Night's Omen

Prompt List

• Smile
• Fury
• Break
• Stuffed Animal
• Magic
• Sacrifice
• Dread
• Words
• Mischief
• Choose Your Own Adventure! - Hero

Stuffed Animal
This post takes place in the present.

It's a silent witness to the destruction of their marriage, and ultimately, their lives; the only thing to stand silent and watching in the household, and if it could talk, it would have incredible stories to tell (keep Luke away from it, plz).  It's a cat, a small stuffed black cat that London had given Carmine earlier in their relationship for Valentine's Day (or one of those damn holidays), and it's sat in their room ever since.  There were times, when they were younger, that it would find itself in their bed, curled in Carmine's smaller hands, and London didn't mind.  How could he, when he'd given it to her?  Eventually, she had stopped doing that as he criticized her for her immaturity and sentimentality, but it hadn't gone far.  Now, it was always to be found on top of her dresser, and it upset her sometimes when she held it and found that it smelled more of her than it did of him.

Because, as much as she hated him and dreaded the moment when he came home, she loved him, and there was something in the smell of him that made her think of days when he'd hold her until her entire world fell into being nothing but him.  Now, he was her whole world, but not because of anything but his own efforts.  She missed him, the London that she'd fallen in love with, and that stuffed cat that was such a joke at the time because it was only slightly more cuddly than he was and easier to hold was now the only thing that really brought her back to when their marriage had actually been something good.

She held it for a short time before London came home, prowling into the house in his own dark cloud of an anger that she didn't understand, and that was when she returned it to its place on her dresser to go try again to get through that cold exterior of his to remind him that she was his wife, and that she loved him.

Dread
This post takes place in the future.

He found it amazing, absolutely amazing, how easily situations could change.  How anything could change, really.  It could be so quick to happen, so impossible to pinpoint the exact moment it happened, yet it was impossible to deny that it had.  He could see it in regards to himself every time he looked at his wife and the way she was looking at him, but he didn't mind that so much.  He didn't mind it, actually relished it, when he saw the difference in the way his son looked at him, since the boy had once actually enjoyed having his father come home.  That was before London had decided that his son was an idiot, his wife useless, and that the world was headed to Hell in a handbasket.  Now, Tristan tried to hide the dread in his features when his father walked in the door, but London could see it.

He loved it.

What he didn't love was seeing it on Tanith's face.  It didn't happen often, not with the things they'd seen through their line of work, but none of them was immune.  Tanith's problem was very different from London's, however, since her family could still draw that sort of horror from her.  Her brother, who London had very few uses for (none of them particularly kind, since the guy made a good informant), was one of those people that London really just couldn't stand.  He was rude, one of the lowlifes, and the jaguar seriously thought that the man might be borderline insane.  Just looking at Taran made him think that it would take only the slightest push to knock the raven over the edge, and he didn't like or trust that fact.  Tanith wouldn't even consider that there might be something amiss with her twin, as far as he'd ever been able to tell, and he wasn't about to bring it up.  He just didn't care for the guy, which was fine.  Apparently, the feeling was mutual.

His ability to care about what happened to Taran came into play only when it affected Tanith.  Regardless of anything going on at home or in his side ventures, London actually gave a shit about his partner.  She was the one he trusted to watch his back in a bad spot, and he'd watch hers.  There was a trust and an understanding between them, and she was the only person he had that with.  She was something else, and he didn't appreciate any kind of harm coming to her.  Problem was, that wasn't always an easy thing to handle, since she and her good-for-nothing brother had some sort of freakish twin thing going on.  He'd never seen a bond that strong in siblings, even twins, but he wasn't stupid enough to question it.

When she went down, gasping for air between choking down tears, he thought for an instant that she'd been shot.  Just as quickly, he realized she hadn't, and that was when he had to actually carry her someplace that wasn't so public so that he could calm her down and work her through whatever it was she was enduring long enough to figure out how to end it. 

"Taran, oh god, Taran, something's wrong.  London, we have to find him, something's happened to him, something horrible," she sobbed, and he assured himself that she was freaking out over the experience and not the brother.  He'd have been angry at the asshole for making his sister waste tears on him.

