#ccitysolo

[colt-kaine]

How: Burned by fry oil 

Why: You're a good cook, even if you are a little shady. At the end of the day, you're just doing your job. It's just such a shame that this is what ends your life. Maybe next time, you'll throw out that oil, instead of leaving it on the stove.

Colt should have left. He should have fucking left the moment he realized he would never be with the woman he loved. This camp wasn't worth shit to him anymore and neither were these kids. But then some sicko fuck started terrorizing the camp, killing everyone off one by one and preventing anyone left alive from leaving. Bus tires were slashed, landlines were cut, downed trees blocking any paths away from the camp. There was no way out of this hell. And worst of it all was everyone was looking to him and some of the other adults for safety and guidance. Shit, he just wanted out. He hadn't cared for any of them this whole summer. So why the hell was he still here, barricaded in the mess hall, trying to cook up something quick for the other survivors instead of looking for any way to get the hell out? Was he hopeful? Unlikely. Perhaps he was just thinking this half-assed act of kindness would get him in whatever Gods there may be good graces and he'd be spared. 

His mind had been racing with fear and anger and the noise of the running stove had blocked out any outside noises. Colt hadn't heard the rustling of someone outside of the building. He didn't know anyone was around the mess hall until the light were cut off and the door at the front banged shut. He grabbed the giant knife that lay on the cutting board and slowly made his way out from behind the food prep station. "Who the hell's there?" He called out, unable to see anyone in the dark. The only light that shone into the building came from the big light outside shining in the window at the side of the kitchen. Slow, methodical footsteps echoed along the wood floors, Colt doing his best to track where they were headed. This wasn't some kid or another camp worker; the killer was here for him. He'd be damned if he'd let himself be taken down. Knife raised in the air, he pivoted repeatedly, trying to search for any moving shadow in the blackness of the building. "Not gonna get me you sick fuck!" He yelled. 

Hearing a noise to his left, he spun around and swung his knife. While the weapon missed, his arm made contact, hitting his assailant in the side. The two grunted and engaged in a fight, Colt relentlessly swinging on the figure. He went bring his blade up, grabbing the other by the back collar of his shirt and ready to end this, but the attacker kicked their head back into Colts face, sending him stumbling back. Elbowing Colt in the abdomen, the killer slammed him into the prep table and disarmed Colt, who snapped back and tackled the other into the counter by the stove. The killer grabbed the nearest thing they could: a giant, heavy pot lid, and swung on Colt, making contact with his face and sending him to the ground. Colt was groaning, clutching his now broken nose, as the killer threw the lid down at his face. 

Slow footsteps made their way around Colts slow moving, groaning form. They stopped at the stove where the large pot of bubbling oil sat on the burner. Taking the oven mitts that hung from the hook by the stove, the killer stared down at Colt before tilting the hot oil down towards him. Colt didn't get a chance to utter a word before being doused in the hot oil. He screamed and writhed in pain as it poured all over his head, face and torso. The sizzling sound of cooking flesh and steamy smoke began filling the mess hall with his screams of terror and didn't stop until Colts body finally stopped moving and there was no oil left in the pot. The figure stared down at the burned, raw, blistering remains of the crotchety camp cook.

[joyful-maeve]

Souls: Haunting

Of all the people who could haunt Maeve, it has to be her mother. Of course. She’s not even surprised, and while at first she takes great pleasure in telling her why exactly she’d had it coming, after a while the constant nagging starts to get really - really - annoying. Just as it had done in life. If she could kill her all over again, she would. 

So after her initial amusement, Maeve starts to grow vastly irritated and sets about ignoring Mother Dearest. But she’s always there, criticising everything; the way she dresses, the way she speaks, how she does her spells. It’s only after some hours that Maeve finally snaps and sends a vicious hex soaring across the Dominion towards the woman who no one can see but herself. And the damned ghost only laughs and scolds her some more, as the spell soars right through her face and lands with a crash against the wall behind her.

The stone crumbles, a large crack ricocheting from the ground towards the high ceiling, clients nearby scattering and brushing dust from their lovely clothes. But Maeve notices nothing; not even the hands of the guards as they grab her and drag her raging into a back room.

