(Untitled)

[laughing_mage]

Scattered tools of his nights work can be seen around the room in the abandoned building he has been using as a workshop. In one corner are a pick and shovel covered with fresh earth with gloves and boots saturated with liquid and mud flung beside them. On the table where he's been working are several newspaper clippings and lists. Special ink and

Comments

[jla_extras]

The dead man in the Armani suit walks down the hall, oblivious to the doings of mages or assassins. As the smoke fills the passageway, he turns to look at something, in the distance. There are deep scratches on his face, as though he clawed through his own skin.

"He remembers," says the ghost. "He remembers everything."

And then, the well-dressed man is gone, vanished into the billowing gas and the cackling laughter that rings from all directions.

[laughing_mage]

"Right, blow me Casper." mutters under his breath and waits for the smoke to go away and puts the shield down.

"Barrel o'laughs this is."

[jla_extras]

The mad caterwaul of nearby inmates gives way to something different, deeper. A tortured laugh in the distance, mad with a pain that will never end.

Someone died here. Recently. Badly.

[laughing_mage]

Well let's see if we can actually find somethin' out here.

follows the sound

[jla_extras]

The walls have a heatbeat that beats like rain in a London summer. It's suddenly humid, the air so moist it appears the walls are sweating, and in the dim fizzle of expiring lightbulbs, the beads of water running down hard stone look like blood

[laughing_mage]

Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he watches the scene unfold. Ghosts are talky folk if you just know what to look for. Trouble is you don't get their message sooner or later they get impatient and start throwing things.

when the scene seems to have wound down he walks through it towards the open cell. The place of pain. Pausing on the threshold he makes sure he has the items he prepared in his pockets and steps in.

[jla_extras]

The ghost seems to have begun the cycle over again, and is whole once more. Whoever he was, he must have been impressive -- a muscular, mountain of a man; well-dressed. Reaks of money. Funny, there haven't been any news stories about anyone dying at Arkham lately, and that's the sort of things the local papers keep up on, even in this town.

Whatver happened to him let an impression. He's screaming now, shielding his face. Somewhere, there's a smell of lavender, and then it's gone. Somewhere --- far, far away -- a dog is barking, and then it's gone. Somewhere the skies have turned red.

The man is clawing at his skin and clothes now, ripping into himself. The air is heavy with paranoia and betrayal.

The cell has been cleaned out. Nothing remains inside. But the nameplate is still there -- "Hayden, Roger."

[laughing_mage]

he's ignoring the rest of what's going on in Arkham, small explosions and the voices of inmates as they are making their escapes. Whatever he's looking for it has some connection to here.

Roger Hayden.

he considers trying a few things but this might not be the best place for it. Where there's death, there has to be a body. He hates being around ghosts always makes him feel his own too much.

He balances the pen on his hand and waits for it to show him the way the body went

[jla_extras]

The ghost seems to have noticed Constantine now, and stands to walk toward him. Up close, it's easy to tell that one eye is gouged out, and judging from the blood on his hands, the man did it to himself. His teeth are impacted, some shattered -- they chattered from fear so hard that they broke. They sliced his tongue into ribbons.

"He remembers," says the ghost. "He remembers everything."

[laughing_mage]

"Who remembers? Give me a little help here freakshow."

[jla_extras]

The ghost doesn't speak, but instead reaches out its blood-drenched hand toward Constantine, and before he can react, the hand is touching his face

[laughing_mage]

gasping and stumbling back once the vision releases him he stumbles out of the cell to lean against a wall until he can get his head back together. The ringing alarms arent' helping.

Emma...bloody fuck not now, get the job done get maudlin later.

Wishing he'd brought a bottle along he starts to make his way down the corridor, holding himself up with one hand on the wall until he can stand without walking into anything.

Time to find some bodies.

[laughing_mage]

continues here