"Tanith, look at me," he demanded softly, holding her shoulders and making eye contact.  Only when he was certain that he had her attention and she was actually focusing on the here and now did he nod.  "Where should he be?"

Turned out, she thought he should be at home, which was a pretty good assumption.  They showed up, just the two of them with London on the phone with Sullivan (of all people, but the vampire could be trusted for un-official back-up), and he was finished giving the vampire the address and instructions to show up in five minutes if they didn't call to state that they didn't need the help.  Sullivan wasn't pleased, but London knew better than to think that the man really minded.  He got the impression that Gabriel wanted the excitement more than he let on, particularly with how quickly he took to a fight on the few occasions they'd had to call for his help.  Nobody fought like that unless they had a hell of a lot more experience than a lab tech should have, and London didn't have a problem utilizing that, particularly if it meant that he got out of a situation less-dead than he would have otherwise.  Considering he had no intention of dying over Taran Korakas and his likely illegal ventures, Sullivan was a good guy to have around.

Fortunately, they didn't need Sullivan's help containing the situation.  By the time Tanith busted into her brother's apartment, whatever had happened was obviously over.  London smelled blood before they even hit the door (down the hallway, it made his nose want to twitch), and he almost stopped his partner from even opening it.  He probably would have, if he'd thought he could have done anything about it, and when the door was flung wide, he was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of it alone.  It actually knocked him back a step while he took control of his senses and his inner cat, and Tanith was screaming her brother's name by then and rushing into the room, gun drawn.  He did what he could to save face (just in case she was paying attention to him, which she wasn't), and came inside more carefully, watching their surroundings.  There was nothing here.  Nothing that was a threat, anyway.  There was plenty of Taran.

All over the walls, the floor and the furniture.  He was actually thinking that might be some blood on the ceiling, too.

"Is he alive?" he asked, not because he was an insensitive bastard and didn't care.

"Y-yes, he is.  He's breathing, barely."  She shot him a harsh look, like he didn't care, but he was focused on the apartment around him.  He didn't like it.

"Then we need to move him, right now.  Nobody's here, but that doesn't mean nobody will be."

Taran had been absolutely splattered across the room, blood and black feathers everywhere, but he was fortunately in one piece.  Considering Tanith's reactions, it couldn't have taken long to do that kind of damage, so London really didn't want to be around if someone decided that one round wasn't enough.  He got the impression, looking around and seeing the condition the idiot was in, that he hadn't been supposed to survive.  He was just tougher than he looked.

London would keep that in mind, just in case.

Mischief
This post takes place in the present.

Of all the people to be 'up to no good', London did what he could to ensure that he wasn't at the top of that list or anywhere near it.  He wasn't a good guy and his morals had long ago been shattered and duct-taped sloppily together, but he was adamant about not setting off the 'bad guy' radar among the rest of the police department.  He had an attitude, especially in the mornings, he had was cynical, but he was a good cop.  If there was a thing here and there that didn't quite fit in his reports, it wasn't usually something that was too important (seemingly), or it was something that nobody could fault him on and therefore weren't going to question.  He'd gotten that once or twice, and he was still low on the 'trouble' list.  That was as it should be, though he had to admit that there were some crooked cops that were much more obvious than he was, and others that did a lot of loud, obvious pranking.

London preferred to be more subtle.

For a long, long time, he'd simply moved dolls that Richardson and Big Bishop hid around the precinct into places that he thought Silvera was more likely to find them, and he told himself that the guy deserved it.  If London had to find them all over the place, then Silvera was certainly going to have to deal with them.  He'd decided that, and he was sticking to it.  The shocking part of the whole situation was the first time he got a disagreement with Silvera.  It was something stupid, something that wasn't likely to put Silvera on edge, but that didn't mean that London wasn't going to get his revenge.  He'd come in early and messed around with the man's computer, which included taking all of his printer paper, and he'd left a little 'surprise' in the man's desk drawer. 

