Fantasy A Dying Breed - IC

[BittyBobcat]

Lenajo was quiet... or, at least as quiet as the city ever gets. Even as the thin morning fog began to burn away, cars were drifting onto the streets. The sidewalks were mostly empty, save for a handful of lone figures who took it upon themselves to enjoy the slightly chilled air before it grew heavy with the day's heat.

Already the sun was beginning it's steady march through the sky, bringing with it promises of yet another frying hot day. However, until it burnt away the lingering tendrils of fog, it would do naught but cast an orange canvas across the few wispy cotton lines scattered across the sky.


Thus dawns the second day of April, 2019. A totally normal, anything but unusual, definitely not extraordinary day. (Probably.)

 

[BittyBobcat]

Lauren Carter - Location: Connor's Vet Clinic - Tags: Rusty of Shackleford

The road passed by in a lazy blur as lane markings melded together in a long, yellow smear. White sunlight leapt into the car and bounced off her rearview mirror (which shook wildly back and forth with every bump the wheels hit). The light fell into her eyes from time to time, but she didn't have the energy to stop it. Not right now.

Her stomach twisted itself in knots. What if the samples were wrong? In class she'd have a lab partner checking her work, and at the internship she had the department head. Lauren had no such safety net now. Besides, the job was rushed at best. She was interrupted halfway through analyzing it by a professor who wanted to prepare the lab before class (curse morning people). How could she know the results were right?

Lauren took a long, drawn-out breath and released it with a gusty sigh. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, adding a repetitive tap-tap-tappa-tap to the quiet hum of the car.

This semi-silence was going to drive her mad.

She fiddled with the radio, and -after a few seconds of static- a cheerful pop song beat through the speakers. Lauren hated it, but it was better than nothing.

As she approached a small bank of fog that had yet to disperse with the rest of the morning's blanket of cloud, her mind began to turn back to her task. Even if she was right, this guy - Dr. Hughes (were veterinarians considered doctors?) - was a murderer. She was willingly walking into the office of a murderer. What if-

"Turn right in 100 meters."

The GPS's monotone murmur tugged her out of her thoughts. With a scowl and a slight shake of her head, Lauren muttered a short assurance to herself that was not at all assuring. "Whatever happens, happens." If she died, that would be one less danger in the world, anyway.

Her drive was otherwise uneventful, save for some discomfort over a dead skunk in the road (super smell had it's downsides), and before she could talk herself out of it, she was pulling her small, blue jeep into the clinic's parking lot.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Ryan Creutzfeldt, Doctor Death​

In an unmarked building on the outskirts of Lenajo, laid a set of pristine surgical tools. Shined to a mirror sheen. Rizz rizz. For a brief moment, the sound of an electric drill filled the dimly lit room. Then a small ting as the drill was place down next to the other tools. A brief exhalation came from the man maintaining his apparatus. The morning daylight slowly crept into the room, inch by inch. The man stood up from his metallic stool and began to walk into the light. The light stung his weary eyes, revealing the bags under them. The man has been awake for 32 hours, it wasn't an uncommon thing for him. His previous occupation required him to work deep into the night, often times sleeping for 20-40 minutes at a time before he was needed again. He closed his eyes to briefly shield them from the sun's scorching beams. A deep breath was taken in then released, he still had some things to do but for now, he'll take a quick nap. The man turned his back to the sun. The dimly lit room had an intense chill radiating from the metallic table, drawers, cabinets, trays, and the light machinery. The room's atmosphere was dry, it also smelt sterile. The man walked to the room's door. A gloved hand flicked the light switch, eliminating what little artificial light remained in the room.

After the man left the room, he removed his surgical gloves. With a tap of the foot, a bio-hazard trashcan opens its' lid. The man discarded his gloves, mask, and surgical cap. Another larger bin for his surgical gown, he still had 4 unused ones left so there was no need to worry. The building was modestly large, two floors, one large garage door on the backside, concrete walls, most of the windows were located on the top floor, and another large room inside for storage. The man took up residence in one of the rooms on the top floor, which had become an odd hybrid of bedroom and office.

The man opened the thick iron door to his room then walked inside, locking it. The room was sparsely decorated but it did have some notable belongings. A few pictures of the man and other people, a framed doctorate, a picture of the man with a hunting rifle, said hunting rifle from the picture hung from the wall, underneath it was a tranquilizer rifle, on the table, beneath the two rifles, was a SiG Sauer P220 and, other paraphernalia. The man had a simple, wooden bed placed next to the right wall. A cheap mattress, cheap pillow, and cheap blankets, comfort was not his first priority. He laid down on the inexpensive mattress for a quick rest. In an instant, the man fell asleep.

A short window of time passes and the man jumps up like an electrical surge just went through him, his breathing was heavy. It seems another nightmare cut short his rest. He swings his legs onto the concrete floor, blinked a few times to readjust his sight. The little rest did help to rejuvenate the man, albeit slightly. The man got up from his bed then slipped on his shoes. He was planning to head out for supplies so he wouldn't be needing his assortment of "hunting tools."

