SIN with a GRIN!

[Emmet Fawkes]

[[ OOC: I still need to flesh him out, jump into his character more. Anyone's welcome to join in! ]]

Hello, anybody home?

Hee-hee-haa-haa-haa.

“Shh, shh, c'mere, toots. Look at me!! Look at me!! Relax. Relax. Stop shaking, you’re really putting me off, and it’s bad to do that, as your darling boo bear with strawberry curls could tell ya. Well, if she weren’t, you know, scattered across half the kitchen, but details, details. …where was I…? Oh, oh yeeaahh...”
The woman pressed against the wall shrunk into a heap, just a wreck kneeling in a ball of broken-everythings—his first intent was to slap her hard enough to make teeth fly—but he decided against it as she whimpered against her knees, her eyes dull, her anger tired.
Grabbing a hold of the woman's face, he tried to lift her chin to kiss her, getting angry when she avoided his touch, “Don’t ever do that again”. He was all hisses and growls, inches from her face. His hand went to her throat and he slammed her head once against the wall, succeeding at keeping her still and securing her attention.
“I want to kiss you, I do, you say “thank you Baby”. Get it? I want to slice your face, I do, you say again. I want to bite your tongue, what do you do, sweetheart?” His mask remained neatly hanging on one of the hooks, and the waspish grin stretched on his face—it looked impossibly, physically large because of the Glasgow grin jaggedly shaped into his face, spiraling off his lips.
The woman underneath him in the impossible small bathroom, he swore was only big enough for a chopped dwarf, only shivered and trembled in response. She'd got herself mixed up with him, this was all her fault, all her fault. Slowly, so slowly, the woman drew out her tongue, “Bide my dongue, Baby, bleaz,” she sobbed, her voice breaking under his hateful gaze.
"Keep your eyes open while I do it or believe me, I’ll give you a real reason to scream after.”
The scream echoed throughout the house—but it was midnight, even though they were in a wealthy part of wherever-they-were, whereas anyone who heard never questioned anything anyway. People were afraid.

Bishop pulled her to her feet, spun her around and shoved her against the wall. Her back pressed on his chest, his hand rubbing her stomach while he renewed his smile on her ear, shushing her as tears slid down her cheeks. A false movement and the handle of his knife pressed in her shorts, making her miss a beat.
Continuously shushing her, as he felt the first round of her tremors shook her body, cold sweats and raving disorientation, the woman collapsed on the ground crying for her mother, he held her for a moment before letting her go and clapping his hands together and theatrically holding his hands out.
“Ta-daaah!” He announced loudly, hee-hee-heeing (that dry, loud maniac laugh that sounded like a mixture of haa-haa-haa-haa) about his genius job well done, “Your dead, just like that!”
When he bit her tongue, he let out toxins such as alkaloid ricinin—always fatal.

After that, Bishop didn't bother to move the bodies, he just pocked things like sharp-knives and what little money they had in the house, giddily dancing across the scattered bodies of the rest of the family. There was little Johnny, crippled and foaming from the mouth from a stab wound to the spine, and the lovely daughter with her face bludgeoned into the smelly carpet. The house made him sick. The couch didn't even match the carpet, for god sakes! They needed a designer or something, he thought to himself, as he drew Johnny's head up by the hair. He thought about keeping the boy's body to use for surgical purposes, but decided it was too much trouble to bag his body. While the mother had been at work, and the father gone (the man must be working over time!), he'd stuck in the house.

Well, he blew up the door, and came in sneaky like a mouse tip-toeing this way and that, and done-in the kids while Miss. Too-busy-for-her-kids was away. When the mother came back, he had his fun with her. For awhile, he goaded her own that he'd maybe let her live, that he wasn't really in a killing-everyone-mood, just to see that hopeful glint in her eyes. Aw, poor poor girl. Touching his chin thoughtfully, he smacked his lips and laughed hysterically at the idea that hit him! It was brilliant, brilliant! He dragged the poor sagging woman from the bathroom, and pinned her mouth in a nice big smile. A. Nice. Big. One. Tsk, it was a shame that Miss. Giddy wifey wasn't seen by her husband. He placed her on the couch and made his exit, leaving his mask, he had another one in his back pocket anyway—never could be too careful.

The scarred man drew out a mask with a strange grin and hollowed black eyes, strapping it neatly to his face as he sat on a car parked, laughing at the sight of the house. He'd set up explosives all around the house, and the button was balanced in his hand—it was in the shape of a smiley face with a big red button nose. “Whew,” he stopped, wiping the brow of his mask, “I better sit down before I bust a vein.”
He watched finally as the man of the household, the man must've been the punch life of life wearing that Genetech suit, the man's wails could be heard from way out here, and he assumed he immediately called the au-tho-ri-tives. Who wouldn't when seeing their family mutilated around the house?
“Aren't you the nasty tattle-tale, ratting me out before I have my fun.” He pouted, snickering. “Papa spank.” The man pressed the smiley button, but nothing happened, he clicked it again and again, hitting it on his hand while licking his lips in frustration. Suddenly small bursts of explosives shot flames and debris from the windows—plumes of fire and smoke licking up into the sky like the Fourth of July fireworks.