He was incredibly fortunate to find himself in the area when Josh walked in and settled at his desk, and the first place the man looked for more printer paper when he tried to print out a report happened to be his desk drawer.  He immediately shrieked (London had to wonder if Richardson shit himself out of shock, what with the way the redhead leapt out of his chair and grabbed at his gun), standing up so fast that his seat fell over on its back behind him.  It was only after the first few moments of shock wore off that Josh reached into the desk drawer to pull out an old, dirty rag doll with beady eyes that were the crowning achievement of the thing.  London had thought the eyes were creepy, so he knew Josh would.  Richardson naturally got blamed for the doll, despite his insistence that he hadn't done it, and London went back to chatting with Tanith for a little while.

"Wow, I don't think I've ever heard a man make a sound like that," Tanith offered up with a grin, and even London cracked a smile over it.  His was more proud of himself than amused, but he definitely thought it was funny.

"Keep an eye on him for a little while longer.  You never know, something else might happen," London offered, sipping at his coffee as he looked over a file with an obvious level of disinterest in what he was reading.  He got a suspicious look from Tanith, but she'd halted in her move to leave the area, and stuck around.

Sure enough, Silvera's face went stark white rather suddenly once he had his printer working again, because it had begun to print something before his report.  He hadn't noticed instantly, so it was a few pages in and still working, and it was page after page of dolls.  Even worse was that the pictures were all dark, with cracked porcelain faces and missing eyes, ragged hair and ripped clothes.  Broken bodies and filthy surroundings, and London was actually proud of himself for finding them.  Between the internet and some photos from a crime scene years before, he'd done pretty well for himself.  Josh still had about 20 pages of dolls to go before his report would print itself out, and he'd already started in on a certain baffled redhead.  In Josh's defense, Drew had taken one look at the doll in the desk drawer and the pages printing, then busted out laughing.  London smirking over it didn't even warrant Silvera's attention, but the jaguar got Tanith's.

"London, you didn't."

"He took my parking space, flicked me off and nearly scratched the Jag.  I let him off easy," London said simply.  He meant it.

"You call that 'easy'?" she asked, looking at him as though she doubted it.  That was when he smiled at her, one of his slow, not-so-friendly smiles.  "Remind me not to push you to revenge."

"I call that 'mischief', not revenge.  He wasn't harmed."

"Sometimes, I think you're a sick bastard."

"Sometimes, you're right."

Words
This post takes place in the present.

He was going to kill this jackass if he didn't get a straight answer soon.  THIS was why London wasn't to be left with crackheads as informants, and he was pretty damn sure that even being a shifter didn't make Taran Korakas any better than any crackhead London could have tracked down.  The raven was hopped up on that 'Mojo Juice' that was ending up all over the place, had utterly destroyed someone who came after him, and London was staring at an absolute mess that he didn't even know how to address.  Taking care of the worst of it before Tanith got there would be a good idea, especially since it involved more than the random dismembered fingers that she'd found in Taran's place in the past.  This was more like a random arm.

"How did you even do this?!  You're a BIRD!" London snapped, staring at the mess in disbelief and wondering if there was somewhere that they'd be better off starting.  Since Taran was sitting against the wall, coated in blood and shaking, he obviously wasn't going to be helping too much with the clean-up without London putting his foot up the guy's ass (which the jaguar was going to do, if necessary).  What was worse was that he didn't think Taran was shaking because he was traumatized or upset, because the guy was far too twisted for that.  London had issues, a darkness to him that definitely recognized the dark in others, and Taran sometimes slipped just enough in his expressions that he got this look in his pale eyes like he was thinking things that weren't natural.  London honestly worried for Tanith sometimes, but he was currently worried about all of them.

If they got found dealing with this mess, they were all going to be screwed, nevermind just Taran.

"If it wouldn't fuck your sister over, I would just shoot your ass and blame it on a friend of your victim," he informed the raven caustically, already headed for his trunk for plastic bags.  He'd known what he was showing up for.  "Get your creepy fucking ass up and help me, you retard.  This is your mess."

