Lucille
Lobby
22:35pm | August 3
After Lucille and Greg had been separated from Rick and Eloise they'd continued to blindly run, charge and scramble around the hotel halls in such a panic that they'd made it down to the lobby before they'd realized Du'Met hadn't followed. Greg made to yank the main door open so they could escape out into the fresh air but that didn't happen because before Greg even got a hold of the door knob a heavy metal gate fell down to literally cage them in. Rick's blue eyes went wide because who was this fucking nutjob and how had he managed to construct a murder castle without anybody noticing?
That Rathelin guy, Greg didn't think he and the deranged lunatic chasing after them were actually the same person. Yeah, there was a mask involved, but Rathelin hadn't ben as tall and had blond hair while the killer's was darker. No, there were two of these maniacs hunting them, and Greg didn't know if he could find Rosalie let alone keep both her and his wife alive. Heidi had been gone too long and something told him she'd already fallen victim to the masked man. Hopefully Rick and Eloise had been able to outrun Du'Met, but Greg couldn't bring himself to hope for anybody except for his sweet daughter. Rosalie was a girl of four, she didn't deserve to die alone in such a place; even if it cost Greg his own life, he'd save her. A father's duty was to protect his child and Greg would damn well do it as long he still drew breath.
For a few moments husband and wife had discussed what to do next in frantic voices but, since the front door apparently had a portcullis, they'd not be getting out the building and would getting out of the building even do them any good? Rosalie had to be somewhere and they seriously doubted it was out in the fresh air.
"Where do we even look, Greg, this place is a maze."
"Our room." He nodded to himself. "Maybe there's some clue where she went." Before he'd even fully finished speaking Lucille asked him what they'd do if there wasn't one. "We'll look somewhere else. The more places we look the quicker we'll find her."
The Pattersons had reached a level which could only accurately be described as grasping at straws. While they were devoted parents intent on protecting their only child, Lucille and Greg had ignored the fact that their entire family had vanished off the face of the earth because, as long as they denied it room in their brains, it hadn't really happened.
They'd walked out of their lives without asking any questions and now a price had to be paid. As Lucille's obsession with Game Of Thrones kept reminding her: 'What we don't know is what usually gets us killed', wise words from a man almost as cunning and conniving as Du'Met.
Husband and wife searched the hotel as best they could for their daughter. Every now and again they'd call out for her only to clamp their mouths closed just in case a serial killer turned a corner. Du'Met had been absent for quite some time and frankly that was almost more terrifying than when he'd been actively chasing after them with murderous intent. Lucille almost wished he'd just pop up to end the suspense; that would have been a kindness though and Du'Met showed kindness to nobody but his phoenix.
First floor, second floor, lobby – nowhere, Rosalie wasn't anywhere to be found and they'd started to think the walls moved because there where too many dead ends. Then both parents stopped dead in their tracks; Lucille grabbed hold of her husband's arm as they simply listened as though trying to determine if their ears had played a cruel trick. Rosalie! They could hear Rosalie crying at the top of her little lungs. Neither said a word, just took off toward the sound almost falling over their own feet in the process. Rosalie screamed out again and again for her mommy as they got closer and her parents called out for her in return. Greg practically kicked down the door separating himself from his child and the two parents found themselves in a strangely large room. It was the size of two hotel rooms but it was split in half by a large glass wall with a metal door fitted into the far right side.
Greg
2ND Floor
23:49pm | August 3
"No!" Lucille screamed when Du'Met appeared behind them in the doorway and quietly, without so much as a blink, shut the door trapping them inside. Greg rushed to the door, yanked on it, pounded on it, but the door refused to yield.
They turned back to what lay beyond the glass wall though because it filled them each with both fear and relief. Hanging from a chain was a metal box about the size of a standard wardrobe trunk with fist-sized circular holes cut out of it in neat rows. Inside Rosalie moved about frantically while continuing to scream for her mother. Lucille and Greg banged on the glass, yelled out for the little girl but it was no use, she couldn't hear them. Greg launched at the metal door with every intention of forcing it open, but as soon as he reached it a second glass wall descended separating him from his wife while a third dropped down to block the exit Du'Met had loitered in only a few moments earlier. The Pattersons stared at one another; in their blind panic to reach Rosalie they'd practically jumped head first into the murderer's trap.
