You're a Little Late, I'm Already Torn
Summer 2021, Week 3
Thursday midnight
Rostand, Old Towne
Storyteller #1
The call to dispatch came out around 2 am. Gunshots, screams and loud music on repeat, as if someone was blaring the same song through a speaker over and over. The arriving officer would find that it was far more than a noise disturbance. A bloody handprint, left on the door, dragged down the front of the wood.Storyteller #2
Deputy Thomas King and Stacy Adams responded to the dispatch call in Rostand. They pulled up to the apartment building. "This is King, we're on scene." Looking to his partner, Tom shook his head. "Rare for a call from Old Towne like this." "Yeah, but not rare in the city. Everything is getting crazier lately with all these freaks running around." Stacy said as she popped some gum in her mouth and checked her kit before getting out. Opening the door, Tom frowned at his partner. "You know that isn't fair. There are plenty of good guys running around. That Victory fella, and chicks like Roselyn Steele--god she's hot." "Of course you think that. You only think with your dick, which allows your head to swallow up every news story as said." Stacy didn't hate Tom; this was just their relationship. Her being harsh towards him, and he being a sweetheart despite her bullshit. They approached the door, seeing the handprint on the front of it. "What the fuck? Why is it on the outside?" Tom asked. At the same time, he drew his weapon, as did Stacy who called out. "NVPD, we're coming in!" Opening the door, they pushed inside.Storyteller #1
Officers of the law are trained for many things: How to stop a speeding car, how to handle a robbery, even how to handle taking down armed assault. But the inside of this home, many officers would find it too much. The door was unlocked, or rather, the officers would find the bolt had been smashed open. Where the bolt would lock into the wood had given way, nothing more than a small cardboard box closed tight kept the door from just swinging in the breeze. The box weighed around 15 pounds, but with a bit of force it would push open quite easily. The living room was a wreck. Furniture was tossed around and overturned. The once nice entertainment stand now hoisted, what one would assume, was the remains of the family animal, torn open from jaw to anus. Its insides on the ground and tossed across the coffee table. The coffee table in turn had several blades laid evenly across it. All knives, one would find, in a kitchenette set as if they had been taken from the home themselves. The couch was torn apart, stuffing covering the floor and the loveseat was upside down with a dark red liquid staining the floor under it.Storyteller #1
Under the love seat was an arm. No body. Just a severed arm torn open about halfway down the bicep. The muscle, bone and remaining flesh were torn about and blossomed open like a popped can. The rest of the body would be found on the other side of the breakfast bar, sitting against the low bar that separated the kitchen and the small living room. Its head sitting upon its thighs as its neck was eviscerated, torn open and spread like a flower. The rest of the kitchenette looked quite normal. The fridge hung open, but otherwise was left untouched. The sink was full of dishes, but merely looked as if the family had just finished dinner when they were attacked. The dining room to the left looked worse than the living room. A body was laying across the table. Armless, legless, and its head sitting between what was left of its thighs. Though it would take a closer look to see just how badly it was tortured.Storyteller #2
Tom couldn’t hold it back, throwing up onto the floor by the separated limb. As he started to dry heave, the severity of his action, contaminating a crime scene, finally made its way to the forefront. Standing up to tell Stacy his grave error, he saw her standing frozen in the dining room. Her face pale and gun shaking in her hand. Moving over to her slowly, Tom finally saw what she did. Thank god I already vomited all I had. Was his immediate thought. “W-what is this?” Stacy muttered. Tom, for his part with his head clear—as clear as it could be—replied. “A fucking lunatic. A monster. A sick piece of shit.” He grumbled. Inside he was a mix of horrified, enraged, and still seriously sick to his core. The two slowly moved into the two bodies, knowing and hating that as first on the scene they had to make preliminary determinations. As they did, Tom called it in, requesting backup, CSI, and the Mortician. He didn’t relay any further information, not knowing the full scope of the scene. “Stay on your toes. Quick look then we—we have to clear the rest of the building.” Stacy gave a shaky nod.Storyteller #1
The officer barely knew the beginning. There had been two more in the house, though they would not find them. Or at least not all of them. What was once the mother and father, slaughtered in the dining room and kitchenette. Their eldest daughter would be found upstairs tucked away in the master bath. A trail of blood starting at the top of the stairs and staining the carpet towards the master bedroom. Then there was their youngest. A small girl, barely 12, who hid in the closet from the boogie man that had attacked her family. Once towards the top of the stairs perhaps the officers would hear the sobbing of the child, no longer able to stop herself from crying quietly in her own room. Of course the killer was gone. Nothing left but his bloody footprints leading out the back sliding door. Oddly they were quite small, almost feminine in shape, and clearly barefoot. While this may not tell the officers anything, most would wonder how something as small as those footprints suggested, managed this horrible act of violence. Experts though and soon the media already knew this was the work of an Evo.Storyteller #2
Chief Butler arrived on the scene personally, seeing the second wave of officers taking the statements of Officers Tom and Stacy, who were pale and severely shaken, and the little girl who was still crying while officers tried to get anything out of her. The Chief longed to help her, hold her, but given the severity of the situation, time was of the essence. The scene needed to be contained, investigated, and the press held back. Already a few freelance journalists mingled in response to the police presence. He ignored them as they called out, focusing on the incoming reports from the officers on scene. This was the most severe and horrifying murder the Chief had ever witnessed in his decades of police work. Pieces of unidentified bodies were still being collected. Likely the mother and father, and the girl had mentioned something about a sister. But they weren't able to piece them together--literally--yet. With a sad shake of his head, he got the tail end of the report. The attack wasn't possible by a human. So that left one option. An Evo. Pulling out his phone, he dialed and waited for a moment. When he heard the click, he spoke quickly. "Victory, we have more than Bolt to worry about."
Type
Record, Historical
Medium
Digital Recording, Text
Authoring Date
July 8, 2021
Authors
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