He quickly descended into the base floor after leaving and locking his personal room. The garage area was very space with a double door leading to and from the house. When the man entered the garage, he grabbed a remote then clicked on a green button with an arrow pointing forward. The garage doors whined open. The man stepped into his sleek, car. The engine hummed to life. With a quick gearshift, the car slowly moved out of the garage. There wasn't a concrete road to the building's garage, but the dirt road that had taken its' place, was nicely smooth. When the man reached the concrete road that connected to Lenajo, he switched gears to a higher speed. The car's engine roared from the man pressing on the gas pedal. It took off like a bullet towards Lenajo.

Reaching the city, prompted the man to lower his speed to a more manageable level. He left a small, circular intersection into a tight street. After which he made a right turn into a larger one. When driving down the larger street, he passed a black truck. It was hard to tell, but the truck left small crimson droplets in its' wake. This could be just a hunch, but its' hunch that he couldn't risk.

The man wanted to avoid startling or rather alerting the driver that they were about to be chased so he continued down the street until he reached its' end. He switched his direction so that it matched the truck's then began following it. The man kept driving at a great distance between the two vehicles, he also lowered his speed even more so that the driver didn't get too suspicious.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Location: Hawkins, St.
Tag: Murdergurl

 

[archur]

Lyra Byrne
Lenajo National Park

The deer grazed in the forest, sifting through the dense moss for some decent forage. There had been some light rain the night before, and the ground in some places was still damp, enough that one's foot could get stuck if stood in a single place for too long, but only in some places. It scanned the undergrowth for anything edible, lifting it's ponderous head every so often to check the perimeter, those large black orbs seeing nothing but the dense foliage, the thick trees, and the rays of sunlight that shone from above. Nothing moved, not a single soul in sight. It bobbed it's head back down to pick at a poorly buried acorn, revealed by the remnants of little streams that could be traced through the mud down the hill.

The bow tensed. A hunter had her mark, and waited perfectly still for her time to strike. This, was that time. She crouched for some time hidden in a shelter of shrubbery, waiting for any prey to enter sight. Here, was one of her favorite spots, since plenty of activity happened in this specific clearing just atop a hill. In her time, she's seen several generations of bird nestle amongst this set of trees that stood tallest and proudest all about her. Squirrels regularly scampered about and hid their nuts just at the top of the hill, and burrowed at the bottom of it for winter hibernation. Whether or not it was a freshly buried or older nut from the previous winter was always uncertain with these, but it mattered not. The doe finally had deemed her safety absolute, and it would be the last time she would do so.

Fwip.

It was clean. She didn't hesitate when she loosed, and when it sailed just behind the doe's front leg, by the way it ran she knew she hit it. It sprinted off, and the hunter merely watched as it did, the arrow jumping about in the air as the herbivore pumped their legs. Usually she was more inclined to chase after these types of things. Not that she needed to, nor did she chase after them immediately. A clean shot like that would leave a good blood trail, and from her experience, deer didn't last very long after getting hit like that, right in the meat.

The sound of hooves stopped after some time, and the hunter crept out from the safety of the brush to follow her prey's tracks. It was standing entirely still, some distance from the hill in a clearing, and from the claw marks on the trees and upturned dirt, it was the same clearing Jackie got mauled in. She hated how each time she went hunting, she always felt like this. Dread. Not a dread that dragged you underneath yourself, but one that made you simmer as you stood in place. Unable to do much, besides from stew in your own suffering, until you realized you were bleeding out from the arrow in your side. She hated it. Those types of animals that fumed at their circumstance usually thrashed about in place shortly after. A seizure of sorts, a final cry to be remembered, before going silent forever.

The deer had stopped it's flailing, and as Lyra approached it, she saw that its chest had stopped heaving too, but her own had not. A clean shot. A clean hole. A clean exit. She knelt down and turned her quarry over to see the other side of the wound. It was a heart shot. That's usually what gave them the seizure, if they didn't idly wonder why their body slowly started to shut down. The arrow was found close by, the haft broken, but the head still secure. Still good for a new arrow. She took a deep breath. It was just the area that had her worked up was all, the act of hunting itself was usually a calming experience for her, just not on days like this.

Not on days like this. On days like this, she got the nerve to try and hunt for bigger game. For revenge? Vigilantism? She barely knew Jackie, he was just some kid she met only twice before. Once at the interview, and twice here. They said they couldn't bury him here, but when she drove off the wolf, his last words were to be kept here, as a reminder. For who? Her? What did he know? Did he want this? For her to feel like this? She was just some loner, hunter, who found killing animals and eating them fun.

She remembered only a week later waiting for the perfect weather so that she could scatter his ashes, so the wind would pick it up and spread them all across the forest. Perhaps, that's why she was feeling this way, right now. He was kneeling there too, petting the doe's head, who stared fearfully into his eyes.

"There, there." Those black orbs blinked once, and then stayed closed for good.

It was time to bring her catch back home. She unraveled some thick rope, tied it around the deer's front two legs, and quietly pressed her tear stricken face into her shoulder. She dragged the body back to her lodge, and hoped she could forgive herself before she got home.

But she knew she wouldn't.

That's why she hunted.

She figured that with the rest of her day, she'd try and do something productive beyond moping about for herself, which always led to a different kind of hunt.

Her supplier would come to expect a visit from her later today.