lydια #ɪᴀʟᴡᴀʏsғɪɴᴅᴛʜᴇʙᴏᴅɪᴇs мαrтιɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
immuno) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenace2015-01-21 03:42 pm
immuno) wrote in maskormenace2015-01-21 03:42 pm
005 ʙᴏʀᴏɴ ⚛ VIDEO (backdated to 1/18)
[ It happens like it always does—she doesn’t realize where she’s going until she’s already there. For all that Lydia had been planning to depart the university and make her way back to the parking garage, her body had other ideas, feet carrying her far from her car and into an unfamiliar part of the city.
She only notices the wrong turn when she looks up from her phone. By now, she knows what it means, and her stomach drops. Call Scott, her instincts bid, but Scott’s not here. The hair on the back of her neck prickles and stands on end, and without Scott to help, she creeps around the corner of the building, phone securely in one hand, wary of what she’ll find.
The burns on Dean Winchester’s corpse are still smoldering. This was recent. But the worst part isn’t the fact that he’s charred beyond all recognition: it’s the half of his head that’s been removed. Lydia drops her phone, and her hands fly to her mouth to muffle a curdled scream. ]
[ Another lonely night that Simon’s wandering Heropa alone. Normally he stays safe, stays toward the inner city, but he really just doesn’t want any company. Not right now. Or so he thinks; screaming and the very pungent odor of burnt flesh somewhere in the distance draw his attention. Curiosity overrides self-preservation, and Simon finds himself approaching with a strange calmness. He processes the sight—a charred body, male, jagged edges at the top of his skull—and decides it’s too different to be Lunatic’s work.
Not that it makes the scene less sickening. ] Oh, fuck.
[Here, he turns to the lady and has a million questions but tries to go for the important ones.] Hey, are you all right? Did you—did you see who did this, or…?
No.
[ Eyes wide, unerringly fixed on the body in front of her, Lydia shakes her head. She wishes she had. If she’d been a little sooner, maybe—
Maybe she just would have been another body. After a transfixed moment of silence, she turns her attention up to the newcomer, tilting her head at him. Something occurs to her and she crouches, grabbing her phone: this is obviously the work of a metahuman, and given that... ] But someone else might recognize it.
All right. [ His mouth’s gone dry, and he swallows to get a lump out of his throat. But he nods as he sees the girl pick up her phone. He, too, whips out his own phone to use the distress signal app that he’d downloaded from Barnaby last month. ]
[ Lydia composes herself and turns the video function on her phone, broadcasting her own face for a moment, body well off-screen. ]
We have a problem. If you’re squeamish, now would be a good time to stop watching.
[ Tapping the screen, she flips the camera, and instead of her face, the video captures an image of Dean’s body. ]
I don’t think I have to be the one to point out that an imPort did this.
[ Which means bad news bears for all of them: imPort crime has a way of lashing back to make all of them look bad. ]
[ Simon’s voice from off-screen adds, ] It doesn’t look like Lunatic’s work, not from what I’ve heard. Things don’t quite match up, and. I think. I think the victim’s head is… empty.
She only notices the wrong turn when she looks up from her phone. By now, she knows what it means, and her stomach drops. Call Scott, her instincts bid, but Scott’s not here. The hair on the back of her neck prickles and stands on end, and without Scott to help, she creeps around the corner of the building, phone securely in one hand, wary of what she’ll find.
The burns on Dean Winchester’s corpse are still smoldering. This was recent. But the worst part isn’t the fact that he’s charred beyond all recognition: it’s the half of his head that’s been removed. Lydia drops her phone, and her hands fly to her mouth to muffle a curdled scream. ]
[ Another lonely night that Simon’s wandering Heropa alone. Normally he stays safe, stays toward the inner city, but he really just doesn’t want any company. Not right now. Or so he thinks; screaming and the very pungent odor of burnt flesh somewhere in the distance draw his attention. Curiosity overrides self-preservation, and Simon finds himself approaching with a strange calmness. He processes the sight—a charred body, male, jagged edges at the top of his skull—and decides it’s too different to be Lunatic’s work.
Not that it makes the scene less sickening. ] Oh, fuck.
[Here, he turns to the lady and has a million questions but tries to go for the important ones.] Hey, are you all right? Did you—did you see who did this, or…?
No.
[ Eyes wide, unerringly fixed on the body in front of her, Lydia shakes her head. She wishes she had. If she’d been a little sooner, maybe—
Maybe she just would have been another body. After a transfixed moment of silence, she turns her attention up to the newcomer, tilting her head at him. Something occurs to her and she crouches, grabbing her phone: this is obviously the work of a metahuman, and given that... ] But someone else might recognize it.
All right. [ His mouth’s gone dry, and he swallows to get a lump out of his throat. But he nods as he sees the girl pick up her phone. He, too, whips out his own phone to use the distress signal app that he’d downloaded from Barnaby last month. ]
[ Lydia composes herself and turns the video function on her phone, broadcasting her own face for a moment, body well off-screen. ]
We have a problem. If you’re squeamish, now would be a good time to stop watching.
[ Tapping the screen, she flips the camera, and instead of her face, the video captures an image of Dean’s body. ]
I don’t think I have to be the one to point out that an imPort did this.
[ Which means bad news bears for all of them: imPort crime has a way of lashing back to make all of them look bad. ]
[ Simon’s voice from off-screen adds, ] It doesn’t look like Lunatic’s work, not from what I’ve heard. Things don’t quite match up, and. I think. I think the victim’s head is… empty.
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