#and i have not heard an update on whether or not they caught that arsonist so im just in a state of paranoia Always | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ayamari-no-goshi · 4 years ago

Text

Verboten 16 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary: AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 16

As Danny waited outside with the rest of the guests, his parents and Vlad met up with him. After they handed him a bag filled with one of his favorite Nasty Burger meals, he gave them a quick rundown of what he knew, save for the appearance of the ghost. While frustrated, his parents shuffled him into the RV so he could eat and warm up a bit. It was a chilly fall day after all.

As he ate, Danny vaguely wondered how his parents managed to convince Vlad, the man with the limo, to go across town with them. His dad’s driving prowess… well, lack thereof… was famous in the area. The townsfolk and even the police steered clear of any known Fenton vehicle. In actuality, he had no idea how his dad hadn’t lost his license.

After a couple hours, the fire department cleared the building with the exception that rooms on the second floor could not be used until the police preformed an investigation to verify whether or not arson occurred. The rooms on that floor would also need cleaned. Thankfully, little damage ended up being done from the fire: a few pieces of furniture and some scorch marks. The majority of the damage ended up being from the hotel’s sprinkler system.

After collecting their items, his parents drove to a large house on the outskirts of the housing plan where Sam lived. After asking what they were doing there, Vlad matter-of-factly stated he just finalized the payment on it. Danny’s utter confusion had to be evident as his parents explained Vlad recently decided to purchase a house in Amity Park since he would be around more to help with the research.

Well, it explained why it took his parents so long to get food. While the act itself didn’t seem that strange for Vlad, he did own a castle in Wisconsin after all, something about the timing bothered him. With the rare exception of a day when there was a major experiment malfunction, Vlad tended to stay with the family upon his visits. Exactly how long would he be in town if he needed to buy a new house?

After getting a quick tour of the house, Danny retired to his temporary room and called his friends. The three way call ended up being hectic as he explained what happened. “Guys, I’m telling you, I saw a ghost, and then somehow the hotel caught fire.”

“Calm down, Danny,” Sam instructed. “I know you’re telling the truth, but geez, how in the world did you end up being the center of so much trouble in two days?”

“My mom said something about me possibly attracting paranormal things now.”

“Makes sense, in a weird sort of way,” Tucker agreed as typing could be heard on his end. “I’ll see if I can dig up any stories of ghosts like what you saw this time.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tucker. You’re already looking into those files.”

“Nah, this’ll be easy. It’ll only take a couple minutes at most to set up a search and have it run in the background while we talk. Any specific things that stood out?”

“Other than the blue flaming hair?” He sighed and collapsed on his bed. “If she hadn’t been a ghost, she would have looked right at home in one of those bands Sam likes. She said she wanted to make people remember she still exists.”

“So she looked like a goth?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, but with some, uh… I think you’d say she’s more punk.”

“Woah! That’s weird,” Tucker stated after something on one of his tech devices beeped in the background. “So, apparently there have been a series of spontaneous fires that seem to occur about every ten years, but they started after the death of a local girl. Some people think it’s her ghost that causes them. I’ll send you the articles.”

It took only seconds for the article links to be sent. Danny nearly dropped the phone when the picture of the mentioned girl appeared on the screen. With the exception of the hair, the girl’s face matched that of the ghost. “That… that’s her! Wow, she really doesn’t look that much different as a ghost.”

“Wait, you’re serious?” Sam hummed as she reviewed the information. “Says here while she was unpopular at school, she was in a local band. She was found dead after her house burned down mysteriously. The police thought it might of been an arson, but officials were never able to verify anything. After her death and around its anniversary, there were reports of fires in the city. Sometimes, entire buildings are engulfed, but other times the words ‘you will remember’ appear burned into buildings.”

“I kinda remember hearing my dad mention something about ghost fires growing up, but with it being my dad, I never put any stock into it.”

“My mom said something about it once.”

“I have no idea why I keep forgetting your mom works for 911,” Sam interrupted. “You know, we might be able to use that to our advantage.”

“I mean, you can try, but she refuses to talk about anything other than the occasional funny call. The one about the ‘bambulance’ still brings me to tears.”

“Tuck, you’re getting distracted.”

“Right. Anyways,” some typing could be heard on Tucker’s end, “my mom thought the fires were from the girl’s bandmates. They had just recorded a song called ‘Remember’ which got some local play before she died. Since I know asking Mom for anything else is pointless, I think I’m gonna see if I can get into the files of those fires. The news articles all have explanations, but some of them seem a bit over the top.”

“How long will that take?”

Danny snorted. “Sam, it’s Tucker. Knowing him, he’s already looking at them.”

“I’m hurt, Sam. Do you really have that little faith in me?”

“I know you’ll be able to get them eventually. You’re track record hasn’t been all that great recently. You’ll still working on those files you got from Plasmius, after all.”

“Oh, I’ve finished the review on those. Some of it isn’t pretty, but I wanted to verify information directly from Vlad Master’s companies. That’s been slow going ‘cause he has some impressive firewalls, and I’m really trying not to get caught. As for this,” Tucker briefly shouted in triumph, “I’ve already gotten what I need. Hmm… that’s weird. The official investigations regarding the ‘Ember fires’, as they’re called, all state there was no known cause of the fire. There wasn’t even evidence of an accelerant… which is…?”

“It’s something used to make a fire go from a few flames to a roaring fire. Think of what happens when you add gasoline to a fire,” Sam explained as tapping could be heard on her end. Was she at the computer too? “Most arsonists use one. If they don’t, unless the flames start where there’s something like tissue paper, sawdust, or something else really flammable, the fire usually takes a lot of time to grow and become a problem. Tuck, is there anything about flammable materials?”

“Hmm… no, not really.”

Danny sighed as he got off the bed and paced his temporary room. “Great, now there’s a fire starting ghost on the prowl, on top of Plasmius, that thing… and possibly whatever is wrong with that girl. Tuck, do you have any updates on anything?”

“On the Plasmius front, no. Like I said, I’m trying to cross-reference those files against the files from VladCo and DALV, but that’s taking a while due to his security. For the creepy thing that attacked you, I have a notification set up for any potentially related attacks. I think that’s all I can do for now on that… As for Maura, I got distracted a bit when Plasmius had that chat with you, but I can tell you she stopped posting on social media right after her disappearing act. That’s pretty weird for girls in her clique. Give me a couple days to get her medical chart.” Something beeped in the background. “Oh, it looks like I might have a pattern for our fire bug ghost.”

“At least that’s something. Can you send them to me?”

Sam snorted. “What, you’re gonna try to figure out where she’ll be and talk to her?”

“I mean, it’s worth a shot. Maybe she knows something about Plasmius or that thing? And… maybe I can nicely ask her to stop lighting fires?”

“I think you’re just gonna end up with your ass kicked, but go ahead.”

“Thanks for that wonderful vote of confidence,” Danny deadpanned. The ghost was nice enough to give him a warning so she couldn’t be all bad. “I think if I open up with a ‘thank you’, she won’t outright attack me.”

“It’s your funeral.”

“Actually, Danny, can you die?” Tucker hesitantly asked. “I mean… your situation is kinda weird.”

He thought about it for a few moments. “I think so. Clockwork told me I’m alive, so that’s good enough for me. But, to be honest, I don’t really wanna think about it too much.”

“That’s fair.”

…

Danny’s conversation only lasted a few more minutes after Tucker asked the awkward question as his parents called for him over an intercom system. Uncertain if the correct response to the intercom should be to cringe or be impressed, he pushed it from his mind as he meandered down the hallways to attempt to find his parents.

Something about the décor of the mansion seemed familiar, but Danny found it difficult to place it. Vlad loved the Green Bay Packers, and he commonly used their colors of green and gold for accents. He stopped in his tracks as he glanced around. Plasmius also had green and gold splashes in his home. It had to be a coincidence.

Not wanting to think about it more, he raced down the halls and eventually came to the main foyer. His dad shot him a questioning glance as his mother stood and moved towards him.

“Hi, sweetie! How are you adjusting? It’s been a hectic couple days.”

“I’m okay. I’m just a bit tired,” he told her as he dodged a hug. “I let Sam and Tucker know we’re fine. I’m not dealing with Jazz until after you guys talk to her.”

“I trust the room is to your liking?”

Danny jumped as Vlad’s voice came from behind him. How did he miss him? “Yes. Thanks for letting us stay.”

Vlad waved his hand dismissively. “It’s no trouble at all. My house is yours.”

“Vlad, you mentioned you had a workshop we can use?” His mother asked as she abandoned her attempts at hugging her son.

After staring at her for a second, Vlad shook his head and regained composure. “Surely that can wait until tomorrow, my dear. You’ve been through quite a lot in the past twenty-four hours.”

“No can do, Vladdy!” Jack boomed as he excitedly stood. “You heard those policemen. They want a Fenton product, and I can’t sit still when that spook is still a threat to my family. Say, do you want to help?”

The billionaire grimaced before forcing a smile. “I must politely decline, but I will gladly look over any blue prints in the morning.”

“Don’t worry,” Maddie told him while giving her husband a fond grin, “I know how… enthusiastic Jack can be when he has a new project. I’ll also make sure he sleeps tonight. We don’t want any accidents.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

Danny glanced between Vlad and his parents. There was some sort of story he was missing. “Should I ask?” he hesitantly questioned.

