xp_logs | Masque: Doug has questions? Masque has... answers (Reply)

Like he said in his post to X_Team this morning, Doug goes out with Marie-Ange to do some legwork, since he knows some of the families involved.

Doug waved as another mother greeted him in Spanish. When he'd noticed that some of the victims of attacks had come from the neighborhood near Mama Lupe's restaurant, he'd volunteered as the ideal person to gather information. While it was true that he and Marie-Ange were a rubio and pelirroja in a sea of morenos, a blond and redhead pair of Anglos in a hugely Hispanic neighborhood, nobody gave them a second look. Doug may have been a gringo, but he was -their- gringo. He spoke their language, knew their customs and ways, and could eat Mama Lupe's not-on-the-menu specials without blinking. True, he grimaced every time one of the more macho young men offered to drink tequila with him, but nobody was perfect.

Scowling to himself, Doug reviewed the information he'd read in his mind. It was maddening. There had to be a pattern to the attacks. There was always a pattern, if you could just see it. But none of the victims seemed to have anything in common. Old, then young. Hispanic, then Anglo, then Asian. Women, men, it didn't seem to matter to the attacker. So that was why Doug and Angie were doing a little old-fashioned leg work. Perhaps there was something that wasn't in the information Doug had gotten.

As he left the house he'd been in, talking to the parents of one of the victims in Jubilee's police reports, Doug scowled even more as he turned away from the door. Nothing. Zero. Nada. Rien. Nichts. Saying it in as many languages as possible (and subsequently -cursing- about it in as many languages as possible) did nothing about the fact that he was approximately at the same point where he was when he'd started looking at the files. There was just no pattern at all in the attacks. Straight A student, gangbanger. Successful Wall Street banker, white trash with five kids. Fishing out his cell phone, Doug hit the speed-dial for Marie-Ange to see if she was having any more luck.

As he passed by an alley there was a blur of movement to his left, and something sharp and wet hit his neck. A stab of pain, and then sudden, blissful numbness. As his legs gave way someone grabbed him under the arms and yanked him back and behind a heavily graffitied dumpster. Three people, he registered dimly, and one more holding him. All filthy, all hooded, and none of them with body language that communicated anything other than threat.

One of them, the smallest, took a step forward.

"Someone's been asking questions."

As if to compensate for the fact that none of his extremities suddenly felt like working correctly, Doug's brain went into an almost hyper-aware state. He could feel the numbness slowly crawling throughout his body. He could see that none of the figures surrounding him looked quite...right, underneath their formless robes. Joints didn't look like they bent properly, disturbing lumps that Doug could only guess at showing, and the like.

"It looks like I've gotten some answers," Doug attempted to say with false bravado, but the anaesthetic made his tongue feel about five sizes too large for his mouth, so the words came out almost incomprehensible.

The figure made a harsh noise, wet and full of malice. "Never know what you'll find when you knock on doors, pretty boy. Let me help you break that habit." Moved from oversized sleeves to take Doug's own, dangling limply at his sides. Warm fingers clasped his, and squeezed.

"Pretty boy." The words echoed through Doug's brain, and suddenly the entire puzzle he'd been trying to solve clicked together.

"She was so pretty..."
"He had such a beautiful smile..."

The phrases that had come out of every set of parents Doug had visited blurred together. _That_ was the pattern. It wasn't gender, or race, or age, or sexual preference...

A snatch of lyrics suddenly came to Doug as he sagged to his knees, the supporting grips of the group behind him pressing him down as their...master...did his work.

"You can't see the forest for the trees,
And you can't smell your own shit on your knees..."

And then Doug remembered the name of the song. He laughed hollowly as the flesh of his hands seemed to flow together into a formless mass. "The beautiful people..." he murmured.

"Not for long," his assailent snarled, and raised his hand.

--

"Hello? Doug? Bonjour? Allo? Douglas?" No answer on the phone, but it was Doug calling her, and he was only a block away, and he never just rang her and said nothing. Doug chattered, babbling aimlessly about his day, what he was doing, here and there throughout the day. He was as addicted to his phone as he was his email, and his text messages, and all of the other ways he could communicate. It was what Doug did.

And then the flash headache struck. Snaps of pain behind her eye bursting like popcorn, and the dread that if she didn't move, Doug would... not be Doug anymore.

--

There was an alley, behind the little shop where Doug always bought that awful-smelling hot sauce he put on eggs. The alley always gave her a shiver whenever they walked past it, like something was - or would be - lurking there.

It was the first place Marie-Ange checked. To find a group of cloaked and hooded figures restraining a barely-struggling Doug.

The tread of shoes echoed into the alleyway, and all of the figures turned simultaneously. One of them laughed and spread hands wide. Masque would be fine with the boy now that Bliss' anaesthetic had kicked in. "Another pretty..." he chuckled. He indicated the staff Marie-Ange had conjured almost unconsciously as she had run to the alley. "You really think that's going to help? There's one of you, and four of us..."

Marie-Ange scowled and held up a hand, snapping a card out from seemingly nowhere to appear between her fingers "Four? I am sorry, I am not so good at the numbers... " She concentrated, and then smiled at the murmured noises of surprise. Without a gesture from her, the mass of skeletons, each bearing their very own jagged-edged sword pressed forward. "Would fifteen be more acceptable?" Her voice caught on the words, just a bit, leaving her sounding more scared than she would like to admit to, and breathless from the run.

"Mutants," the breath hissed out of the man hovering over Doug as he drew back. As if on cue the boy was released, dropped limply to the ground.

"You really think a few pictures are going to scare us off?" one of Masque's 'friends' scoffed. Stepping forward confidently, he staggered backward when the sword one of the skeletons carried sliced into his arm. "Shit! They're real!" he exclaimed, cradling his injured arm. The skeletons, in unison, brought their swords to a high guard position in eery silence. The three flunkies looked at each other, then ran without any further encouragement.

Their leader laughed wildly. "Perfect plastic cookie-cutter couple," he sing-songed as he whirled away, "see how many questions your boyfriend asks now."

The anaesthesia had left Doug somewhat muddled through the whole exchange as he lolled sideways on his knees. He held his hands...or what had -been- his hands, up in front of his face. They had been fused together to form almost pseudopod-looking appendages. No fingers, nothing but smooth skin. Idly, almost bemusedly, Doug wondered why the change hadn't hurt.

And then the adrenaline from being taken finally burned through the anaesthesia.

Doug's last thought before blacking out was "Oh. Now it hurts."