There Are Four Kinds of Homicide [Active/Closed]
Characters: Cloud Strife, Aya Brea, Eve
Content: Set after the events of this log, and the supposed 'death' of Birdman, Cloud starts to head home to clean up.
Location: The Circuit City at Union Square, to One Irving Place.
Time of day: Night
Warnings: Blood, gore, and other violent references.
It had been a long trek home, the shattered piece of machinery in his hand still shaking with shock and anger as he walked.
Only the soft sound of his own boots now, thumping against the pavement. There had been two before. There would probably never be the same two again. He was cold, shaking, pale, and blank blue eyes refused to look anywhere other than the concrete below, small drops on blood leaking from his own wounds and vision blurring with weakness.
And why wouldn't he be? It was supposed to be simple. Electrocute the bastard and run, maybe try to lock him in the store somehow. But no. No... things had turned out far, far worse. This wasn't what he'd planned at all. Going crazy and stabbing and... the sound of his own screaming seemed like someone else's. Someone who truly was a mental wreck.
He didn't plan this.
He didn't want this.
The apartment complex was a block away now. He could see it, if he could just get inside and clean up, and just lock himself in his room, maybe it'd all go away. It was a stupid thought, but what other hope could he hold onto?
Being a monster? A murderer? A psychopath?
No... that was Sephiroth.
But... he was...
Don't think like that. Don't ever think like that.
"I... don't want to be--" A sharp gasp.
An opened wound near his bicep gushed out suddenly and he sank to his knees, trying to keep the flow of blood back with one free hand. It was slow, and not anything truly life-threatening at that time, but it still hurt. He leaned against the wall carefully, weak, in pain, and trying to piece together a million racing thoughts at once.
Content: Set after the events of this log, and the supposed 'death' of Birdman, Cloud starts to head home to clean up.
Location: The Circuit City at Union Square, to One Irving Place.
Time of day: Night
Warnings: Blood, gore, and other violent references.
It had been a long trek home, the shattered piece of machinery in his hand still shaking with shock and anger as he walked.
Only the soft sound of his own boots now, thumping against the pavement. There had been two before. There would probably never be the same two again. He was cold, shaking, pale, and blank blue eyes refused to look anywhere other than the concrete below, small drops on blood leaking from his own wounds and vision blurring with weakness.
And why wouldn't he be? It was supposed to be simple. Electrocute the bastard and run, maybe try to lock him in the store somehow. But no. No... things had turned out far, far worse. This wasn't what he'd planned at all. Going crazy and stabbing and... the sound of his own screaming seemed like someone else's. Someone who truly was a mental wreck.
He didn't plan this.
He didn't want this.
The apartment complex was a block away now. He could see it, if he could just get inside and clean up, and just lock himself in his room, maybe it'd all go away. It was a stupid thought, but what other hope could he hold onto?
Being a monster? A murderer? A psychopath?
No... that was Sephiroth.
But... he was...
Don't think like that. Don't ever think like that.
"I... don't want to be--" A sharp gasp.
An opened wound near his bicep gushed out suddenly and he sank to his knees, trying to keep the flow of blood back with one free hand. It was slow, and not anything truly life-threatening at that time, but it still hurt. He leaned against the wall carefully, weak, in pain, and trying to piece together a million racing thoughts at once.