multiversallogs | CLOSED | nobody wants to know my name

Who: Logan
What: Jeremy is fourth on the list, but first on Logan's.
Where: Somewhere that isn't Chimer.
When: Shundi night.
Warnings: Violence.

Jeremy Bournio decided to move out of Chimer.

This was a slower decision than the one that got him fired - he could swear he was cut loose with a pension within the same five minutes he learned of the broadcast, a secondhand sense of shame feeling like it overflowed from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Probably not the kind of shame others might look for in him, because it's difficult to have much of it and still smile in the photos that got passed around.

God, it was just a fucking joke.

He returns to his new apartment, when he gets back during the bigger hours of the evening. He stands in the kitchen, spends a few minutes taping a sidearm beneath the sink, then lights a cigarette. He has exactly three seconds to consider his own self-pity along with the burn of smoke before he sees something shift in the window reflection; something dark and tall. He turns fast, but not fast enough, two rough hands grabbing him by the back of his shirt and half-throwing him into the wall, and he has no idea where his cigarette has gone. An arm catches him at the back of the neck and pins him against the wall, his eye rolling in his head as he tries to see his attacker, spittle-flecked curse words rattling out of his mouth.

His heel comes down hard enough to crush a man's foot, but pain instead spikes hard up his leg, from ankle to knee, and his attacker only gives a grunt. Then, slowly, there's the sound of sliding metal, and three knives in time of one another push into his vision, extended from the arm that keeps him pinned.

"Stay still," is the rumbling growl. "And take your CiD out your pocket, unlock it, and put it on the counter."

"H-how," he rasps, and it's not a stammer of fear; adrenaline is just slamming him harder, making the more minor aspects of movement and interaction somewhat shaky, "how'm I meant to do that an' stay still, motherfuck-- hrrgh."

Almost (but not quite) as gentle as a hypodermic needle, three new points slip into the flesh at his side, running blood into his waistband. Swallowing, he shifts a hand to the pocket of his jacket, the jingle of apartment keys following the extraction of the device, and his thumb navigates the smartkeys out the corner of his eye. He reaches, setting it on the microwave. "What'd you do with the pictures, Jeremy?" rumbles that voice. "Send them to the guys at work? Keep 'em for later to jerk off to?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I think I wou--"

And then, a bone-deep tremor reverberates around them as something soundless emits from Jeremy's mouth. The windows behind them both all shatter immediately, and there's a jerk of pain from his captive. Ready, he twists, keys planted between his fingers as if he might like to take out this bastard's eye in a punch-- but instead, a wide palm grips his head and bounces it off the wall just as claws find stabbing purchase in his torso. Jeremy Bournio collapses in a sack of bleeding meat and bone on his own floor, and Logan shakes his head as if to clear it from whatever the hell just happened. A wind rushes through the damaged windows.

Not a lot of time to waste, then. Disgust has him pushing Jeremy onto his back with a kick of his boot, blood flowing freely across the tile as Logan quickly snatches up the CiD. He doesn't waste time trying to pick out the likeliest people who might have shared in the mirth; he simply points the CiD, takes a picture of the man lying unconscious on the ground, and sends it to Bournio's own contact listing. It's good enough.

The device is tossed into the sink, the water flicked on, and everything abandoned as is.