Dr. Simon O'Neill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
protagonized) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-01-07 05:57 pm
protagonized) wrote in undergrounds2016-01-07 05:57 pm
Entry tags:
Be Careful What You Wish For - [active/open]
There's a moment you know
Bloomsbury - 2 January
The email had come completely out of the blue.
Dear Simon,
My name is Robert Richardson. I was recently contacted by a woman from Catholic Charities Washington, who passed along your contact information. I understand that you have been looking for your birth family for quite some time, and I think I can help. On September 3, 1993, my daughter gave birth to a baby boy at Saint Joseph Medical Center in Tacoma, Washington. She was only fifteen and decided that adoption was the best thing for her son. The documents she signed indicate that he was adopted by John O'Neill and Cynthia Braithwaite, and that they named him Simon.
If that information is correct, I believe you are my grandson.
I will be in London on a business trip from the 8th through the 16th of this month. I understand it's short notice, but I would like to meet you and your parents.
Looking forward to your reply,
Bob Richardson
Simon emerged from his room, white and shaking, to find Matt sprawled on the futon, blasting away imaginary terrorists on Simon's Xbox.
"...They found them," he said, looking utterly dazed. "They found my biological family. My birth mum's dad just emailed me and he's going to be here in a few days. He wants to meet."
You're fucked.
Going home - 9 January (01:17)
Well, dinner had been nice.
Simon still couldn't quite believe he'd met his grandfather--his real grandfather--and that he was tax attorney with a practice in Seattle. Whatever he'd imagined for his birth family, he hadn't thought it would be that mundane. He'd gotten to see pictures of his other family members, too, and that was what had really made the whole thing real to him. He recognized parts of himself in those faces, especially his mother's. The shared the same hair color, the same eyes, the same smile.
He wished he could have gotten to meet her.
That was the most disappointing part. With tears in his eyes, his grandfather had told them about her death in an automobile accident at the age of 19. There had been ice on the road and she took a curve too quickly. Her car hit a tree and she died instantly.
They were well into their third bottle of wine at that point. Simon had started to place hints, wondering if this was the side that he'd gotten his powers from, but either he'd been far too subtle or Bob had no idea and Simon eventually gave up. It was enough for him, for now. Now that he knew who his mother was, he could start working on trying to find his father.
In fact, Bob had started to indicate that might be in the stars. He and Simon's parents seemed to get along very well, and by the time they were on bottle number four, they were begging him to stay longer in London and he was inviting them all to Washington the next summer.
It was nearly midnight when they finally parted ways, agreeing that they needed to meet again before Bob finished his business in London and returned to the States. Simon hailed a cab and started stumbling home, more than halfway drunk and completely awed by what had just happened.
And then it all went sideways.
Simon got the text message at 1:17.
It was a picture of his mum, bloodied and bruised, with a large kitchen knife held under her neck. She was crying.
Come home, it read. Your parents are dying to see you. Calling the police is a very bad idea.
Simon dropped everything and started to run.
[OOC: Simon needs your character's help! He's running towards his parents' house in Westminster. If your character is out and about this evening, he'll try to get them to come help save his parents.]
Not an inch more room
Westminster - 9 January (02:01)
"And here's the little mutt now."
Bob Richardson had completely transformed. Gone was the mild-mannered attorney from Tacoma. He seemed larger now, stronger. He sneered at Simon, at his parents who were beaten and bloody on the floor, tied up with their clothing.
"I've just been telling your mom and dad about the other things I learned about you. I can't believe you managed to hide it from them. You're a little freak, just like your fucking father. C'mon, freak, and show your mommy and daddy what you can really do."
[ooc: I'm going to be posting threads in the comments with prompts to respond to.]
To self-destruct.
Somewhere in Westminster - 9 January (05:38)
Simon shivered in the cold. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, just that he'd started running and hadn't stopped until he couldn't run anymore. He was still only wearing the dressing gown his dad had handed him.
Dad. Oh god.
Mum and Dad couldn't even look at him, now that they'd seen what he really was. Now that they'd seen him rip a man's throat out. He was still covered in Richardson's blood. The stench made him gag, but there wasn't anything left in his stomach to lose. He pulled the dressing gown tighter around himself and sobbed. They all hated him now. Even Matt. Of course they did. He was just another mindless killer, like all the other monsters.
He was too wrapped up in his misery and self-pity to notice the footsteps approaching him.
Bloomsbury - 2 January
The email had come completely out of the blue.
Dear Simon,
My name is Robert Richardson. I was recently contacted by a woman from Catholic Charities Washington, who passed along your contact information. I understand that you have been looking for your birth family for quite some time, and I think I can help. On September 3, 1993, my daughter gave birth to a baby boy at Saint Joseph Medical Center in Tacoma, Washington. She was only fifteen and decided that adoption was the best thing for her son. The documents she signed indicate that he was adopted by John O'Neill and Cynthia Braithwaite, and that they named him Simon.
If that information is correct, I believe you are my grandson.
I will be in London on a business trip from the 8th through the 16th of this month. I understand it's short notice, but I would like to meet you and your parents.
