Realistic or Modern ;; 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞

[miyabi]

bad ending && mother of sorrows ​

 

[mother of sorrows]

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐙-𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀. 𝐅𝐁𝐈 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓.

“I pray to the sun, to this last minute of life: let my enemies pay with blood for what they did to me—I'm just a killed slave, easy fistful of death.” 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙣𝙤𝙣, by 𝗔𝗶𝘀𝗸𝗵𝘆𝗹𝗼𝘀.

Daughter of a killer. Hound for criminals. Her mind is brilliant, but troubled. She is the top of her team, but she can't sleep at night. No monster has yet to escape her, but she cannot escape them either.

The personification of eye for an eye.

 

[miyabi]

by bad ending.

DANIEL YEUN

– THE CONSULTANT.

"All my grief says the same thing— this isn't how it's supposed to be. And the world laughs, holds my hope by my throat, says: but this is how it is."

— Alain de Boton

The son of a pastor, witness of a murder—turned serial killer; a consultant for the bureau, a deal stricken for freedom and in return, the exploration of minds. With depths, layers upon layers, a man unknown and uncovered—a child deep down whose trauma haunts day by day. Collector of the obscure. Manipulative, intelligent, and aggravating; no stranger to malicious intent.

 

[miyabi]

— daniel yeun

the consult

crime scene

tired, annoyed, silly and goofy

outfit here

interactions

ethan, ramona, cass

...I don’t want to set the world on fire.

An insatiable thirst waiting to be quenched; loneliness hid under veils of confidence; a man whose presence was solely reliant on the power held over another.

He recounts days on end, ones filled with the horrors of death; the fearful eyes of victims, how the sweat dripped from their foreheads, and blood stained their cheeks. There was always a tremble, one present in all of them, all with the same waver in their voice as they pleaded for an end towards the violence, but to no avail. The thing is, when dealing with death and murder itself, there isn’t much reason to it; psychology of killers, some do it out of impulse and desire, others do it for revenge, few do it just because they feel like it--as if there was no higher purpose. As much as the human psyche was interesting, there was also the tugging feeling of no longer needing the exploration; information builds up, and the longer that we live, the more atrocities we uncover about ourselves.

...I just want to start a flame in your heart.

Yellow tape and flashing lights; the air is damp and smells of iron, a familiar scent and reminder of a past he holds indifference towards. There are pools of blood, the scratch of a record and the continuation of music in the background, and propped up at the dinner table are bodies; no longer warm, stiffness settling in, and unnervingly, no signs of struggle. There was one thing, however: the family dog left alone, untouched, and inside of a downstairs guest bedroom, most likely already have picked up on the stillness.

In his pocket sits latex gloves, ones promptly plucked out and slipped onto spidery fingers—they stuck together, despite being powdered, pulling at the hairs that raised on his arms. Was it the chill of the home; the coldness from the air conditioning? Or was it the death that painted the walls that enveloped the home with bleak, wintry air? Daniel readied his examination, with no need to hold his breath around the bodies; the stench of death was familiar, but perhaps not in the sense most savory. Lips pursed, brows furrowed and scrunched, Daniel starts off with the mother.

She sat with an expression etched onto her face, contorted with worry and fear, but no pain—that, however, could have been due to sedation. The man noted a needle placed next to her hand, the hand being propped onto the table alongside a set of cutlery thoughtfully placed. As if the killer had planned a dinner service, they’d taken the time to carefully fix the dinner table. Cups of water, some sipped, some filled to the brim, with a layer of condensation on the outside; placemats perfectly aligned with the edges of the mahogany table; spoon, fork, knife, placed in that order atop a white linen napkin—spotless, not a single drop of blood in sight; the condition was pristine, as if careful so not to mess up the set up. If the team had not known any better, they would have figured that the pieces were placed post mortem; that was the thing, though—the scene was laid out prior to the killings.