London caught one of those looks out of the man then, like Taran might be contemplating putting his ax to use on London and making the bloody mess they were surrounded by even larger, and London's eyes went from their usual gray to a golden yellow, his teeth slipping along with his eyes so that he could snarl as menacingly as possible.  "I fucking dare you, short bus.  I dare you."

They stood like that for a moment before Taran pulled himself into action, and all the raven did was grab a plastic bag and get to work.  London considered tearing him apart just to get the psycho off the street, but he'd promised Tanith that he'd take care of this, and hurting her wasn't an option.

There weren't words for this day.

Hero
This post takes place in the present.

"LEFT!"

"WHAT?"

"I said, left!  You missed the damn turn, weren't you paying attention?"

"Of course I was paying attention!  We don't have to turn for another couple blocks!"

"You weren't paying attention!  That last call is just a few blocks from here, and it's an abuse case, we're taking it," Tanith insisted, and London shot her a dark look, not wanting to deviate from their current path.  It was only fortunate for her that he couldn't indulge her desire for a longer staring contest, since he had no desire to wreck the Jaguar.

Or, so he told himself.  He and Tanith didn't bother with staring contests with each other too often, for a reason.  They were both too stubborn.  He knew it'd be easier to deal with her if he gave in on this one, though.

"Fine.  We do what I want next time there's a disagreement about what we're doing," he asserted, and he'd be using that on something good.  Maybe stepping in to pick her dumbass brother up in a bad part of town, where they ran the risk of someone jumping them just for London's car. 

He had no idea how much he was going to be wanting to cash that in for something bigger later.  Really, he didn't, and that was for the best.  If he'd known, he probably would have refused to go in, and that wouldn't have gotten them anywhere.  Since he didn't know, they responded to the call and he pulled that car that he loved so much up to the curb in front of a nice house, heard a scream from inside, and had the door (unlocked, so someone was pretty stupid) wide open in his wake in just a few seconds.  He was an asshole, but he was also a cat, so he could move when he wanted.  You just wouldn't expect it with that dignified, don't-make-me-come-after-you air he put on.  He preferred to make people think twice before forcing him to take action, and didn't like gracing them with the knowledge that they'd gotten him to rush.  It still happened occasionally, and getting up those stairs, gun in hand, in time to get this guy was one of those instances.

Preferably without getting shot.

In London's defense, it happened really fast (a vampire, it HAD to be), so when he ducked to avoid getting nailed in the face with a flying object, he had NO clue that it was some sort of cutesy glass figurine that he almost gotten taken out with.  Given the mental blast he got hit with immediately after, he was glad that the vampire (obviously a vampire now, and a stupid one) hadn't thought to hit him with the mental shot before throwing the glass.  He wasn't glad when the second pitch DID take him in the face, and he was even LESS pleased when his nose started gushing blood.  It didn't impair his aim when he fired at the idiot blond, already looking pissed beneath the bloody nose, but getting tackled by the asshole wasn't helping his situation.  At least he didn't fire it again, or he'd have risked the blond girl that was freaking out and trying to get away from both of them.  London took another hit, a blow that felt like it should have knocked his head off his shoulders, as they went down, but he was already starting to shift and sank teeth into the vampire's shoulder before they'd even hit the ground.  He was going to tear a chunk out of the jackass, and that was that.

Tanith fixed the situation, actually, as she took the stairs more slowly than he did.  She had her gun raised and made the perfect back-up; someone who knew what they were dealing with instantly and didn't mind putting a bullet in the guy's other shoulder.

That was when blondie decided that he'd had enough, and made a crazy leap for the window.  London was sure to rake claws down the guy's leg as he escaped, but didn't actually chase.  He'd seen the vampire's face, smelled him up close and tasted his blood.  London wasn't going to forget him. 

Seconds later, as he was pulling himself to his feet and trying to wipe his face up with the sleeve of his shirt, he realized he wasn't going to be forgetting the blond girl, either.  Tanith was trying to see if he had any glass stuck in his face, and this short blond form came out of the corner she'd been trying to vanish into so that she could absolutely static-cling herself to him.  Even for a shifter, she put enough oomph into it that she almost knocked the wind out of him, and he got the impression that Tanith was torn between being startled at the reaction and just laughing out loud over his expression and how ridiculous it was.

