(no subject)
Characters: Stoneface (stonyfaced)
Date/Time: October 23rd/Evening
Location: Butcher's
Rating: PG-13 for gore
Summary: Stoneface was always a bit suspicious of Fenrir. Now's the time to figure it out for real.
Warnings: SOYLENT GREEN IS HUMAN, folks. This is going to be gross. There will be vomiting involved.
Stoneface had spoken to Fenrir once already, but it had revealed nothing. West had gone missing, and Fallen and East were not forgotten, but pushed aside as a case that he could not solve. Still, the fact that he was unable to follow through was bothering him. Unconsciously, he felt his feet lead the way towards the butcher shop. He paused, staring at it uneasily, weighing his options.
Nearly closing time. It was a public shop. Going in and having a poke around didn't really count as breaking in and entering. He was a copper, it was an investigation. If Fenrir was innocent, he had nothing to fear. If he wasn't, well, his hunch would be proven correct, and nobody could blame him for his actions. With that thought in mind, he went inside.
Nobody was at the counter. In the back? He hoped not, because he was going in. People had secrets wherever they were. Clean, homey looking establishments had filthy kitchens with knives floating in murky dishwater, a gun hidden behind a shelf, a diary, documents, something, anything could appease his mind. Stoneface was prepared to find something a bit dirty; a copper could handle damn near anything, after all.
Nothing looked like it was out of place. A few counters, a cooler, the scent of blood that every butcher's shop had. But Stoneface was a city man, through and through. He didn't know what animal blood smelled like, but oh, he knew what human blood smelled like. A splash of white laced with red caught his attention.
An arm. A human arm. Hands shaking, Stoneface picked it up, and turned it around. The cuts were neat, very neat. No clothing attached to it, nothing that would give him any clues. He looked in the cooler. A thigh. It looked soft and milky, hanging there, and he could imagine it on a young woman, well muscled, running around the park. A hand was in a bin at the bottom, fingernails bitten to the nub, worn with wrinkles. A working hand.
For Stoneface, everything went slowly. He dropped the arm back onto the counter, eyes slamming open in terror, because he didn't know what he expected, but not this, ye Gods, not this, this was--this was barbaric, this was hardly human. East and Fallen weren't killed by anything human.
Cuts of meat were in the front, lying neatly, shelf by shelf, waiting for customers. These parts were preserved, cut into pieces. Every day, people came in and carried their meat away in parcels, not even wondering where it came from. Nobody thought about that sort of stuff, except for those vegetarians who went on and on about the state of chickens these days and and and and oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Bodies torn to pieces, heads shot with crossbows, battered bodies dropped off of cliffs and chests with knives still in them, he could handle. This was a clinical, neat process, not borne of anger, or passion, and that disgusted him almost as much as what was going on here.
He hung onto the counter, feeling as if he was about to vomit. He had bacon this morning. He always did. Was it a woman's side, soft and supple with youth, was it an old man's, torn with muscle running to fat?
He took a deep breath. Everything went cold, everything went clear. There was time for horror later. The world going surreal around him, he turned around, purposefully walking out.
There was an arrest to make.
Date/Time: October 23rd/Evening
Location: Butcher's
Rating: PG-13 for gore
Summary: Stoneface was always a bit suspicious of Fenrir. Now's the time to figure it out for real.
Warnings: SOYLENT GREEN IS HUMAN, folks. This is going to be gross. There will be vomiting involved.
Stoneface had spoken to Fenrir once already, but it had revealed nothing. West had gone missing, and Fallen and East were not forgotten, but pushed aside as a case that he could not solve. Still, the fact that he was unable to follow through was bothering him. Unconsciously, he felt his feet lead the way towards the butcher shop. He paused, staring at it uneasily, weighing his options.
Nearly closing time. It was a public shop. Going in and having a poke around didn't really count as breaking in and entering. He was a copper, it was an investigation. If Fenrir was innocent, he had nothing to fear. If he wasn't, well, his hunch would be proven correct, and nobody could blame him for his actions. With that thought in mind, he went inside.
Nobody was at the counter. In the back? He hoped not, because he was going in. People had secrets wherever they were. Clean, homey looking establishments had filthy kitchens with knives floating in murky dishwater, a gun hidden behind a shelf, a diary, documents, something, anything could appease his mind. Stoneface was prepared to find something a bit dirty; a copper could handle damn near anything, after all.
Nothing looked like it was out of place. A few counters, a cooler, the scent of blood that every butcher's shop had. But Stoneface was a city man, through and through. He didn't know what animal blood smelled like, but oh, he knew what human blood smelled like. A splash of white laced with red caught his attention.
An arm. A human arm. Hands shaking, Stoneface picked it up, and turned it around. The cuts were neat, very neat. No clothing attached to it, nothing that would give him any clues. He looked in the cooler. A thigh. It looked soft and milky, hanging there, and he could imagine it on a young woman, well muscled, running around the park. A hand was in a bin at the bottom, fingernails bitten to the nub, worn with wrinkles. A working hand.
For Stoneface, everything went slowly. He dropped the arm back onto the counter, eyes slamming open in terror, because he didn't know what he expected, but not this, ye Gods, not this, this was--this was barbaric, this was hardly human. East and Fallen weren't killed by anything human.
Cuts of meat were in the front, lying neatly, shelf by shelf, waiting for customers. These parts were preserved, cut into pieces. Every day, people came in and carried their meat away in parcels, not even wondering where it came from. Nobody thought about that sort of stuff, except for those vegetarians who went on and on about the state of chickens these days and and and and oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Bodies torn to pieces, heads shot with crossbows, battered bodies dropped off of cliffs and chests with knives still in them, he could handle. This was a clinical, neat process, not borne of anger, or passion, and that disgusted him almost as much as what was going on here.
He hung onto the counter, feeling as if he was about to vomit. He had bacon this morning. He always did. Was it a woman's side, soft and supple with youth, was it an old man's, torn with muscle running to fat?
He took a deep breath. Everything went cold, everything went clear. There was time for horror later. The world going surreal around him, he turned around, purposefully walking out.
There was an arrest to make.