Deliberate, clean, and terrifyingly intelligent—that is how the killer would be described.

...In my heart there is but one desire.

Narrowed eyes follow the clothing of the victims, reminiscent of the 40s; not a thread close to the style now. It was obvious: that these garments did not belong to the family—what with the plethora of family photos that lined walls and consoles, this family thrived in modernity. “Scott, take a picture of that for me, will ‘ya?” Daniel had gotten comfortable quickly, his team—however—was not quite the same. The mix of him being new, as well as the knowledge of the fact that he was a former serial killer, never quite sat right with the people he worked with. But he was an asset, willing to help to avoid a penalty worse than death, and knowledgeable in a scope that most are not.

With the flash of the camera, Daniel continues to make his rounds along the table. Hopping from the mother to the children, both of which were blindfolded. Could that have been remorse? But should it have been, why was the mother left unblindfolded and, most likely, the last one to die? (A sole witness to the murders before being dealt the same fate.)

“For the love of God, will somebody turn that fucking music off?” A separate man’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Leave it on—”

It was no surprise that the music was quickly shut off, leaving the investigative team to their own thoughts, the sound of shuttering cameras, and the quick shuffling of feet; they had no respect for Daniel, but it was a given. A man, formerly a killer, deserved little respect—though it should have been realized that he was, in fact, a colleague rather than a suspect. The man who gave the order, Ethan, clad in a clean suit with shoes to match, looked as if he hadn’t belonged. Yet, his very presence was authoritative: the air he carried, even with the shine towards the top of his head, hair lacking, was filled with confidence most could mistake for arrogance. Daniel hated him, wished that he’d disappear off the face of the earth; they, however, were far too much alike. If there was going to be one arrogant bastard in the team, it was going to be Daniel—he wanted to own the title, mostly for his own self-righteousness.

He turned quickly, fingers reaching for the stereo to turn the music back on—partly because he’d enjoyed it, alongside the thought of preserving the scene in its rightful state.

“We need that on,” Daniel lent no explanation, mind falling back onto the scene as the music engulfed the barrier of thoughts that grew rampant. “She sedated them,” there was a pause, a straightening in his stance as he crossed his arms against his chest, “that’s why the neighbors didn’t hear anything.”

Harboring a sneer, Ethan responded, mostly to belittle the thought that had left the other man’s lips. “She? What the hell makes you say that?”

“If a stranger came to your home, would you let them in if they were a man?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Not you. Ramona, would you?”

There was a brief pause—one out of astonishment. He’d spoken to her, something that she had not expected, but she felt the need to answer. A quiet, slight shake of the head followed by a quick “no” was all that he needed. Tired brown eyes shot back to Ethan, whose face was scrunched in both disbelief and annoyance. "And if you were more attentive? There's perfume—smells like Bath and Bodyworks Sweet Pea body mist," Daniel took closer examination towards one of the children, whose mouth was clenched shut. He could smell it, the sweet scent behind the smell of blood—easy to miss, but not easy enough. "Don't laugh, it smells good in there," words snapped in Ramona's direction as she struggled to stifle her laugh, only concealing it behind the shutter of her camera. She got closer, unfazed by the scene, even making an attempt at getting a good angle. If there was one—not that it mattered. this wasn’t smoe inappropriately themed Halloween Baby Gap photoshoot; it was a crime scene that left an intern running back to the comfort of their home, most likely reconsidering their choice of career path.

...And that one is you, no other will do.

Emotions ran high, muddled together in a mess that often confused one emotion for another; there was the safe bet that, despite the unfeeling faces of his colleagues, their bodies expressed more than what they had realized. Slight shivers, the inability to properly look at the scene without furrowing brows and turning their eyes away, a hesitation when it came to the bagging of evidence and further examinations. “God, they were so young. I mean… seven and eight years old? Thats…” Ramona’s words trailed off as she stared down at the screen of her camera, following Daniel’s figure in the display as he slowly pried the mother’s lips open.

