting closer to one another. It was almost close to a-
“Check my website if you want to know more about my public life,” said the photographer, sipping a copious amount of caramel macchiato, bouts of it travelled down his throat like a water-like booze; facades burn. “Anyway, we’re not really here to talk about my work. Are we?” His hand move over touching Luke’s, his eyes darting downwards, Luke being left unchecked.
“Definitely not,” agreed Luke, a frown’s flicker fractured the facade for a fraction of a moment. The photographer failed to catch perhaps the most vital image of his entire life, the snapshot missed was akin to butterfly wings, fleeting and forever impactful. The smile approached Luke’s face and once more he let his fingers coil themselves around the hand that met his own. Love is a form of entrapment some people would argue and in this case, in this moment, it was just entrapment. The king could do nothing but be fooled by pawns. Checkmate.
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:19:49 GMT
- THE PAST -
As more customers left and entered, the cafe air became colder and chillier, a drift of snow flinging itself upon the glass doors and slithers slithering in the agape space. A few concerned and glances of intrigue captured the photographer in the moment with their connoisseur, the images shared through mind and memory as they realized who the photographer was, his fame spread like a sick disease.
“Besides, I’ve already checked out your website,” complimented Luke, a sickening smile that infected the soothing cafe air. A naivete was shared and yet only one was genuine. “You work for Syndicate, right?” The photographer nodded their head and unbeknownst to him had already set his fate. A few weeks of work had resulted in this.
“You know, you interest me, Kay,” noted the photographer as they leaned somewhat closer, their fingers now resting upon Luke’s, the former resisting a shiver of disgust, as even the cafe’s coffee and calamity could not unnerve the latter. Inclined to frown, he instead retained a weak smile and like ice, he pretended to start melting in the photographer’s hands, malleable to his intent. It was not only disgust that sent spinal shivers yet it was secrecy, the art of deception in a game that he had thought he won, he only knew a lack of knowledge for the second round. The hand’s grip grew tighter around his, fingers trapping his own. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.” Luke shifted in his grip.
*
Luke dragged himself through the industrial landscape, his wounds barely kept hidden beyond bloodied beaten bandages and jackets that covered his soon to be, carcass. His breathing tailored through, thick, smoky air as he stumbled, falling to his knees and coughing. After everything he had been through, he couldn’t die here, only steps away from his captors cocoon. Groans and gasps of pain seemed to emanate from his every heartbeat, as if the blood that rushed through his body was battering him, killing him. But he would not be beaten down; determine drove him forward. It was only when his legs started to stop straining so much against the ground as if they were walking for the first time in their lives. It was only when his hand caught the edge of an open door, in a lone warehouse, and if it wasn’t for the rising sunlight should never have shined upon such a bare room.
Yet light shined and with it, it slithered upon three photographs, stuck on the wall. Luke would have never cast his eyes back on them and yet his mind forced them to flit toward one, in particular, one of him. And then one of, Lilly, and then another; James. Through faulty effort, Luke limped toward the photographs and slowly examined a transparent trio of transcriptions that transpired from odd curiosity to an ill interest. Who did this? Who took these photographs? Why were they here? Luke scraped them from the wall, and limped out, focusing on trying to get back to the city, back to Lilly, to James, who he begged were still alive but somehow knew that they were dead, to be discovered and leave him destitute as a result. He only failed to notice, the photograph of The Broker that was left amongst the floor, in the barren warehouse as he struggled to stumble away.
*
“Well, like I told you, I’m also a model or aspiring anyway, I’ve done a couple shots before. Nothing as big as you,” joked Luke as he felt the grip loosen and with it a weak smile grew wider. A pang of relief rushed through him as he shifted in his seat, still feeling the photographs he scavenged in his pockets. A few moments of muteness moved through the minutes as the two just continued with their caffeine riddled beverages.
“How about I take you to my private studio? It’s not like the address I gave you, it’s at my own home. How about it?” Their fingers continued to slowly caress the hand. Luke won the second round with a nod.