She manages to whirl one more spell through the open door before her hands are tied and her mouth is taped shut. No more magic for her, it seems! 

And still the wretched woman reappears and talks and moans and judges incessantly. So Maeve closes her eyes and hopes for the best, slumping her head down onto the desk and trying to console herself by imagining all the ways she could kill the woman again. 

[edcn]

She feels a shift, instantly that something is amiss. It’s like her furniture, her belongings have been moved an inch to the left. Something is wrong, even though it seemingly isn’t. Eden knows it is.

It’s eery quiet, while she is standing in the threshold to her bathroom, attempting to make sense of the impending sensation of dread that lingers in the air. She has nearly shaken the feeling, has nearly told herself successfully that nothing is wrong because she can’t pick up a noise or a scent that is out of place, when the source of her unrest makes itself known. 

“No...” it’s not her reflexion from the hallway mirror that she had caught a glimpse off, but it has to be. There cannot be another explanation, an illusion, a dream, perhaps she is still sleeping—-

The wicked smile, she so often wears herself — but not right now, tells her it isn’t. She lacks any and all explanation, any and all logical understanding of the entire situation. 

“Boo!” it might as well have been a thunder clap, considering the way she startles, nearly jumping out of her own skin. The laughter that follows, cruel and cold, too familiar, too much like herself, too much like her.

“No!” she repeats, her voice biting despite the disbelief. “You aren’t real, you cannot be real. You are dead!” 

The cruel grin never wavers, stays on red painted lips. It’s like she’s looking into a fucking mirror how it always had been, all her fucking life. Made to look the same but pushed to be different, to constantly one-up the other. 

“Really? Am I?”

“You are.” she is sure of that, she knows that Isla is dead. She had killed her, had dismembered her body before disposing of it—- “I killed you.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

[logan-prescottx]

Nightmare | Solo

It's the strangest thing, walking into the kennels and seeing the dogs cower and shy from him. Like they'd seen him do something that devolved every moment of trust they'd all built together. Coming to the door of a pup he was particularly fond of, Logan kneels before the dog on the other side, eyes meeting. Ares' tail tucked between his legs, ears pinned back like he was frightened that Logan would reach in and harm him, like he was going to hurt the dog. "What's wrong boy?"

The softness in his voice reaches the dog, causing ears to perk forward a little. A small step of approach before the pup is whining and desperately trying to get to Logan. A smal saving grace before the pup returns to being afraid, backing up. Brows furrowing, Logan goes to peer behind him when a glint comes swinging down towards his face, too fast to stop and too abrupt for him to do much about other than take it to the jaw, careening into the concrete. Blood spills fresh into his mouth, tasting the iron-like liquid while he struggled to pull himself up.

"It's my turn." The voice growled. And Logan blinks, not because he recognizes the voice... no, but because he's sure he hadn't spoken just then. Looking back, it sends a thrill of terror down his spine. Movies like this existed... mirror copies coming to take down their originals. Like a fucking sci-fi gone wrong.

But Logan is quicker to judge the surroundings. A last ditch effort has him leaping for the latch on one of the crates, and Bear, gloriously large and angry Bear comes to his defense at a beautiful 120 pounds of pure shepherd muscle, latching on to the copy cat before Logan opens another crate, and another.

Dogs always know. They're always sure. And they attack his doppleganger like a piece of meat waiting to be devoured. His head is pounding, ears ringing from the blow still as he lays on his back. Perhaps this is all a bad dream he'll wake up from... and perhaps the screams reverbarating from the walls of the shelter will all be just a figment of his imagination when he wakes once more.

[defectivelabwolf]

Last Breaths In the Cell

“Well, isn’t that interesting? You actually can tell someone to stop. Just takes the removal of an organ. You know, I might actually have liked you if you were strong like your 55, was it?” Sick or not, Dopple54 was proud of snatching her mirror’s left eye after beating her to a pulp, about to pop the ‘treat’ in her mouth. “Heh, maybe after I get rid of you, I’ll go play with this other wolf you seem to be fond of without knowledge of your feelings. I wonder what his vital organs taste like.”