“London, what is it with you and blond teenagers static-clinging themselves to you, because, no offense, but if I had a body like that, I’d be aiming higher than someone with a police salary," his partner pointed out, and he shot her a dark glare as the blond girl just erupted in tears.  "I think I'm going to call in and let them know what's going on.  You...have fun!"

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep," he mouthed to the raven, who only grinned in response and went back out to the car, probably to get paramedics in there to look at the girl.  She was still crying all over his shirt, leaving a good-sized wet spot on his chest.  Great.

"Shh, it's okay.  He's gone, I promise," he told her, putting on the 'gentle, soothing' act as he putt his arms around her to return the hug and rubbed her back a little.  It took her a moment, but once she got her sobbing somewhat under control, she started talking from her koala position, and that only got her to erupt into more tears.  He found out that her name was Crystal and that she was in trouble and 'Griffon' wouldn't leave her alone and she didn't know what to do, though.  That, and that she didn't want to draw 'Jack' into it, and even if he didn't have the slightest idea what most of that meant, he actually felt a little bad for her.  He also decided that he hated that vampire.

That hate was compounded when Tanith returned and picked up part of the glass figurine off the floor.  "Oh, wow, you won't believe what this was," she commented, drawing Crystal's attention along with London's.  "London, you totally got taken out by a tiny little glass unicorn.  Wait until Little Bishop hears this."

Oh, yes, hate.

Smile
This post takes place in the present.

It had been an accident, initially, but there was nothing accidental about the way London handled it.  There couldn't be, and he didn't want it to look like it had been accidental, anyway.

Not this.

It didn't matter now how he'd caught up with Griffon, but he was going to stick to his story about it being accidental.  Running into the jackass was incredibly convenient, however, so he wasn't going to waste the opportunity.  He was on the vampire within seconds, and he didn't care that the leech tried to teleport away from him and only took them both to his own home.  That just ensured they'd have privacy, which London immediately utilized to put a bullet into each shoulder to 'discourage' Griffon trying to get him up.  A few more well-placed bullets, drawing screams that informed London that he was doing his job right, and he started in with the claws.

"You know, I had to take a lot of criticism over that unicorn you pelted me with," he remarked conversationally, grabbing the vampire by his bangs and smashing his head against the floor for struggling, just to scramble his brains a little.  Dumbass actually thought that being a vampire made him instantly awesome, apparently.  "But that's not why I'm doing this.  It's not even because of the cute blond you were beating on, though that's bad enough."

Pot.  Kettle.  Black.

That wasn't it, though.  He wasn't lying when he said that, even if Griffon screamed his disbelief a moment later.  London waited until he calmed a moment before smiling at him, that same sort of smile that he got when he was thinking horrible, vindictive things.  It was the same kind of smile that put Tanith on edge and made her want to get him away from whoever he was pissed at, and it was the same one that went along with that calm, smooth tone of voice.  He didn't disappoint.

"This is because you scratched and dented up my car when you ran into it, you stumbling idiot," he explained, digging those claws into the soft flesh of the vampire's abdomen immediately after.  Griffon screamed once more, and London decided that he actually might let the retard live.  Maybe.

Magic
This post takes place in the past.

He was such a little brat, but he was so smart.  How could London not be proud when his son's dark eyes scanned something, analyzing it in his young brain and trying to figure out how it did whatever it did.  Tristan was too young to really understand most things, but it was the fact that he was trying already that had London thinking about what the boy would be like in the coming years.  Smart, successful and sophisticated, if he'd be anything like his father.  London had been rising quickly in the police force, gaining respect almost daily, and he fully intended to be sergeant within a few years.  He could do it, and maybe Tristan would even want to be a cop, too.

Just like his father.

