OOC
(Not really a Matt entry. Just a short fic I wrote up about his new living arrangements, his acquiring of Ema's purse, and a little "Welcome" gift from the Church. >D Very sick and twisted stuff LIES BELOW THE CUT)
When Matt had left the Church, he'd gone right back to the apartments. He retrieved Ema's bag and his jacket, pulling it on but letting it hang open, glancing around.
This place was not going to do. Not if those idiots were staying here. Sure, Matt wanted to confront them, but not now. It was too soon.
He pulled the bag over his shoulder and moved out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.
It didn't feel like very long until he was standing in front of a large warehouse. He gripped the strap on the bag, looking up at the building carefully. Somehow, he felt almost as if it had been calling him. In fact, he couldn't remember the walk at all...
It had the same feeling, he mused, as that Church.
Opening the door, he stepped inside.
The place was entirely furnished -- much better than that damn apartment had been. It almost had a feeling of "home"... almost.
Setting down the bag at the doorway, Matt kicked off his shoes and grinned. Might as well acquaint himself with his new surroundings.
He stepped into the wide room, glancing around. There was a couch, a TV, and a coffee table. There was a cabinet across the room, cracked slightly open. Matt could see the glint of the alcohol bottles inside, and he instantly went for one. Perfect.
Pouring the bitter amber liquid into a glass, he settled down on the couch, still glancing around, interested in his surroundings. It was a pretty nice place. Just as nice as he'd had before. Maybe this place could actually be liveable.
What it had taken to get it never even crossed his mind.
He sat back on the couch, sighed, took a sip of whiskey, and let out a hum, as if testing the acoustics.
After a while, though, merely sitting and drinking was becoming boring. Even if Matt did get ample time to plot out the plans he could easily carry out with his new powers.
He'd kill anyone who got in his way, and anyone who already had. That was a given.
Sighing, he glanced around the room once more. His gaze fell on a dusty-looking bookshelf. On the top shelf sat one lone VHS tape. Maybe it was something worth watching.
Coming to a stand, Matt set his glass down on the coffee table and headed towards the bookshelf. He stared down at the tape. On it, there was a label that read, in clear handwriting, "March 20, 2018".
His heart almost stopped.
That was the day. The day everything had happened. The day of the Grand Prix at the Gatewater Hotel, the day he'd been named "Hero of Heroes", the day he'd been arrested, the day Juan had been killed.
His hand tightened on the tape. He thought back to his trip to the department store, the $3,800 he'd spent, the bears, the cameras, the rows of tapes lining his walls, all of Juan Corrida.
Most of them were trivial.
And yet there was one. This one.
The one he'd never gotten to watch.
Licking his lips, Matt slowly turned towards the TV, pushing the tape into the VCR. The lights dimmed on their own, the TV fuzzing and issuing forth loud fuzz as the tape began.
Matt stood there, eyes fixed on the screen, watching it all unfold.
The time on the bottom of the screen was 8:00 PM.
The hotel room door opened. Matt couldn't see it, but he heard it.
In came Juan Corrida. Matt hated the way he walked. He was holding a cell phone, talking into it, using that ridiculous accent of his.
"Yes, I know. Yes, I'll be out there shortly. I need to change, alright? Don't worry. I've got everything planned."
Then he hung up, tossing the phone on the couch. Matt watched him, watched every movement, watched him cross the room and sit down in his chair, sighing, running a hand through his hair, taking the last breaths of his life.
This was getting good.
A few minutes passed. Then, there was a knock at the door. Juan got up, answered it, and de Killer -- disgused as a busboy -- stepped inside, the tray with the bottle of tomato juice on it. What a disgusting beverage. Matt could only too well remember the way it tasted in Corrida's mouth. There was nothing more foul.
There were words exchanged. Matt couldn't hear them. He leaned forward, interested, focusing on the blurred footage. Juan was sitting again, and de Killer put the tray down, speaking genially with him, getting closer, closer--
There was a reason de Killer was paid for what he did. He was damn good at it.
Before Corrida could even react, de Killer's hands were on the scarf. Juan let out a yell (god, that was a satisfying, satisfying sound to hear), he tried to stand, stumbled back, hit the table behind him (the vase fell to the floor, shattering), and was forced back into the chair by de Killer. Matt watched closely, each beautiful detail, reaching out to turn the volume up and listen to the sounds of Juan Corrida's life slowly draining from him with the increase of pressure around his neck.
And then, finally, the man went limp, and it was done.