“You know, when I take you over, I’m going to make sure this body of yours gets out of here. Won’t that be nice? Freedom? Oh, that’s right, you’re just a good girl who follows orders, aren’t you?”

Tesla didn’t understand why that made her feel so warm, but not a good warm. It felt like how 55 sounded when she had escaped their home, and left all those sleeping red-stained doctors, nurses, and researchers in her wake. Though it was dawning on her now, as the weakness set in and that warm crimson flowed from her what that was. Death. And she realized something. She refused to die.

The wolf, despite all the parts of her telling her to stop and be good chose to lunge at her attacker. She’d taken something from her, was trying to kill her, and threatening other wolves, and Logan. The two toppled to the ground, clawing, biting, and yelling.

By the end of it, both wolves were exhausted, sick, and bleeding out, but Dopple54 was starting to fade. Somehow, someway, the shit she’d been so confident about killing had cracked her rib cage open and ripped out her heart in that last bit of strength before she’d past out, but she’d taken a kidney and both of Tesla’s eyes in the process. In her last moments, she tried to grab the other’s head and rip it off, but it was just too far away from where she was slumped as her vision went black and her breathing progressively harder to take.

Tesla would survive, but just barely. Though she would be in for a long recovery. Not to mention the week long coma after her flawed system struggled to repair itself.

[arlcnchevalier]

Instant Regret | Solo

His day started with the promise of a business deal on his new line of whites in France, his pull this year having given birth to quite a many different styles of white wine in the time the season had come and gone. But something weird was happening around him. People were looking at one another so uncertainly. People were looking at him with uncertainty. It riled him, just a bit. A rude habit a good handful of the residents of this city had was the inability to mind their damn business, but this was a whole new level of stares and mistrusting looks.

If only someone had spoken up and said why. How could Arlon know someone was walking around the city, being as sincere and soft as the frenchman, only to massacre anyone who was human and came into contact with him?

Entering his home, legs pulled Arlon across the threshold, mind occupied by the countless calls he'd be making tomorrow to secure an amount when he paused mid-step passing his study. Someone was in his chair. At his desk. 

The absolute nerve of some people galled him still.

Turning, Arlon was going  to ream them, tell them they've lost their absolute marbles. But that's when he sees just who is sitting in the chair and the papers hit the floor. "What the...."

His mirror copy is staring back, drinking his wine, a slick smile on their face down to the dimple. This has to be a trick, perhaps he's overworked. But there's hardly any time to react to that before Arlon 2.0 is leaping over the desk, tackling the other vampire to the floor. The wrestling is long and drawn out before Arlon.... The real Arlon is atop the other and a fist is jammed into the chest of his identical twin... Could it be his twin? No, something else. But a heart is ripped out and tossed across the room before he collapses back, panting.

"I fucking hate this city...." The sigh that leaves his lips eases out before he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "... And yet here we are again."

[israelskelton]

Don’t kill my vibe

One thing that nobody told you about being held prisoner was how maddening it was, not because of the torture or the humiliation or anything of the sort, but because of the sheer boredom faced consistently. Or at least, that was how it was for the clone’s shadow self. Time had passed by slowly — he wasn’t quite sure how long he had been trapped here — and it was almost painful.

Day in and day out, it was the same thing. He’d wake up in his gilded, golden cage, he’d study the cracks along the marble walls and floors, he’d count the bloody ceiling tiles over and over, he’d sing and tap a beat to himself. No matter how hard he tried to forget, he could still see the dim light flickering on and off above him. He endured every inch of pain riddling the clone’s body; he could hear that voice speaking to him in words he couldn’t understand...

He could be patient.

He could wait.

The doppelgänger stared lifelessly into the void of the television installed in front of his cell. Israel was sleeping. Although, unlike the clone, his double wasn’t afforded that small luxury. He was forced to sit there and watch the pitiful clone have his strings pulled. In consequence, he was forced to mirror - like a puppet. Every bruise and bump the clone sustained appeared on his skin. A scar forming in it’s place. It wasn’t fair that such a weak and pitiful creature was afforded life.

In contrast, he wasted away in the shadows due to the clone’s sloppiness. For someone with such a high IQ— Israel was pretty stupid. Caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the cell door creak open until the television erupted into black and white static. The sound was growing louder and louder...

