There's really no going back now, is there? All day, he kept wondering if he'd made a mistake, if he should go back to Nirrti and tell her to forget their agreement. But the memory of Sherlock's voice coming out of those cruelly smirking lips, the burning red eyes... the others didn't need that. They needed the master detective, not a broken man who couldn't sleep without nightmares of death.
He dresses lightly in clothes he normally wears for sleeping, so there's less of a chance of someone recognizing any scraps of cloth due to clothing damage as opposed to his usual daytime attire. He'll do his best to clean up, but even experienced killers make mistakes. He's no seasoned murderer. Slipping on a pair of lightweight shoes, he picks up the bag one of the goats brought to him a few hours ago and leaves his room.
The mansion is deathly quiet, carrying an odd air that leaves him with goosebumps down his arms and legs. It could be his own paranoia-- hell, it probably is-- but he expects someone to round the corner and catch him at any moment. He almost wishes someone would. But he makes it to the kitchen without incident and sets to work, setting to his task with a numb sort of focus.
It's easier to make the lemon curd than it was to bake the cake, not to mention much faster. He saw the tarts in the fridge, he knows who made them and who intends to eat them. He's counting on the goats to clean up the remainder before Ann can touch anything. He'll have to move his victim's body out of the kitchen, too. The thought of Ann going for her Friday morning cake and finding her friend dead makes him feel queasy.
The curd might not be perfect, but it's close enough in color, texture, and smell that it should work. His heart beating so fast he can hear it in his ears, Erhard takes a small jar out of the bag he brought, looking at the innocuous-seeming pulp inside. He remembers the first week they were here, when Takumi leaned against this tree. He'd read about it after that to be more prepared in case someone else was injured by it.
Now he's using it to commit murder.
He unscrews the lid of the glass jar and dumps the ground manchineel fruit into the curd, quickly mixing it in. It looks enough like lemon zest that it should work. The original tarts come out of the fridge and he quickly scoops out the existing filling, tossing it into the trash along with the empty jar. Carefully he refills the empty tart shells with the tainted lemon curd, then just as carefully he thoroughly rinses out the bowl and spoon before actually washing them to avoid burning his skin. The tarts go back into the fridge.
Now he just needs to sit here and hope Emi confronts him. With the light on in the kitchen, she'll probably notice someone in the room and come to investigate. He knows everyone sees him as someone who's broken and not a fighter, so if he can make her believe he's simply waiting to be killed by a third party....
He unlocks the door to the garden, planning to slip back in that way once she sees him leave the kitchen via the dining room. If he can circle around and listen at the window, he might be able to catch her off guard even if the toxin doesn't incapacitate her completely. All that's left now is to brew some coffee, cross his mental fingers, and wait. It doesn't matter if she kills him or if he's so injured the others figure him out right away. As long as Emi dies, his wish is granted.]
[ It's still dark when Emi wakes up, and she looks to the clock to verify what she's sure she already knows. Her heart sinks when she gets her confirmation.
Damn it, she was so close to the end of this.
Sitting up in bed, she looks at Ann sleeping beside her, and gently touches a hand to her shoulder. ]
Sorry you're going to have to go through this again, Ann-chan.
[ She stays there for a few moments, thinking this over, then... exhales.
Fine.
She writes down a brief note and places it on the bed when she gets up, and then she goes and gets dressed -- something she can move in if she has to fight, that can be easily unbuttoned if anyone has to check her body tomorrow, and that looks nice enough if this is the last way they're going to remember her.
After one glance back at Ann, she leaves and closes the door behind her. ]
[Her scorn isn't surprising. Really, he doesn't even react to it, continuing to stare down into his coffee. He speaks softly.]
... what makes you think I'm here to kill you? Nirrti said this is the last time we have to do this. I'm expecting to be one victim of whoever else is roaming around right now. Unless you're here to kill me for what I did. It's not as if I can take you in a fight.
I don't let myself get stuck in the past enough to fall for a motive like this one.
[ Keeping her visible eye focused sharply on him, she slowly walks around the table and takes a seat at the opposite end, crossing her legs and sitting up straight. ]
Then likely, we're both dead. I'm sorry you were caught up in this, too.
[He sips his coffee, looking for all the world like someone who just flunked out of college and is waiting to be picked up by disappointed, disapproving parents. He looks tired, slouched with both hands soaking up the warmth of his mug.]
[ As a monster, she understands that part pretty damn well herself.
She doesn't bother saying anything further, and just watches silently as he washes his mug and then leaves. No matter what he says, she has few doubts that he'll be back; she doesn't trust him any further than she can throw him after last week.
Some time passes, and eventually she gets up to make some tea, still keeping a close eye on the doors. There should still be a few of those tarts they made earlier, too, and it would be a shame not to taste one of those again if this ends badly, so... She picks one that's further back on the refrigerator shelf, because it seems like if someone was going to tamper with one of them, it would most likely be the one front and center.