“I was badly injured when we were in collage when an experiment went wrong,” Vlad explained as his expression hardened. “As a result, I’ve made it a rule to not be in a room when someone is actively making experimental items or preforming experiments. However, I’ll gladly double check procedures, blue prints, set ups, and results.”

“I… yeah… That… that makes sense. But you’re okay now?”

“Absolutely, my dear boy. You could say I gained a different outlook on life as a result.” Vlad gave a predatory grin which sent shivers down Danny’s spine. “Why, if I hadn’t gotten into that accident, I probably wouldn’t have ended up so successful.”

“Right…” His mother must have caught something off in Vlad’s tone as she furrowed her brow in confusion. “It’s gotten pretty late. Danny, will you be alright?”

“Huh? Probably. I mean, I could use a snack.”

“The kitchen and pantry are just down that hall.” Vlad pointed towards the hallway opposite of the way Danny originally came. “Will you be alright to be back to your room once you’re done? If you wait, I can escort you back once I’m done showing your parents where the lab is.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be alright. ‘Night everyone.” Chuckling as his father couldn’t contain his excitement anymore and bounded down the hall followed by his amused mother and wary Vlad, he just made his way to the kitchen. It thankfully was easy to find, and after making a sandwich, he meandered his way back towards his room.

….

Around midnight, Danny decided he would attempt to sneak out of the mansion. Luckily for him, Vlad put him in a room on the ground floor, saying something about how the upper floors weren’t ready yet. Luckier still, there were no bars on the windows. Sam’s parents tried doing something like before due to how many times she snuck out, but it was struck down by her Grandma Ida, who still had control of the deed at that time.

Escape ended up being a piece of cake. There didn’t seem to be any type of security system or guard which seemed strange, but that would probably change once the mansion was officially finished.

He had an idea of where the ghost might end up appearing thanks to the articles Tucker forwarded to him earlier so he booked it in the direction of an older housing plan near the city’s boarder with Elmerton. The majority of buildings in the area were row houses in disrepair. While there were still a few low income families in the area, most of the houses were considered condemned. Danny remembered hearing talk of tearing the houses down at one point, but either the project was shelved or abandoned.

As he approached, he decided to shift to his ghostly form. While it seemed unlikely he would encounter anyone, the area did have a reputation for crime. While he didn’t know what sort of protection being a ghost would give him, it seemed a better option. And, if that thing tried attacking him again, maybe he could float to safety. He really hoped that thing didn’t appear; his trust in his abilities honestly was non-existent.

The soft glow of his ghost form provided the majority of the light as he silently found his way to the road where the girl used to live. The few street lamps were either broken or burnt out, and some even seemed melted.

His destination, Garnier Avenue, seemed worse than the surrounding streets. At first he thought the houses were just gutted, but a second look said otherwise. Most of them had some evidence of fire: melted windows, ash marks, and collapsed roofs and walls. Ash and dust could be found on the road as well as the sidewalk, and in some places, they almost looked like outlines of people.

The area seemed dead. No noise. No sound. No movement. As he continued to move forward, his hair stood on end and his breath misted in front of him. It was almost as if he walked into some sort of wall of static electricity.

“So this is what you actually look like. You’re not that bad looking after all,” a curious voice called to him, making him jump. Danny spun around to see the ghost from earlier materialize in front of him. Her appearance hadn’t changed, but she seemed more solid. Even her voice seemed closer and more natural. “Do you know how many of us would kill to be able to blend in that well?”

“Uh… I really wouldn’t know. This is really new to me,” Danny relied as he held up his hands in what he hoped was a submissive manner.

Her eyes narrowed. “So why are you here, baby pop? Do I interest you?”

He gulped at the undertones of her applications. “A little? I mean, you were nice enough to let me there would be a fire, and I wanted to thank you for that. And maybe ask a couple questions?”

“You just happened to be there at the right time,” she responded offhandedly though her satisfied smirk suggested his thanks was welcome. “It would be a waste to see someone like you get destroyed by accident. But, I would like to know how you found me.”

“I mentioned you to a friend of mine, and he was able to find out about your legend.” Danny hoped he sounded genuinely curious and not creepy. Wait, was it possible for him to not be creepy? He was a ghost after all.

She nodded. “I like to come back around the anniversary of my death. It helps strengthen me.”

“You do seem… I think stronger is the word I want.”

“Glad you noticed, and that makes you more observant than most of the guys I’ve met over the years. Call me, Ember.” Grinning again, she walked around him almost as if she was examining him.

“I’m Danny.”

She snorted. “Bet that’s your real name. Don’t met too many ghosts who remember theirs. You really must be new. Anyways, you had questions?”

“Yeah. I was hoping you might know something about this thing that’s been seen around the town. It attacked me, and it’s caused enough trouble to get the police interested.” When she didn’t immediately respond, Danny took that as a sign he could continue. So, he quickly explained his interaction with whatever the thing was. When he finished, Ember expression turned stony.

“You’re telling me something like that has been seen in my town?” she demanded. Her hair, which had been gently waving in an invisible wind, suddenly blazed in a blue flame. “Are you telling me one of those things have been seen here?”

Danny gulped and nodded. “Like I said, it attacked me! What are they? Plasmius doesn’t know what they are either.”

“Plasmius? Plasmius is here too?” The temperature around them spiked as she shrieked. “Are you working for him? You better answer me, Dipstick.”

===

Notes: ghostly fire is usually considered insubstantial and doesn't tend to cause damage. Actual paranormal fire damage is usually associated with poltergeists, and more modern theories classify poltergeists as creations of psychokinesis (PK) agents (normally living people) instead of spirits.

Ember's background is directly taken from information provided by one of the show's directors.

"Bambalance" is a reference to an old but hilarious 911 call. You can find it on YouTube under the title "the guy, the deer, the dog, and the bambulance." There is some foul language in it.

Also, there is a very subtle 'Phantom of the Opera' reference in this chapter.

6 notes · View notes

pinelife3 · 5 years ago

Text

Mindhunter: No Magic

I’ve been reading the book Mindhunter. You might have seen the Netflix/David Fincher TV show (or read the book?) - it’s based on the life of FBI agent John Douglas, the guy who pioneered criminal profiling, especially of serial killers, in the 70s, 80s and 90s. An interesting element of Mindhunter is how many cases Douglas worked on where the police consulted a medium. I kid you not! In tough, high-profile cases where the local police needed a breakthrough, they would sometimes call a psychic to ask for confirmation on their leads, hoping that the medium could magically intuit something about the case that the cops had missed (where does the killer live, what does he look like, what’s his line of work, etc.). It doesn’t sound like Douglas himself ever called a medium, or put much faith in their psychic intuition, but he does mention that they were around and contributing to cases he worked on. It seems like in the early days of profiling, people had a similar opinion of Douglas’ work: that it was superstitious, unscientific, unreliable - this even extended to his testimony and analysis as an FBI expert sometimes being inadmissible in court:

Though I’d already been qualified as a crime-scene analysis expert in several states, the defense referred to me as a “voodoo man” for the way I came up with my interpretations, and the judge ultimately ruled that I wouldn’t testify.

In “Killing Types”, a post on this blog from January 2016, I compared two accounts of how the criminal psychological profile of the Butcher Baker was developed. One account was from Wikipedia, and the other was Douglas, who personally developed the profile:

The serial killer in question was Robert Hansen AKA the Butcher Baker (everything I’m gonna write about him is via Wikipedia. You should just read their article if you want a more detailed account as I’m just summarising here). He was a very shy, skinny young boy with acne and a stutter. He was horribly bullied and the cute girls in school didn’t like him. Wikipedia doesn’t have a citation for this, but apparently: because he was “shunned by the attractive girls in school, he grew up hating them and nursing fantasies of cruel revenge.” As he grew up, Hansen became an adept hunter. Like many serial killers, Hansen was also a thief and an arsonist. From 1971 to 1983 he murdered at least 17 women ranging in ages from 16 to 41.

Hansen’s typical move was to abduct women (usually sex workers) and take them to his cabin near Anchorage, Alaska. There he would rape them and then set them loose so he could hunt them in the woods. Of his confessed murders, many of the bodies have not been found.

By 1982, three bodies had been found in shallow graves in the woods and the Alaska state troopers called in the FBI to assist in putting together a criminal profile. According to Wikipedia, FBI agents put together a profile for a person with the following characteristics:

Experienced hunter

Low self-esteem

History of being rejected by women

Would keep ‘souvenirs’ from his murders

A stutter

...[Douglas] devotes a chapter to Hansen, and the way he describes what happened is actually kind of different from Wikipedia’s version of events. Wikipedia makes it sound like the FBI turned up and pulled the profile out of thin air just based on looking at the crimes, whereas Douglas says that when he and his boys rolled into Anchorage, Hansen was already a suspect. So what they were doing was comparing what they knew about Hansen to what they knew about the crimes and seeing how things matched up and if he was a likely suspect. So the profile they put together did include the bullet points above and, yes, some of that would have been speculation (such as the self-esteem problems, the history of rejection, and the souvenir keeping), but the rest (such as saying he had a stutter) were based on the fact that they knew Hansen and it was completely fucking obvious he had a stutter and acne scarring. Anyway, Douglas describes his profile and process as follows:

“[Hansen] was short and slight, heavily pockmarked, and spoke with a severe stutter. I surmised he had had severe skin problems as a teenager and, between that and the speech impediment, was probably teased or shunned by his peers, particularly girls. So his self-esteem would have been low… And, psychologically speaking, abusing prostitutes is a pretty standard way of getting back at women in general.

