Devilry Till Dawn| Victor (Casual)(INACTIVE)

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

Intent never makes a sound

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A windswept chill stole over Kitty’s lithe form as she treaded through the caliginosity of the city streets. The chill of a wintry disposition, perhaps, but she knew better than to typify it so. It was a chill birthed from some truth that she had evaded as best she could for as long as her will had allowed it.

This unsaid truth, looming as it was, grew in her akin to some sort of malignant cancer. Gnawing, feasting, never becoming appeased by the honeyed reassurances that masqueraded as truth that she told herself to forget its existence. Never had its presence been so prominent than it was this night with little else to distract her from the ache. What was this purported truth that plagued her sense of being and produced the sludge discord of sound that resonated within her? It was the verity of ripened death, of sunken eyes devoid of life, of lungs that had exhaled their last breath. Although the characteristics of the aforementioned did pertain to her own sense of self, that was not what stirred in her such restless unease. It was a certain someone, that bewitching placidity and fragility of that someone, reacting to the thieving of Kitty’s life.

Victor, the man who she’d just met and had discerned housed within the fortitude of his guard stories of his own mystery, had delivered unto her that haunting realization. If by some cruel doing she were to be ripped from this life, she was not entirely certain that Henry, in all of his ever-encompassing weakness, would rise from the agony of her blood-streaked ruin. Not like Victor apparently had, if she chose to take his words as truth. Regardless, the thought had manifested and caused her to shut herself to her environs in tandem.

With her arms crossed about her chest tightly in a vague attempt to garner a semblance of heat, Kitty continued on her way with her gaze lowered, propelled forward by mere repetition. Her steps were guided by routine, committed to her memory after so long having been accustomed to this nightly masquerade. Her umber hair rode along the glacial wind like the glide of a bird’s wing, causing a shiver to wrack her body and drive her out of her head. Dwelling within the confines of her mind always proved telling of a withered mood and a faulty perception.

Tonight she was to belong to strangers, submit to their lust, be their home truth packaged in a fine lie. The acceptance of this notion had long since occurred and, even if she fooled others into thinking that she was not ruffled by it any longer, Kitty herself was the hardest to fool.

Stopping just short of the entrance to the windowed and humbled bar she normally frequented, something prickled at her neck. A sentiment of discomfort belonging to a shadowy unease, one she could not place. Kitty disregarded it for the moment and attributed it to the thoughts she’d been so consumed by only moments ago. Lingering outside for a moment longer, she exhaled a breath that clung to the winter chill and rendered itself visible before making her way inside. There was a need to lessen the edge of what her night would undoubtedly bring.


(Just shook off the cobwebs. SHIT YEAH. But I said I’d get this done and I did.)

[JACK THE RIPPER]

He knew it wasn't what he did. He knew it wasn't what he should do, anyway, what he was doing. The girl, when he'd laid eyes on her, had at once burned herself into him--and to find her a working girl, well... she all but ran through his veins now.

There was something in the way she moved, the way her neck curved, the way her hair set on her shoulders. It was similar to how he imagined people in love felt, but it was only about how she was, and nothing else; he needed her blood, not her touch. She was the sacrificial virgin, except so devilishly, dangerously far from it--something so enticing that she could play both the virgin and the seductress.

Jack wanted her.

In every way imaginable. There was something dark, something just under her skin, that made his blood boil. It was something he needed to find there, something challenging him. Maybe, to find it, he needed to take that peek under her skin. He needed to slip in her like a virus, like she'd done him, and steal what he could from her.

There had been nothing like this before; he had never been so utterly obsessed with a woman, ever, especially not after a first meeting. He wouldn't admit to himself that he liked the whore, no, he couldn't; she was there for him, to die for him, to die by him.

What was it, this thing that drove him insane over her? Did she confuse him, perhaps, like he'd only been confused once before? She was a whore--wholly bad--and yet loved purely by someone; kind, forgiving, lost. The only dynamic similar to this he'd come across was the complete opposite. The girl was surly and hate-filled, but wholly good, pure, loving of everything in her own way. And he hadn't forgotten her, even after she was just a stain on his knife.