It took a moment but soon the two noticed a shortness of breath and that was when they finally noticed the two valves on either side of the glass wall between them. Husband and wife rushed to their respective valves and fought against the rusted metal to turn the wheels giving them back the gift of breathing. Lucille and Greg took deep, overzealous gulps which their lungs thanked them for. Although, they saw something more alarming once they had. A valve also adorned the wall in Rosalie's section of the room; and Rosalie's crying had gone quiet. The harsh realization stung deep and violently: three sections, three people, but only two could have an air supply. One would have to die. Du'Met hadn't just trapped them, he'd forced them to play his game.
"Luci," began Greg in a shaky voice, "close your eyes."
"What? No! No, Greg, don't do this." She pleaded but her desperation was met by anger and a finger thrust out at Rosalie hanging in that box.
"It's me or her! He wants us to choose, Luci! That bastard wants us to choose and he can't make me kill my daughter. I won't do it and nothing that piece of shit does can make me, so close your eyes because I don't want you to see this."
"But-"
Greg didn't let his loving wife get any further, the longer he listened the longer Rosalie went without air. He was the patriarch of the family, he was the one tasked with protecting them and he'd damn well do it even if it meant giving up his own life. Greg turned the valve then backed away knowing he'd sealed his fate.
"Don't look." He implored his wife as air was again sucked out of his section of the room. "Don't look."
This was her husband's last request, she wanted to obey but she couldn't take her heartbroken eyes from the suffocating man. They'd known one another since high school, they'd gone to prom together and known, even back then, they'd be married. The love of Greg Patterson and Lucille Schulz had been a forever sort of love, the love displayed in light-hearted films; neither had expected forever to be quite so short.
Suffocation took longer than most people realized, so Lucille was forced to stand there and watch the man she loved with all her heart suffer. Soon he dropped to his knees and his skin grew a sickening purple color, his eyes grew bloodshot as his body finally accepted what his brain already knew: there was no saving him. Lucille screamed threw her tears when he finally stopped moving, when she officially fell from wife to widow. He'd been meant to die peacefully in his sleep seventy years from now, not like this, not so violently.
Lucille
2ND Floor
00:11am | August 4
She wanted to mourn, wanted to hold him and grieve him but, again, that would have been a kindness Du'Met wouldn't ever give. The metal door separating Lucille from Rosalie clicked as the lock released then swung open and for a second Lucille didn't move because she didn't wish to leave Greg behind, because her legs shook too much and because shock was a cruel mistress. However, father had given up his life for the daughter and Lucille wouldn't let that brave, noble act be for naught and that alone was what finally got Lucille to move her feet.
She stepped through the door and released the lock on the hanging metal box only to find her daughter hadn't ever been inside, instead it was nothing but a child-sized animatronic which wobbled back and forth with the pretence of life. Lucille collapsed as another inconsolable cry escaped her grief-stricken body. Greg gad died for nothing. She screamed, she wailed, and at some point Lucille's very soul broke. Her grief was so all-consuming that she took no notice when the glass walls all retracted and the door they'd entered through slowly opened, nor did she notice Du'Met push the side door open.
The masked man watched her a time with a smile. Mothers always knew their children, that was something of an axiom, but Lucille hadn't been able to tell it wasn't Rosalie inside that box. Still, he felt a pang of jealously toward the child: at least her mother had loved her.
Soon Lucille felt the intense stare of a maniacal monster on her and tear-filled eyes fearfully peered over her shoulder to see him just staring with that knife of his at the ready. Part of her, the part where her soul had been fractured most dreadfully, urged her to simply stand there and accept death now Greg was gone, but the mother inside her refused that urge. Lucille ran, she fled as quickly as her feet would let her back out into the halls and Du'Met gave chase. She rushed passed locked doors, around corners and a hatted shadow in her desperation to escape the masked man but then, just when the lobby stairs came into view at the end of the hall, the wallpapered wall rolled to block her path and Lucille bounced off of it to the ground.
