she said, 'now's the right time'

[pillowmania]

WHO: Katurian [from 2020] and a lot of unfortunate characters.
WHERE: All over the City.
WHEN: The nights of September 20th, September 21st, and September 22nd.
WARNINGS: Violence and death.
SUMMARY: Katurian has traveled from the future to kill some of the villains.
FORMAT: You choose! Also, choose your date when you tag in. c:

Comments

THURSDAY NIGHT

[sanguinosi]

[Ladd Russo was never a man well known for being nice. The ruthlessness through which he moved through life was unsettling- The simple rules of society were overlaid with a complex web of behaviours and rules that only he really understood, but expected everyone to follow by.]

[One of these rules concerned alcohol. Like clockwork, there were certain times in the week where he would feel a compulsion to drink- He had no real emotional issues or trauma, none that were diagnosable at least, but he felt an entitlement to his booze and that entitlement became a habit soon enough.]

[Thursday night was one of his nights. He sits in the bar, alone, as he has done many nights. He's watching baseball on the television with mild interest- He was always more of a boxing man, himself. There was another habit. But it was enough to distract him for a while, keep him inside a little bubble inside his mind as it twisted and turned with words that were slowly beginning to form sentences, which were slowly forming plans. And Ladd Russo having a plan

Re: THURSDAY NIGHT

[pillowmania]

[Katurian doesn't make a sound when he enters Ladds past. He is a ghost, and the bartender and all those patrons, they could never see him. Only Ladd, and only if he turns around. He is merely a pulse of light, a solid existence where there was once nothing. And he's soon nothing again, because his first visit to Ladd's past is very, very brief.

He appears. Pulse of light. No sound.

He stretches out his hand. No sound.

He lets a fine white powder scatter down from the tips of his fingertips, one of his many hidden pockets on one of his many kinds of gloves. The drug is a mild sedative, enough to get his fingers tingling, his mind disoriented, but not enough to put him out. Slight sound. A rustling.

And then he's gone. For now.]

[sanguinosi]

[The silence, of course, is unnoticed. For any man, even the most murderous, there is a safe dependency on the fact that the next thing you eat or drink isn't going to poison you- Only the most paranoid of men would even consider the notion of what had just really occurred

[pillowmania]

[It's an all too familiar scene. A man, loathed, desperately clinging for control alone in a bathroom, the cooling water from the sink his only refuge. Katurian's mind flitters with this, relishes this, when he finally enters Ladd's timeline for a second time.

Again, he doesn't make a sound.

Again, he enters behind him.

He lunges forward, his gloved hand grasping, gripping, aiming to smash Ladd's head into the mirror in front of him.]

21st

[bydefection]

Sark is, for all intensive purposes, minding his own business. The term applies to him even more so considering he so often claims that he's simply a businessman, with nothing more than his own investments to gain. Which is the sole reason why he was just out adding onto his resume, forming another contract with a client requesting the services he was all too used to providing. Dealings on the black market were easy enough, and it would at least keep him occupied for another few days.

Hands in his pockets, he kept himself walking through the dimly lit streetlights, gaze focused ahead. But he couldn't seem to help that something felt off, wrong, and he flicked a casual glance over his shoulder. He'd been trained to ignore his feelings save for these sorts -- the intuition that so often told him to hightail it out of a situation. He knew exactly where his gun was on his person, tucked safely away, and despite all temptation to check it was there, he hardly wanted to give away its location

[pillowmania]

One thing Katurian liked about traveling in the past was his ability to not only chose when to appear, but where. It had grown with practice, with hours and days and years of shifting his location inside those older times. He could appear on roofs, under roofs, inside automobiles, inside locked doors. He could appear behind doorways the exact moment before someone passed through.

He could also appear in many places in quick succession.

For a moment, he appeared under a street light, the lighting and his costume and the mist of autumn making him into a smiling phantom. And then he winked out, fast enough to be lost in a blink. Poof.

[bydefection]

Instead of the pace he had once again settles into, Sark hesitated for a moment, giving a slight quirk of the head as he looked onward. Had he just seen something? Though there was something about the night that inherently made things more suspect, Julian never once believed himself to be mad, nor fell pray to being spooked by shadows.

Brushing it off as simply some sort of trick of the light, apart from his hesitation he gave way to no indication that he was affected, continuing his walk.

[pillowmania]

In the next moment, he appeared behind Sark.

He gripped a knife in his gloved hands, and with that knife, he fumbled for Sark's neck. Not to cut it, not yet (now is not the time, something inside him hummed) but to threaten it, to hold the other man steady while they talked. His other hand went for Sark's shoulder. His foot went for his ankle, aiming to trip him, to throw him off balance and backwards into his hold.

"Julian," his voice boomed, the distortion so heavy and low that he sounded like he was in slow motion. He pressed the steel against his skin. Gently, so gently.

20th

[anoblelie]

Azula is learning. What has once been her microwave is separated into it's base components and scattered across the living room, the princess knelt down in the center of the chaos. She creates fire, a device that's sole purpose is to provide artificial warmth has no use to her in her mind. Outside that of a visual aid, at least. The concepts of electricity and machinery are still novel and mysterious to her and, therefore, an enemy to be over come. All it takes is the right amount of time.