“I also made much of the fact that Hansen was known as a proficient hunter… I don’t mean to imply that most hunters are inadequate types, but in my experience, if you have an inadequate type to being with, one of the ways he might try to compensate is by hunting or playing around with guns or knives… I was betting that Hansen’s speech problem disappeared when he felt most dominant and in control.”

So I think we can call that another case closed: it is not possible for an FBI profiler, no matter how gifted, to look at a crime scene or a string of murders and miraculously determine that the killer has a speech impediment.

As you saw above, my read of the passage from Mindhunter was that Hansen was a top suspect, that Douglas made some additional speculations about Hansen, but essentially just endorsed the guy the local cops already suspected. So specific details in the profile that seem like magical inferences weren’t as magical as Wikipedia made them seem. In January 2016 I hadn’t read Mindhunter, but I looked up what I thought was the relevant section on Google Books and that was the basis for the above section of my blog post. (If you’ve never tried to read things online for free, you may not be aware of this, but Google Books provides previews of lots of books, but you have to buy the book to read the whole thing - so back in 2016, I just looked at the pages of Mindhunter that Google had made available for free.)

Now I’m finally reading Mindhunter in full, my take on the process of profiling has changed: I do believe that Douglas and co. could have inferred that the killer had a stutter or bad skin without knowing Hansen (a man with a stutter and bad skin) was the top suspect. Indeed, Douglas tells a number of stories where he and his team correctly made similar inferences - for example, in the profile they wrote up on the Trailside Killer (not covered by Wikipedia but chronicled elsewhere). On the process of developing the profile of Hansen, Douglas writes:

We didn’t profile Hansen or devise a strategy to identify and catch him according to our usual procedure. In September 1983, by the time my unit was called in, Alaska state troopers had already identified Hansen as a murder suspect. But they weren’t sure of the extent of his crimes, or whether such an unlikely individual, a family man and pillar of the community, was capable of the terrible things of which he was being accused...

Even though the police had a suspect before I heard about him, I wanted to make sure my judgement wouldn’t be clouded by the investigative work already done. So before I let them give me the specifics of their man during our first phone conference, I said, “First tell me about the crimes and let me tell you about the guy.”

They described the unsolved murders and the details of the young woman’s story. I described a scenario and an individual that they said sounded very much like their suspect, down to the stuttering...

In a sense, this was the opposite of what we normally do in that we were working from a known subject, trying to determine whether his background, personality and behaviour fit a set of crimes.

Is he a wizard? How’d he do that? How could Douglas know from the description of the crimes that Robert Hansen had a stutter?

The truth is common, ordinary, sensible: he had seen, heard about and worked on cases like this many times and had developed an impression of the kind of person who is capable of hunting women like animals in the woods. He’d spoken to serial killers in prison about their crimes, observed them up close, understood their motivations (control, domination, power, punishment, lust, rage). He’s a walking database of crimes and correlations, which allows him to mentally compile the information he’s received, query it against similar cases and then make what seem like totally uncanny inferences. In terms of demystifying something that seemed arcane and inexplicable, I don’t think I’ve ever read a book as satisfying and steady as Mindhunter. This guy isn’t magical - he’s just fucking sick at his job. He knows his shit. He’s a towering obelisk of professional competence.

That’s not to say they got everything right. For example, Douglas and his unit saw a big difference in lust killers who raped their victims vs. killers who masturbated at the scene. If a killer doesn’t rape his victim but masturbates over her, Douglas and co. would infer that the killer lacks confidence, that he’s inexperienced with women, he’s single, anti-social, probably has a shitty job or no job at all, and because of that he likely lives at home or with a relative, he feels he lacks control, etc. This type of analysis was often correct, but did sometimes lead them down the wrong path (which Douglas acknowledges in the updated foreword for the 2017 reprint of Mindhunter). Since the publication of Mindhunter in the 90s, a number of prominent non-rape lust killers have been caught and it turns out they were married with kids, they were upstanding members of their community, they were homeowners who worked decent jobs, and they seemed normal around women in social settings (see: the BTK Strangler). They simply weren’t the conspicuous, twitching deviants Douglas and his unit imagined.

Mindhunter feels like a book from a different time. Douglas is vociferously pro-death penalty. He’s more sympathetic and vengeful when the victim was a cute lil blondie than a street worn whore. He is interested in the psychology of killers, but is unmoved by their troubled backgrounds: Douglas acknowledges that practically every serial killer he studied had abusive parents, never felt loved or safe, were victims themselves in many ways - but he’s pretty indifferent towards that angle. This perspective would probably get more play in a book on criminals written today - modern writers might be interested in a holistic view of criminality and suffering as cyclical. Douglas does say the number one thing we could do to prevent the development of serial killers and psychos is love our children more and have more resources available to intervene when kids seemed to be headed down the path of darkness... but, look at Douglas’ description of a guy they were looking for in Illinois:

Like so many of these guys, this one is a real loser with a poor self-image. He may come across as confident, but deep-down, he is extremely inadequate.

The UNSUB is a real loser!

One of the key sources of information for Douglas is the killer’s signature. A signature differs from a modus operandi (MO) in that the MO is how the crime is carried out (e.g. killer surveils house for weeks in advance, cuts phone line during the night, breaks in via a window, uses the victim’s tights as a ligature, etc.) while the signature is what the killer does to get off: posing the body, keeping trophies, torturing the victim, taking photographs. Douglas says a killer’s MO may change over time based on failed crimes, stressors, changes to police work, etc. but a signature will remain steady. For example, when Bundy was at his most desperate after escaping from prison (for the second time!), he went on a poorly planned spree. By now, Bundy knew it was all over. The police knew who he was, what he’d done, and were searching for him - it was a matter of time until he was recaptured. The electric chair was waiting. Bundy’s MO had developed with experience and he was typically an organised killer who used a kit, props, and had the skill to lure his victims, but when he knew the net was closing in, he became disorganised - his MO changed. Instead of approaching a pretty girl on the street, luring her to his car and then taking his time to torture/kill her, he broke into a sorority house in the middle of the night and attacked the residents in their own rooms in vicious, quick attacks. Interestingly, this methodology was similar to his original technique when he was younger and less experienced. When he was under pressure, he regressed. Via Wikipedia:

Bundy's modus operandi evolved in organization and sophistication over time, as is typical of serial murderers, according to FBI experts. Early on, it consisted of forcible late-night entry followed by a violent attack with a blunt weapon on a sleeping victim. Some victims were sexually assaulted with inert objects; all except Healy were left as they lay, unconscious or dead. As his methodology evolved Bundy became progressively more organized in his choice of victims and crime scenes. He would employ various ruses designed to lure his victim to the vicinity of his vehicle where he had pre-positioned a weapon, usually a crowbar. In many cases he wore a plaster cast on one leg or a sling on one arm, and sometimes hobbled on crutches, then requested assistance in carrying something to his vehicle. Bundy was regarded as handsome and charismatic by many of his victims, traits he exploited to win their confidence.

For Douglas, an MO is not a reliable way of tying crimes together - because an MO can change. But a signature (which is often at the crux of why the crime was committed) will remain relatively static and is a good clue that two crimes carried out in different ways may be related. The MO may tell you some practical details about the killer (he owns or has access to a car, he’s a local who’s familiar with the back roads, he was known the victim because he was able to gain access to the home without a struggle, etc.) but the signature is driven by behaviour - and that’s what reveals the pits inside a person.

What’s been revelatory for me in Mindhunter is how there is a real, meaningful link between private behaviour and the surface-level details a person. We like to think that our interiority is private and inscrutable to others, that we’re boxed canyon mysteries with rich inner lives and motivations that are inconceivable to the people around us, that our true selves transcend superficial things like how we look or where we work - but Douglas can tell whether a guy will get a haircut after he’s killed someone. He knows if the killer was drunk at the time of the crime. He can tell if they were in the military or not - and if they were, whether they had a dishonourable discharge. How old the killer is. His race. Whether he’ll want to talk to people about the crime. The chances of him owning a German Shepherd. Whether he finished high school. If he keeps a journal. Whether he’s ever been married - and if it was a happy marriage. Most of these are visible details of ourselves that we display to the world, and feel safe displaying because they don’t give too much away: you don’t think people can accurately read anything serious or private about you based on something like how old your car is or whether you watch the nightly news. But all these insignificant details do reveal something. Maybe it is kind of magical.

#Trailside Killer #david carpenter #robert hansen #Butcher Baker #John Douglas #Mindhunter #David Fincher #FBI #Ted Bundy

1 note · View note

one-deranged-son · 4 years ago

Photo

(This is Not) The Way of God

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, thoughts of suicide, torture, and a lot of things. Read at your own risk.

Honestly, I don’t really care about the grammar anymore because it’s been months since I write this so whatever.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

"Fucking hell."

The Revelator tighten the belt strapped in his thigh even more; pressing the open wound to prevent it from dripping another single drop of blood again. He had lost a lot of them today, yesterday, and the other days. He can't afford that again.

His vision started to get blurry and, god-fucking-dammit, even now he can't help but to curse out loud as he felt himself trembling like mad. He can't even hear the guttural noises in the background as the crowds screeched, screamed, and shouted for their dear life. Yet, the distinct smell of smoke—of burnt blood—of the remaining ashes—were pungent in his nose.