He wanted her...

And that was what brought him here, doing the thing he never did, the thing he shouldn't be doing-- following her first thing, on an impulse. Jack was whimpering inside and making sad excuses for it, but really, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her to her whoring without him there. She belonged to him now.

He didn't follow her closely until she reached the bar, where he knew he could easily hide himself and watch her from across the room. He had done it a million times before, but now was something just a tad more important. She would be his tonight, that he'd promised himself--not fully, but well enough to seal her fate.

With fog clinging to his heels, he slunk out of the alley in which he'd been encasing himself and slipped into the bar after her, pulling his hat lower over his eyes.

((Plah. There's my own fail post. *flails*))

[LUCY "KITTY" HARRIS]

Transitioning from the frost of a bitter winter into the muted warmth of the bar and welcomed by the heady scent of alcohol and the voices of individuals seeking refuge, Kitty felt the sliver of moral circumstance once again. It was but a fleeting moment every night from when she’d midway passed through that familiar threshold, her back still nipped by the chill while her face was breathed upon by the heat of sheltered bodies within that married her to the realization of her vexation. She was a whore from there on in until the dawn glittered with an abysmal freedom. Minutes ticked by languidly, without so much as a pause, but it often appeared to her that time taunted her by slowing its progression. Time was an oppressor, lethargic in manner at times but feverish with conviction ever still. Close at hand were the nightly hours of lascivious procession, of a seedy demonstration that laid bare even the most steeled of souls. Her time had come.

Expecting an incredibly modest turnout considering weeknights were not the busiest in regards to nightlife, she was instead greeted by a relatively suspicious number of individuals crowding the establishment. She paused in mid-step, her countenance contorting into one of evident bemusement as she scanned about the room, before striding over to the bar.

The interior betokened a prolific sports bar, not incredibly memorable bearing in mind the exhausting number of bars resembling this that claimed this city home. Walls were lax in any real ingenuity, swallowed in a plain wood paneling long-since dulled of its luster and with nothing but sports memorabilia/paraphernalia and placards ranging from female objectification and alcohol that had been rendered vintage outfitting the drab, give or take a small neon sign advocating “Miller’s Lite” or another variety of beer scattered disinterestedly here and there. In keeping with its theme, all of the furniture was wood-based, from the tables to the bar stools and everything else in between. This was a bar frequented out of mere convenience as her presence there, outnumbered and stifled by the amount of men usually congregating within, testified. Tonight, however, there seemed an engaging mixture of male and female company, male prevailing as she most accurately presumed.

With a singular motion, she unzipped the layering jacket and let it hang open, exposing the racy little dress Kitty had chosen for her nightly seduction. She was always one to look the picture of sultry, regardless of where she would be situated. This night was no exception. Claiming an open bar stool, she settled herself onto it and subconsciously beckoned forth Rob, the bartender, with a cursory glance his way. Once he caught it, a relatively broad grin swept across his rugged features and he held up a finger, mouthing “Gimme a sec” before returning to serving a patron a drink.

Kitty swiveled in her stool and faced the bar-goers. Leaning back against the bar countertop with a relaxed sort of posture and her elbows resting upon it as well, she crossed one leg over the other causing the dress she wore to hitch up slightly, offering a tantalizing view of the bareness of her legs. Eyes of a green brilliance swept across the room once again, their focus set upon canvassing the area and plucking the few bad apples from the basket. True enough she knew not the reason for the bar being so populated at present, but far be it from her to not see an advantage of the sort in this unexpected development. A strand of her umber hair fell before her face and she shook it away with a small jerk, but a flash of something caught her eye as she performed the motion. A flash of black, if her vision hadn’t failed her, belonging to someone perhaps crisply dressed which was an anomaly for this kind of establishment. This flash was ephemeral and Kitty did not have the chance to absorb the image as her attention was called back to behind her where Rob uttered, that personalized smile of his still intact, “Kitty, babe, don’t tell me you’re actually hittin’ the streets tonight.”