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:22:15 GMT
- THIS TYPE OF HERO -
The drive through the ice cold, dead, fortress of Heartania with its imposing buildings casting dim shadows on snowy streets was leisurely, long, and far too uncomforting. The photographer and his hunter remained mostly silent throughout the drive, a few quips and equivocations about the past loosened themselves from mind to mouth. Yet it was one in which the two hoped to reach their destination, unknown to one of them, it would be their last. As the car stopped at a high-rise, Luke felt himself resist the urge to shiver and shake, his teeth chattering slightly, the city had gotten colder since he stepped outside, as his eyes studied the apartment complex.
“Wow, your place is-” started Luke.
“Amazing,” finished the photographer, a raised eyebrow and a hint of cockiness in his tone as he led Luke to the studio, akin to a master leading his servant to slaughter. “Everyone says that don’t worry, you get used to it.” The photographer invited Luke into the elevator, an enclosed space sent Luke into a series of worrying thoughts, his fingers ran across the gun in his holster, his heartbeat heightening to horrific degrees. He was so close and yet so far, but as he glanced at the photographer who smiled back at him, he questioned himself. Was he ready to do this? Was this the type of hero he was going to be? “Anyway, I was thinking why don’t we start off slow with some alcohol to let us loosen up. I’ve got vodka.” Luke opened his eyes, seemingly finding himself standing at the door of the arthouse apartment.
“Yeah,” mumbled Luke in response as he gazed around, large windows allowed light to drift and transpire into the room, offering an overview of the city in all its complexity. The walls were bare, mainly made up of black and orange paint, the contrast of colours concocting a carefully crafted display of artistry. As Luke found himself being offered a large glass of vodka, he stifled and smiled over his words purposefully, playing his role as the nervous and yet easygoing model. “I’d err rather pour it myself if you don’t mind.” The photographer smiled and yet this was one that was all too different, traces of tranquil disappointment meeting his eyes.
“Sure, the kitchen is right there,” the photographer pointed, Luke walked over to the kitchen area where wooden cabinets were surrounding a stove and fridge. He browsed through the possible alcohol there was and found himself pulling out a can of beer, nothing too heavy, not now. By the time he came back to the lounge, an area where white sofas and seats were kept at bay by a glass coffee table and a television, he had already taken a few sips, smiling back at the photographer and yet sat on a different seat. “Glad you didn’t fall in there. So, I know we’ve talked and stuff but before I give you the goodies of my private studio,” Luke cringed, “tell me about yourself, Kay. Why should I capture your image, your style?”
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:24:41 GMT
- BETRAYED TO BLACK OUT -
“I don’t know,” replied Luke, raising the curiosity of the photographer.
“You don’t know,” they repeated. Luke nodded and the photographer laughed to himself as a result, as if they could demean Luke no further. Luke gazed back at the photographer, refusing to let his sight wander. The thick dust that swirled through what little light escaped the snowy clouds wandered in the silence. The photographer’s smile changed, it became one that emanated an air of curiosity as their eyes scanned Luke and with it, it was as if they could control the goosebumps that prickled his skin. “Why don’t I show you my studio? Maybe that could inspire you.” Another nod, another gesture that seemed to solidify the faux subservience to the photographer. He stood up, leading Luke over towards another room, two doors slid open to reveal shelves of cameras and all sorts of equipment, a white wall, and plain floor were the captured image of a still-standing camera, balanced upon its three legs. Luke stepped forward in front of the photographer, still sipping his beer as the photographer placed his vodka down on one of the shelves and began inspecting the camera. Now was his time to strike.
“This is pretty cool,” started Luke as he moved away from the vodka, its scent forever wavering throughout the room. The photographer looked up from the camera, grinning, a sense of pride inside him that caused Luke to cringe. He was like a craftsman of sorts, a menacing and mad Marquis making miraculous looking victims from his creations. Ooh bars, thought Luke sarcastically as he pretended to listen to the photographer, going on about the importance of the legs on camera stands and how sturdy they had to be. They’re a bunch of bars, get over yourself. Luke mentally sighed as he took on his role, turning towards the photographer. “Maybe we could take a couple shots, as a test run.” His suggestion caught the attention of the photographer who smiled and swigged the last dregs of his vodka. Perfect.
