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Aberrant: 200X - Bitter Tears (Background)


Eingar

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December 15th, 1998

Peter Nord's eyes were cold as he stood atop a building in London, the mist and rain of the night still clinging to the winter dawn, defying the sun in its attempts to bring warmth to the light-starved streets below.

And I know how that damn well feels. Peter thought to himself, the cold pit in his heart silent and and frozen, as it had been when he had learned the news.

Fifteen years... They gave the piece of shit fifteen fucking years. What the fuck is that going to do, other than make sure he doesn't O.D or get killed by someone in that time? Peter's thoughts were dark as he glared down at the grey buildings below.

He took the newspaper clipping out from his coat and looked at it again, heedless of the drizzling rain that soaked him so that droplets ran off his face and onto the paper. A face stared back at him: a regular enough face, signs of drug abuse and poor diet evident in the skin and eyes. But to Peter, this was the face of a monster, a twisted mockery of a human being whose actions had ripped away his heart and replaced it with a cold-burning furnace. The trial had taken forever, the appeals were being made even now for a reduced sentence, due to the man's 'inability to distinguish right from wrong'. But Peter knew better, just from looking at the eyes of the man while they were in court.

This monster knew what he had done, and whilst at first frightened that the nova whose wife he had killed might attack him in retribution, the presence of two Utopian novas keeping a watchful eye on the court proceedings, at the request of the British Crown Prosecution Service, had made him more relaxed. In his relaxation, he had allowed his real feelings to show through, loud and clear to Peter's acute senses. I'm going to get away with just a stint inside the all-but smirking face of the bastard had proclaimed in his relief.

It was at that moment, dressed in a suit for court, watching the monster as he was cross-examined, that Peter Nord had formulated a plan. This plan.

Peter glanced away from the paper clipping, letting the breeze take it from his hands carelessly as he stepped to the edge of the building. Today, the now-convicted murderer, after a five-month trial process, would be starting his sentence at the notorious Wormwood Scrubs prison, where he would serve out his fifteen year sentence as a supposedly just penalty for killing someone who was a superior member of society in every way. Peter had eavesdropped on cellular phone conversations between the warden and the local chief constable, and now knew the location of his target's cell. A Block, west wall. They would be waking up the prisoners in about 15 minutes for the morning routine.

Below, he heard the electric whine of a milk trolley doing it's rounds. He could hear the gate guards talking to each other, the warden's radio as the man had his first cup of tea of the day. It was time.

Dropping casually off the building, Peter reached into his node and controlled his fall, turning it into a gradual swoop above the high walls of the prison. He heard the shouts start as a guard spotted him, but it was too late. Did they really think that he would sit back and let his life be ruined, his heart ripped in half, without taking some action? He found his lips drawing back from his teeth in a grin that was as much snarl as he accelerated.

He hit the reinforced concrete wall at just under 100 miles per hour, pulverised debris from the wall creating a huge dustcloud. Screams, shouts and sirens filled the morning air with a chaotic medley of alarm and fear, and the uniformed officers charged with Her Majesty's prison of Wormwood Scrubs began calling out for assistance as they realised the nature of the attack. Peter couldn't care less as he walked through the cell block's corridors, however. His blue eyes were seeking the panicking, awestruck faces of the inmates for one man. He saw his target, standing dumbly at the glowing figure bearing down on him.

Dean Leadbetter's dull eyes widened with realisation, and he opened his mouth and screamed as it came to him that no, society was not going to be able to protect him here. No, he wouldn't be staying in a prison where he could, in seven to eight years if he behaved himself, go free again. Instead, he was going to die at the hands of the man who he had wronged.

Peter saw all this as he stepped closer, let that knowledge thoroughly sink in, waited for the shock to give way to absolute, bowel-loosening terror on the man's face. He couldn't know it, but his face was a mask of rage and hate and grief that was anything but human.

"P-please-" Dean's voice was cut off in a strangled gargle as Peter grasped him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Six prison guards were advancing up the corridor, shouting commands for him to let the man go. Peter didn't care. He didn't care about the law: it had let him down. He didn't care about the guards: there was nothing they could do. He didn't care about anything any more, nothing at all, except his justice.

With a simple closure of his hand, the nova slowly began to squeeze the throat, neck and vertebrae of the struggling, kicking murderer. As his blue eyes bored into his victim's, his mind's eye saw the autopsy report of what this animal had done to his wife, and his heart hardened even further. Though he did not realise it, tears were rolling down his strangely calm face as, with a final convulsive movement, he clenched his fist.

A sickeningly loud crackling and popping noise came to the ears of the onrushing guards, and they knew to a man that Dean Leadbetter was dead even before they spied the strange lolling of his neck. Peter cast aside the body with a contemptuous gesture and turned to the guards, offering his wrists to the nearest, and spoke his last words for the next 10 years as salt tears trickled into the corners of his mouth.