The Revelator pulled his feet close to his chest, biting his inner cheeks as he tried to handle the pain. It was really a suicide plan, to actually ambush his target in an open space when his shot wound hasn't healed just yet, and now he has to bear with another one which, unfortunately, was placed on his vital part of escaping plan.

Standing up hurts like a bitch.

"Motherfucker..."

He should've seen it on the first hand, his plan was somehow lacking of intel and as soon as he executes it, it was already going southward. Now he's stuck like a lost (feral) kitten inside a dark alley, far away from his home, with a burning building just outside his spot, and losing blood.

He's fucked, that's for sure.

John struggled to keep himself awake, but really, it's hard. And without even realizing it, everything turned black.

Motherfucker, indeed.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ian Nashton stepped foot in New York City.

But he wasn't there on a vacation—far from it, actually.

He was visiting his goddamned baby brother in a hospital.

Rewind to couple of days ago.

The younger Nashton mentioned that he had a convention in New York to attend to.

All was well until the second night of his stay.

Ever heard of the saying "caught in the wrong place at the wrong time"? That's precisely what happened with Jansen. During the middle of the night, there was an explosion that originated a couple of rooms adjacent to Jansen's.

That side of the building almost immediately caught fire, and of course, the younger Nashton and many others were injured. But many more lost their lives because they were (somehow) asleep during the fire or they have been rendered unconscious by carbon monoxide.

Jansen was no stranger to things blowing up. Explosions often happen in his lab; whether done deliberately as a demonstration, or an accident.

Miraculously, he's never gotten seriously injured from from those explosions, nor have they ever claimed anyone's lives. Perhaps because they tend to be smaller in scale than the hotel explosion. It also helps that Jansen had his lab built some distance away from residential areas.

Jansen's injuries weren't too extreme (compared to some other survivors), there were some minor burns on his limbs, some cuts from splintered wood, a sprained ankle and a broken arm—which he got because he tripped down the emergency stairs.

However, in the eyes of Ian Nashton, it wasn't just the injuries hat got him worried. What got him worried was the attack. More specifically, WHO was behind it.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the detective knew who was behind the attack. It was glaringly obvious. Unfortunately, New York wasn't his area, so he could only leave it to NYPD.

At the very most, he could leave an anonymous tip.

As soon as the news dropped, Ian immediately packed and booked an express ticket to New York—he had dropped Monty by Jeffrey's place because he wasn't exactly sure how long he'd stay in New York.

Back to the present, now.

The doctor told the brothers that Jansen could leave within two weeks.

"Oi. I'm gonna go out and look for food, okay? Do you want anything?" Ian asked.

"Borax." Jansen said in a groggy tone. Obviously, he was joking. That man sometimes say the stupidest of things. Such irony for a mind so brilliant. Maybe he's gotten a little loopy from his meds.

Ian sighed loudly and grabbed his hat. "What the fuck. I'll get you a burger, then."

Jansen responded with a tired hum. By now, the detective was out of the room already.

Once outside, Ian took out his phone and dialed a number—hoping that the person would pick up immediately.

After a few seconds, the call was picked up. Thank the stars.

"Hello, detective! Did you hear about—"

"—the explosion at Roosevelt Hotel? Yeah. I did. My brother was caught in that damn explosion. It's him, it's glaringly obvious. I'm in New York right now, but I need a favor. Tell me everything you know so far about the attack."

As he walked and talked, Ian had a faint scowl on his face—he was sure agent Moore could hear it through the call.

"Well, our victim is Anton Pavlov. He's a small time politician from Russia—known for his love of gambling and infidelity. Now also known for getting burnt to a crisp." There were some quick rustling of paper on the other side, agent Moore was probably reviewing his notes. "Often frequents the United States on so called business trips, when in actuality, he was taking part in high stakes gambling."

Ian groaned loudly and massaged one side of his temple with his free hand. "As if relations between these two countries weren't bad enough, right? God damn it. He's getting balls-y."

"I'm sure that thanks to the publicity he's gotten, the Russian government would have known who he is by now. This could mean trouble."

Agent Moore was right. It could.

"Also. One more thing. A couple of days before this, Jimmy Carter—not the former president, obviously—was murdered and his mansion burnt down. And get this, Carter had similar vices to Pavlov."

"Um… thank you. Listen, I'll call you back later, okay? Keep me updated… if you can." With that, Ian ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket.

The detective wasn't actually sure where he was headed. He said he wanted to get food, but his main intention was to take some fresh air and talk to the agent. Ian didn't want his younger brother to know because he'd probably worry about Ian instead of himself.

(To be fair, Ian had only recovered from his own injuries recently)

Now, the detective walked through the streets aimlessly. He was deep in thought, indicated by the frown on his face.

A couple of days back, Jimmy Carter was crucified, and his mansion was burnt down. Then, after that, Anton Pavlov was burnt alive—like Dick Foster—and his hotel room exploded.

The fact that these attacks occurred within a short time frame made it seem as if the Revelator already had everything planned—as if he had a list. Ian thought that he wouldn't be surprised if by tomorrow, someone else would become deranged Jesus' next victim.

Just his luck.

Ian didn't need to wait until tomorrow—because he heard the faint but familiar sound of sirens. Police, ambulance and firefighters all combined together in that all too familiar cacophony. When the detective looked up, he could see a glow of blue, red, white and orange—as he walked closer, he could hear people screaming and he could smell it.

Smoke, burnt flesh, ashes—you name it.

Sure enough, there was a burning building a few blocks away. What building it was, Ian wasn't even sure, the flames had consumed the sign, and Ian wasn't a New Yorker, so he didn't know for sure. If he had to guess, he'd guess that it was an apartment complex.

Even in the midst of all the chaos, the detective's senses were sharp as ever.

He noticed something moving in a dark alleyway. Too big to be an animal. It must be a person. At first, he thought it must have been a homeless person, but as he walked closer, he could hear a faint grunting and… cursing?

Someone's hurt.

Instinctively, Ian rushed into the alley. He used his phone's flashlight to make it easier for himself to see. "Hello? Are you—"

Oh.

F U C K.

It's the goddamned Revelator himself. Curled up in a dark alley with some sort of wound on his thigh. Ian nearly dropped his (new) phone, but the detective quickly regained his composure and for a brief moment, he only saw red.

The thought of his younger brother in hospital crossed his mind. His younger brother who had absolutely NOTHING to do with the Revelator was now hurt.

He thought of Sam. How the poor man had to rely on a cane as he recovers from his leg injury, also caused by the Revelator.

He thought of poor Jeffrey. His dominant hand just happened to be the one that got broken. The poor man's productivity was greatly affected because of it.

He thought of Thomas and his family—how they could have lost him that day.

He thought of himself. And what the Revelator has done to him.

Can you blame Ian for wanting revenge?

Ian lowered his hat so it concealed his face, just in case the Revelator wakes up.

For a brief moment, the detective felt nothing but pure hatred and anger. He considered taking one of the arsonist's weapons and just… end the poor bastard's life then and there.

It seemed so easy.

There were no cameras, and there were some bins they could hide behind. NYPD would probably shrug off the case, anyway. The Revelator had been a thorn in their side lately, no?

Actually…

Forget murder and revenge, Ian could even just leave him there to bleed out.

Fortunately, his conscience finally came through.

What he was going to do instead isn't ideal either. But at least (hopefully) the Revelator would still be alive.

Ian sent his current address to agent Moore's number, along with a text which read:

'I found him. Please send someone here ASAP. He's injured, by the way, so bring a medic along.'

The detective left the dark alley and blended in with some of the bystanders. He only had to wait a measly half an hour before a black sedan parked near the alley. Out came a short man with ginger hair and freckled face.

That must be agent Lewis. Agent Moore wasn't in New York at that moment, but he said he'd drop by as soon as possible.

Ian watched as the ginger man discreetly walked into and out—with the Revelator—of the alley. The two men were now in that sedan, and before Ian knew it, the car had driven off to who knows where.

Perhaps now would be a good time to get that burger for his brother.

That night, Ian had returned to Jansen's room, and he brought a burger along, just like he promised. When he got back, he found Jansen sitting up in his bed and playing on his phone, the younger man was probably updating his followers about his current situation.

"Got your burger." Ian dropped the paper bag on his brother's lap.

"Took you long enough. There was a McDonald's just down this street! Where the hell were you, man? I was starving here!"

How ungrateful he was, but Ian only rolled his eyes in response.

"Actually, I went the long way. I... uh... I saw the Revelator."

"YOU WHAT?!" Jansen screamed, it looked as if he was ready to jump out of his bed.

"Hey, relax. I'm not hurt. He was, though. I found him in some alley. Unconscious." A part of Ian didn't want to tell this story to Jansen, but they've always shared things with each other, so Ian grabbed a chair and sat next to the younger's bed.

"He was so vulnerable, J. I... I wanted to... you know... kill him. Right there." There was a slight look of shame on the detective's face.

"But you didn't, because you don't like the idea of taking someone else's life." Even if it was Ian's own. Jansen always found it a little puzzling, but who was he to judge?

"No, I uh... I gave him up to the authorities. But... still. The thought crossed my mind. Even if he's a notorious fugitive, I'm pretty sure in that circumstance, it would count as murder. So..."

"Yeah, well... terrible thoughts cross everyone's minds from time to time. But if you don't act on it, that doesn't make you a bad person."