“Lean against the wall,” commanded the photographer, an odd shift in tone and demeanour as the photographer became more forceful in their gesture. Luke found himself leaning against the wall and then it started. With almost every shutter of the camera, a new creation of the frame, a drowsiness fell upon the photographer, his stumbles stuttered like speech. “S-stand up.” He mumbled.
“Are you okay?” questioned Luke, furrowed brows feigned concern as he stepped forward toward the photographer. He had to try with all his might to resist smiling.
“Shut up!” cried the photographer, who clutched at their camera for support only to watch it fall. “What the fuck did you do?” Their shouts carried out throughout the studio as they glared at Luke and stumbled toward him, it was only when they fell over looking up at the man that they had finally got a glimpse of what lied under the facade. Luke stepped over the man, their breathing tailored with stress and strenuous physicality as he took the gun out from his holster. The photographer glanced up at Luke one more time. “What the fuck are you-” Luke smacked the butt of the gun against the photographer’s head and watched as the photographer’s mind’s eye became divulged in darkness.
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:27:41 GMT
- THE HUNTER'S DESCENT -
His blurry eyes opened to set a gaze upon the world and watched as a camera became focused in their vision, their first frame and snapshot of the world after their descent. Their eyes moved over to the miasma of movement in the distance, a figure creeping closer toward them and an anger to surge through as they spotted the face of their enigmatic enemy; Kay. Luke focused back on the situation at hand as they heard a groan from the chair behind them. Guilt had already taken root deep inside of them for what they were going to do, for what they were going to make this photographer suffer through, the same burdens to be mounted on different shoulders.
“Wake up,” growled Luke as he surveyed over the photographer. Their bleary eyes now open and yet their lips quivered before Luke pressed a bottle of water to their lips, allowing them to drink and splutter before he took the bottle away. A combination of confusion and frustration enveloped the expression and mind of the man tied to a chair, their camera pointing towards them. Yet all they could see, all they could focus upon was their captor. A bottle of pills in their hand. “Sorry about that. I mean I’ve never actually drugged someone beforehand and it’s not like I could ask. My boyfriend would kill me if he could see me here right now, or with you.”
“What- What the fuck are you talking about? What is this, some kind of teenage joke?” The photographer’s voice was dry, even now and yet Luke could tell their mind was clear, as he lied, pretended to be the mouse in this game. But, Luke could see through him, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Teenage? No,” said Luke simply. “Joke? Do I look like I’m laughing?” The photographer studied Luke’s face.
“Then what is this? Some torture porn?” exclaimed the man as he glanced over at the camera. Luke shook his head as he glared back down at them.
“I don’t want to torture you. I just want the truth. The truth about what you do and the people who disappeared around you. What I want to know is-” started Luke as he took his attention off the man momentarily, glancing back at the camera as he tried to remember all the intricate details of the case. His file was back home, the one he was studying in the morning as he realized that today was the day he could finally strike. Yet the photographer was going to be more troublesome than he imagined as his shouts prevailed.
“Help! Someone, hel-” shouted the photographer, his shouts returning to him as they echoed across the room. His voice was drowned out by the cleaning agent being sprayed down his throat, his shouts became splutters as he spat out the cleaning agent in his throat.
“I chose this day, because your neighbours, the Watkins are out on holiday in Italy. Your other neighbour, Miss Donovan, is already out at work,” explained Luke, carefully and slowly as if the slightest indulgence into the anger that coursed through him would lead to a never-ending storm that he would come to regret. “But I can’t afford to make any mistakes and you shouting away, so shut up, or next time I'll use bleach.”
“Who are you?” muttered the photographer, the last dribbles of the toxic agent now escaping their mouth as they continued spitting the last specks out. Luke moved away, putting the cleaning agent away. “Scratch that. What the fuck are you? Some kind of stalker? Why are you following me, my neighbours? Why are you doing this?”
“I’m a hunter,” replied Luke, glaring at them. “It’s what I do.”
