I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi glances back over his shoulder as Ronin approaches, arms crossed tightly over his chest like they’ve been there for some time without him noticing. At the silent you good?, he gives a small nod—quick, but not dismissive—and exhales as he drops his arms, giving them each a brisk shake as if trying to flick the cold off like dust.
"The table setting wasn’t in the police reports," he says, voice low and even. His gaze flicks to the chair and back again, mouth tugging into something that’s not quite a frown. "But then I guess, why would it be?" Glancing at the camera, Remi raises a brow. The bodies told the story well enough, the murders clear, the murder weapon and suspect all incredibly obvious. "Who the wife had been expecting for dinner probably didn’t seem important, but clearly something else was going on." Soundbyte, check.
He shrugs, then glances toward one of the cameras perched like a patient spider in the corner where he's sure Isla is watching. "One of the meters would light up in here, for sure," he adds, tilting his head toward the dining room like he’s inviting Ronin in but not moving an inch himself. But even as he does, his hand rises to ruffle through his curls, casual and distracted. "Airflow’s terrible," he mutters, more to himself than anyone. "That’s probably why it feels so cold all of a sudden." That bit will have to be cut in post, but the reading on the meters would be real enough.
His fingers drop from his hair, and he looks to Ronin again, nodding once toward the hallway. "We should start upstairs. The kid's bedrooms first." A pause. "Save the basement for last." It would be more dramatic that way and would force people to watch the whole show. Certainly the suggestion had nothing to do with the fact that something in his gut had started drawing invisible lines between the table, the chair, and that closed door behind it.
"The table setting wasn’t in the police reports," he says, voice low and even. His gaze flicks to the chair and back again, mouth tugging into something that’s not quite a frown. "But then I guess, why would it be?" Glancing at the camera, Remi raises a brow. The bodies told the story well enough, the murders clear, the murder weapon and suspect all incredibly obvious. "Who the wife had been expecting for dinner probably didn’t seem important, but clearly something else was going on." Soundbyte, check.
He shrugs, then glances toward one of the cameras perched like a patient spider in the corner where he's sure Isla is watching. "One of the meters would light up in here, for sure," he adds, tilting his head toward the dining room like he’s inviting Ronin in but not moving an inch himself. But even as he does, his hand rises to ruffle through his curls, casual and distracted. "Airflow’s terrible," he mutters, more to himself than anyone. "That’s probably why it feels so cold all of a sudden." That bit will have to be cut in post, but the reading on the meters would be real enough.
His fingers drop from his hair, and he looks to Ronin again, nodding once toward the hallway. "We should start upstairs. The kid's bedrooms first." A pause. "Save the basement for last." It would be more dramatic that way and would force people to watch the whole show. Certainly the suggestion had nothing to do with the fact that something in his gut had started drawing invisible lines between the table, the chair, and that closed door behind it.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
