Villains-R-Us

A lovely woman in a sexy little dress and utterly impractical heels, breathlessly running, glancing back now and then in wide-eyed terror, blood streaming down from her hairline; it was so perfectly cliche. Of course she'd keep running down nigh-empty streets and alleyways. Of course the narrow heel of one of her shoes would snap and send her crashing to the ground, scraping her perfect skin. Of course the alley she hobbled down after forcing herself back up would have a dead end, where she could only turn back and face her pursuer. And of course she would whimper and beg before her final, bloodcurdling scream rang out over the neighborhood.

Surely a shadowed figure had followed the woman in. Clearly someone or something had been there to disfigure the woman so badly - her face mutilated, her jaw half crushed, the flesh of her fingers scraped away. And yet, none walked back out of the alley, nor did anyone still stand within.

---

The scream was drowned out by pumping music in the club where Jackson sat and observed the dancing crowd with glazed eyes and a quiet smile. There were also too many people around, feeling too many things, for him to really take note of the echo of terror. There was something, though... Something that made his smile fade, and prompted the young man to find an exit.

Standing outside of the club was an unassuming violinist. The streetlight served as her spotlight, illuminating the woman's glossy instrument and emaciated build, her eyes remaining closed as she methodically ran her bow across the strings. Her song was fairly simple, though the tune occasionally leapt with a lilt and the tempo rose and fell with her wavering energy. She was weary. But Sabbath was determined to play a little late, seeing as she wasn't yet satisfied with the tips she'd been given. It wouldn't be enough to buy her a bed for the night. She paused her playing, however, when the sound of screaming reached her. It almost hand't been noticed over her instrument, and she nearly passed it off as her violin needing to be tuned. But Sabbath stopped, opening her eyes and lifting her chin, her body rigid with tension as she strained to listen. Those eyes widened considerably as the horrible shrieking began.

The bard hurriedly dropped her bow into her case (which appeared to be a child's coffin lined with padding to protect her belongings). She closed it, then hauled it onto her back and began to head towards the sound, violin in one hand as if she expected to use it as a blunt weapon. The woman wouldn't move above a trot. There was something odd about her gait- she wasn't quite limping, but her steps seemed uneven.

Sabbath wheeled around the corner of the alleyway. She hesitated, squinting into the shadows as she raised her violin defensively. "Hello?" came her uncertain call, gaze settling on the figure slumped at the back of the alley. She inched towards it warily. Her hands began to shake, but given that she assumed someone was injured, she pressed onward. The condition of the body that she discovered proved too much for her to handle. She backpedaled, nearly dropping her instrument, and after a second of struggling to breathe she released a terrible scream of her own.

Emma Hart despised clubs like these. They were noisy and they were filled with sweaty bodies gyrating against one another in some animalistic, primal version of a dance. Half of them drugged and liquored up, the other half prowling for those so hopelessly inebriated. She sat at a lone table, dressed in her usual finery and stood out for it all the more.

She looked like a little doll, dressed in black and cream, with her planchette placed upon a choker.

It was after a passing patron asked, yet again, if she was of the right age to be there when she gave up on waiting for the person she had come to see to begin with. Grabbing her lace-covered handbag, she stormed out of the club with a small scowl planted on her lips. The air was just the thing she needed and the break from the noise.

Of course, nothing could remain peaceful. One scream preceeded another and Emma's eyes sharpened. She looked back to the doors to see if any others were coming, then scoffed to herself at the thought. If anyone heard anything in there, it would be a miracle.

She did not run, typically. To do so caused sweat, and ladies did not sweat nor did they run. Despite that, she had to see what this was for herself before any authorities were involved. The little pearls that decorated her full skirt and the string of pearls hanging from her shoes clacked together in the process. When she did reach them, she brought gloved fingertips up to her lips and widened her eyes.

"Oh...oh my..."

Colton really wasn't one for club scenes personally, but business there was always good. Rather than subject himself to the press of frenzied, drug fueled bodies however he haunted the alleys surrounding the venue, perched atop the closed lid of a dumpster and peddling marijuana in nickel-and-dime quantities. There wasn't anything particularly special about him this evening, fancy victorian suits traded for something a bit more forgettable; Worn old jeans, scuffed, steel toed old work boots and a plain grey T-shirt.