“That’s a choice. Look at this,” with tweezers, he holds up the corner piece of a picture—bringing it to the light before carefully placing it in the evidence bag. “You might hate me for this, but I’m gonna need you guys to check the kids’ mouths,” the request was followed by a collective grimace, one that would remain stapled on the cheeks of the others for the rest of the time being. Luckily for Daniel, if one could count it as luck, he had been pulled aside—a superior, humbly dressed but the badge wrapped around his neck was an obvious indicator of who he was.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have an Agent from the Bureau that will help with the investigations; I’ve already told Ethan, so play nice.”

Oh no. No, no; he was supposed to be the only one with enough knowledge like his own on cases. By the expression on his face it was painfully obvious that he was less than delighted by this proposition, but he was in no position of opposition.

He could only pace in anticipation; there was not an ounce of nervousness, but annoyance by the clear fact that he should have been informed prior. That is until he remembered: he killed people, these people were not obligated to reach the same amount of respect that they do their other colleagues—the man was only there on a deal, nothing more. A creak in the front door; incessant chatter of reporters outside; bright red and blue lights illuminating the street; and a figure slowly being unveiled by the night sky. This must have been her, the agent he dreaded meeting—the one whom he had no further preparation in meeting, only harboring a few seconds to collect himself.

She looked ordinary, another person in passing; one could mistake her for a civilian with little understanding of boundaries.

Furrowed brows revealed annoyance, as did the words that slipped with little regret, “I thought I told you guys to secure the scene. Is she a neighbor or something? Get her out of here.”

coded by natasha.

 

[mother of sorrows]

cassandra

the fbi agent

lecture hall, crime scene

sane

dark suit

interactions

npcs

Rain pours outside the courthouse, but still the paparazzi swarm around it.

It is cold. Mercilessly cold. Cars rush down the wet, grey street, sending flickers of water landing on cameras poised for the kill. Journalists huddle together for warmth, mouth asking mouth - 'when will it end?' 'how many years, do you know yet?' 'did the wife come?' Questions drift in the crisp autumn air, feet bustling over dying leaves with all the patience of hungry wolves. The anticipating whispers exploded into rumble once the doors swing open, rushing in like a tidal wave of suits and expensive equipment. Flashes, bright like lightning and shouted questions surrounded the small group, even as they rushed to get to a car. Microphones were shoved in the agitated young girl's face, barely older than 12 - and the more agitated she grew the more they pressed in, smelling blood.

It did not matter that she answered no questions. It did not matter that her guards tried his best to hide her from the hungry eye of cameras, dragging her along to the car as fast as possible. Come morning, the image of her hunched, terror-faced figure will be plastered all across the newspapers and websites, journalistic and disreputable alike. If the media wants a story, it will have one. And this was a story that was worth more than others - sleazy true crime bloggers and armchair psychiatrists rose with excitement at the prospect of dissecting a sick man. Brain surgery without anesthesia: clumsy, but very enthusiastic. Anonymous posters on news blogs will claim this is a case of DID - that the different personalities he showed to his family and victims is a sign of a split mind. Buzzwords get thrown around, along with psychological complexes and far stretched theories of aliens. Some sensationalize it to the point of glamour, leaked pictures of torture devices or police transcripts. Nobody knows what they're saying, but still they talk. The girl, they scream, what happened to the girl? Where is the last victim?

His daughter slips from public view first, with the help of changed name and police protection. She fades from public memory second, once all the dust and morbid details settle and nobody is surprised by it anymore - it becomes a classic for every 'Worst Serial Killers' list, a story that excitable teenage boys will tell over campfire and shiver about in their tents.

Felipe Escribano is jailed to life. He left behind 12 victims, only two of which survived.

---​

Silence rustles over the whispered chatter, stifling it like a fire under cloth. For a moment there is nothing. Darkness.

