Armand smokes a cigarette, and another; the temptation is there to reach out towards Daniel, slingshot around the mind he cannot access and attempt to monitor him via anyone else in his proximity. Spite, punishment. He could dig out his phone, take a page out of an insignificant mortal's playbook and just call him.
He does none of those things. Lets it go, sets it aside on some shelf to inspect later. Not ignored— it will wait for him to attend. He was in the middle of something, before Louis barged in with his foolishness. The night goes on, and Armand finishes this stage, and he smokes a third cigarette while watching the dawn. Still beautiful. He has imagined sunrise for so long as a still thing, seen only as paintings, single seconds captured for an eternity in impressions in oil and water.
It would look more impressive at night. Fireworks of the highest order. But that's needlessly dramatic, and this way, he can wait until neighbors upstairs have left for work. One captive becomes two, as though his control is a contagious disease. They both work to coat the entire unit in gasoline, to remove smoke detectors, to disable sprinkler heads. Furniture that would delay the spread of fire is shuffled to more advantageous positions, and the gas stove is turned on without striking the flame. It's an old building. Set to finally be upgraded to glass tops in a year. All the doors inside are open, but the front is locked and barricaded. One window in the bedroom is left cracked open to invite more oxygen.
Then they all wait.
A little after one pm, the landlord uses the last gas can to dunk his tenant in fuel, before holding it over his own head. It takes four tries with a matchbook, but it goes, and once it does it is instantaneous. Two humans cooked and killed, a quarter of the whole floor of a building is engulfed in an inferno. Windows melt and buckle and shatter. Only briefly the top domestic story in the 24 hour news cycle, but it's given frequent updates in asides and ticker crawls all day and onward.
There are some injuries from other residents. From pedestrians. The fire is so well-fueled it rages on and on, still smoldering into the evening. It's unlikely any deaths will be discovered for another few days; there's no telling when it'll be safe for firefighters to make the climb in. Armand watches it from some blocks away. A woman with short blonde hair, who seems familiar to him in an odd way, stands by him for a while before he realizes she handled their laundry services when they lived here last. It is awkward, but eventually, she hands him an envelope with phone numbers in it, and then takes her leave.
He considers it on his walk home. And he considers his next project. There have been potentials, ones he cast aside as his activities concerning Daniel have changed. One in particular stands out as the most— someone Armand has discarded due to the difficulty in moving him. It will take a week or more, to arrange it without causing alarm. But he accepts this. What is time, to a vampire?
no subject
He does none of those things. Lets it go, sets it aside on some shelf to inspect later. Not ignored— it will wait for him to attend. He was in the middle of something, before Louis barged in with his foolishness. The night goes on, and Armand finishes this stage, and he smokes a third cigarette while watching the dawn. Still beautiful. He has imagined sunrise for so long as a still thing, seen only as paintings, single seconds captured for an eternity in impressions in oil and water.
It would look more impressive at night. Fireworks of the highest order. But that's needlessly dramatic, and this way, he can wait until neighbors upstairs have left for work. One captive becomes two, as though his control is a contagious disease. They both work to coat the entire unit in gasoline, to remove smoke detectors, to disable sprinkler heads. Furniture that would delay the spread of fire is shuffled to more advantageous positions, and the gas stove is turned on without striking the flame. It's an old building. Set to finally be upgraded to glass tops in a year. All the doors inside are open, but the front is locked and barricaded. One window in the bedroom is left cracked open to invite more oxygen.
Then they all wait.
A little after one pm, the landlord uses the last gas can to dunk his tenant in fuel, before holding it over his own head. It takes four tries with a matchbook, but it goes, and once it does it is instantaneous. Two humans cooked and killed, a quarter of the whole floor of a building is engulfed in an inferno. Windows melt and buckle and shatter. Only briefly the top domestic story in the 24 hour news cycle, but it's given frequent updates in asides and ticker crawls all day and onward.
There are some injuries from other residents. From pedestrians. The fire is so well-fueled it rages on and on, still smoldering into the evening. It's unlikely any deaths will be discovered for another few days; there's no telling when it'll be safe for firefighters to make the climb in. Armand watches it from some blocks away. A woman with short blonde hair, who seems familiar to him in an odd way, stands by him for a while before he realizes she handled their laundry services when they lived here last. It is awkward, but eventually, she hands him an envelope with phone numbers in it, and then takes her leave.
He considers it on his walk home. And he considers his next project. There have been potentials, ones he cast aside as his activities concerning Daniel have changed. One in particular stands out as the most— someone Armand has discarded due to the difficulty in moving him. It will take a week or more, to arrange it without causing alarm. But he accepts this. What is time, to a vampire?