Swiveling back to face him, her brows furrowed and she answered in a bit of a lilt, almost as if she were unsure of the answer, “Yeaaaah. What’s the problem with that? Oh and what’s with . . . ” She thumbed behind her at the crowd, chancing a look over her shoulder and noting that the figure she’d seen must’ve either been swallowed by the patrons or had been an imagined entity. Hyde’s influence extended far and he had managed to heighten her paranoia in a way that she had assumed only Spider ever could have. Returning her countenance to Rob’s own, Kitty noted the look of incredulity he wore and she punctuated her inquiries with a quirk of a brow.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard. I figured you’d be one of the first to find out what with you guys runnin’ in the same circles or whatever.”



(Fuck, do I suck at timely responses. >< An assload of sorries, Izzi bby. Feel free to harvest my uterus. ;w;)

[JACK THE RIPPER]

Jack penetrated the crowd effortlessly, gliding through as if he were a knife himself. His attire grabbed little notice, pulling his trench tighter around his chest, as if to stop the hellish throbbing that was pounding through his ribcage. His hat cast a deep shadow over his face, though on nights like these, he hardly looked like himself. Victor's face almost always had a smile on it, his tone of voice usually jaunty, always ready to do someone a favor, always willing to offer a little assistance. But Jack and Victor were not different people, and the motive behind this demeanor was usually to gain trust. The more someone trusted you, the easier it was to manipulate them. But the motive behind hiring the Jekyll kid was far more devilish; to get to her.

Noiselessly, he settled himself down in a booth, which was miraculously empty for him. He was in a diagonal position to Kitty, and had nudged himself over enough that he could get a full view of her. She was an experienced whore, no doubt... the dress was perfect; even he couldn't help his eyes from roaming to her legs, his mouth twitching slightly.

A conversation in the next booth made him pause, though, breaking his concentration as Kitty turned to face the bartender. "They're sayin' he's a businessman, 'cause he carries that briefcase everywhere he goes. He's got them fancy clothes, too."

"Maybe he's Rorschach," one of the men suggested, his tone very serious.

"What the fuck, Neil? No."

Another man in their little group spoke up: "Guys, would you just shut up about it? Everyone's talking, and I don't like it. It's gay, just stop."

"Sorry, mommy," the one called Neil said, "didn't know it'd upset your delicate little ears."

"Okay, fuck you!" the third man snapped. "I was at the fuckin' crime scene, okay? It was brutal."

The first man scoffed. "Yeah, sure, probably no worse than another other murderer we see down here. We seen it all."

"Nah, man," the man said, quieter this time. "Cut 'er open like she was a fuckin' fish. I was on my way to work when this girl come runnin' out of her yard, pullin' my shirt. She told me to call 9-1-1, so I'm like whatever, but then she shows me what she found. There's, like, this crowd of people there too. Like they're watchin' a show or fuckin'..." He trailed off, and then added after a moment, "And I think she had kids, too."

"Well, was it really so bad?"

"Worse than the papers are sayin', man. They don't wanna give nothin' away. Dunno why- ought to scare the workin' girls off the streets if they realized. This shit's real."

Victor glanced at Kitty's back, his mouth twitching with rage. They were keeping information back?! How many whores would he have to kill before they decided to make this a big deal?! Perhaps leaving one on the doorstep of the New York Times offices would be e-fucking-nough!

Jack took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. He would do something about this- make it known that he was one man, and he was planning on doing damage. He couldn't do anything that would give away his location, or anything about him. So attempted murder on Plantagenet's wife was, sadly, out of the question. Something simpler... gentlemanly... yes, that had been the aim all along. Kill them with kindness, so to say.

He clicked his tongue as an idea popped into his head. A letter! He would write them a letter, using his newly-acquired moniker, and send it to the Times. He knew he would have to be precise and careful, leaving the least bit of usable DNA that he could. As if they would catch him... as if...

Jack turned his gaze back to Kitty, gulping a bit.

((*FLAILS* I GAVE YOU NOTHING TO WORK WITH. I'M SORRY. I TRIED, I DID.))


*Moderator note: And then he proceeded to stalk her all night long. It was the best stalking session he ever had. May have had himself a smoke or two afterwards, it was so good. End thread.