The urgency of the situation settled into Logan in the evening after Toby and Felix's final encounter with Billy Graham. Phone calls and texts all went unanswered. When he stopped by his father's apartment, there wasn't anyone home, and his car was missing. Now, Billy did have a job that wasn't butchery related, but Logan knew when his breaks would've been, and that he likely would've called Logan back to at least tell him to stop bugging him. He hadn't, and Logan had started to get especially annoying with it.
The only other place Logan imagined he could be was the third kitchen. When Logan arrived, the car wasn't at the warehouse either, but something made him stop there nonetheless. There was this uncomfortable, sick sense of foreboding in the air, making it feel too thick and suffocating. He almost didn't want to be here, but he knew he had to. He had to force himself to take step after step forward as the sun set, cleaver squeezed in his hand, and entered the building.
The first thing he noticed was that the place was more blood and gore splattered than usual. Things out of place. His nose twitched at the sharpness of it all. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to be here, stomach feeling like a bottomless pit of dread, nausea making his head spin. Something was wrong. Logan wished he was curled up in bed, under five blankets, in the warm atmosphere his home with the Grahams had, the scent of fresh pie drifting up the stairs.
He followed the stains and splatters, and what he eventually found, he could barely recognize. That didn't mean he wasn't fully aware of what it was. He wished he hadn't been. That denial was an option. But it wasn't. He swallowed, and took his mask off.
Logan started small. A few tears burning at the edges of his eyes, his lower lip wobbling. Then, he worked his way up. The more he took in the dead, rotting meat on the floor that was supposed to have been his father, the more his body shook, tears streaming down his face no matter how much he tried to scrub them away with his violently shaking hands. His knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the sticky ground, now sobbing and wailing full force. He screamed and bashed his fists against the floor, bloodying his knuckles under the gloves.
He crawled over to the disgusting corpse and threw himself on it, clinging desperately and crying on it, as if that'd bring him back to life. All Logan did was cover himself in gore, the blood and guts sinking through the fabric of his costume, into his skin. He was coated with it, beginning to smell like death himself. It was all he could smell anymore, filling his nostrils, throat, and mouth to an overwhelming degree. He dry heaved, but didn't throw up, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. He wasn't about to let go. He sat up and stared, eyes wide, bleary, and almost delusional, then tried to cup what was left of Billy's face. He licked his lips, leaning down, and kissed him.
Immediately after, he did have to stand up and move away to vomit, coughing and weeping further in the corner. He wandered back, and when seeing the flies around his father, he screeched and killed all of them, lashing out with his telekinesis. They weren't allowed to touch. They weren't allowed to take him! Nobody was! Who had done this to his only parent in the world? The only parent who'd ever cared for and wanted him? Who would be so cruel? Logan wiped the snot away from his face and curled up next to Billy on the ground, trying to hold his disfigured hand, sniveling quietly. He wasn't mourning. It hadn't processed enough for that yet. He was holding on tight, confused and unstable. So, so confused. He'd thought things were really starting to go well for him. Why would you take this from him? Why, why, why? Who?
He thought back to their recent scare at the second kitchen, which they'd been forced to vacate. He blinked slowly, thinking about Felix Verma and his blond little friend. He looked at the blood on his hands, his own father's blood, and all he wanted to do was hurt. Hurt like he'd been caused to hurt.
But as soon as the urge and intensity had come, it was gone again, Logan dissolving into pathetic hiccups. He wasn't in the condition to carry out an elaborate revenge plot, and truly, he didn't want to have to do that. He didn't care about those pieces of shit. He just wanted his fucking dad back. Nothing else mattered like that, and trying to get revenge would be an acceptance of defeat, an acceptance of this happening and being real, of being irreversible.
Irreversible. Nothing was irreversible in Manta Carlos. It was a hub of magic and the impossible, whether legal or not. Logan trembled and sat up, looking blankly at the 'body' while gears turned in his head, as he connected the dots and thought over his options.
He'd do anything for this, even if it meant playing god. Logan had never been more certain of anything in his life.
After that realization, his movements were far more frenzied. He put his mask back on and started in on the task of collecting the remains in one of the bags he'd usually use to carry and transport the meat of a victim. It wasn't so different, right then. It was far bolder than his usual, but with his dad's car missing, Logan needed something to use to get to his destination quickly, and he found someone nearby in the Underground to murder for it. This wasn't his smartest move, but in the Underground, nobody called the police when someone went missing. Logan got a new car without any issue, leaving the previous owner dead in an alley, and after changing out of his costume, he drove far, far away.
The place he was seeking out happened to be one Florentin Blanchett's residence. Otherwise known, to very few, as The Mad Doctor. It was a risk. The other boy was young, and although Logan believed him to be a brilliant necromancer, not as experienced as some. But when you were a serial killer trying to bring your secret serial killer father back from the dead, your options were limited, and Logan would choose Florentin over some illegal necromancer fuck he would've found in the Underground any day.
He didn't even know if Florentin would be home, despite how late it was getting. He could be out hunting himself, or sleeping over at someone else's place. And if that was the case, Logan would wait. He would wait however long it took, and refuse to leave until he was given something, anything, to hold onto and work with. When he got to the villa, he brought his bag with him, clutching it to his chest. It was odorless, thankfully, but it didn't mean it didn't look suspicious that he was holding a dark zipped up bag like this.
He pressed down on the doorbell over and over again, rapid-fire, and knocked heavily on the door, knuckles still red and scraped up, eyes crazed, never staying in one spot, looking more like his father's than ever. Needless to say, despite looking as pretty as he always did, Logan didn't look normal.
When the door opened, it wasn't Florentin in front of him, but his bodyguard. Frankly, Logan wasn't intimidated at all. He would've been at any other time, but this wasn't any other time, and that made Logan dangerous. "You shouldn't be here this late," the man told him, eyes narrowed, clearly not very pleased with his presence. Logan didn't care, didn't care, didn't care.
"I need to see Florentin right now, it's urgent, you can't keep me out," Logan hissed, trying bolt it and scramble past Mr. Muscle. Unsurprisingly (if Logan had been thinking straight), he was caught and pulled back, shoved up against a wall, and cried out a bit at the pain. It didn't put him off from what he had to do. "Flor! Florentin!" he called out into the house, "Fucking Blanchett, I need you, I'm running out of time!" And… Logan started crying again. He switched over to french, "Please, please, please... I'll do anything..."