The projector springs to life a heartbeat later, making dust dance in the newly born light - it sighs, fades, before slipping on a presentation. A quiet falls over the lecture hall as words drift in, all eyes on the picture on the woman staring back. She is tied and throat-slit. Her face is limp, forever immortalized on 35mm film - above her, the bold-faced title sits:

The Case of Scotty M. Williams - the Doorbell Butcher.

Cassandra stands below it. She half-sits on the podium, impassive.

Faces stare back in the half-gloom, white eyes shining - their features twisted and disappeared, unstable and grotesque. Some of them stared at her with admiration, some with interest; a few looked sick and struck shy, pale cheeks gazing at the constantly bleeding victim above. She clicks the console in her hand, flickering to the next slide.

A man in his mid-40s. Clean-cut, kind smile. He stands in front of the camera, dressed in orange and handcuffed hands in front of him.

''Williams,'' she says, not for the first time. ''Was born in Seattle, 23th of August. 1973.''

Her voice carries over the hall as she stands to her full height, stepping in the middle.

''Politician dad. Housewife mother. Good family, good grades. No records of abuse, crime, drugs. He does well in school and lands himself a job at a local marketing company. He gets an equally good wife and has three kids, all out of trouble and in nice schools.''

She closes her eyes. Breathes.

''One day he starts killing.''

Flashes of the first victim. An eldery woman, laying in her own blood and torn night gown. Her face is frozen in terror. Arms thrown on the kitchen floor. Stabbed to death, like all the others - black tape sewed her mouth shut. Another picture. Another one.

''Why?''

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. A few whispers break out, humans trying to understand humans.

''There was no assault. No prolonged torture. Nothing taken from the person or the house.''

Her hand twitches by her side, a spider caught in it's own web. Nobody notices.

''A man that seemingly has no motive or goal starts killing, all because he can.'' There is something wrong with that sentence - a contradiction that Cass laid out like the hungry maw of a bear trap waiting to tear into the leg of a fox. A smart looking student raise one shadowy hand, asks nervously: 'If he had no motive, how did you catch him?'

- she remembers the impact of wet soil under her boots, legs pumping in the biting night air. A twin pair of footsteps running through the woods, pulling her deeper and deeper, -

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.

''There's always a reason why people kill. Because I can is a reason too.''

Another picture.

It's Williams, standing in photograph with a small boy on his knee. They are fishing out by a lake, a pole in the little boy's hand. They're both smiling at the camera.

The presentation comes to an end, plunging the room into Cimmerian darkness. A few pens scribble over notebooks, writing down the start of the next lesson.

''It's just up to you to find out how their mind works.''

---
​

Rain slicked streets pass as they rush through nightly traffic, grey streaked gloom pressing in outside the car. She knows nothing of the crime scene yet, beyond the basics; they do not tell her anything more. They never do. She is always the best when she steps on-site without any predetermined thoughts to fog her mind. It's easier to step inside the skin of another person when you remove all about yourself.

James says nothing. Cass is not supposed to go on crime scenes and they both know it; her therapist will have his head if she is to find out about this. Patricia is a small, portly woman of about 60 and a collection of kitten figurines - but with how she makes even a season agent like James quiver you would think she is a war criminal with a lack of patience and a thirst for blood.

She is not supposed to be on field for a few months, but Cassandra is good at what she does.

And she is. Okay. Mentally, at least; she did exactly as Patricia told her and moved out of the apartment in the middle of the city, where she would wake up panicking if she heard footsteps in front of her door. Her house is much smaller now, in the middle of nowhere with nobody for company but the whispering of trees and the occasional deer, shying close to her garden. And really, the silence has been helping; there is nothing outside but the scratching of branches at her window when she wakes and the song of night birds.

She has chickens now, and geese. A dog.

Cassandra is doing okay, but not okay enough to step back into work.

'Listen, you don't have to.' James had said, but his expression said even if you can't, you will. They know she wouldn't pass a psych-ev on a good day and so does their boss.