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:31:17 GMT
- MEMENTOS -
“My name is Thomas, Thomas Yates,” admitted the photographer, as if the carefully crafted cracks to the facade would indulge Luke to become more lenient. The thirst for knowledge only grew with every taste and yet the photographer had failed to realize this. “I work with all sorts of companies. I’m freelance. But I guess you know this already.” Luke nodded as they circled the photographer, thinking about the best way to go through with this. Their plan was sickening and made their stomach churn and yet the victims had to get revenge, one way or another. Their fists clench, their grip hardening, as they realized that this had to be done.
“I know,” confirmed Luke, not bothering to even look at his own captive.
“Then why are you doing this?” questioned the photographer as Luke could hear them wrestling with their tight bonds, the seat that they were on shuffling. “Just let me go, you’re making a mistake.”
“I know you work for a company, called Syndicate,” revealed Luke as they turned to look at the photographer, his face becoming paler as pursed lips pursued silence. “I know there’s been a string of disappearances from your models. Maybe not close enough for the police to notice. But I did. I want to know what you did with them.”
“I didn’t do anyth-”
“Cut the bullshit,” replied Luke as they stepped closer toward the man. “I am not a patient person. I know you have something hidden here.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the photographer. It was just a stream of questioned that escaped their thoughts, the act of confusion in order to dismay Luke wasn’t working anytime soon. It was something he was expecting, judging from how sly and cunning he knew the man to be. How he had managed to escape the police so far was obvious.
“I’ve searched your entire house. And I haven’t found a single bit of porn. Your computer. Your bedroom. Nothing,” explained Luke, watching as the photographer’s brows furrowed, another act of their confusion and yet, this time, it seemed genuine. “All men, all of us, have porn somewhere, digitally, physically, it’s just somewhere. But then I found your stash of photos.” The photographer blinked. “And I thought, maybe that was your porn. But you don’t seem like the kind of guy to shit where you work. No, I bet whatever you have must be so lush, it just has to have its own little den. Isn’t that right, Tom?” Luke watched the photographer quiver and shake in fear before he dragged the chair alongside him, pulling it to the main living room.
“You’re not seriously doing this,” exclaimed the photographer, their tone becoming far more serious, far more impactful under the stress that was burdening itself upon their mind. Luke would have smiled to himself if he didn’t feel so sick, letting go of the chair and beginning to ravage through the main living space. He checked under the cushions, carefully checking in the cupboards, making sure not to break a single thing and ravaging the area for a hint, a clue that something was being hidden away. It was after what seemed like centuries of searching that Luke grabbed his head, his frustration getting to him as he paced around the apartment, trying to find out where it was. He dragged the chair to the bedroom as he searched the area and found to his surprise, a pistol, underneath the pillow. “Don’t touch that.” Luke glanced at the photographer before leaving it on the bed as he went back to the living space and suddenly, it clicked, or perhaps rather it thumped. As Luke focused on his inner machinations, his ideas and notions as to where the hiding space could be, he heard something as he walked over the carpeted area. His perception picked up something and he walked backward, quite literally tracing back his steps. There it was again, another thump. He quickly shoved the carpet aside as he saw what it was, a floor safe, and to his dismay, it was locked by a four-digit combination. Fuck. Luke found himself dragging a startled photographer, still strapped to the chair, back to the living space and nearby the combination. “So the priest found the prayerbooks, has he?” Luke snarled at him with disgust.
“I know your birthday, the last digits on your debit card, your ID, everything,” explained Luke, as he got to work on the combinations. “I’ll figure this out.”
“Try every combination you can think of,” muttered the photographer in anger as they fidgeted around, beginning to get somewhat paranoid about the situation. “It’ll only take you the rest of the week. If I don’t get out of these restraints and strangle you before then. Or the Watkins come back from their holiday. Or Miss Donovan, from work." Luke stopped as the safe beeped; another failed combination.
“Don’t make threats you and I both know you can’t carry,” warned Luke, as he got back to the combination, pausing for a moment as he tried to think about it, studying the house. “You keep a lot of photographs, you like mementos, you’re the type of person who seems really passionate about photography but it has to be something someone wouldn’t guess. Not right away. It wouldn’t be something like your birthday. Wouldn’t be...” Luke’s voice trailed off, as his eyes widened, realization stunning his brain. He turned to look at the photographer from his crouched position. “I could just try 5552.” Luke took out his phone, scrolling to the latest message from Thomas. “Ready when you are, 55 Jefferson 52nd Avenue 5th Floor.”