It didn't stop there, the explosives ran across the driveway, blowing up the car Mr. Crybaby parked, exploding said car, or what was left of it and running to the next string of houses. Honestly, he ran out of explosives on the third house and had to improvise with gasoline and chemicals, it was a riot to see colors of green and blue from whatever chemicals he used as the houses caught on fire and exploded.

The entire reason for these random explosions was for someone of high purpose to get here. Maybe the man called some of his Genetech friends? Creditors. Anything. Null. Russian Mafia. All-Mart sissies.
“C'mon, I wantyoutocome, I wantyoutocome. C'mon, c'mon.”

[Émilie LaFramboise]

Émilie had no idea where she was, nor did it particularly matter. She did this sometimes, mostly when she felt the need to escape... the need to be Winter once more. Not the upper class French woman, the believed to be heir of Vivien Laframboise. Émilie LaFramboise, with her silken brown hair up in a bun like her adopted mother's, her expression idly blank. A proper Blessed in public.

She was eternally thankful to Vivien, the woman had given her a proper education and shown her the joys of knowledge. She read for hours on end in her free time, searching the vast expansion of Vivien's library for more things that the Manalist would keep from the world. The countless religions that once spanned the Earth, the beauty that was once forests and the abundance that were once animals... Yet, the piece of knowledge that was most important to her was the one that seemed impossible to gain. She mingled with humans, Vivien was a vampire, she knew there were multiple other races, some almost as rare as her own. Still, she found no trace of any other nymphs, despite the precious image she reviewed countless times a day.

A blond haired nymph and her, two children of the forest laughing and chasing each other, with vague images of other women lounging in the green of the forest. A place that was once probably her home. A place that probably no longer existed. People of her blood who were probably long dead. A child her age who appeared to be her sister. The faint spark of hope she still lived.

She was grateful to Vivien for the world she had been brought into, yes, for she felt she could make a change for the better. But she knew that in her heart she was, and will always be, a child of mother Earth. They all were, but humans had closed their eyes to that. She dreamed to open their eyes, to show them the beauty of Earth and what it can give back when you live as one with it. The fancy clothes were beautiful, the taste of fine food ravishing, the steaming water absolutely soothing... but she still dreamed of the rough bark of a tree against her skin, the goose bumps arising on her skin from the cold of the stream, the red and and blue of berries staining her teeth and tongue. Her own scent was that of the air on a chilly morning, a fresh, cutting smell that somehow filled your whole being.

It was similar to the smell of the night air, but something was off... She blinked, trying to clear her mind from the thoughts that constantly plagued her. She had done what she does sometimes, yes, go to Vivien's teleportation booth and punch in a random code. She would then take a long walk, as herself, allowing the thoughts she often tried to suppress roll free. Nothing harmful had ever happened to her on these walks, she held no fear.

Her silver white hair cascaded down her back in gentle waves, her eyes that mirrored the silver blue of icicles in winter searching the area. She was attired in a simple white gown made of thin fabric, silk, she believed. The dress hugged her body, swirling around her ankles and bare feet with every step she took. Her normally small ears held a point to them, she supposed she appeared as an elfish spirit on her walks. Perhaps it was why no one had ever bothered her before on them.

The smell, what was it? It clogged the air, choking the night. Her eyes locked on a gray discoloration in the night sky (( OOC: is it night? I don't believe you ever formally confirmed)), moving lower to catch sight of red flames licking up over the horizon. A fire?! It was a quiet neighborhood, one of the lower Middle Class ones. An accident, or intentional? Her body made a choice before she could even contemplate the situation, her long legs moving quickly toward the source of the smoke and flames. She cut through yards without a second thought, coming upon the source within a handful of minutes. It just figured the Manalists hadn't responded yet. She ran her gaze along the row of houses that were on fire... man made. At least, it was obvious the last few houses on fire had been a man made fire, no accident.

The colors rolling against each other like water moving in air was enough proof. She heard no screams or shouts, a rush of relief flooding her body. It was early in the night, most people would be-

The sound of a child's cries promptly cut her relief off, her body pumping with a surge of adrenaline. Once more, her body made the decision. She dashed toward the burning house she heard the cries from, her sensitive elf like ears pin pointing the location. No fire had reached the door, but the knob was undoubtedly scolding. Checking over the rest of the front of the house, she found a relatively large window where the glass had already busted apart from the intense heat. For the first time in her life, she cursed herself for not wearing shoes before climbing onto the window's sill. She carefully did so that only the glass would cut into her palms and feet. A year of living in the wilds had done wonders to strengthen her skin (she had no idea how it was still as smooth as it was, perhaps another blessing of her nymph blood?), but it was no armor against glass.