Then, with a plate and a cup in hand, she takes a seat again, this time in a different chair, with a position that gives her at least some view of both the hall and dining room entrances. She's focused enough on the sight of the doors, actually, that she fails to notice that the scent of the bit of pastry on her fork is a little off. It's not until she's taken a full bite of it that it hits her -- that this does not taste like normal lemon, that this is not what the others they'd made in the same batch had tasted like. It still tastes like fruit, not like any kind of unnatural chemical, but it's definitely wrong.
And once she starts having trouble breathing... well, having her suspicions confirmed isn't much of a consolation prize, but there it is. God. Did she just pick the wrong one or did that coward poison all of them? ]
[Erhard circles around into the garden while Emi watches the kitchen, positioning himself in the dark near the window. He starts counting once he hears her coughing, giving a solid minute or two before he'll dare to go inside. He knows from his reading that anything she tries to use to wash out the toxin from her throat will do nothing for the edema, her airway will close no matter what. It's once she really starts laboring for breath that he quietly pushes the garden door open and steps back into the kitchen.]
If you'd just killed me first... but I have to do this. I'm sorry.
[He draws a long, sharply tapered knife from the block and approaches her slowly, genuine regret in his eyes.]
That new demon needs to be stopped, and the group needs Sherlock. This is the only way to do both. At least... you'll be with Anon after this is over.
[ Shit, she didn't even see that door open in her blind spot.
And... oh, everything he's saying in this moment pisses her off. The pretense of altruism, the insinuation that that this one person's life was objectively worth more than anyone else's -- she'd liked Sherlock herself, but honestly, had the world's greatest detective actually been the one to solve even one of their cases? -- and the fact that he's being so damn wishy-washy about taking her life.
As soon as he says Anon's name, though -- even with as little breath as she has, she gathers all of her strength to punch him in the fucking face. ]
[The blow sends him reeling, but somehow he doesn't drop the knife even though it feels like his cheekbone just exploded. He's never been punched before, and dimly he hopes he never is again because it really hurts. But it also makes him realize that he has to strike right now, because even with the manchineel affecting Emi's breathing she could still potentially knock him out cold or even kill him.
So he reverses his grip on the knife and takes a sudden wild backhand swing at her face and neck, hoping to at least get her to back off if he can't actually land a solid blow.]
[ In peak condition she may have been able to stop that; but when she tries to grab his wrist now, with her depth perception still newly off and her strength draining quickly, she misses and falters, and the knife hits its target, plunging into her neck. ]
[Feeling the knife sink in is startling, so much that Erhard loses his grip on it from shock. This is nothing like carefully cutting into living tissue with a scalpel with the intent to help, this is fast, graceless, brutal. It's so repulsive to him that he actually lets out a choked sob and stumbles back from Emi, unable to look at what he's done, what he can't take back. She didn't deserve this.
She's right, he is a coward. A monster. He should've stayed locked in that frigid cell, if he was capable of this after all.]
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There's really no going back now, is there? All day, he kept wondering if he'd made a mistake, if he should go back to Nirrti and tell her to forget their agreement. But the memory of Sherlock's voice coming out of those cruelly smirking lips, the burning red eyes... the others didn't need that. They needed the master detective, not a broken man who couldn't sleep without nightmares of death.
He dresses lightly in clothes he normally wears for sleeping, so there's less of a chance of someone recognizing any scraps of cloth due to clothing damage as opposed to his usual daytime attire. He'll do his best to clean up, but even experienced killers make mistakes. He's no seasoned murderer. Slipping on a pair of lightweight shoes, he picks up the bag one of the goats brought to him a few hours ago and leaves his room.
The mansion is deathly quiet, carrying an odd air that leaves him with goosebumps down his arms and legs. It could be his own paranoia-- hell, it probably is-- but he expects someone to round the corner and catch him at any moment. He almost wishes someone would. But he makes it to the kitchen without incident and sets to work, setting to his task with a numb sort of focus.
It's easier to make the lemon curd than it was to bake the cake, not to mention much faster. He saw the tarts in the fridge, he knows who made them and who intends to eat them. He's counting on the goats to clean up the remainder before Ann can touch anything. He'll have to move his victim's body out of the kitchen, too. The thought of Ann going for her Friday morning cake and finding her friend dead makes him feel queasy.
The curd might not be perfect, but it's close enough in color, texture, and smell that it should work. His heart beating so fast he can hear it in his ears, Erhard takes a small jar out of the bag he brought, looking at the innocuous-seeming pulp inside. He remembers the first week they were here, when Takumi leaned against this tree. He'd read about it after that to be more prepared in case someone else was injured by it.
Now he's using it to commit murder.