Despite how much he liked seeing Tristan focus on something, trying to figure it out (or perhaps because of it), he loved offering his son something that he knew the boy wouldn't be able to tear apart and analyze.  It made him feel powerful, like it was just a little more edge that would have his son looking up to him, and that mattered.  He wanted his boy to look up to him, wanted Tristan to be just like him.  It was pride, he knew that, but there were worse things than wanting your son to follow in your footsteps.  Much worse.

He had a deck of cards that he was shuffling slowly, telling his son to pick one, then mixing it in.  The trick involved a few different set-ups that the young boy didn't seem able to follow well enough to put them together, which was fine.  In a few years, he'd be able to, and then the trick would lose its glamor, but it worked for now.  Within a few minutes of starting, London turned over and held up a card, only to have Tristan's pale face light up with astonishment and glee. 

"Daaaaad!  How'd you do that?"

"Magic, Tristan.  Maybe I'll teach you someday."

He never did.

Break
This post takes place in the past.

He was still young, everyone told him that all the time, as though it was supposed to mean something.  They all just wanted to tell him that he didn't have to try so hard, and that it wasn't such a big deal if he didn't get the 'bad guy' as quickly as he wanted.  They understood that being young made him more likely to push ahead recklessly, and that recklessness caused mistakes, but who were they to make those calls?  They didn't know him well enough to know that about him, and he knew that they were wrong.  He had good information on their guy, and they were going to go get that sicko.  The others would all see.  Cortes was just as confident as he was, and far more eager to get moving, tapping her fingers impatiently against the top of his beat-up white Lincoln, her bullet-proof vest standing out sharply against he white shirt she had on underneath.

"Hey, DeMortei, you gonna move sometime today?" she demanded, though she laughed as he flipped her the bird and sped up a little.  Their uniformed back-up was following them to the location they'd pinpointed, and Cortes offered them a thumbs-up before hopping into his car for the ride over.  "You know, man, when you get yourself a promotion, you need a new car.  Maybe a Jag, you know?"

"Wouldn't that be ridiculous, all things considered?" he asked her, grinning despite himself.  It was a funny image, whether he took it seriously or not.

"Noooo, that's the point!  A hot black Jag for a hot black Jag, get what I'm sayin'?" she laughed, poking him in the arm from the passenger seat.  "This thing?  Doesn't do you any justice.  What made you get a white car, anyway?  Wasn't your wife, was it?  Cause I think she'd agree with me."

"No, it was my wallet."

"Yeah, cause it sure wasn't your personality.  All that talk of knights on white horses and all, I never bought it, but you?  You, my friend, are definitely a black knight," she teased him, and he rolled his eyes at her imagery.  He couldn't deny that he was helping lead the cavalry to go 'slay the dragon' that was their serial butcher, but that didn't mean anything.  Just the job.

"You're insane.  Really, you know that, right?  What do knights have to do with cars?"

"You just keep sayin' that, but that doesn't change my call.  Black Jag.  It'd suit you."

That was the final word on the situation, and turned out to be the deciding factor on the car later on.  It might not have been, had things gone differently that afternoon, but London was sold on the idea when he had the opportunity.  They showed up at the apartment building, which they'd determined was essentially abandoned.  There were others renting inside, but Cortes had helped him investigate them, and they were both pretty sure that if they busted in on every occupied place, they'd have a solved case on each.  Drug dealers, mostly, but then there was their guy.  He was by no means a drug-dealer, and fortunately, the others were all on the upper floors.  This guy was on the third, with nobody else downstairs.  It'd make life easier on them, since they wouldn't be passing any apartments with people freaking out and mistakenly thinking the police were there for them.  They could come back, but they wanted this guy today.

London went first, being bigger and not about to risk Cortes, so when their uniforms busted the door in, London swept inside and scanned the room, searching for their killer, and panicked for an instant when he thought they might have made a mistake in thinking he was home.  Their stake-out had said he was, but that didn't mean it was true.  Could he have known they were coming? 

Mid-doubt, London came around the corner of a doorway, frowning down at the way the sliding door panels disappeared into the walls like he didn't trust them, though they were better for their search because nobody could hide behind them.  All around, this was frustrating.  He could smell the guy all over the place, but there were other smells that were just as strong and sickening, like old blood and filth, so he was having trouble pulling the fresher smells out of it.  Where was the guy NOW?