She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from crying out as she balanced herself on the sill. Inhaling a deep breath of what was going to be her at least partly fresh air for the next few minutes, she leaped from the window. As she had hoped, she cleared the spread of window glass, but the pieces of glass that had lodged themselves into her feet jammed even deeper. A cry escaped her lips from the pain.

Repeating over in her head that every life was important, she covered her mouth with her hand as she dodged the flames. The child's cries were becoming more clear, now. It sounded like it was coming from under the stairs...? Moving around the stairs, she spotted a closet built into the side of them where the child must be. The fire was spreading quickly toward the area. Pushing herself to move quicker, she flung the closet open to find a small, blond haired girl.

"Are you okay?" She asked the sobbing child, leaning into the closet to pull the girl into her arms. The child didn't resist, simply nodding her head furiously. "Keep your mouth covered." With that, Winter clutched the child to her chest and begun a bee line for the window. Before she could reach it, part of the burning house fell between them and it, blocking the way. The fumes of the fire were beginning to make her feel dizzy, both arms busy holding the child. Coughing, she squinted her eyes, trying to find another exit. The door was still intact, but to get outside she would have to... Taking it as their best bet, she moved around the blockage to the door. She hastily removed the door's guard lock, the burning metal stinging her fingers. Next, she gripped her hand around the scolding door knob to fling it open.

Her hand burned intensely, the disgusting smell of burnt flesh wafting up to join the smells of smoke and fire. She rushed out into the night, feeling it embrace her and the child like a long lost lover. She ran until they were at the end of the drive way before carefully putting the child down in order to recover herself. It felt like she would cough out her lungs before she felt the fresh air flooding her lungs, a divine drink of clear stream water after traveling through a desert.

"Are... you okay?" She questioned the child again as she sat down, pulling pieces of glass from her foot with cringes, using her still good hand. She wondered idly if she would have any scars as blood rolled down from the open wounds in her feet to the ground. "My... mommy... daddy..." The little girl's first words caused Winter to instantly look at the house, her eyes widening. The girl's entire family had been in the house? Looking back at the girl, she noted a vague resemblance to the little blond haired girl she remembers running with, so long ago. She put her arms around the child and let the girl sob into her now ash stained gown, knowing all too well the pain the girl was going to grow up with. What were the odds a woman who knew the same pain would be the one to save a girl who looked just like a lost sister?

The irony of life was truly a cruel mistress.

[Emmet Fawkes]

Even from where Bishop was sitting, he heard the small cries coming from one of the houses. The cry of a child. A small frown stretched on his face beneath the mask—there was nothing more annoying then a buck-toothed kid crying his eyes out. He didn't laugh, though. Kids were something that tugged on his heartstrings, or whatever was in his chest. The crying was making him want to... he wasn't even sure. If there was anything he felt bad, or felt remotely bad for, it'd be children. That was one thing he'd gleaned over, he didn't make sure that there weren't any children in the homes. First mistake. He had no remorse, no mercy, no nothing for adults—they were already tainted people, horrible people that deserved what they got. But wide-eyed, blue-eyed kids who'd done nothing. He didn't like thinking about it.

That was when he saw a flash of white hair and he slammed his fists against the cars battered frame. Who was that? Pure white hair, it reminded him of winter. He'd never seen someone with hair like that, and why were they going near the house? For a moment, Bishop remained still as he leaned this way and that to see where the blur of white disappeared to. He was stupid to assume that no one would come to a burning house to see what was going on, but it was midnight, who walked around at midnight? Frantically, he stepped off the car, tumbling to the ground in one faltering step before pushing himself upward.

Maybe this was going to be a lot more complicated then he thought. The white hair belonged to a woman, who he spotted emerging from the side window clutching a sobbing child, which was probably the kid he heard wailing inside the burning house. The most puzzling thing he couldn't figure out was why the woman jumped into the window so recklessly to save that child. Most people he'd met were so worried about their own hides, people didn't really have value anymore.

Bishop's lips curled back into a quiet sneer as he huffed his way behind one of the unscathed houses, he wanted to check out who was holding the child. As he neared, he pressed his back against one of the only trees on the block. Whether or not it was created by Genetech was another question. The closer he got, the more his body seemed to change. His once curly-mangled mess of brown hair was sprouting into red-rose petals slicked back from his mask, spines formed from his chin and as he peeled back his glove, he noted his skin was green. Bishop was half kukkahenkilo, a Castor oil plant, and he was transforming without any control. He glanced past the tree at the woman with snowy hair, hugging the sobbing child before coughing irritably.

Controlling his shaky voice as best he could, Bishop stepped out from the cover of the tree and took a few cautious steps towards Winter. “Are... you folks alright?” He asked, glancing towards the child, “There's a fire, see! You guys shouldn't be here!” The man was a convincing actor, his voice quivered and shook like a man who'd been in shock. He pulled his glove back up to hide his green skin, it was repulsive to him. He smelled like sulfur and smoke and plant.
“Is the kid alright?”

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