[pillowmania]

Katurian brings a television with him this time, small and portable and far below the typical technological standard of 2020. It reminds him of the televisions he would see back home, those rickety things with worn rabbits ears and fuzzy pictures. A part of him cries and begs and go home, but he will never go home, never ever, and these throwbacks are all he has. He loathes and fights the power they have over him, trying to pretend that he doesn't feel it, that uncomfortable tug of longing. But that familiar television is still there.

When he arrives in Azula's past, he flickers into existence with the television in his arms. He's down in the far hallways, out of sight. Carefully, he puts the it down. Carefully, he turns it on.

Basic cable buzzes. Buzz. Courtroom drama. No, judge, you have to understand

[anoblelie]

Azula's head jerks up at the first moment of sound, and her body follows suit far most gracefully without her having to tell it too, a decade of training snapping into place without need for executive order. An intruder? Had the Avatar's friends finally grown some spine? She'd been too loud in her own residence, tinkering and muttering away, for the intruder to be unaware of her. No advantage in stealth. Instead she rushes the entrance to the hall, hand engulfed in flare before she reaches it.

"You can't really be this stupid."

[pillowmania]

The hallway is what Katurian is aiming for. He wants something tight, something close quarters, somewhere where it's difficult for her to move her hands and produce more of those brilliant flames. It won't be enough - no question it won't be enough - but it will be something, all right. It will be something.

He exits the time stream and appears behind her in a flash, swinging his knife at her before disappearing once more, the sounds of the television cracking in and out as he leaves and re-enters and leaves. He wants her to let go of that flame.

He wants her hands free.

20th

[showingstabs]

[It's getting chillier and Slick briefly thinks about getting a coat. He's not too keen on any of this stuff those kids are wearing. Give the man a sturdy trench coat that gets stains out fast and he'll be happy enough.

He still kept to habits, stowing a handful of licorice dogs in his hat. There wasn't any reason to go nuts with risking those. In his right hand was his trusty DECK OF CARDS, at the ready in case any unlucky shmuck decided to jump him.]

Re: 20th

[pillowmania]

[Katurian is playing cards.

Solitaire, to be specific. He's placed the cards down around the sidewalk, neat little lines of numbers arranged in descending order. He whistles while he makes each placement. A king here. A jack there. Pedestrians walk by, boots and sneakers and high-heels sometimes skewering the cards, and yet they remain where they are. They never tear. They never blow away. They are almost too perfect.]

[showingstabs]

[Slick wasn't a private eye, but you didn't need to be one to figure out someone was screwing with him. Making fun of him. And that couldn't happen if he wanted to make something of this shithole of a City.

A knife made its way into his hand from his cards as quietly as a whisper. Someone was going to earn a few stabs for this, and Slick wasn't going to enjoy the wait for it]

[pillowmania]

[Katurian raises his eyes, for a moment surprised by this turn, but his mask hides any surprise or hesitation or doubt. He looks back down. He whistles. Again.]

There's something very satisfying, you know. About getting things all ordered up and organized. It's like I really can't help myself. Sometimes. [He runs his tongue along his teeth.] I hope I'm not in your way.

22nd

[electrouble]

Snapping his fingers, Electro ignited a spark between them to light his cigarette. Autumn was already thick in the air, and wandering around New York in the evening was reminding him of how bored he was. He remembered the riots, back home and when he'd first got here. You're never really someone until all of New York sits back and listens, even if he hadn't killed Dexter Bennett, or the mayor of this cheap imitation.

No matter. He leaned on the bricks, letting the smoke pour from his lips and enjoying the sensation even if he couldn't taste the nicotine.

There was always time to be somebody, anyway.

[pillowmania]

Katurian knew this timeline well-- like he knew every timeline well. He knew where Electro would be going after he finished smoking that cigarette. He knew the paths he would take and whether there were pauses or hesitations along the way. He knew how his actions fit perfectly along those seconds and minutes. He knew the exact moment he'd be crossing the river.

Katurian was ahead of him on that destined path. He was prepared to interrupt. He set up webs of barbed wire at ankle level, so difficult to see on this cloudy night. Once he was finished, he let himself fall out of the timeline, his form disappearing along with the wire. He would be back at the proper time, the time when Electro reached that river.

The wire would be back, too.

[electrouble]

When he was finished, Electro discarded his smoke with an idle flick, pressing his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He was dressed lightly considering the weather, but his body could function like a heating system if he wanted it to. The electrical currents under his skin usually kept him warm.

He wandered forward, predictably, watching the vague glimmers of water struck by the lampposts grow nearer. He sneered, almost defiantly heading toward it; he could control his powers much better now. He hadn't been submerged, of course, but if rain was fine there was no harm in crossing a stupid river. Fuck that river. Walking around would take him longer to get home anyway -- why waste time being overly cautious?

"Yeah, fuck you," he said, strutting.

[pillowmania]

Yeah, fuck you, Katurian mouthed in some dimension that wasn't this dimension, in the dimension that was only wisps between the third and the fourth.

When he back faded in, he didn't waste time.

The barbed wire flickered back into existence when he did, curled around the edge of the bridge like snarled black snakes. They were out of Electro's path for now, but they didn't need to be underfoot just yet. Katurian had a delicate process to follow. A recipe. A script.

When he back faded in, he didn't waste time because the first thing he did was try to stab Electro in the stomach.