Getting to his feet, the doppelgänger walked up the television, bloody Converse squeaking against the pristine tile. His head tilted to the side, watching... waiting... Nothing. Just static. But what was that? A voice? It was that same voice he had heard, but now he could understand it. You made bail. The same words flickered in the static. Was this some joke?

Perplexity swam in his dark eyes. Dragging over his cot, he stood upon the creaking service. Pressing up on his tiptoes, he banged on the television. His fist slipped through the screen, causing him to stare in confusion. Could it be? Extending his hand through space, he retracted it, expecting the hand to be lobbed off by some unseen force. But no, it was still attached at the wrist. Extending it again, then the other, he began to claw his way through the void.

Brrrzt... brrrzt... brrrrrrzt... The device buzzed frantically in the plastic bin. Untouched, outdated, and dead. It vibrated with life—the vibration pattern mirroring that of a heartbeat. The screen bleeds with color from the inside, the generic default background melting. The glass service cracking as something that looked like battery acid leaked out, slithering across the floor like like a snake. Black, inky tendrils taking shape.

Looking to the phone in his hand, Israel lolled his head to the side. Lazily scrolling through the stale and now vacant social media accounts of the outdated, blood-stained device. Who was the clone fooling with these fake smiles and faux-happiness? No one. Oh, but he would give the sack of borrowed cells something to smile about. Once he got his hands on him, that is.

Humming Dem Bones to himself, he crushed the electronic device in his hand and turned to leave the depressing room after pocketing the rest of Israel’s discarded belongings. Feet crunching over the broken remnants of the crushed iPhone. If he was going to impersonate him, he figured he ought to dress the part. Dress for the job you want. It was easy to slip amongst the chaos and out into the streets. His ears pricking up at the sound of hearts, beating, and ripe for the taking.

“Your leg bone connected to your knee bone... Your knee bone connected to your thigh bone...” The voice sang lowly, humming the tune as he fished out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Exhaling the smoke, he watched the rings crawl to the heavens. “Come out come out wherever you are...” He murmured, playing with the scalpel in his pocket, practically tap-dancing through the streets. His gaze transfixed on the hospital as he drew the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. He wouldn’t be but a moment.

“Your neck bone connected from your shoulder bone...”

Exiting the sliding doors with an organ transport box, he merrily went on his way. His nostrils flared as they caught on to Israel’s scent. He stank of fear, antibacterial soap, and bleach. It wouldn’t be too hard to find him. Walking down the street, dark eyes alight with purpose, he began to seek out victims while he searched. He would pick out the ones foolish enough to walk alone. Faces that seemed easily looked over. People no one would miss...

He watched the scalpel slice through the delicate skin like warm butter, and the doppelganger shuddered in pleasure as he began to make quick work of the body. Locating the desired organ, he gently placed it in his little, white box. Casually dumping the escort’s body in the alleyway dumpster, he turned to walk out of the alley before he eyed a familiar face turn down the adjacent alleyway. Israel. "Tag. You're it." He watched the body crumple to the ground as he incapacitated the clone and dragged his lifeless body against the pavement. No one would question him. Why would they? No one cared about lowly prisoners.

Sitting at the computer and eating a container of Singapore Rice Noodles, the doppelganger turned as he heard movement. Lazily flicking his eyes over to the now coherent and struggling clone. He watched with a Cheshire Cat grin. He would see panic surging through him as he began to move, his arms and legs thrashing against the restraints. “Oooh. I wouldn’t do that.” The doppelganger's voice cooed. Israel ceased his thrashing. The unaltered voice sounded so foreign now. And how had he accessed his lab? How had he...