He'd just been closing a deal when the hapless woman's torment ripped through the night. A native of Las Vegas' worse neighborhoods, the screams in and of themselves didn't bother him as much as the prospect of running into the culprit that caused them - or the cops. Pocketing his money and tossing the already glassy eyed chick her dime in the same motion that he leapt from the dumpster was no easy task when you couldn't feel your fingertips, but it didn't matter if he missed his mark. He hit the ground running. It was time to go, she could pick it up herself.

Unfortunately he'd never had much luck avoiding trouble, and as he darted around one corner - intending on taking a shortcut through an abandoned apartment whose window faced the dead end alley - he plowed right into the poor ladies who'd beaten him to the scene of the crime.

Jackson managed to arrive last with slow and awkward steps. The intoxication of everyone else in the club still buzzed in her brain and he had to fight off giggling when he came across interestingly fancy women and the very drab young man. The corners of his mouth still twitched, though, and even in the dark his eyes remained half-lidded.

At the moment, his interest was less in them and more in what had drawn them. He walked right on by, into the alley and to the slumped figure at the end. His mouth relaxed into grim neutrality as he knelt by the dead woman. The blonde squinted, focusing past the lingering haze, and did not hesitate to touch the bloody body to get a better look.

"Such mutilation..." he murmured, mostly just to himself. "Someone certainly didn't want her to be recognized."

A little mark, half hidden by the style of the dead woman's dress, caught his eye. Jackson tugged the neckline over, revealing a little tattoo of a dolphin jumping over the moon. There was a count against whoever was responsible, all the more because Jackson himself recalled the tattoo from another club, sometime in the past few weeks.

Provided the others hadn't run off yet and without any particular concern for what they might be doing, Jackson turned back to them and asked with remarkable calm for a man with blood on his hands, "I don't suppose any of you knew her, hm?"

Sabbath, who seemed on the verge of gagging, would flinch and whirl about at the delicate sound of Emma's voice. She attempted to speak, but her throat was tight and her breathing was rapid and shallow. All that was managed was a squeaked "I-I...." It was then that Colton appeared. The questionable (to her) character was given the same wide-eyed stare, as was Jackson as he arrived shortly after. Sabbath continued to gape like a fish out of water as she looked between the three of them. After a moment, she managed to collect herself enough to form an intelligible statement: "I didn't do this!" That much was likely taken as obvious, given her nonthreatening build and mortified expression. Her bony arms wrapped around herself, and she shifted the small coffin case on her back before inching towards the wall of the ally. She leaned against it to steady herself as her head spun.

As Jackson moved to investigate the body, she would call quietly "I'm sorry, b-but I don't think you should do that." Her tone was a mumble, however, so there was a chance that she wasn't heard at all. Once he turned and asked if they were familiar with the deceased, she shook her head slowly, clearing her throat and saying in an audible volume "No. I just..." she hesitated, cringing, "...heard the screaming."

Emma said nothing to the woman claiming innocence. She did not outright doubt her, but really, the most unassuming ones usually were guilty of something. She frowned a little and began to speak when someone ran into her from behind.

She was quick to twist on her heels and settle a harsh stare on the man before the next one arrived. This one thought it wise to touch the body. All of this time, she maintained her silence and considered leaving.

"I arrived afterward," she agreed softly. "I have no idea who this girl is...do you?"

She lifted a brow to the man and then to the other that had arrived.

((H'okay, let's try this again. ))

"Well, has someone at least called the police? No?" Jackson eyed the assortment of people standing back, some of which had come after his own arrival. He cleared his throat and asked louder, "Anyone? The police? It's okay to look away for a moment, the dead woman won't be going anywhere."

Finally some of them pulled out phones while a few others ran off; but most of those with phones in hand only appeared to be texting, and it was hard to tell if those running off were looking for phones or just getting away before they had to get any more involved. The young man shook his head and stood.

One particularly frightened- and gothic-looking woman was leaning against the wall, and he wouldn't have noted her if not for the little coffin. Silly thing, embracing a culture of death and then seeming sick when actually faced with it. The corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk suppressed before it could really come into being. Jackson moved to her.