Du'Met walked toward her like a rancher toward a penned in animal. Lucille stood no chance against him and nobody would come to rescue her. Her sisters, brother-in-law and husband were all dead and her daughter was with Du'Met's phoenix. Much to the killer's pleasure she tried to fight, to kick and escape him thanks to that base instinct to survive left over from the cave days; honestly Du'Met admired her for fighting until the very end, some didn't. But no, there would be no miraculous escape as there had been with the team of Lonnit Entertainment. Granthem Du'Met had basically turned himself into a god-like ender of lives by this point of his murderous career: an anchor had plunged into his chest and not only somehow missed his heart but also healed so fast it had been as though it had never happened, he'd not even gotten a scar. Death had tried and failed. Of course Lucille didn't know that and promptly threw a vase at his head. It shattered and cut his flesh right where the mask met his forehead but a little blood in his eyes wasn't enough to stop Du'Met. He lunged forward as she tried to rush passed him and grabbed her by the hair so he could yank her to the ground and haul her down the hall into a room which magically opened for him by that blond hair of hers. After all, he couldn't have blood stains on his hallway carpets, that was just uncouth. He adored his traps and games, but sometimes all the traps in the world couldn't rival a blade and it had been too long since he'd simply stabbed an innocent person to death. Animalistic violence needed satisfying there and then. A knife sharp and long plunged into Lucille's abdomen over and over and over again causing blood to splatter everywhere: her clothes, the floor, the walls, Du'Met's mask and apron. Each thrust of sharp metal so powerful they nearly pinned her to the ground. The savagery continued, the rage and sadistic pleasure all continued until agonizing screams gave way to gargled blood, and then, with as much alarming speed as it had all begun, Du'Met's blade stilled and he sat back on his haunches beside the dying woman as a pool of crimson formed around her. Du'Met didn't move, hardly even blinked, just watched Lucille's last moments like the hedonistic serial killer he was.
He lifted a questioning eyebrow behind his mask when Lucille's eyes tilted to meet his and words pushed out from her bloody mouth with a strangled gargle.
"Is – is my baby … dead?"
Du'Met regarded her a moment then shook his head in an eerily slow movement. That single shake of his head was like another blow of the knife: sharp, all-consuming and far deeper than those that had gone before it. Greg Patterson had gone out thinking he'd saved his daughter, while Lucille Patterson died fully aware she'd failed and that Rosalie remained at the mercy of a monster capable of such vehement ferocity. The irony being that Charlie had actually saved her daughter before she'd even arrived at the island. That trauma was the final pain Du'Met had been able to inflict upon her, because soon the ichor puddle was vast and her heart stopped, the light fled her eyes and her soul went to wherever it was the Curator kept them all.
Like he'd not just viciously murdered a woman, Du'Met cleaned the blood from his trusty blade and rose to his feet. Then, taking his time, he returned to the nerve centre where he found his phoenix waiting patiently with the first aid kit.
"Sorry about the vase." Charlie said as Du'Met removed his mask and hat then let the director tend to the small cut. "I didn't think about the vase, if I had I'd have blocked her somewhere else." Apologetic, his lover seemed genuinely apologetic and that caused the corner of Du'Met's lip to upturn slightly before he pulled him in for a kiss. "All right, down boy." Charlie teased. "Let me patch your head up."
Perched on the edge of his research table so Charlie had better access to his forehead, Du'Met patiently waited for his wound to be patched up. Sure it bled but Du'Met had always had a rather impressively high pain threshold and such a tiny cut bared little thinking about, however, he'd never had anybody who cared enough to tend to his injuries before and rather liked the diligent expression on Charlie's face. A memory flashed up from the deepest depths of his mind then, so quickly in fact that it actually surprised Du'Met and refused to go back in its damn box. The memory wasn't one from an important day, not something one would call life-changing, just a day like any other. He'd been eleven, maybe twelve, and still using the name Hector. He'd cut his hand open on the fence gate on his way home from school, blood had poured everywhere and it had stung, but his mother had only chastised him for his supposed stupidity and incompetence rather than aiding her only child. That wound had been deep but this new shallow one Charlie cleaned and tended to with such genuine care. Charlie might have been almost as dark as Du'Met on the inside but he wasn't heartless; when he truly cared about somebody, he cared about them wholeheartedly.