Looking forward to your reply,
Bob Richardson
Simon emerged from his room, white and shaking, to find Matt sprawled on the futon, blasting away imaginary terrorists on Simon's Xbox.
"...They found them," he said, looking utterly dazed. "They found my biological family. My birth mum's dad just emailed me and he's going to be here in a few days. He wants to meet."
You're fucked.
Going home - 9 January (01:17)
Well, dinner had been nice.
Simon still couldn't quite believe he'd met his grandfather--his real grandfather--and that he was tax attorney with a practice in Seattle. Whatever he'd imagined for his birth family, he hadn't thought it would be that mundane. He'd gotten to see pictures of his other family members, too, and that was what had really made the whole thing real to him. He recognized parts of himself in those faces, especially his mother's. The shared the same hair color, the same eyes, the same smile.
He wished he could have gotten to meet her.
That was the most disappointing part. With tears in his eyes, his grandfather had told them about her death in an automobile accident at the age of 19. There had been ice on the road and she took a curve too quickly. Her car hit a tree and she died instantly.
They were well into their third bottle of wine at that point. Simon had started to place hints, wondering if this was the side that he'd gotten his powers from, but either he'd been far too subtle or Bob had no idea and Simon eventually gave up. It was enough for him, for now. Now that he knew who his mother was, he could start working on trying to find his father.
In fact, Bob had started to indicate that might be in the stars. He and Simon's parents seemed to get along very well, and by the time they were on bottle number four, they were begging him to stay longer in London and he was inviting them all to Washington the next summer.
It was nearly midnight when they finally parted ways, agreeing that they needed to meet again before Bob finished his business in London and returned to the States. Simon hailed a cab and started stumbling home, more than halfway drunk and completely awed by what had just happened.
And then it all went sideways.
Simon got the text message at 1:17.
It was a picture of his mum, bloodied and bruised, with a large kitchen knife held under her neck. She was crying.
Come home, it read. Your parents are dying to see you. Calling the police is a very bad idea.
Simon dropped everything and started to run.
[OOC: Simon needs your character's help! He's running towards his parents' house in Westminster. If your character is out and about this evening, he'll try to get them to come help save his parents.]
Not an inch more room
Westminster - 9 January (02:01)
"And here's the little mutt now."
Bob Richardson had completely transformed. Gone was the mild-mannered attorney from Tacoma. He seemed larger now, stronger. He sneered at Simon, at his parents who were beaten and bloody on the floor, tied up with their clothing.
"I've just been telling your mom and dad about the other things I learned about you. I can't believe you managed to hide it from them. You're a little freak, just like your fucking father. C'mon, freak, and show your mommy and daddy what you can really do."
[ooc: I'm going to be posting threads in the comments with prompts to respond to.]
To self-destruct.
Somewhere in Westminster - 9 January (05:38)
Simon shivered in the cold. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, just that he'd started running and hadn't stopped until he couldn't run anymore. He was still only wearing the dressing gown his dad had handed him.
Dad. Oh god.
Mum and Dad couldn't even look at him, now that they'd seen what he really was. Now that they'd seen him rip a man's throat out. He was still covered in Richardson's blood. The stench made him gag, but there wasn't anything left in his stomach to lose. He pulled the dressing gown tighter around himself and sobbed. They all hated him now. Even Matt. Of course they did. He was just another mindless killer, like all the other monsters.
He was too wrapped up in his misery and self-pity to notice the footsteps approaching him.
Not an inch more room
Confusion
Simon's voice was cracking with strain. He couldn't understand how this had happened.
"You're one of them, aren't you?" Richardson asked, pointing a large knife at Simon. "A shifter." His eyes gleamed maniacally. "I've been hunting down your kind since my Anna died. Your father tainted her with his filth. And now I've got you. My flesh and blood and a monster just like him."
Simon screamed again, "Please, just let them go!" He could feel himself starting to change, responding to the danger of the situation.
"Get my parents out of here," he called to the person behind him. "Please, make sure they're safe."
Then the white dog launched itself at the old man, fangs bared.
[OOC: I'll be NPCing the parents and Evil Grandpa during the fight]
Aftermath
Simon himself lay in a corner, still in dog form and covered in blood. Most of it was Richardson's, but not all. He was quick for an old man, and skilled with that knife. He looked up and saw his parents staring at him, but when his eyes met theirs, they looked away.
Slowly, painfully, he began to change back.
"Are they okay?" he asked once he'd transformed enough to speak.
no subject
He was kicked out of his haze when Simon spoke and looked over at his parents. The expression on Cynthia and John's face mirrored his own but at least he'd had the privilege of knowing Simon's secret. Simon's parents hadn't had that luxury and it showed. He knelt down next to Cynthia, looking for signs of injury. Apart from a few bruises and marks from the zip-ties that bound her wrists, she seemed physically untouched.
"They're fine," he said, his voice hollow. "I'm just going to get a pair of scissors from the kitchen to cut the ties off."
He stood up and looked over at Simon. He was covered in blood but he couldn't will his legs to take him over to his best friend. He was afraid and that simple thought made him feel incredibly guilty. "Are you alright?"
no subject
When Matt asked how he was, he just turned his head and stared at the wall. He could feel the eyes on him, and he could smell the fear in the air.