“You really think that will work?" asked the photographer, glaring at Luke, trying to hide their fear. Yet like a wolf, Luke could almost smell it. He watched the sweat form on the photographer’s brow as he read them out, he could sense their shaky breathing, the rushing beat of their heart. Luke pushed in the combination and heard the safe door click.
“How thoughtful of you,” complimented Luke as he opened the safe. “What’s so special about these photos?” His brows furrowed as he took out the odd few mementos before picking up the stack of photos. His eyes tracing over them as he slowly browsed through them and he could hear the Thomas’s sniveling as his expression changed. “Oh.” He added as he almost dropped the photographs. Not only were there some photographs of Lilly, James, and Luke, they were far from the worse. Photos, all seemingly of superhumans, with mutilation, naked- It was too vehement to describe. “This is what they make those federal laws for Tom. This is officially sick.” Luke plucked two photos of Lilly, and James, holding it for the photographer to see. “What makes these two so special?” Tom kicked out at Luke, causing him to fall, his head smacking the coffee table as he fell dazed on the floor, a groan of pain letting Tom know that this was possibly his only chance as the rope that had apparently been around his wrists now revealed themselves to be loose, falling to the floor as he quickly dragged himself to the bedroom, managing to use his somewhat numb hands to grab the gun on the bed.
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Post by iCaramelBird on Jun 12, 2016 1:39:13 GMT
- HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A HUNTER SCORNED -
Luke got up, feeling small bouts of blood on their head, messing into some of their hair as they looked at the cracked glass coffee table and then scampered as they realized Thomas had escaped. They felt their bow form once again in their hands as they retrieved an arrow from their quiver, quickly aligning it with the bowstring and pulling back, waiting, watching. He could hear the slow footsteps of the photographer as they edged their way closer toward the open door of their bedroom. Luke could hear his own shaky breaths as in a succession of moments, he heard a gunshot, the pain of a bullet scraping across his cheek shocked him as he let go of the bowstring, the arrow injecting itself into the man’s leg just in time.
The shock seemed to delay Luke for a second before he rushed over toward the photographer who fell to the floor, as they raised the gun to take aim at Luke once more, Luke quickly kicked the gun out of their hand and found themselves behind Tom. The bow quickly fitting over the man’s head as Luke pulled back as hard as he could, the struggles of pain from Tom quickly becoming minute as they clawed and connived their way for fresh air. Luke struggled himself, holding them tightly, hoping not to break their neck as he coughed and spluttered as they wrestled against him. Their movements died down in moments and Luke gasped for air himself, as he took the bow away, touching his cheek as he clambered at the wall, trying to get back up. He glanced back at Thomas, their unconscious body still breathing as Luke, himself, continued to cough.
“Fuck!” exclaimed Luke.
*
This was it. The final straw. Things had come too close and Luke was surprised that the police hadn’t been called yet. He had dusted his fingerprints, typing a message on the phone of Thomas, ‘Tried to shoot myself. Couldn’t even get that done.’ He couldn’t describe the shiver sent down his spine, at how reminiscent those words were to him as he threw the phone down on the floor. As he had cleaned the evidence, James had called him. He had spoken about some conversation with Mira, checking up on how he was doing, if he was at the bomb site.
“Yeah James, mhm, look I’m kinda busy right now. Yeah, I’ll come by The Citadel soon. I have err...I have something to tell you. No, no, it’s fine, I’ll come to you. Mhm. Alright, love you,” finished Luke, smiling to himself as he put his phone away before picking up the lone bullet and wiping his blood away from it, the graze on his cheek still hurt. The arrow managed to get out of the guys leg as he put it away. He had no idea how he was going to explain that. Maybe it’d be overlooked. Maybe. The evidence was all out and the scene was set, it was time for the play to begin.
“Was that your fuck buddy?” came the voice of Thomas. Luke turned to look at him after cleaning his last piece of evidence, the cracked coffee table. Thomas looked down, his feet planted firmly on the chair he was tied to, a rope wrapped around his neck. He seemed almost impressed as to how Luke got him up here if he wasn’t so frightened.