But killers will not wait for her to calm her terrified heart, for her to grow the fuck up and stop being scared of the basement. People are dying - and Cassandra isn't the only one who happens to have anxiety and nightmares. She's close to the edge, but who isn't?

And they always will pull her back if the ground starts crumbling below her. They've done it before and they will do it again.

''I should have told you,'' James said as the stepped out into the cold air, stopping in front of a family home surrounded by news reporters and concerned neighbours, standing in their pyjamas and bathrobes to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Agents rush in, agents rush out. Police tape sealed the area shut, but that doesn't stop everybody. ''There's gonna be somebody helping us out.'' The older man's tone hinted at something that she will not like - she stared up at his bespectacled, exhausted face, a questioning raise of her eyebrows. He didn't look too eager to share.

''I'll introduce you two. Don't worry, he knows what he's doing.''

An agent then, or somebody from local enforcement. Cass did not care.

Her superior sighed, as if he already knew what she was thinking. He probably was - he knew how she felt about working with others. And really, usually she didn't. Her team were not her friends and she was not theirs. She does not talk to them outside of work and so they hold no expectation for her to be anything other than what she is. Gravel crunches under her shoes as they make past curious reporters, the flash of sirens and cameras dying out as the door closes.

Perfume. The second she enters it clung to her, making her frown.

It was not hers - and certainly not one of the agents, is it?

'' thought I told you guys to secure the scene. Is she a neighbor or something? Get her out of here.”

A flicker of annoyance burst through her as an unfamiliar voice greeted her, masculine and self-assured in a way that made her give James a long look. A man that looked to be around her age positioned across the crime scene (sweet stench of rot and perfume, the smell of death) like it was his only, not looking too pleased about their arrival. Shadows played with his features in the half-gloom as they stepped closer, James raising a greeting hand.

''You must be Yeun.''

He gave a bland, polite smile. Cassandra did not. She stared off into the room itself, wondering why they let some rookie detective stomp all around it. She barely reacted as James stretched out a hand in greeting. ''Espinoza. We called earlier.''

It is only then that she noticed his face.

His face. His face. Cassandra's eyes narrowed in thought, ransacking her brain why he looked so familiar. She is sure she has not talked to him before - and yet a warning bell rang and rang in the depths of her mind, realisation dropping in like a bucket of cold water over hair.

''You,'' she starts, voice quiet. The whisper of a river in the black night. ''I know you.''

Cases of months ago flood in, her pouring over newsletters and descriptions of brutal crimes. She did not work on them herself; all the praise goes to the agents who worked on that case day and night. But she remembered it, as she remembers everything.

''You killed people. Something something Pine Falls.''

The irony does not escape her. A smile that is anything but friendly tugs at her lips, mocking in it's humor. A serial killer working on their cases, solving murders like his own. Life has a fucked up sense of entertainment, but you desperately need it in a job like this.

''Alright, Yeun.'' Cassandra says the name like this: as if it is not a name at all but an insult a gleeful child would say in the absence of an adult. ''Fill us in and then you can go sit outside. To do... whatever it is you're doing here.'' She pulled out her work phone, the light near blinding in the oppressive gloom. Her notes app, tidy and neat, flickered open.

coded by natasha.

 

[miyabi]

— daniel yeun

the consult

crime scene

tired, annoyed, silly and goofy

outfit here

interactions

ethan, ramona, cass

He runs a hand against his forehead, his shoulders and the meat of his calves burning with the day he held upright; Daniel stood listless in front of the newcomer. Her familiarity leant no comfort, possible suspicions waving in the air with the blood that stained it. The tone was in a whisper, one that others could pick up if they were close enough, but not from the far distance. And he raised a brow, arms now crossed against his chest, weight on one leg as he observed her body language. "It's no secret, girly; no need to whisper," Daniel leaned forward, whispering back to her before pulling away. It was a funny thing, to pair a killer with one who—seemingly—sought such people out.