The doppelganger smiled wider. The sound of his own unaltered voice or his pulsating, bleeding abdomen. Israel didn’t know what hurt more; he could see it in his eyes. Getting to his feet, he leaned over the clone, not looking at his face but at his gaping abdomen. A hand sliding up along the naked curve of his hip. A scream of agony ripping from the clone’s throat as his body convulsed on the glass. “I liked you better when you were silent.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Staring at his bruised face in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, Israel leaned forward to spit before his head connected with the mirror. Feeling it shatter and cut him, he feebly pushed the assailant off. Frenzied eyes turned to see himself dressed in a bloody hospital gown. How was this possible? Is' genetic code couldn't be duplicated. The terminator genes... they... they... Israel's head swam from the pain medication being pumped into him. None of this made sense. This had to be a bad trip or something. Looking down at his abdomen and the pain he felt, the clone swallowed dryly. His brain was struggling to come to grips with what was happening. He stared lifelessly at the look-alike as the doppelgänger grabbed him, glossy brown eyes staring into those dead eyes. It was strange. Not the replica; he was a copy himself, after all. 

But his eyes. 

There wasn't anything behind them. 

A vast, stark nothingness.

Feeling the hand close around his neck, he struggled as he was pushed against the wall. He knew he was clearly outmatched, outwitted. This version of him was everything his parents wanted. Everything he should've been. Feeling himself dissociate from the situation, he let the other’s words fade in and out. 

"They don't care about you. None of them do. You're nothing to them. Just a toy to fuck around with until they get bored or you break again." Israel blinked back to life as he looked to the other. "No one likes a broken toy." So much had been taken from him already, and now this thing wanted his life? Why? The clone frowned, clearly perplexed by the idea. "Vu vant mein life? Bleaze take it. It's yours." He managed steadily, confusion flitting over the other's face. "What?" He snarled, breath smelling of blood and cigarettes. “Take it.” Israel smiled, pupils blown wide. "Vu'll chust pe sduck in zis hakonising hell..." He laughed. "Und if vu do earn your freetom, vu'll pe zome client's blay-zing. All zat botential vasted, muzzled!" 

"Vu don't vant to pe me..." Taking the IV pole with a surge of adrenaline, Israel shoved it at the doppelgänger, knocking him off balance. Grabbing the pump, he tore it loose, slamming it down repeatedly into the doppelgänger's head and the concrete wall. They wrestled on the ground, snarling and growling like animals. Israel took the metal pole and broke it in half. Using all his remaining strength he jammed it through the creature’s chest. “Heal... from zis... pitch.” Breathing heavily, his body slumped on the bloody bathroom tile as his adrenaline rush wore off. Pulling the the "call nurse" chord with shaking fingers, he crawled to the dying doppelgänger. Taking his shaking hands, he inspected the doppelgänger's abdomen. Swallowing as the horror of his reality sank in. Jagged stitches running along pale flesh. They weren't there. His organs. "FUCKER!" He screamed, shaking the dead body through tearful eyes, barely noticing the nurses trying to drag him away from the gruesome scene.

[dylanxsong]

the looking glass | dark mirror: self para

The city seemed to have descended into chaos when the inhabitant’s doppelgängers started appearing. No one knew where they had come from, only that they were almost the diametric opposites of their original persons. Dylan would have thought that he would be used to whatever Covaire could throw at him given how he has lived in the city his entire life, but this was a new one -- a very new one. 

On the day Dylan met his doppelgänger, he had been heading back to the Chateau. His client, a werewolf, had been kindly walking him back amidst the chaos when the man was suddenly pounced on by a vampire who looked just like him and Dylan watched in abject fascination and horror as they tore each other apart right in front of him.

The fighting got vicious and as the scent of their combined blood filled the air, there was something inside Dylan that told him to back away and he listened to those instincts and ducked into a nearby alley to seek cover. It was not long after that he felt someone lunge at him to pin him face-first against the grimy brick wall. What felt like long sharp nails closed around Dylan’s head to dig painfully into his scalp as a familiar voice sounded in his ear. 

“As I expected, Dylan. It’s just like you to hide like a pathetic coward. You’ve always wanted to die, haven’t you? Well, you’re in luck, because that’s what I’m here for,” the voice breathed in amusement and that hand pulled the prisoner’s head away from the wall and slammed it against the hard surface with enough strength to daze him. Dylan yelled out in pain, his leg kicking backwards in an attempt to land one on his attacker, someone who seemed to know him as he repeatedly smashed his head into the wall with clear intent. A small voice in the prisoner’s mind was telling him that this was it given what Covaire was going through and he needed to fight his doppelgänger and live. 