“Yeah, guess you could call him that,” joked Luke as he sat on the kitchen counter, almost meeting eye to eye with Thomas. “But at this rate, a fuck buddy would be the least of your problems now.” Luke’s foot rested on the tip of the chair, shaking it slightly and sickening himself even further. He had pushed on and on, spent weeks researching and investigating only to do this one, last, difficult task. “This is where it ends Tom. Agree with me and let me move that chair. I will clean up all the evidence and you’ll be remembered as just some sick, striving photographer who unfortunately took their own life. Or I will call the cops, and I will watch your life crumble and you’ll fade away from everyone who ever loved you. You’ll be known as the sick, twisted, fucked up guy that you are.”
“And you’re not?” asked Thomas. Luke raised his eyebrows at the man.
“Excuse me?” replied Luke.
“Look at you. You’re just some broken guy who doesn’t even have the balls to kill me. You know what? Fine. I’m a piece of shit, a terrible person. I fucked over my victims but I fucked them over good. I enjoyed every bit of it, but you, you’re worse. You’re too broken to even give a shit about yourself or anyone else. Why? Did daddy never love you or were you just born like this?” exclaimed Thomas. Luke smiled in return.
“Y’know I always wondered that. Was it nature or nurture that turned me into what I am? Broken? Sure. Daddy never loved me? I never loved him back. But you know what? At least, I didn’t have to stick my dick in people to figure that out,” answered Luke, his foot resting on the chair, rocking it ever so slightly sending shudders through Thomas’ spine. “The deal is still open. You can end this whole thing now, you’re running out of time.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not broken. Is this your way of repenting for what you did? Repenting for how much of a fuck up you are?” questioned the photographer.
“No. I don’t need repentance. Unlike you, I don’t hate myself. But you’re just too pussy to admit it. Now, like I said. It’s either you kill yourself or I call the cops. What will it be?”
“Fuck you, I’m not going to beg,” spat Thomas, glancing away from Luke as he scowled in his own punishment for his lustful gluttony.
“But you do it so well,” growled Luke.
”I have a family. You can‘t do this. You‘d kill a son? A brother? A friend?” quivered Thomas. Luke paused before he looked back up at Thomas, a new expression upon his face.
”I‘ve killed a lot of friends,” said Luke. “You have to choose Tom, otherwise, I’m calling the cops. Let’s count to ten. One...”
“I’m not going to do it.”
“Two...”
“Will you stop?”
“Three...”
“I said fucking stop!”
“Don’t make me use the bleach. Four...”
“Please...”
“Getting closer now, five...”
“I am fucking begging you! Are you happy? Is this what you fucking want? I’m begging.”
“Six...”
“Fuck...”
“Seven...”
“Alright! Alright! I’ll do it!” admitted the photographer. “I’ll- I’ll fucking do it.”
“Which option?” asked Luke as he stepped down from the kitchen counter. The photographer began to cry, the tears crawling down their face.
“I’ll...I’ll end it. Here and now, just promise me you’ll get rid of it. Promise me,” sobbed the man, as Luke ignored his iotas of pity for them and disgust at what he was doing. Was this the type of hero he was meant to be? Instead, he glanced back up at the man and nodded.
“I’ll do it. I promise,” said Luke as he clenched his fists, the disgust reaching a new level. The photographer nodded and it was almost as if time stopped as Luke kicked the chair and watched the rope and legs descend, and then they stopped. “Or not.”
Luke walked out of the apartment complex, his heart, and mind in unison; racing. The touch of cold that swept against his skin like the snow against the wind helped ground his place in reality as he left footprints in the snow behind him. He shivered, not just from the cold, from the deeds he committed. He stopped, watching the snow fall as he contemplated, taking out and studying the few photographs he had in hand. Police sirens were heard in the background. He called them a while ago. Was this it? Was this the type of person he was becoming? He glanced up and almost glared at the world, a declaration of approval itself as he walked onward, through the snow.
Heavy summons lied like lead upon Luke and yet, he would not sleep.
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