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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 15:36:11 GMT
Nicolai looks into the room again.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 15:37:10 GMT
You can't see him, but you can't see any way he could have escaped either.
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 15:38:24 GMT
He walks in and looks at the windows. If nothing is amiss there he checks under the bed by overturning it, then any wardrobes/closets etc.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 15:41:57 GMT
The windows are intact, so you overturn the bed, and you are greeted by the sight of your target, huddling there, with his hands over his head.
His voice shaky, he manages a few words.
"Who sent you?"
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 15:50:40 GMT
Wic has no intention of answering. He hates what he is doing but doesn't consider not doing it. He hates the situation he is in now and in his rage he takes it out on his victim.
He kicks him nearly unconscious, if he fights back, he jabs at his arms with his knife.
Once he is utterly helpless, he strangles him with a telephone cord, punishing him for his own situation and fulfilling his duty at the same time.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 15:55:38 GMT
He doesn't struggle. Before he blacks out, all he does is repeat the same question over and over.
"Who sent you?"
Then a particularly brutal boot to the head finishes him.
You get the telephone cord, and wrap it round his broad neck, until he gags, and his breathing stops. You lay down his body, heavy in your arms.
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 16:01:07 GMT
Nicolai, calmed from his rage, prepares his get-away. He puts on some of Viorel's clothes; a hat and overcoat and looks for some alcohol or fuel to set the place aflame. He picks up the gun he was shooting and wipes his prints off of it.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 16:03:51 GMT
The best you can get is a bottle of whiskey from a kitchen cabinet. The clothes you find, and don, leaving the wiped gun on the floor.
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 16:06:41 GMT
He closes up the kitchen, turns off the pilot lights and turns on the gas, then first sets things ablaze upstairs, curtains and bedding work well. Then downstairs he does the same.
He looks out the front window to see if it's still clear.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 16:09:24 GMT
There are a couple of people (3) milling about on the street, at a distance, watching the house curiously. They seem to be unrelated to each other, but are talking. They don't seem to have noticed the fire yet.
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 16:12:10 GMT
The back it is.
He goes out the back and keeps going that direction, over fences and through yards if necessary, until he reaches another street, then he'll head to his car.
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Post by Storyteller on Mar 31, 2006 16:14:02 GMT
You get back to the car, unmolested, and finally relax for a brief moment, then running over a mental checklist of anything you could have left behind, or any real trace you could have left. You think you're clear, and you start up your car.
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Post by Smoothie on Mar 31, 2006 16:21:35 GMT
It's too early to go see the boss, so Nicolai drives home and gets some sleep.
He sleeps deeply, not remembering the nightmares... ...gunshots, twisting knives and gagging, gurgling dying men... ...clearly.
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Post by Storyteller on Apr 7, 2006 10:18:15 GMT
You wake up breathing heavily, the face of the dead man fading away from your mind sharply. You take a few minutes to gather your thoughts, before you get dressed and ready.
Part of the reason i've delayed on your board is trying to get Treyvon moving on, which he is on the brink of, so we should be back on with 'regular' story posting very soon.
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Post by Smoothie on Apr 7, 2006 14:45:01 GMT
Nicolai swallows heavily, the image fading, his thoughts of duty and necessity getting confused, dragged around by ...something else.
He gets out of bed quickly, walking away from such thoughts. The cold morning air on his body as he walks to the bathroom causes his skin to constict and his hairs to stand up amidst gooseflesh. The cold water splashed on his face sends shivers through his body.
Back on track
He dresses quickly.
He's eating a pastry as he walks to his car, more out of habit than hunger.
Got to let the boss know it's done.
He drives, in his slow, distracted way, to see his boss once again.
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