#uhhh idk wat 2 tag but like its under a readmore anyway so

[xjelani-archive-blog]

If there was one thing Lucille wasn’t, it was unintelligent. Lacking in sense, morally corrupt -- yes. But ignorant?

She knew; she knew one way or another, things were going to get bad. Whether by the will of her own, or this ‘Andrew Reid’ -- this story had an ugly ending, and one of them were bound to get the short end of the stick. Unfortunately for Andrew, Lucille had no intention for it to be her. For her suspicions were confirmed when Carol had called her early that morning; telling her of police cars gathered around Santiago’s home, and how word of his murder had spread.

A curse interjects between the news, and Carol’s worried, though suspicious tone warrants an apology. Lucille hadn’t much time to explain, however -- and Carol should know by now there were things the hitman couldn’t discuss. The call drops, and Lucille throws the device hard against marble floor, watching it break and disassemble against the collision. Whatever, she could buy a new one anytime. Something greater haunts her mind; looming over her and driving her mad.

“--Fuck.” She snarls, angry. Uninvolved with the police? A liar! A filthy, fucking liar. If he wasn’t clearly bulletproof, Lucille would puncture a bullet into his skull as soon as she were able. But she figures that was far too merciful. She wants him to suffer. She wants to see him bleed. She wants--

...Ah, she needs to curb her bloodlust. Falling into her more sadistic inclinations with the instability of her ire only served as a distraction. She needs to think, and she needs to think fast. Her DNA needs to be cleansed of that place, and unfortunately for the investigative party at Santiago’s residence, it looks like Lucille would have to personally scour away the evidence by her own means.

This was on Reid’s head.

The scene is brutal, though not unfamiliar. A body; nude and male, looking to be around his early twenties is laying haphazardly in the tub, a shower curtain tossed over his legs. The bleeding had stopped awhile ago, but blotches of dried blood splattered against tile above the corpse’s head suggests the trauma had been caused by a singular bullet. There was no struggle; James Santiago had been caught by surprise, and had a quick death -- less than 24 hours ago, too.

The detective frowns, turning towards photographer beside him, snapping as many photos from different angles as to be used as evidence later. There isn’t much telling of what lead up to the homicide; though swabs of blood were taken into bags anyway. Of the body, and of the crimson, crusted footprints pressed into the bathroom floor.

“This must be the woman.” The officer says, to which the photographer nods, and snaps a picture of that, too.

“Could be.” The photographer says, a frown touching their features. They rise from their crouching position, and nearly wobble. The officer to their side steadies them with a strong hand.

“Thank you.” They say, quietly.

“What happened to your foot?” He asks, a frown of his own now pulling at his lips.

“An accident at home.” They say. “I dropped a knife. It didn’t end well.”

“Well that doesn’t--” The officer’s sentence is cut short.

There’s a blade skewered into his throat -- twisting, deepening -- sawing around flesh until he’s dropping to his knees, and gurgling blood and saliva. The photographer watches with a vacant gaze, a hand to his chest is keeping him from thudding into the floor and alerting the other officers of the fall. They ease him slowly onto the ground, and the door behind them shuts ever so softly.

An extra camera lense is pulled from the bag at their hip, the end is twisting until it’s popped open, and out rolls an explosive grenade. They do a little more digging, and a bottle disguised as artificial flavored juice is plucked out as well. It’s a low-odor bottle of kerosene transferred into a different container, and the photographer opens it without a hit of hesitation. They need to work fast -- before someone checks in on them.

Liquid splashes onto the fresh body, over the footprints, before it’s lifted. Jelani opens the door, and pours the burning fluid a little further into the hallway.

“Hey! What’re you--”

“Forensic stuff!” Is the chirpy reply, and that blade once used to slice into that slowly dying officer is thrown at another -- her aim uncannily precise when it harpoons into his throat. The man is clutching onto the blade handle, mortified, and dropping onto his knees in a similar fashion to his chief. Jelani rips her weapon from his esophagus, before continue to spill kerosene over her footprints. She tosses the bottle when it empties, and tears the ring off her explosive, before throwing that further into the hallway. She’s pulling out a pistol, taking a moment to twist her silencer on, before pointing it at the woman staring at her in shock; the one who had been unfortunate enough to walk onto the scene.

A bullet to the head, a quick death. Her body drops somewhere near the officer’s legs before she’d a chance to let that bubbling scream rip through her throat.

Jelani adjusts the hat she wears, covering her face, before walking -- and this time a little more quickly -- out through the house and through the back door. She steps out; there’s more officers -- investigating the scene -- no one quite takes notice of her presence aside a few spare glances. That is, until a scream shreds somewhere within the Santiago residence, and police are swarming into the door with alarm.

She’s rushing in the other direction -- limping -- and she thinks she can vaguely hear someone call out to her.

 “Hey--...HEY, YOU--”

But the explosion that BLASTS within the house is throwing her body forward, pushing her and crashing her into the ground to tumble a generous feet away. Fiery smoke and flames burst from the house -- debris, glass, pieces of wood and steel is thrown with her -- scratching her, burning her, and abrading her clothes and skin with singes and lines of red. 

She hacks, parts of her arm scraped against asphalt and scorching her skin. She seems to have snapped a bone in her arm with the fall; for it protrudes past marred skin. However the satisfaction of watching black smoke rise into the sky and debris and ash rain from the deadly bomb is enough to have her ignore the horrible pain. Body parts were scattered; arms, legs, fingers and pieces of heads. A piece of a torso here, a charred thigh there. The intensity of the heat hitting her face even from this distance as the flames continue to burn. The faint sound of sirens as her hearing slowly starts to return…

The damage had been done, and Jelani couldn’t help but laugh at the destruction of it all. That, and she was a little surprised it’d gone so well. One more thing, however -- before firetrucks and helicopters invade the scene. She drops a plastic card onto the floor, rubbing it into dirt and blood and leaving it there before she pushes herself up onto her feet with her working, prosthetic arm.

She knew things were bound to get ugly.