"Arrest me."

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December 15th, 1998

Peter Nord's eyes were cold as he stood atop a building in London, the mist and rain of the night still clinging to the winter dawn, defying the sun in its attempts to bring warmth to the light-starved streets below.

And I know how that damn well feels. Peter thought to himself, the cold pit in his heart silent and and frozen, as it had been when he had learned the news.

Fifteen years... They gave the piece of shit fifteen fucking years. What the fuck is that going to do, other than make sure he doesn't O.D or get killed by someone in that time? Peter's thoughts were dark as he glared down at the grey buildings below.

He took the newspaper clipping out from his coat and looked at it again, heedless of the drizzling rain that soaked him so that droplets ran off his face and onto the paper. A face stared back at him: a regular enough face, signs of drug abuse and poor diet evident in the skin and eyes. But to Peter, this was the face of a monster, a twisted mockery of a human being whose actions had ripped away his heart and replaced it with a cold-burning furnace. The trial had taken forever, the appeals were being made even now for a reduced sentence, due to the man's 'inability to distinguish right from wrong'. But Peter knew better, just from looking at the eyes of the man while they were in court.

This monster knew what he had done, and whilst at first frightened that the nova whose wife he had killed might attack him in retribution, the presence of two Utopian novas keeping a watchful eye on the court proceedings, at the request of the British Crown Prosecution Service, had made him more relaxed. In his relaxation, he had allowed his real feelings to show through, loud and clear to Peter's acute senses. I'm going to get away with just a stint inside the all-but smirking face of the bastard had proclaimed in his relief.

It was at that moment, dressed in a suit for court, watching the monster as he was cross-examined, that Peter Nord had formulated a plan. This plan.

Peter glanced away from the paper clipping, letting the breeze take it from his hands carelessly as he stepped to the edge of the building. Today, the now-convicted murderer, after a five-month trial process, would be starting his sentence at the notorious Wormwood Scrubs prison, where he would serve out his fifteen year sentence as a supposedly just penalty for killing someone who was a superior member of society in every way. Peter had eavesdropped on cellular phone conversations between the warden and the local chief constable, and now knew the location of his target's cell. A Block, west wall. They would be waking up the prisoners in about 15 minutes for the morning routine.

Below, he heard the electric whine of a milk trolley doing it's rounds. He could hear the gate guards talking to each other, the warden's radio as the man had his first cup of tea of the day. It was time.

Dropping casually off the building, Peter reached into his node and controlled his fall, turning it into a gradual swoop above the high walls of the prison. He heard the shouts start as a guard spotted him, but it was too late. Did they really think that he would sit back and let his life be ruined, his heart ripped in half, without taking some action? He found his lips drawing back from his teeth in a grin that was as much snarl as he accelerated.

He hit the reinforced concrete wall at just under 100 miles per hour, pulverised debris from the wall creating a huge dustcloud. Screams, shouts and sirens filled the morning air with a chaotic medley of alarm and fear, and the uniformed officers charged with Her Majesty's prison of Wormwood Scrubs began calling out for assistance as they realised the nature of the attack. Peter couldn't care less as he walked through the cell block's corridors, however. His blue eyes were seeking the panicking, awestruck faces of the inmates for one man. He saw his target, standing dumbly at the glowing figure bearing down on him.

Dean Leadbetter's dull eyes widened with realisation, and he opened his mouth and screamed as it came to him that no, society was not going to be able to protect him here. No, he wouldn't be staying in a prison where he could, in seven to eight years if he behaved himself, go free again. Instead, he was going to die at the hands of the man who he had wronged.

Peter saw all this as he stepped closer, let that knowledge thoroughly sink in, waited for the shock to give way to absolute, bowel-loosening terror on the man's face. He couldn't know it, but his face was a mask of rage and hate and grief that was anything but human.

"P-please-" Dean's voice was cut off in a strangled gargle as Peter grasped him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Six prison guards were advancing up the corridor, shouting commands for him to let the man go. Peter didn't care. He didn't care about the law: it had let him down. He didn't care about the guards: there was nothing they could do. He didn't care about anything any more, nothing at all, except his justice.

With a simple closure of his hand, the nova slowly began to squeeze the throat, neck and vertebrae of the struggling, kicking murderer. As his blue eyes bored into his victim's, his mind's eye saw the autopsy report of what this animal had done to his wife, and his heart hardened even further. Though he did not realise it, tears were rolling down his strangely calm face as, with a final convulsive movement, he clenched his fist.

A sickeningly loud crackling and popping noise came to the ears of the onrushing guards, and they knew to a man that Dean Leadbetter was dead even before they spied the strange lolling of his neck. Peter cast aside the body with a contemptuous gesture and turned to the guards, offering his wrists to the nearest, and spoke his last words for the next 10 years as salt tears trickled into the corners of his mouth.

"Arrest me."

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