Ian had began to smile, his brother can be so wise sometimes, and the detective was damn proud of that.

"What DOES make you a bad person, however... is the fact that you forgot to ask for extra pickles on my burger, you blithering idiot!" Jansen finished his whining by throwing a pillow to Ian's face.

The elder Nashton retaliated by groaning and throwing the pillow back.

How he missed these banters.

John

"Wake up."

Truth be told, John couldn't even understand those words. He just felt like it was the word being said in front of his fucking salad when a cold water splash his face.

Hey, this pattern is familiar.

He actually jerked up straight, mind blaring sirens and drove his whole mind on full alert mode. His eyes were still blurry out of the blood loss, and his limbs hurt like shit, but it wasn't just his feet now who feels as if it was refusing to move. It was his arms too.

"Hello, John."

Oh. Oh, not again.

John groaned, low and guttural as the realization hit him. He was still high from the pain, the tranquilizer (maybe), and from, basically, everything. He could barely see anything clearly, but, although John ain't an observer, he could understand what kind of shit he is in to.

The room was every shade of gray, from the cold concrete to the bland ceilings. Every corner was sharp and straight, and there was a bulb hanging just on top of his head, threatening to fall down as it dangles left and right without the actual consent of his worrisome heart towards the future impact.

At this point of time, someone had began to speak. And, holy fuck, John couldn't even understand what he means as his hearing only caught some faint "Hello", "Interrogation", and "Do you understand?"

No, he doesn't understand at all.

He knew that the room was jammed and somehow... crowded. He recognized the man behind the prior questions, and he was sitting in front of him. John couldn't make up his face as his eyes were still hazy and the room was poorly lit. Then there were two more people beside him on a tactical gears and were heavily armed. He can obviously see where this shit is going.

And with how this goddamn stranger keeps asking question, things just doesn't better.

So now all John did was groan softly as he tried to gain his composure back, because everything was too quick for him, but not enough for them. And he knew that because while John is sitting still, barely budging and saying any coherent word, he could feel the strand of his hair getting yanked behind and some loud "answer me!" before some blows were landed in his face.

Repeatedly. Over and over again.

At least take off your ring, goddamit.

"What's your name?"

"Who's on your list?"

"Is there anyone involved besides you?"

At one time there were fingers around his throat, at one time he was forced to stare right into that face full of wrinkle, and at another time he realized that maybe he should cut his hair soon because they're enjoying this shit too much. Kinky.

But he refused to answer. Even as he regained his full focus, he didn't answer. He wouldn't even give them the satisfaction of seeing him whimper or react.

So the Revelator sat still, letting the man fuck the shit outta him as he bit down his inner cheeks. 'Cause even though he didn't say anything, it didn't mean he didn't feel any pain.

It hurt like a goddamn bitch.

Ian Nashton

The next morning, Ian told Jansen that he had to go somewhere, something about seeing an old a friend.

He wasn't completely lying, but the full truth was that during the middle of the night, Ian Nashton received a text from agent Moore. The latter invited the former to meet in a certain location.

It was regarding the Revelator, who was now in their custody.

Ian was THRILLED to be invited. So, like going out to see an old friend, Ian dressed in his best suit, complete with a matching hat.

It may be a little extra, but hey, if you're going to see someone who (probably) thought you were dead, you might as well go all out.

When the detective reached the building, he was greeted by agents Moore and Lewis. Seeing them side by side was always a treat, because agent Moore was (freakishly) tall, whilst agent Lewis was short.

"We have provided the things that you asked for. Although... I'm still confused as to why you want them." Agent Moore explained as he led the detective down a flight of stairs.

"It's a Chicago thing."

It took some convincing, but Ian was allowed to be in the room alone with the Revelator.

When he entered, the room was pitch black, just the way he wanted it to be.

Ian can be such a theatrical bastard sometimes.

He felt around for the chair and sat down. Then the light flickered on.

"Hello, John."

And there he was.

The Revelator.

Restrained securely in his chair. He was all battered and bruised, looking so pale and tired. Confused and dazed.

Ian feigned a look of pity as he observed the other man's injuries.

"You don't look so good. I guess my friend's men really roughed you up, huh?"

Ian glanced to the left of the room and smiled thinly when he saw a telephone book and a baton.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not quite dead, John. As a matter of fact, I'm very much alive." Ian finished his sentence by patting John on the cheeks, purposefully hitting the latter's bruises.

ㅤㅤ

John

God knows how many hours had he passed out in the most painful position ever existed. When those bastards decided to leave the room and switched the lights off, John knew that he won't meet whomever they told him anywhere soon. So after a moment of short whining and groaning, John decided to sleep.

He deserved that good nap.

Wrong.

John could barely register the very fact that the jammed door had started to budge and gave this annoying, heavy creak. It took him a moment to regain his consciousness, until there come a flash of light and, really, it didn't do any good but to blind his eyes out.

His breath hitched when the heard the anonymous steps closer to him, and well, although John knew he's probably going to die in this miserable room, nothing had managed to cause his heart to beat so furiously except for a cheery voice.

That cheery voice.

"Detective," he whispered, unable to contain the soft chuckle or the slight tremble in his voice. He didn't know if it was because of pain or something else. But at this point of time, John knew that he's not going to die.

It's going to be ten times worsen with Ian fucking Nashton and his fancy hat.

"You look nice."

John glanced towards the man who had purposely hit the bruise on his cheek. ‘What an asshole,’ he thought, as he flashed a playful smirk towards the nosy detective. He was about to say something that might annoy him, again, but John figured out that by sealing his lips as secure as possible might be his best option—for now.

Especially after his eyes caught the slight glint of a baton and... a phone book

Seems like he ain't the only one losing his mind.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"You don't." Ian shot back almost immediately, his voice was laced with venom and hatred, yet his face remained neutral.

The detective removed his hat and placed it on the table.

"Tsk, you're getting reckless, John. Going after foreign politicians, now? You could've started a war, you know?"

The detective held back his smile. He wanted to play his cards right, because he's gotten a couple of things he could use against John.

Physical methods wouldn't work on John, Ian already knew that, but he knew things no other interrogators do.

But for now, he'll just get his revenge, physically.

"You've hurt my brother, John." Ian stated coldly. The detective stood up and walked towards the baton and telephone book. He never condoned using physical beatings during an interrogation, but after what John has put him and his friends through, he would make an exception.

"I can hold this book to the side of your head and use the baton at full swing, it'd hurt like hell, but it won't leave a mark. Would you like a demonstration?"

He didn't even wait for an answer. The detective did as he described, he held the phone book to the side of John's head and hits the arsonist with the baton at full swing. The resulting impact sound was loud, and it echoed through the room.

Ian was in disbelief for a moment, but truth be told, he's always wanted to do that.

"Work with me, John. Tell me who's your next target." Another hit, harder than the last one.

The detective's voice had gone lower, angrier, and more aggressive.

The detective has been penting up his frustrations and anger ever since he got out of the hospital.

He felt small then, but now? Now he wanted John to feel small.

ㅤㅤ

John

Russian and brother. It didn't take a long time for John to realize that Ian's hatred wasn't exactly directed to the fact he literally almost started a war. And it was true that he was very reckless 'bout that, but John knew damn well that wasn't the reason.

Detective Ian fucking Nashton just wanted a revenge because of his brother.

So much for just.

John knew what's coming at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised when a full land blew across his face. His face closed in a grimace, its skin pale, clammy, and goddamn bruised. Every few minutes his mind begged so he could scream, like those guys in any Tarantino movie that was being tortured, but he can't. And this shit is worse.

So much worse.

John ain't letting the bastard get the satisfaction to see him scream, groan, or even hear a single fucking whine.

The detective didn't even let him answer as another hard blow hits his already bruised cheeks. Searing pain pulsated around the wound, intensifying the cut like a goddamn bitch. With every hit, his muscle quivered, twitched, making him jolt in surprise. The black mists swirled at the edges of his eyes, but John ain't going to answer.

He just tilted his head, and smiled.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's true. This was mostly revenge, though having other reasons helped his conscience.

Blow after blow, the detective hadn't stopped. Perhaps after John did the same thing to him, something dark in him might have awakened, and it showed its ugly face now.

So much hatred, so much anger.

It was consuming him.

And then there's that smile again. Ian dropped the baton and used the phone book to hit John directly on the face—he wanted to wipe the smile off of that bastard's face.

If the chair wasn't so sturdy, John would probably have been knocked backwards by the blow.

The detective slammed the phone book on the table, and he sat on the edge of it.

He'll take a break and change tactics now.

"Playing this game again, are you, Mr. Monsoon? That's your name, isn't it? Or at least, it's the name that you took. You're not the real John Monsoon, he died in the late nineties. Agent Moore was there. You remember him, don't you?"

The detective was so, /so/ kind to brush John's hair away from his face.

"After all, you were the fourth shooter on that day, weren't you? John Monsoon—the real one, Cole Hedlund, Paul MacCullagh… and… you."

Ian wasn't a hundred percent sure yet, but the trick was to appear confident. And he was confident.

"I'll ask for your real name, but you're probably just going to smile at me. You know, I admire your strength. I really do. We're alike in that respect. But I can see it—your body's beginning to tremble. How long will it be until you finally crack?"

ㅤㅤ

John

Another blow landed on his face, another pain in the goddamn ass.

