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[@Punished GN][@Atrophy][@FernStone][@Blizz][@AtomicEmperor]@everyone
[code]Kari Wilson's House[/code]
[hr]

Clancy gave Layla a queer look, thinking back on what she'd said. Blood on his hands...

She was the girl who'd taken Alizee's place, if what little he understood about them was correct. What was she talking about? [i]Blood on his hands.[/i]

The mess, left by the nazi asshole at the club?

Friend?

[i]The parasite.[/i] He realised now, the shadow wasn't there - not that he would miss it. The entropic [i]wound[/i] it formed wherever it stood was absent, though he thought it was a shame that the French girl had needed to die first. [b]"It wasn't your friend. One [i]dead host[/i] was never going to be enough. [i]Believe me,[/i] you're better off without-"[/b]

Something interrupted his train of thought. Lingering further from the doorway, a [i]rotting[/i] presence was the best way he could describe it. One of the others, stood outside, a skinny latino with darker, almost-tatty clothes that put his own garb to shame. He wasn't sure why, but he got the impression there was more than a [i]skin-deep[/i] deterioration to him. Maybe he'd find out later.

Everyone here had their secrets, it seemed. 

Clancy understood that especially.

Britney had questioned him before, and he'd addressed [i]most[/i] of her questions as far as he was willing to, but there was one outstanding point. That he'd taken a bullet in front of about half of their number was a point he'd dodged so far.

[b]"Got better,"[/b] he answered in response to her and Stormy's continued interrogation, [b]"No, don't let me stop you from getting wasted, I'm just here for-"[/b]

[hr]

The [i]recollection[/i] hit him with no less force then the rest of them, like a waking dream being observed through a filter. A memory slipped into his consciousness, through the eyes of another person. Senses he'd not experienced for a long time. And then it was over - and he was back in the real world, or the closest thing that could pass for it to him.

The sound of something [i]crackling[/i] capped off the recollection as they returned back to their senses.

Of the group of them, Clancy was among those that had expressed the most discomfort - for lack of a better word. Not a physical pain, no, but the crinkled expression and fight-or-flight posture were an indicator that the memory had [i]broken[/i] some of the mental walls he'd set up for himself. 

And, as if to emphasise the point, there was [i]another[/i] section of the cabin's plaster wall damaged when they regained full cogniscence, a gouge about the size of a hand, as though someone had pressed their palm to the wall and dug their fingers into the plaster.

White dust coated his sleeve and fingertips, the most incriminating factor. It was the most emotion he'd expressed in the presence of others for a long time, and it was no doubt they could probably see that.

[b]"You're seeing them too, right?"[/b] he asked, breaking the silence to draw attention away from the damage. They [i]had[/i] to have seen it, otherwise why had they all stopped at the same time?

None of the faces in the memory were familiar to him. The names were, somewhat - albeit in fragments. Names he'd heard in passing. And Kari herself. There was one that gnawed at him, though.

[i]Emily.[/i]

He'd heard that name before, several times, from different places. Around St. Portwell - mentions of the [i]Eighth Street Coven[/i], and before that, when-

[i]When the name had been brought up by Ashley.[/i] During their internet chats, they'd gotten to a point of [i]trust[/i] that she felt capable of sharing snippets of herself with him, as he had the same. About family, and loss. Other things too.

[i]Ashley hadn't spoken of her like it was a good thing[/i], he recalled.

Come to think of it, there seemed to be a pattern to this. And 8th Street were a player in this town he knew, and a relentless one at that.

[b]"I don't recognise them."[/b] Clancy said, wiping the plaster fragments off on his jeans, [b]"But this Emily-... she sounds like an [i]asshole[/i]."[/b]

The truth was that he was wondering whether she was the kind of asshole that needed [i]dealing[/i] with. That was his first instinct. The second instinct was the question the first, because [i]instinct[/i] was a component he couldn't rely on without losing himself.

It was difficult to say. The vision had kicked at his senses, unbalanced him. Maybe it was the same for the others, but his sense of north and south had pivoted in light of the sudden alteration to the [i]established rules[/i] of his existence. He [i]didn't[/i] dream. Couldn't sleep, even. Had no need for either. And yet here he was, in a waking dream, with strangers.

[b]"Like I said, I don't know most of you, barely have names for faces, but Emily.... she knows who you are, right?"[/b] he continued, [b]"You've got history. Is she part of this?"[/b]