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.
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"Fae," he admits after a moment, expression questioning as he looks at Simon to see which way this is going to go for him.
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Simon has never really understood Gilbert Norrell's hatred of and obsession with the fae, but after seeing what they are capable of in his role as the world's most ineffective body guard back in October, he feels he has a right to be wary.
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"You're probably right," he says, sounding exhausted. He's too cold and too traumatized to really care about supernatural politics right now.
"I should probably go before the police arrive." Maybe if he shifts into dog form he won't have to face any questions about why he's in a park, basically naked, right before dawn.
no subject
With his jacket back in his hands, Eames takes a business card out of the inside pocket and offers it to Simon. There's nothing identifying on it, just a phone number, but the plainness of it should be enough not to forget where it came from. "If you want to talk," he says, offering a gentle smile with it.