"There you go, Granthem, it's not that bad." Charlie closed the first aid kit. "You should shower though, you're all sweaty."
Du'Met didn't speak, not that Charlie had expected him to, just left his hat and mask on the research table then smoothly removed his apron which Charlie kindly hung up for him. Such a sweet phoenix. When he rolled his shoulders Du'Met realized he was indeed sweaty, covered in blood and vaguely uncomfortable – shower, a shower was a good idea. He grabbed Charlie by his tie and hauled him along to their bedroom like an adorable puppy. The box was shoved out the way as the two men entered then replaced all while a sleeping Rosalie was ignored, and slipped into the bathroom. Clothes were stripped off, glasses and knives were placed by the basin as the hot water was turned on and the two men stepped under the spray together. While not routine, these little domestic moments had become welcomed by both killer and director because neither had ever been able to indulge in such a way before.
Once they'd dressed again in Du'Met's preferred era of suits, he went to retrieve his mask, Charlie had been right behind him but paused when Rosalie roused from her sleep.
"Mommy?"
Charlie sighed because no matter how many times she called out for her mother, the woman wouldn't ever return.
"No, she's still not here and it's still late so you should go back to sleep." If Charlie had seen his head tilt to the side, the soft smile on his lips or even the way his shoulders relaxed, he'd have thought he appeared rather fatherly. "Everything's all okay, sweetheart, I promise." Kindly he pulled the covers back up where she'd shuffled in her sleep as Rosalie snuggled her purple bear closer. "Good girl, there we go. Time to go back to sleep."
Once certain she would indeed slip back into slumber, Charlie turned to leave only to find his masked lover stood in the doorway watching the display with a curious eye. Du'Met hadn't ever really interacted with children, as a child they'd bullied him for being so quiet, as an FBI agent he'd thought them a hindrance to his investigations, and in his glorious life as a serial killer they'd been little more than tools so he'd paid them no attention there either. It wasn't a case if disliking children exactly, it was far more simple because he felt nothing for or about them – nothing. Frankly Du'Met had assumed the same would be true for Charlie and, as usual, he'd been correct. Although, as he looked Charlie comfort the girl and easily settle her back down for some more sleep, Du'Met realized that just because one had no interest, association or feelings regarding children, didn't necessarily mean one was bad with kids.
The box was replaced yet again so the men could speak alone, unobserved. Charlie with his back to the cracked door and Du'Met leant against one of the concrete support pillars snared in cables with a light affixed to it.
"We'll get a few more hours of sleep out of her and then we'll need to think of something else to keep her occupied. There is a tablet in the bag I took, it'll help." Du'Met nodded then lifted Charlie's left hand so he could tap out words on it; actual speech would have been so much faster and simpler but this was the version of conversation they'd worked out and it worked for them so, as the old saying said, if it ain't broke. "No, I don't think she needs drugging again. It's still really late and she's a kid, sure she woke up a few times but she seems rather compliant." The Morse code continued. "No, since our bed is occupied, I'm going to do some editing then grab some dinner. You enjoy your toys."
With a kiss Du'Met dropped Charlie's hand and headed off to crush the luggage since it was now little more than junk before he went to his workroom to 'play with his toys' as Charlie had grown fond of saying. He'd gotten so many new parts and it was always best to use them when they were fresh.
Meanwhile Charlie did indeed start on editing his footage, though it wasn't until almost forty minutes had passed that Charlie suddenly wondered where he and Du'Met were meant to sleep since it wasn't as though any of the hotel rooms were actually designed for a good night's slumber.