He stepped around a bookcase that was, strangely, in the middle of the room, gesturing to Cortes to wait before she rushed in (just in case) and she actually fired off a shot before he even had a chance to react to whatever it was she'd seen, though he heard something in the instant before her firearm's blast left his ears ringing.

Guy was FAST.

London twisted around in time to fire off a shot of his own as a thick metal cord was dropped on him, and their attacker never actually laid a finger on him.  Instead, he smacked into the bookcase, seemingly in his hurry to get away from them, and London didn't really care if he had weird shit thrown at him as long as they got this over with.  Cortes had taken cover on the other side of the doors to avoid getting shot at (since it could have just as easily been the suspect that had fired instead of London, and her human eyesight hadn't been enough to tell her), and he realized as the bookcase dropped that the guy running into it hadn't been accidental.  It fell too easily for a solid wood piece of furniture with as much weight to it as it had, and for a brief second of horror, London could see that one of the back legs had been hacked down to allow it to topple more easily.  Why?

Because that cord that had been thrown on him had actually been dropped over his head, and it tightened up like a noose as soon as the bookcase went down.  Bookcase down, London up.

He let out a strangled cry as the thing tightened over his throat, cutting into the skin immediately and drawing his hands up to try to loosen it, and he'd lost his gun in his haste to avoid immediate strangulation.  Cortes shouted, rushing into the room upon seeing his feet leave the floor, and the door panels slammed shut.  He heard shouts and something that sounded like a small explosion from the other side, and a sudden bout of laughter from within the room.  There were gunshots around him, he could see by the flashes in the otherwise dark room, but he was having trouble focusing on all of that in favor of breathing.  He'd managed to, painfully, get his fingers between the cord and his throat, so he could just barely breathe, and even he had to admit that his struggles weren't making it any easier on himself.  His feet kept swinging, trying to find anything at all that he could use to ease the pressure, and even rolling his eyes towards the ceiling for anything he might be able to pull himself up with wasn't doing any good.  He was stuck until Cortes could finish this up, and when she suddenly screamed in the dark, that wasn't looking too good.

He tried to gasp out her name, tried to do whatever he could to get her to respond, but the only reaction he got happened to be the lights suddenly coming on.  He wished they hadn't, since it explained why all he could smell was blood and meat.  This must have been where the guy did his killing, because the walls were splattered with it.  So was Cortes, who had screamed because she'd had an ice pick stuck into her throat, right above her collarbone, and for all of the struggling and gasping he did, there was nothing he could do to stop the thin, dirty freak they'd shown up to arrest from descending upon her. 

He watched, because there was nothing else he could do.  He was light-headed and wasn't sure if he wanted to pass out more because of his trouble breathing or because he was watching his partner and best friend get torn apart, but he maintained consciousness.  It only took ten minutes, tops, and then the blood-drenched psychopath was approaching him with an ax and a pleased look.  The man appraised London's body hanging there, then raised the ax, and London was pretty damn sure he was about to die. 

No, not so quickly.  The first few blows were with the blunt side, and when his attacker discovered that the back swing would make smaller cuts if he planned it right, that was what he did.  It was as though he were TRYING to take London apart in smaller pieces, or perhaps to just beat the struggling out of him, since he swung his feet out to try to kick at the guy after the first blow or three.  After that, he just tried to brace himself, and the swings just came harder and faster.  Frankly, he was just waiting for the blade, but it didn't come.  Not in its own swing, anyway, since he kept catching it with the back swings when his body was thrown to the side due to the follow-through. 

This guy had to have been a baseball player in another life.

Finally, it came.  At the time, London wasn't sure if he just thought the whole world exploded because his body felt like it did, or if the door panels were seriously blown inward, but he was blacking out by the time the SWAT team busted in and just gunned the guy down right there.

He woke up in a cold sweat and a hospital bed, unable to determine what was real and what was nightmare.  He still doesn't think he can tell.