John was stumbling now, and he thanked the God for the fucking chair because everything was fading. And it hurts. Holy fucking shit, it hurt like a goddamn bitch but John sat quietly. Nothing can ever fucking wipe the smug on his face.

That, until, the goddamn detective stopped his movement, stared intently at him, and said the word, ‘Monsoon’. But it's nothing new. After all, he literal crave those words on the detective's skin.

And John was about to flash that goddamn grin again when it finally hits him.

"John Monsoon."

"Cole Hedlund."

"Paul MacCullagh."

Something new. Not his name.

His foster parents' name.

John eyes blown wide.

Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not ask a shit to the goddamn CIA, or the FBI, or any other shit, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not know about John Monsoon, Cole Hedlund, or Paul MacCullagh, but he's alive.

And he knows.

He's fucked.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now it was Ian's turn to smile.

It was genuine, you could even call it sweet.

His deduction was right. The man in front of him /was/ the fourth shooter.

John didn't even need to say anything—his reaction said it all.

"Gerard, old friend! He really was your fourth shooter."

The detective wasn't sure where it was, but he knew there's a device somewhere in this room that'd allow others on the outside to listen in.

The detective turned his attention back to John. He grabbed the man's chin oh so gently and tilted his head up.

"Are you ready to talk now, or do I have to spill all your secrets first, hmm?"

Ian leaned in closer, until his lips were mere centimeters away from John's ear. He whispered, so only the two of them can hear what was being said.

"Trust me, John. They're better off between me and you than with them."

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't even get himself to be disgusted or anything by the sudden contact. He was far too distracted with multiple set of ‘what’ and ‘how’ and just, ‘why?’

Even now calling himself as John feels so wrong. It felt so weird in his own mind because deep down he know that name wasn't his. The Revelator wasn't ‘his’. It was never his and it should have never been his, but, fucking hell, what are the odds

When the detective lifted his head ever so slowly so now that bastard could clearly see how John's pupils had shrunk so badly, he wished he could just back away and lift that usual smug grin of his, but he froze. Heavens, he froze.

That fucking grin had faltered away and now it's planted on Ian fucking Nashton's annoying face.

That son of a bitch.

John would rather bite his motherfucking tongue off and be a mute than having to talk. 'Cause no matter what the fucking detective said, no matter how good and relishing that goddamn offer sounded in his ears, nothing—for fuck's sake—nothing will actually get better.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Perhaps something had changed in the detective ever since that incident at the barn—but Ian hadn't realized yet.

The detective landed a sudden, full-blown slap across John's face and exhaled forcefully.

"That was for trying to burn me alive. Nice try, though."

Beating with a baton and telephone book for what John did to his brother, and a slap for what he did to the detective himself.

"Anyway. John, Paul, and Cole. Most people would wonder what your connection to them is, but by process of elimination, /I/ know that they'd have to be a parental figure of some kind. Why else would a teenager be with three grown men?"

There could be other reasons, but Ian had crossed those out already.

"I also know that John Monsoon—the one that died—must be the one you were closest to. Because you took HIS name. Not Paul's, not Cole's. But John's."

The detective had backed away by now, and he was idly flipping through the pages of the telephone book. Occasionally, he did glance at John, just to see if the latter had changed expressions.

"He must be the one you considered a father. I mean, you took his identity, not just as John, but also as the Revelator. He taught you. And you hold him in high regards, I'm sure."

ㅤㅤ

John

The fact that detective Ian fucking Nashton known about the holy trinity shocked him, but it didn't leave that much of an impression. After all, they were long gone. What does that have to do with John? It might shake him a little, but it ain't gonna make him tremble forever.

At this point of time, it wasn't even surprising to him anymore that all of the deductions were right, yet of course, he won't ever, ever, ever say that in front of his face.

Despite having beaten up like a pulp, John still managed to reply. Not directly, though, fuck that silent treatment. Now he's rolling his eyes 'cause he's really irritated and, gosh, if only John ain't having his arms and legs tied up, he might have smacked the detective's head so hard, just to make him shut his mouth.

But neither sentence nor a single word slipped from his mouth. John has been kind enough to his own self for letting him whine or groan or just sorta respond to the surprising slap. Yet he still didn't speak a thing. Even without having him to talk, the detective just keeps talking and John figured out that he might as well let him do that rather than spilling all the tea.

Instead, John giggled. A quiet and short one, just to see if it could taunt the detective even more.

My, oh, my. It might hurt him like a bitch, but seeing how desperate someone could look even if it was hidden beneath a triumphant smile surely bring some pride to blossom in his chest.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

There's that giggle again. That brief yet fucked up giggle he couldn't shake off ever since the barn incident.

He hated it.

But Ian kept his attention to the phone book, as if he was looking for something.

"You're giggling now, but I know something that they don't. Something very precious to you."

The detective's finger stopped at an address in the phone book. He tapped it a couple of times before showing it to John.

"You recognize this address?" Ian asked, that smile was back on his face.

A sweet but knowing smile.

Of course John would recognize it.

It was the address of Peter's school.

"I know who they are." The detective suddenly closed the telephone book shut, it made a loud thud which echoed through the room.

"Peter's a bright kid, you know? I was helping him solve the murder of his classmate whilst you were wreaking havoc in my town. Has he ever mentioned that?"

The detective flicked John's forehead with his fingers and chuckled to himself.

"He probably already knows, if not from his own investigations, then the news. He probably doesn't know the full truth, though, hm? I wonder what he would say if he knew more than what he knows now? If he knew that you kidnapped me and tried to burn me alive? If he knew that you've hurt Jansen?"

The detective got off from the table and returned to his seat across from John.

"What would he say if he knew that you might have just started a war because you were so reckless? I know about them, John. Your family."

The detective adjusted the position of his glasses. His smile was now gone, and instead, there was a cold expression on his face.

He actually only knew about Peter, but part of it all is to let the enemy think you know more—to keep a poker face. Just as he was doing now.

"Now they know, too."

Ian gestured at the door, referring to the agents that may be outside.

"So, John. Are you still keen on playing the silent game?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John was leaning away, whatever the bastard is showing him, he doesn't really care.

Hell, he thought as if it was easy to actually read without a proper lighting. But when the book echoes around the room and the detective said "I know who they are", John's heart skipped a beat.

"Peter's a bright kid, you know?"

And that's what it takes for John to still, again. Eyes blowing wide, but his mouth isn't shut. John's jaw was slack. His face fell faster than Humpty Dumpty with a cement boots.

He could feel his brain stutters for a moment and every part of him went on pause while his thoughts were struggling to catch up. And when the detective pointed at the door, the notorious Revelator feels as if his blood were drained to the last bit.

It was hard to breathe.

"Shut up," he whispered, his voice sounded as if there were ropes coiled around his neck.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

That look of terror on the Revelator's face somehow brought positive feelings to the detective, and he laughed.

He was amused, though still in disbelief that he managed to shake they infamous Revelator.

Him, a four eyed detective with good connections and observation skills.

"What was that, John? I can't hear you."

As a matter of fact, he did hear it, but he wanted to hear it again. After minutes of silent treatments, John finally began to crack. Even if it wasn't anything useful.

He cracked.

"You had your chance, you know. I really didn't want it to come to this, but you were so stubborn." The detective slammed his hand on the table—as if about to begin an outburst, but he inhaled slowly.

"You were priding yourself on being able to keep quiet, but… look what it has come down to. That's selfishness, John. Even /I'm/ not like that."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Shut up," he whispered again, lower, quieter, and it was even barely inaudible 'cause he knew that the goddamn detective could hear himself crystal clear.

And John was about to keep it like that, but as time went by, the laughter just makes his blood boil and his skin scorching and the piercing headache just made him want to rip himself apart, 'cause after all this time, after facing into countless of a problem either caused by himself or by some other useless fuckstains, this is the first time John felt so hopelessly useless.

"Shut up, shut up, shut the HELL up!"

He barked, eyes glaring as if he was trying to drill a hole into the other's face, and teeth gritted as if he had been staring at the devil himself. There was no softness in that gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred. Disgust perhaps.

The chain rattled as he jolted his body forward, perhaps almost stumbling but the urge to bite the latter's neck off was so fucking irresistible. He doesn't give a damn fuck if those things are going to leave a mark, he doesn't give a damn fuck about anything.

Except for his kids.

And it's a real flaw,

Now he's failing 'cause of it.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Finally, there's that reaction he's been waiting for. The Revelator was no longer the one smiling—the detective was.

Ian leaned away when John tried to lunge forward, though there's still a (smug) smile on the detective's face.

The Revelator may have broken people with his fists, his guns and his knives. But Ian Nashton has broken plenty of other criminals through his words and wits alone.

The pen is truly mightier than the sword.

"Peter mentioned the name Andre a lot—that's his friend, no?" The detective closed his eyes and visualized the Revelator's living room again, he visualized the socks scattered in the room.

"A son and a daughter. You took them in, they might have been dropped by your doorstep, but you began to care more and more for them. Somehow balancing a suburban life and being the Revelator. Until… I came around. Now, history has its eyes on you."

The detective crossed one leg over on top the other.

"Piece by piece, bit by bit. I unraveled you, John. You once told me that I should be afraid of you—but I think it should be you who's afraid."

And he knew, deep down, John was afraid. If not for himself, then for his kids.

"Let me ask you a riddle: I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?"

The detective has never really felt like this before. He felt so… powerful.

And he didn't wait for an answer.