The look on her face, that is not one of pure enjoyment, no. An expression like that is something he can spot from a mile away, and he returns it, mocking her and the demeanor she holds.

Pinefalls. He remembers it, lived in it, the perpetrator of the disaster unfolded; the news often twisted reports, but theirs—this time—was detailed, right down to the simplest link of chains. Daniel is not surprised by this, but is caught in a web of annoyance as close eyes have not left him: the news will always be there, as will the attentive stare of advisors around him, or was that the looming feeling of his victims' stares ripping into his flesh? "Right. Right,” his eyes flicker to her screen, one far too bright—almost burning his corneas. They moved back to the scene, with every flash of Ramona's camera leaving white dots in his vision: it often disrupted him, left a heavy feeling in his chest and made his head spin, but it was part of the job—something that he had no control over.

"Follow me," footsteps rattle the others as he approaches again, leaning an arm against the neatly painted antique white walls, The scene was just as solemn as the first time he’d laid eyes on it, from the protruding sockets pulled forward with fear to the newfound object that had been pulled from the lips of a scared child. Horrific was one word to call it—no, there were no other words to call it. Daniel may have been a[n] (ex)killer, but to extend the atrocities to children—that was unbearable. “They canvassed the home before I got here, found them like this; don’t worry, we didn’t move much,” he spoke with an exasperated sigh—Scott, in return, turning towards him to hand a bagged piece of a puzzle.

There was an intrigue to this piece; a stark white contrast against the dark lines that looked to belong to a letter, but which letter it was, was lost on him. He raised a brow, thought on it, and looked at the rest of the bodies. The others seemed careful not to disturb, but the truth is often hidden in plain sight. “Scott, ‘Mona, mind checking the other mouths for us?” It was a risk to disturb the bodies in the condition that they were in now; the possible compromise of a scene to pursue curiosity and further discovery was an intimidating thought—if he was wrong, this will once again fall on his shoulders, and perhaps his freedom will be taken yet again.

And freedom was a taste he didn’t find himself getting tired of. Mundanity behind bars often leaves people to their thoughts, eats away at them, an enclosure that slowly makes you lose yourself. And never did he want to experience that again.

“Uh, I think we got somethin’,” Ramona muttered in disgust as lips glided open, the glistening piece of another puzzle laid between tooth and tongue. The sound of tweezers plucked the piece away, holding it in the air as a wary Scott approached with another bag in hand.

It was intentional, all of it, and it was blatantly obvious; but to be so twisted to place puzzle pieces in the mouths of victims—even Daniel was disgusted. He chewed on the skin of his lip, deep in thought as the door opened once again, another set of CSI coming in with the resounding force of news reporters in the back, chattering into the cameras with their latest story—little regard to the sensitivity of the case. And then a ring.

The chime of a phone mixed with the sound of the music on a loop, and in his boldness, Daniel answers. No, he didn’t think about it, only made the move to answer—and so he did. On the other side of the line is a series of short breaths—steady ones. His brain is scattered with mental snapshots of the scene along with prior cases he’d researched in his investigative endeavor. “You found them,” the voice, distorted and deep, lept through the speaker. “You found them,” words repeated within the same sequence, an annoyed Daniel keeps the phone against his ear, a finger held up towards the superior.

“Yes, we did,” Daniel pauses. “You can see us, can’t you?” He responds as his eyes dart around the room, sight sinking into the windows but to no avail, the only figures behind the glass were the ones of standing officers.

A short silence, another series of loud breaths, the voice speaks again, “too many people. Too many.”

“Do you want there to be less people?” His voice is held into a low whisper, but the keen eyes never leave him or the phone.

"Yes."

Nodding, Daniel waves a hand to Cassandra, asking for her to come closer as he whispers to her, "we need less cops on scene. Take the phone if you want."

coded by natasha.