He unscrews the lid of the glass jar and dumps the ground manchineel fruit into the curd, quickly mixing it in. It looks enough like lemon zest that it should work. The original tarts come out of the fridge and he quickly scoops out the existing filling, tossing it into the trash along with the empty jar. Carefully he refills the empty tart shells with the tainted lemon curd, then just as carefully he thoroughly rinses out the bowl and spoon before actually washing them to avoid burning his skin. The tarts go back into the fridge.
Now he just needs to sit here and hope Emi confronts him. With the light on in the kitchen, she'll probably notice someone in the room and come to investigate. He knows everyone sees him as someone who's broken and not a fighter, so if he can make her believe he's simply waiting to be killed by a third party....
He unlocks the door to the garden, planning to slip back in that way once she sees him leave the kitchen via the dining room. If he can circle around and listen at the window, he might be able to catch her off guard even if the toxin doesn't incapacitate her completely. All that's left now is to brew some coffee, cross his mental fingers, and wait. It doesn't matter if she kills him or if he's so injured the others figure him out right away. As long as Emi dies, his wish is granted.]
1/2
Damn it, she was so close to the end of this.
Sitting up in bed, she looks at Ann sleeping beside her, and gently touches a hand to her shoulder. ]
Sorry you're going to have to go through this again, Ann-chan.
[ She stays there for a few moments, thinking this over, then... exhales.
Fine.
She writes down a brief note and places it on the bed when she gets up, and then she goes and gets dressed -- something she can move in if she has to fight, that can be easily unbuttoned if anyone has to check her body tomorrow, and that looks nice enough if this is the last way they're going to remember her.
After one glance back at Ann, she leaves and closes the door behind her. ]
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...Ah. Of course.
Standing in the doorway with the dark hall behind her, she crosses her arms and looks down at him. ]
Well, I don't know what I expected.
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... what makes you think I'm here to kill you? Nirrti said this is the last time we have to do this. I'm expecting to be one victim of whoever else is roaming around right now. Unless you're here to kill me for what I did. It's not as if I can take you in a fight.
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[ Keeping her visible eye focused sharply on him, she slowly walks around the table and takes a seat at the opposite end, crossing her legs and sitting up straight. ]
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[He sips his coffee, looking for all the world like someone who just flunked out of college and is waiting to be picked up by disappointed, disapproving parents. He looks tired, slouched with both hands soaking up the warmth of his mug.]
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[He finishes his coffee and gets up to wash out the mug, leaving it by the sink to dry.]
I'll go wait somewhere else for whoever's coming, so I don't bother you anymore.
[He leaves the way she came in, vanishing into the darkness with soft steps.]
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She doesn't bother saying anything further, and just watches silently as he washes his mug and then leaves. No matter what he says, she has few doubts that he'll be back; she doesn't trust him any further than she can throw him after last week.
Some time passes, and eventually she gets up to make some tea, still keeping a close eye on the doors. There should still be a few of those tarts they made earlier, too, and it would be a shame not to taste one of those again if this ends badly, so... She picks one that's further back on the refrigerator shelf, because it seems like if someone was going to tamper with one of them, it would most likely be the one front and center.
Then, with a plate and a cup in hand, she takes a seat again, this time in a different chair, with a position that gives her at least some view of both the hall and dining room entrances. She's focused enough on the sight of the doors, actually, that she fails to notice that the scent of the bit of pastry on her fork is a little off. It's not until she's taken a full bite of it that it hits her -- that this does not taste like normal lemon, that this is not what the others they'd made in the same batch had tasted like. It still tastes like fruit, not like any kind of unnatural chemical, but it's definitely wrong.
And once she starts having trouble breathing... well, having her suspicions confirmed isn't much of a consolation prize, but there it is. God. Did she just pick the wrong one or did that coward poison all of them? ]
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If you'd just killed me first... but I have to do this. I'm sorry.
[He draws a long, sharply tapered knife from the block and approaches her slowly, genuine regret in his eyes.]
That new demon needs to be stopped, and the group needs Sherlock. This is the only way to do both. At least... you'll be with Anon after this is over.
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And... oh, everything he's saying in this moment pisses her off. The pretense of altruism, the insinuation that that this one person's life was objectively worth more than anyone else's -- she'd liked Sherlock herself, but honestly, had the world's greatest detective actually been the one to solve even one of their cases? -- and the fact that he's being so damn wishy-washy about taking her life.
As soon as he says Anon's name, though -- even with as little breath as she has, she gathers all of her strength to punch him in the fucking face. ]
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So he reverses his grip on the knife and takes a sudden wild backhand swing at her face and neck, hoping to at least get her to back off if he can't actually land a solid blow.]
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She's right, he is a coward. A monster. He should've stayed locked in that frigid cell, if he was capable of this after all.]
I'm sorry... I'm sorry...!