"Miss..." He reached out to put a hand comforting on her shoulder, then reconsidered when he remembered by sight that he had victim's blood on his hands. Quickly lowering his hand again, he simply asked, "Are you alright? Come on, let's get you inside so you can sit, and I can wash my hands. Hm?"

Sabbath's dismay was augmented by a sense of helplessness. While the bodies of the deceased did not disturb her, murder itself was appalling, and she was shaken to her core. "I don't have a phone," she breathed, looking about to the gathering crowd. She was shocked, almost angry, and her hands curled into small fists. The musician appeared offended by the lack of care being shown for the pitied corpse. "If no one's going to call, could I at least borrow a phone?" But her voice was currently airy, easy to disregard and not at all as demanding as she'd intended.

It was then that Jackson's voice reached her. Sabbath flinched and spun about, automatically cringing as she saw his hand reaching for her. It was not just the blood that discomforted her, but the idea of being touched, and her eyes went wide with apprehension. His polite manner of speaking was quick to calm her. Well, mostly. "That, um..." she paused, looking to the body with uncertainty before eyeing him "...would be nice, I think... to get away from this." She took a trembling deep breath to settle her nerves.

"I know a place around the corner." Jackson jerked his head for her to follow and made his way through the gathering late-night crowd, using the sight of his hands to help get people to back away. The downside was how he had to explain at one point that he was not fleeing the scene, but going to clean up, with brief, cheerfully polite assurances that he would not be so dumb a murderer as to allow so many living witnesses. His claim confused more than anything, but he did make it through and to the bar a couple doors down.

Whether the girl was still with him or not, he headed straight for the bathroom, to wash his hands.

"Alright," Sabbath mumbled, and would indeed agree to trail after the man. She wasn't one to follow random strangers about, but given her shaken state, she didn't put too much thought into it. Getting someplace "safe" was her priority.
That being said, a bar was not her typical choice. She usually kept her distance from them. Yet she headed inside, coffin and all, unfortunately too distracted to pay heed to his questionable assurances. The musician would look about with widened eyes before taking a seat at the bar and placing her case on the stool besides her. If the bartender looked her way, she would call "Just water, please," before folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers were still trembling.

By the time he returned, sirens could be heard wailing as police and an ambulance began showing up. Jackson paid no attention to it though, but sought out the pretty little goth. When he spotted her, he approached from behind and reached out to give her shoulders a little rub while saying softly, "Come now, relax, it's over."

But no, nothing was over. Something was only just beginning. The thing was, Jackson himself wasn't sure what. Something about the way the victim had been murdered bothered him, and he found himself hoping it might happen again, and soon, so that he might have a chance to figure out what it was.

The sound of the sirens rekindled the musician's nervousness. Sabbath was struck by a pang of guilt, and although the murder had little to do with her, she felt as if leaving the scene had been suspicious. The door was given a wary look before she took a long drink of her water. It was cold and calming, and after a few deep breaths she steadied herself. She had been just in the midst of taking another sip when Jackson's hands touched her shoulders.

As good as his intentions may (or may not) have been, she inhaled sharply, accidentally drawing in her drink. Sabbath spluttered and flinched forward to press herself against the bar- as far from the touch as she could get. The woman wheeled about with an alarmed expression, but when realizing who it had been, she responded in a tight voice "Yes, y-you're right." She lowered her flighty stance. "Sorry." A pained smile was given, and she cleared her throat. "Are you okay? I mean, you seem... surprisingly fine... but I hate to assume." She was still pressed back against the bar, but didn't seem to notice.

The unexpected reaction startled Jackson enough that he pulled back and the often-drooping lids of his eyes opened up, making the oddly pale blue that much more apparent. "Easy! Easy!" he said, holding up his hands. "It's just me! And look, clean hands."

With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Jackson wiggled his fingers. Her comment about how well he seemed to be dealing with things got him thinking though. She was right, he probably should appear more upset, but it seemed a little late now.

Relax the smile, raise the eyebrows. A quick glance at the mirror behind the bar showed an effectively sad-looking smile. With his eyes back on the goth, he said, "I've seen more than my fair share of death, I'm afraid. I was a junior first responder back at home. Maybe... that also explains why I checked the body?"