The Burial Of The Dead [Active, Mostly Closed--Ask Before Joining]

[machitobaye]

Characters: Machi Tobaye, Naminé, possibly Rayne
Setting: Second Floor, Main Hallway--Daffodil Bedroom.
Time: Afternoon, Day 007
Summary: Machi seizes Naminé. She doesn't really deserve it. This will either segue into Rayne's involvement or stay a separate thread, unknown at this time.
Warnings: Violence, Liar Machi at his worst best most creepy.

Comments

[paper_witch]

Rayne was not home.

So to speak, anyway. Naminé, however, was in the room -- and therefore, very much alone. Although she was not unused to being left to her own devices, she could not help but feel uncomfortable. It wasn't any premonition of what was lurking right outside - she had been born with powers, but clairvoyance was not one of them - it was that she'd lately been suffering from a bad case of worry. There was something... different about her roommate. The little blonde girl could not help but assume it had something to do with the elder woman's extended absence the previous night.

It may have seemed silly, to worry about someone that was not only technically immortal, and could come back to life here anyway, but that was how Naminé was, and there was very little that could manage to change that.

Now, at least, she had something else to occupy her mind -- food. They had a stockpile, yes, and it served her well when night fell, but to take from it during the day seemed... ungrateful? Unwise? She wasn't quite sure how to phrase it, but she did not feel comfortable putting it to waste, when she could easily make her way to the kitchen.

Which was why she chose that particular moment to open the door and step outside, worrying for the person that probably needed it far less than she would, in a moment.

[machitobaye]

The door cracked open and he tensed, but Machi didn't move until he saw the blond hair and small stature of the person leaving the room.

Then he dropped.

He flipped his joints inward, popping them in the opposite direction--towards the ceiling--and descending from the ceiling so quickly that it was clear gravity had had some help in giving that momentum. He made no sound other than the sickly sucking sound of his arms and legs pulling free, nearly dropping right on top of Naminé--his overlong, infinitely flexible right arm wrapping around her neck, elbow twisting in a such a wrong way that it put the cold muzzle of the gun right up against her chin, rotting finger wrapped tightly around the trigger.

He allowed himself time for a few, dispassionately spoken words in English, tainted with a heavy accent. "Sorry--is nothing personal."

Then he shoved her back inside, pulling the door shut behind him with his free left arm.