"Call the Night Council," he said eventually. "Lancelot Dulac, if you can reach him. The number's in my phone."
Someone needed to clean this up.
no subject
"He attacked you first," Matt said, his fingers hovering over the screen. "You were protecting your family. Anyone in your position would have done the same."
He scrolled through Simon's contacts and found the number. The phone seemed to ring for a eternity before it went into voicemail. Matt cursed and hung up, redialing the number. Someone needed to help them and it couldn't be the police. As he waited for Lancelot to pick up the phone, he grabbed a blanket off of a chair and brought it over to Simon.
"I can get you some clothes," he offered. He didn't know what else he could do for Simon. He'd never experienced anything like this before and he was lost, hoping that he was doing the right thing.
no subject
Finally, he grabbed it out of Matt's hands and turned back towards the wall. He couldn't face anyone right now, much less the pitying eyes of his best friend or the fearful stares of parents who had just realized their child wasn't even human.
"Just...take my mum and dad and go."
no subject
Matt felt he was practically pleading with Simon. He needed to snap his friend out of the numb haze that seemed to have fallen over him. "You should say something to your mom and dad," Matt said. "You're still their son."
no subject
He felt a twinge of regret as soon as the words left his mouth, but he didn't care. He was too far gone for that.
He laughed hollowly, turning to look at his parents. They looked away. "Am I still your son? Bet you've got buyer's remorse now. Caveat Emptor, and all that."
"Simon..." his mother began softly, but she refused to look him in the eye. "You know that's not..." She trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
no subject
"Don't take this out on them," Matt scolded, focusing on something other than his own apprehension. If he was helping someone else he didn't have time to let himself succumb to fear. "Your parents didn't ask for this. Can you blame them for being afraid? Can you blame me?"
Matt swallowed hard. He hadn't meant to admit that Simon was right. It slipped out as he was struggling to keep it all together. "It doesn't matter. We're still here. So get your head out of your ass and let's come up with a solution to this problem. Cowering naked in a pool of blood and biting our heads off isn't going to help!"
Matt paused before he sheepishly coughed. "Wrong... choice of words but you catch my meaning."
no subject
"I didn't ask for this either, damn it! I didn't ask to be born a fucking freak. I didn't ask for hunters to cross the fucking Atlantic Ocean to hurt the people I love most just because I turn into a fucking dog. I killed a man! I just ripped his fucking throat out!" He was shouting by now. "I'm a monster!"
He curled in on himself and started to sob.
no subject
"You're not a monster," he said softly. He glanced back at Simon's parents, hoping for some sign that they would back him up.
"You're not a monster," Matt said again, louder this time. "No one believes that. It's not your fault. But we need to figure out what to do next."
no subject
"You're not a monster," Simon's father repeated, holding onto his wife. His voice was unsteady. "Si, listen to me. We have to call the police. You acted in self-defense, you'll be fine, we--"
"I turned into a dog, Dad," Simon laughed, sounding like he was about to break. "How're you going to explain that?"
John O'Neill removed his dressing gown and handed it to Matt. "Give this to him. He'll listen to you best."
no subject
Matt walked over to Simon and offered him the gown. "No one has to explain it. I'll help you get cleaned up and then you can leave. I'll be here when the police arrive. No one will be looking for you. You were never here."
He would use his own gift. He'd change the story, convincing the police that the man had come in and attacked Simon's family. Self-defense. Matt could make the old man seem like the worst criminal that ever existed and in the court of public opinion it would be enough. He'd be going against everything he'd promised he wouldn't do when he started attending Redbright but desperate times called for desperate measures.
no subject
The Night Council would have to take care of it.
"If Lancelot doesn't answer, call the Redbright Institute. The police can't be here. It has to be the Night Council."
Only the Guardians could make it like it hadn't happened.
But it had happened. There was a body on the floor; his hands and face were covered with that man's blood. His parents bore the marks--more superficial than Simon's own wounds, but still there--of their ordeal.
And Matt still treated him like a bomb about to explode.
"I could use a drink," Simon said a bit louder, for his parents' benefit, and his father lit up, happy to see some small hint of his son back. Good. That would make it easier.
As his parents shakily moved toward the kitchen to get him something, Simon knew he had his chance.
He turned back to Matt and said, brusquely, "Sorry."
Then, barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe, he ran out into the night.
no subject
It was too late. Simon had already rushed out of the house leaving Matt behind to clean up. Maybe it was better this way. Still, Matt wasn't sure what he was supposed to tell the Night Council or anyone.
Matt turned and walked into the kitchen, uncertain of what he was going to say to Simon's parents. He didn't think they'd take the fact that Simon had run off as a good sign. They would want to call the police - there was little Matt could do to convince them otherwise.
Well, there was still something...
It was a betrayal of trust. He wasn't supposed to use his gift on anyone but Matt felt as though he was backed into a corner. He would make the call but only after he was sure that Simon's parents remembered little of what happened.
It was for their own good. Wasn't it?