Dylan’s continued struggling and kicking finally paid off when his shoe came in hard contact with the other person’s shin and his attacker hissed and let him go, allowing the prisoner to stumble to the side. His hand came up to his bleeding head as he looked up at his mirror self. The other Dylan would have looked exactly like him had he not been dressed to the nines and carried himself in a way that spoke of a self-assurance that Dylan himself did not possess. He was also a vampire.

Dylan mumbled something under his breath to his lookalike as he shook his head of the dizziness he was feeling and he watched as his vampiric self straightened up to turn a withering glare in his direction. “Speak up, Dylan. You have your words for a reason,” he said almost as if he were bored. It was really strange seeing someone with his face carry himself in such a manner.

“’...a pathetic coward...” Dylan said again as he lowered his hand from his forehead. He seemed mostly clear of that feeling of dizziness and he could feel the wolf inside him raring to attack. 

“Louder, Dylan,” his lookalike taunted as he started circling him like a predator, which only caused Dylan’s anxiety and anger to grow. 

“I said I’m not a pathetic coward,” the prisoner growled, his lip curling as he felt his hands turn themselves into sharp claws. 

“I guess there was some effort there,” his vampiric doppelgänger laughed and turned his nose up at him as if he were looking at a small child. “But no. You’ll always be a pathetic coward. Trust me. I would know.”

Another low growl sounded in Dylan’s throat as his face twisted itself into something else, an expression he rarely would have allowed himself given his station in the city. The wolf lunged at the other man, no finesse in his movements as he moved on pure instinct, claws outstretched as he jumped on his lookalike. The vampire had anticipated it and stepped to the side and struck, making quick work of subduing Dylan by shoving him down onto the ground, a pristine black boot pressing down against his throat.

“Like I said. Pathetic,” he said and applied more pressure to cause Dylan’s vision to blur. “This was too easy.”

No. He was not going to go down like this!

The wolf struggled, his clawed hands trying to shove the offending foot off, but with each breath he tried to take, the more difficult it became and everything eventually turned black.

------------------------------

When Dylan blinked his eyes open after God only knew how much time had passed, he found himself standing in that same alley. The smell of blood was strong in his senses and aches and what felt like a broken but swiftly healing wrist started to make themselves known in his body. It felt like he had been put through the wringer a few times. The wolf blinked and took in a few breaths to calm himself as his fingers attempted to curl into fists. It was then that Dylan realised he was holding something wet and sticky in his hand and he brought it up to his face. 

“What the fuck?!” the wolf shouted as he dropped it and jumped back as a bloodied heart fell to the ground and rolled to a stop. 

Dylan’s head whipped around to look for the vampire lookalike he now remembered had been attacking him and he found the other Dylan lying further down the alley. There was no mistaking where the heart had come from. 

He had killed a man. 

He had killed himself. 

There was something strangely ironic about it given Dylan’s state of mind just a few months ago.

The wolf was frozen to the spot, torn between running out of the alley and going to inspect his doppelgänger’s dead body. His morbid curiosity won out and Dylan found himself standing over the vampire whose chest bore a fist-shaped hole right over where his heart would have been. It was pretty fucked up looking down at a dead version of himself knowing that he had caused it, but Dylan would think on the psychological ramifications of this later. He knelt down next to his dead lookalike and reached out to use his fingers to close those eyes that had been staring out into nothing. He needed some form of dignity at least, Dylan thought as he stripped the body of its miraculously still-clean jacket to replace his own bloodied prisoner garb and tried to clean himself up as much as possible before leaving.

Outside on the street lay the dead body of the werewolf client from earlier and the only thought that ran through Dylan’s mind was that he was going to get in trouble if someone found a prisoner wandering the city streets alone. He immediately turned and started running in the direction of the Chateau.

When he reached his prison home, the guards took one look at him with raised eyebrows and Dylan explained that his client liked things a bit rough and gave him some new clothes as a reward. It was pretty easy to convince them of his lie and they let him back into his cell. He gratefully entered his small safe space and shrugged off the jacket which he tossed into a corner before huddling himself onto his small uncomfortable cot. He was shaking with what he could only describe as adrenaline as he replayed the encounter in the alleyway over and over in his mind. 

It was going to be a long night...