The video stopped, cut out, and turned off, leaving Matt standing there, bathed in the blue light of the TV.
Without thinking, Matt reached up, pushed rewind, then play again.
When Matt had left the Church, he'd gone right back to the apartments. He retrieved Ema's bag and his jacket, pulling it on but letting it hang open, glancing around.
This place was not going to do. Not if those idiots were staying here. Sure, Matt wanted to confront them, but not now. It was too soon.
He pulled the bag over his shoulder and moved out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.
It didn't feel like very long until he was standing in front of a large warehouse. He gripped the strap on the bag, looking up at the building carefully. Somehow, he felt almost as if it had been calling him. In fact, he couldn't remember the walk at all...
It had the same feeling, he mused, as that Church.
Opening the door, he stepped inside.
The place was entirely furnished -- much better than that damn apartment had been. It almost had a feeling of "home"... almost.
Setting down the bag at the doorway, Matt kicked off his shoes and grinned. Might as well acquaint himself with his new surroundings.
He stepped into the wide room, glancing around. There was a couch, a TV, and a coffee table. There was a cabinet across the room, cracked slightly open. Matt could see the glint of the alcohol bottles inside, and he instantly went for one. Perfect.
Pouring the bitter amber liquid into a glass, he settled down on the couch, still glancing around, interested in his surroundings. It was a pretty nice place. Just as nice as he'd had before. Maybe this place could actually be liveable.
What it had taken to get it never even crossed his mind.
He sat back on the couch, sighed, took a sip of whiskey, and let out a hum, as if testing the acoustics.
After a while, though, merely sitting and drinking was becoming boring. Even if Matt did get ample time to plot out the plans he could easily carry out with his new powers.
He'd kill anyone who got in his way, and anyone who already had. That was a given.
Sighing, he glanced around the room once more. His gaze fell on a dusty-looking bookshelf. On the top shelf sat one lone VHS tape. Maybe it was something worth watching.
Coming to a stand, Matt set his glass down on the coffee table and headed towards the bookshelf. He stared down at the tape. On it, there was a label that read, in clear handwriting, "March 20, 2018".
His heart almost stopped.
That was the day. The day everything had happened. The day of the Grand Prix at the Gatewater Hotel, the day he'd been named "Hero of Heroes", the day he'd been arrested, the day Juan had been killed.
His hand tightened on the tape. He thought back to his trip to the department store, the $3,800 he'd spent, the bears, the cameras, the rows of tapes lining his walls, all of Juan Corrida.
Most of them were trivial.
And yet there was one. This one.
The one he'd never gotten to watch.
Licking his lips, Matt slowly turned towards the TV, pushing the tape into the VCR. The lights dimmed on their own, the TV fuzzing and issuing forth loud fuzz as the tape began.
Matt stood there, eyes fixed on the screen, watching it all unfold.
The time on the bottom of the screen was 8:00 PM.
The hotel room door opened. Matt couldn't see it, but he heard it.
In came Juan Corrida. Matt hated the way he walked. He was holding a cell phone, talking into it, using that ridiculous accent of his.
"Yes, I know. Yes, I'll be out there shortly. I need to change, alright? Don't worry. I've got everything planned."
Then he hung up, tossing the phone on the couch. Matt watched him, watched every movement, watched him cross the room and sit down in his chair, sighing, running a hand through his hair, taking the last breaths of his life.
This was getting good.
A few minutes passed. Then, there was a knock at the door. Juan got up, answered it, and de Killer -- disgused as a busboy -- stepped inside, the tray with the bottle of tomato juice on it. What a disgusting beverage. Matt could only too well remember the way it tasted in Corrida's mouth. There was nothing more foul.
There were words exchanged. Matt couldn't hear them. He leaned forward, interested, focusing on the blurred footage. Juan was sitting again, and de Killer put the tray down, speaking genially with him, getting closer, closer--
There was a reason de Killer was paid for what he did. He was damn good at it.
Before Corrida could even react, de Killer's hands were on the scarf. Juan let out a yell (god, that was a satisfying, satisfying sound to hear), he tried to stand, stumbled back, hit the table behind him (the vase fell to the floor, shattering), and was forced back into the chair by de Killer. Matt watched closely, each beautiful detail, reaching out to turn the volume up and listen to the sounds of Juan Corrida's life slowly draining from him with the increase of pressure around his neck.
And then, finally, the man went limp, and it was done.
The video stopped, cut out, and turned off, leaving Matt standing there, bathed in the blue light of the TV.
Without thinking, Matt reached up, pushed rewind, then play again.