"Love. For some, it can be their strength. But for others, it can be their weakness. What is it for you, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John's nose flared. He could barely breath due to the immense sensation on his lungs. His mind was clouded, his chest heaving heavily with every breath he took, and now his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, threatening to jump out and breaking away all his bones.

In another situation, John would shrug at the question, but now he's just furious. The once soft panic had grown into a turmoil inside his mind, swirling against his thoughts into a vortex of impulsiveness and stupidity. He found himself gnawing the inside of his cheeks until the taste of blood filled his mouth, and yet, John can't help but to stare intently at his captor and bark some more.

"Compared to the probability of me getting outta here alive, there's a bigger chance I would die on this shit hole," he begins, never for once his eyes left the other's sinister gleam. Just by letting the hatred slip into his brain already makes his breathing rapid and shallow. John can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

"But lemme tell you what, detective. If I do manage to get the fuck out of here, I will let you know, 'cause that would be the day when no aid will come at you. Hell will be naked before you and destruction has no covering upon your fucking, pretty face. And just when you thought you were safe behind those closed walls with your fucking FBI dogs, I will proof you wrong, sweetheart. You know who I am, baby, you know who the Revelator is. With a donkey's jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone I have killed a thousand men. But I ain't gonna start by killing you first, oh no, I will fill your mountains with the dead. Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever, sweetheart. And when the last light burns out in your dense skull, I’ll be there to inhale the smoke that comes from your fucking burnt bones."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

To any normal person, those threats alone would send shivers down their spine.

But detective Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person by any means. He always smiled and kept his head up in the face of danger.

So he smiled. As if John had just told him the sweetest of words instead of threats.

It helped that he knows that he has some sort of leverage over John. With his knowledge and connections, Ian was certain he'd have more.

"My dearest John," he began, "I know exactly who you are. Maybe better than you know yourself. But you don't know me—not as well as I know you—or what /I/ am capable of. With what I know about you, and your family… are you really willing to risk that?"

The detective's eyes darted towards one corner of the room, where he assumed the microphone would be.

He knows that there was at least one agent on the other side.

"One of his kids' name's Peter Brown. I've talked to him. Nice kid—you wouldn't believe the Revelator's his father. Anyway, I'm sure he won't mind to have a little chat."

The detective returned his gaze to the man sitting in front of him. The expression on the detective's face was cold and unfeeling—perhaps John could even see the darkness behind those spectacles.

It was unlike himself.

"Are you just going to continue making threats, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

Any normal person would just back off, but John has always known that Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person. If any way, John is most likely to be digging his own grave for blabbering too much, but there's no pain in trying, right?

Seems like he was wrong.

When the words started to roll from the latter's lips, John had anticipated for the words outcome. But he didn't anticipate... this.

When the goddamn detective flicked his eyes towards the corner of the room, John's bowel dropped. And not just that, when he starts mentioning Peter's full name, he felt the world shatter around him. He wasn't even sure if his heart had skipped another one or two beats or whether it was thumping so fast to the point it feels like nothing at all.

"Y—you're a monster."

He choked, biting his lips so hard as he struggled to keep himself from stammering too much. God forbids him from trembling, but as the gut-wrenching sobs tore through his chest, he just couldn't help himself. John could feel his head spinning around when the realization finally hit him; those cold eyes are giving it away.

He had just reached the end of his fall.

"You're worse than the devil himself."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"That's rich, coming from the man who has a tendency to burn people alive. That's not even the worst of your crimes, is it? You're the one that has tortured and murdered people. You're the one that caused needless deaths and destruction. You're the one that has raped that poor woman," Ian scoffed, disgusted.

"And yet, /I'm/ the monster? For what? All I said was that I'm sure Peter would LOVE to have a chat to us about his dear old dad. Fine, maybe today I've used more extreme methods with the telephone book and baton. But it pales in comparison to what you have done. Aside from that… our time together here has been perfectly legal."

Truth be told, Ian felt a slight guilt when John began to sob. But he's built himself up to this moment now, and the detective kept that cold expression.

"Maybe in your twisted little world, I am worse than the devil. And so what? Do you see yourself as a saint? I doubt it, but it'll be laughable if you did."

Somehow, this was no longer really an interrogation anymore, but more of a 'break The Revelator' session.

"I'm an agnostic man, if you haven't noticed. So go on, threaten me with hell all you want. Because I don't believe in it."

The detective wasn't done yet. Oh no.

"I would have left you in that alley to bleed out that night. I don't know if you remember. But I helped you—I WANTED to help ou. For Peter's sake, anyway. He loves you very much, surely he'd be devastated if he saw that you've been found dead in some dark alley."

The detective stood up and leaned over the table, and he pointed to the other man accusingly.

"YOU were so stubborn, though. Even more stubborn than I had been. We tried so hard to work with you, but you were just so arrogant and prideful, weren't you? Like I said, I REALLY didn't want to pull this card, but you brought this upon yourself, John."

The detective crossed his arms and scoffed once more.

"This. Is. YOUR. Fault."

ㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't the type to deny the truth. Hell, how could he? All of his shit has been exposed to the rest of the world. Even recently, he saw a blog dedicated to him, the Revelator himself.

And although John could actually manage to say that he's doing it for the people's own good, although he could actually say that everyone he had ever slaughtered like a lamb had given one chance to change, although John could actually tell the detective that the police sucked bad so he decided to do anything by himself, John didn't. Not that it mattes now.

What matters now is now the official knows about his kids, and that was due to the courtesy of Ian Nashton.

John didn't even bother to contain the choked out sobs as he feels his eyes starting to burn, surely he had brought this all to himself, but who knows that the detective could be this petty?

Using his kids to blackmail him, heh, so must for just.

He started chewing on his lower lip and his eyes welled up with tears. Pitiful as it sounds, John was on the edge. He knows he had failed one thing he desperately try to do.

"Yet you haven't seen me punishing a son for his father's crime," he whispered.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective sat on the table again, and he grabbed John's chin to lift the man's head. Just with one glance, he could see that there were tears in the other man's eyes.

He did this.

He reduced the Revelator to tears.

He wasn't proud of it, though. He knows it isn't the most clean of methods, but the detective doesn't consider this to be straight up blackmail. He'd call it… persuasion.

Blackmail is the act of demanding money or another benefit from someone in return for not revealing compromising information about them.

Ian hasn't actually done that—but he wanted John to think that he did.

(He had to do what he had to do)

And it seemed to work. He reduced the fearsome Revelator to tears by mere words.

The detective actually felt genuine pity for John.

John looked so pathetic.

The detective took out his pocket square and gently patted John's eyes dry. For a moment, that cold gaze was gone, replaced by something more affable. Caring, even.

He lowered his voice, so only the two of them could hear it. The detective made an effort to sound kinder, too—it was as if he had become a different person.

"Tsk, tsk. /I/ never said anything about punishing him. You see, I'm not in charge here. But those guys out there? Who knows what they'll do? Agent Moore is one of the best men here that I've ever met. But as for the rest of them, I can't say the same thing." Ian placed the fabric on his lap and once again brushed John's hair away from his face. "It's your fault, yes, but you have a chance to fix it. To make it right. Cooperate and answer the questions you have been asked. It's simple, isn't it?"

The detective folded the fabric neatly and placed it back where it was. He took his hat and idly brushed his thumb across the fabric.

"Then we can get you help. Professional help. Think about it, John. You could live normally amongst society. With your kids—you don't have to do any of this anymore."

Ian let out yet another sigh, "I'm sure your children would like that too. Not having to deal with you being absent, or in jail. Think about it, John. Because once I'm out of here, I don't think I can help you anymore."

ㅤㅤ

John

At some point of time, John knew he has to say something. He highly doubted that the detective will let him slide that easily without getting any answer, especially since he had thrown all the cards at him. He had come this far, why would he stop?

But it still leaves a huge question mark on his head. Some people might be able to pull some strings for him, but it won't ever cleanse him from all the crimes he did. If not in front of the law, then maybe God will, but who fucking knows?

Hence John stayed still, lips sealed tight. He refused to meet the man's eyes and decided to stare right into the cold, gray concrete.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Depends. Some of us can pull some strings. Not me, though. I don't have that kind of power." The detective shrugged and placed the hat back on his head.

"Would you rather stay here with uncertainty, or would you rather have the chance to be able to see your kids again? I hate the insanity plea as much as the next person but I'm just saying that there's a chance you could be put in an asylum."

The detective now stood behind John and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

"Now it's up to you. Just answer a few questions, it's not that hard, is it? If not for me, do it for your kids."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"It's fine. Take your time to think—but I really don't have much. So I'll ask you again. What's your real name? Who's your next target?" Those two questions were the main things that they wanted—especially Ian.

"What made you like this, John? Do you even remember?"

Ian honestly wanted this to be over just as much as John did—though he's played all his cards, the detective wasn't proud that he had to stoop so low. Now that the anger had left him.

The children were perfectly safe.

But John needed to think otherwise.

The detective had to do what he had to do.

ㅤㅤ

John

John had it seen coming at him. Everyone and their curious mind and their oh-so-important questions. Have they heard about curiosity killed the cat? He doesn't think so.

So when the detective begins with his questions, John takes a deep breath, hoping it would stop himself from trembling. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

What's your name?

"John."

Who's your next target?

"Haven't decided yet."

What made you like this?

"I don’t know."

Do you even remember?

He stayed quiet.

"No."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian was familiar to the saying. Curiosity killed the cat. Who isn't? After all, it is a well known saying—warning people of the dangers of unnecessary investigation.

But how many people are familiar with the later half of the saying? The rejoinder?

But satisfaction brought it back.

Finding the answer would be a reward in itself. That's why the detective pressed on.

"I asked for your REAL name. Not the one you took from your parental figure!" The detective slammed his hand on the table again. "Don't lie to me, you bastard."

Ian narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warning tone. "Don't make me do something you'd regret."

ㅤㅤ

John

John was never a good liar and he wasn't even planning to hide it this time. Instead, he stared down at his feet, again, struggling to keep himself on hold 'cause now the slightest pitch of tone from the detective had managed to bring himself into a full alert mode. He can feel himself trembling again.

So he didn't respond.

Not a single word, not a single huff of breath.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Being observant as he was, it's no surprise that Ian would be like a living lie detector.

The detective crossed his arms and sighed in disappointment.

"Fine. Have it your way. But let me just remind you, that you brought this upon yourself."

Ian Nashton glanced at the corner of the room again.

"Bring the kids in."

ㅤㅤ

John

Eyes widening in surprise, John weren't expecting any of that to come from the detective's foul mouth. But he shit you not that the very first response he gave was not a defiant look, but it was a smile full of disbelief. Half frowning, half quirking his brows, John said, “You're mad.”

But when he saw the cold look across the man's visage, John felt himself getting light-headed again. Everything was spinning and falling and he could feel his arms struggling to free himself from the chair. And when it should hurt a lot, John could barely register it as he feels the dam of his eyes breaking away, again.

"You can't do that," he said, and even though he was still smiling—chuckling, even—the glints of his eyes were filled with nothing but a full terror.

"You're fucking mad, they're only seventeen, you can't do anything to innocent kids, they don't have anything to do with this, you bastard!"

And that was supposed to be a threat, but with the way his voice stammering, eyes reddening, and streams of tears flowing faster than his own heartbeat, it sounded more of a plead.

"Jesus Christ!" John barked, his body wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears.

"You're absolutely mad, please, oh my god, kill me already, just kill me, but don't do anything to them, please, please, please, please, please don't."

He wasn't even trying to free himself anymore, all the frantic movement was just an attempt to get himself closer to the detective because he can feel his voice breaking away, and he's afraid he couldn't hear him in between the choked sobs.

"I'll tell you anything, just don't do anything, please, it's Monsoon, it's Monsoon. My name is Monsoon, please."

John stared at the man, his voice breaking away every second which passed them.

"It's Isaiah Monsoon."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian would be lying if he said he didn't feel his stomach drop when he saw those terror stricken eyes. Yes, at the beginning he'd laughed and smiled at John, but now? Now the detective's conscience was starting to get to him.

But he kept that cold and unfeeling expression as best as he could. He has gotten this far. He can feel the guilt later, after this is all done.

"What about the innocent lives lost because of your actions, huh?! They also had nothing to do with it, yet they suffered! Innocent people have lost their lives too because of you, John!" Ian raised his voice again. "And what of my brother? He was just a man going to a video convention, caught in your explosion that night. Besides, I never said anything about hurting them. You just assumed that that would happen."

The detective inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. He hadn't anticipated how John was begging and pleading. Not for his life, but for death.

He was in tears.

And it didn't happen because he was beaten to a pulp. Not by agent Moore's men, not even by the detective himself.

But because of Ian's words.

And finally, there's that name he has been after this entire time. Said in between sobs and pleads, the detective almost didn't hear it.

"Isaiah. Of course. It makes perfect sense. See, I expected it to have been a Biblical name. Kind of odd to be addressing you in this way, though. Huh. And I'm sure it must be odd to hear it roll off my tongue."

That information satisfied his own curiosity (and probably agent Moore's as well), but technically speaking, it wasn't of much use.

"You still have other unanswered questions. But I believe you were telling the truth. At least... about your next target. There is no list, is there? You just go after whoever you can, correct?"

Despite the horrible feeling he had in his stomach, the detective still managed to force a thin smile. John's statement about the detective being mad had amused him.

How ironic that the deranged Revelator accused the detective of madness.

"By the way, I'm not mad, /Isaiah/. Just a well connected man who happens to notice everything. Although... I wouldn't blame you for thinking otherwise. There's a quote often thought to have been said by Aristotle, "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness". What do you think?"

When Ian looked into the other's eyes, he no longer saw the fierceness he was so familiar with, he just saw desperation and hopelessness. He saw /fear/. The once fearsome Revelator was now a mess, covered in bruises and dried up blood; his cheeks dampened with tears and his voice breaking with each word he tried to say.

Ian felt pity for the man, but a tiny part of him in the back of the detective's mind wanted to laugh at John.

Like it was a sickness.

Was this how John had felt at the barn?

The detective leaned against the doorway, he was ready to leave, but he kept his gaze locked on the other man.

"Anything? Well, go on then. You better have something good, otherwise I will go. For starters, tell me. Do you work alone? Or do you have some sort of a team, just like the previous Revelator?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't—Isaiah can't even think straight as the only thing in his mind was, "the detective is right".

All of the things happened, all of the innocent life he had taken away, and all of the things that might happen to his kids, everything were all his fault. He knew he'd done something awful when he had to work so hard to justify it. The more demanding the reparations his subconscious required, the worse he knew it was.

He couldn't even hear whatever the detective had been blabbering because now the guilt did not only sit on his chest, but also deep inside his brain. All the things he had done could never be un-done. Even if he tried to make amends, Isaiah knows that it was still out of the questions.

Even confessing to Father Brown won't erase the guilt nor lift any single weight from it. Even if he speaks his heart to God and beg for his mercy, nothing would make him feel better.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed. No words came out of his lips except for restless murmurs of pleading, choked out sobs and a loud sniff. He could only shake his head when the detective asked him something. The guild that had been eating himself, pestering him, and burning the end of his throat had prevented him on speaking anything.

Four second. Five seconds. Six seconds passed. He wonders if his tears would drain out in a night because he couldn't stop himself from bawling. He had clung his faith in the love of Christ and hung the remains of his sanity on it. Every night he prayed that one day all of his pain would be let unfurl and his sin will be washed clean. But now he had to face the truth.

He had done this to himself, he had done this to his kids.

And if something happens to them, how could he forgive himself?

He shook his head.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective wasn't sure what he was feeling. He felt guilt, but somewhere inside him, he also felt satisfaction.

He had a principle that sometimes, surely the right way is the ugly way. But was this the right way, or is it just ugly? Ian wasn't sure.

Would this be worth it in the long run? Perhaps.

He let out a deep sigh. He wanted to give John—no, Isaiah—some pats on the back out of pity, (and perhaps subtly apologize) but he was certain that that may ruin the illusion he has built this far. So he only cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go now. As long as you cooperate and behave, your children will be safe." That sentence alone was hard for him to say, because it was a lie—his children are perfectly safe regardless of what he'll do.

But it's all an act. He had to keep it up.

"I really didn't want it to be like this, but you left me no choice. I suppose it's been kind of nice meeting you again. See you never, J—I mean, Isaiah."

The detective immediately stumbled out of the room and slammed the door behind him. There wasn't a single soul outside except for agent Moore.

Still, Ian Nashton leaned against the door and slumped to the ground, he let his head hang low as he massaged his temples with both of his hands.

"Fucking hell, I can't believe I did that. That was cruel, even for someone like him. Tell me everyone else was gone when I mentioned his family."

The ridiculously tall agent Moore crouched in front of Ian and gave a reassuring nod, though he wasn't sure if the detective had seen it. "Yes. I ordered them to leave as soon as you had stopped hitting him."

Ian removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a groan. "I feel sick—it was my idea but somehow I feel sick. I feel conflicted. Damn it, Gerard, I feel sick."

The agent placed a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder, "I'm sure… even I was a little… surprised, Ian. But… hey. The ends will justify the means, wouldn't it?"

"I guess—I hope so. I know his kids are perfectly safe. But still, seeing him like that? I feel kind of… pitiful. Underneath that Revelator exterior he seem like he could be a good father." Ian sighed deeply and held his head in his hands.

"Trust me, detective. I've seen worse methods. What you've done today pales in comparison to what I've witnessed first hand. Now, come on. I think you should go home." The taller man stood up and held out his hand for Ian.

The detective took it and pulled himself up. He casted a hesitant glance at the door and an image of a broken down Isaiah crossed his mind, though he immediately shook it off.

"R-right. I should probably go—clear my head. Thank you, for the opportunity and for arranging all of this. And, um. Yeah. Do no harm." Ian wasn't sure what came over him, but he pulled the older man into a brief hug before he made his way out of the building.

He trusted agent Moore, Ian knew he wouldn't do anything to John's kids because he has a nephew of his own.

ㅤㅤ

John

When the door shut close, Isaiah didn't even stop himself from tearing out. It hurts, everything hurts. His muscles, his head, his heart. It could be a hundred degrees out and he'd still be frozen on the inside. Everything feels cold and he can't stop shivering, trembling.

There is static in his head once more; the side effect of this constant fear, the constant stress he lives with. The pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream, then a heart wrenching wail.

The detective was right.

He had done this to himself.

He had done this to them.

Now he could only beg.

"Just kill me already."

#deus det nobis suam pacem #9

0 notes