“Little Alice fell
d
o
w
n
the hole,
bumped her head
and bruised her soul.”
It’s past midnight and Vegas is dead drunk. It hasn’t stopped raining. The sky has taken over crying for him, since he himself has run out of tears. His eyes are red and swollen, he has a pounding headache and there is nothing left. He has cried what feels like an ocean, sitting here in the dark, hidden away in the corner of his functional yet impersonal bedroom, shaking with uncontrollable sobs; he has cried so much that now he is empty. Wrung out. Used up. And drunk. Very, very drunk.
Intoxication and emotional distress does not make for a very good combination; Vegas feels depressingly alone. The story of his life.
He always messes up. Always.
Everyone he cares about leaves. Always.
He is a useless piece of shit, his father is right, he is a beacon for disaster, he should have died a long, long time ago. Every single harsh word his father ever said to him is flooding his mind, and he cannot turn these memories off, they are trying to drown him in misery. He’s plunging down an endless downward spiral, and he needs help before he shatters at the bottom.Blindly, he fumbles for his phone, and despite his inebriated state manages to press Porsche’s number. Then he waits for the call to connect.
Save me… please save me… I cannot do this by myself… save me…
It takes a bit longer than usual before the call is picked up. “…Hmmm…?”
“… Porsche…?” he slurs, momentarily confused.
“… Huh?” The person on the other end seems to be equally confused—or still half asleep. So Vegas gives it another try.
“ … Porsche…?”
There is a long groan and the sound of movement, followed by a soft curse in a familiar voice. “Vegas? Is that you? What the hell? You know what time it is?!”
Saved. “Nope,” Vegas answer truthfully, still slurring his words. “It’s dark. Night? Don’t you have a clock?” He squints at the display of the mobile phone in his hand but words and numbers spin around like on a merry-go-round. “…Oh… pretty…” he mumbles, momentarily entranced.
There’s another frustrated groan from the person he has called. “It is currently 3 am, Vegas. Three. AM. Go to bed and let me sleep!”
“Can’t sleep,” Vegas mumbles. “No rest for the wicked.”
Porsche groans again. “Go. To. Bed. Or call someone else… call Tem.”
That name only makes Vegas choke up again. It seems he hasn’t run dry after all, since fresh tears resume their silent passage down his face. “Can’t,” he sniffles brokenly. “Messed up and now Tem’s gone.”
“Huh? What do you mean? Vegas…? Wait a moment… ” Porsche sounds alarmed now, and wide awake, but even a little distracted. “Just go back to sleep Kinn, I need to take this call,” he whispers. More rustling noises. Vegas can hear his cousin in the background, sounding decidedly grumpy. Nothing new; he isn’t exactly on Kinn’s list of favourite people. “I am not having this discussion right now, Kinn. Let’s talk tomorrow.” A pause, then he can hear Porsche moving and a door closing. “Vegas? You still there? Talk to me… What was that about Tem?”
Hearing Porsche’s voice is like balm to his bleeding soul. Vegas leans his head back against the wall, the tears still rolling down his face. He tries to get any audible words past his throat, which suddenly feels very tight.
“Save me…” he whispers in sheer desperation.
“Vegas! What the fuck is going on?! You are scaring the hell out of me!”
Vegas does his best to pull himself together again, clearing his throat. “Sorry… so sorry… don’t worry… just having a bad day,” he sniffles quietly.
“No shit, Sherlock. Would you please tell me what is going on? Please? What do you need saving from? And what has happened to Tem? And… are you drunk?”
“ …Mmmm…”
Porsche sighs. “I take that as a yes. You know, I am never going to let you live that down, drunk-calling me in the middle of the night. Now fess up, what’s going on?”
A short intake of breath to steady himself, then Vegas tries to put everything that has happened this disastrous day into coherent words, hiccupping his way through the whole Tem fiasco. And in the end he simply sounds resigned and utterly exhausted as he recounts the showdown with his boss, the threat of therapy and his subsequent drinking spree, which led to him spiralling right into the snake pit of dark memories he successfully suppresses most days. Is he making any sense? Unlikely. Does it matter? Not really. What matters is that Porsche is there on the phone listening to every word. Filling the spaces in the conversation with quiet sounds of encouragement and unspoken understanding. Porsche is a good listener. That’s why he called him. Also, Porsche is now the only friend he has left. Isn’t that pathetic?
“I’m so tired of it all, so damn tired…” he whispers in the end, using the edge of his t-shirt to wipe the wetness off his face.
“Everything is going to be fine, Vegas,” Porsche tries to encourage him gently. “It’s a mess, yeah, but give Tem some time and I am sure you two will be able to sort it out eventually. He has stuck with you for so long, he is not going to give up now, trust me. As for the rest…” Porsche hesitates briefly but then speaks his mind as he usually does. His honesty is harsh, but refreshing, and makes Vegas like him more. “I think therapy will do you good. Wait… just listen first, okay? You and me both know that your family is fucked up in a big way. As far as I am concerned every single one of you is in dire need of therapy, it comes with the territory. I know your father doesn’t want to hear about this but damn, Vegas, he is an asshole anyway.”
Vegas snorts, faintly amused.
“Just forget about him, go to this therapist dude and unload the whole crap that has been weighing you down since childhood. You do need someone to talk to apart from me, you know? I can listen, and you know you can call me anytime you need, but I’m not equipped to help you deal with your issues in a more permanent manner. And I really don’t think you have the luxury to ignore this anger issue anymore. I mean, shit, you hurt Tem. Do you want to wait until you hurt Macau?”
“Asshole.” Vegas winces. Sometimes Porsche is simply too blunt. The mere thought of hurting Macau in any way makes him sick. And yet he cannot deny it, he is not safe to be around anymore. The way he completely lost control and had a complete blackout—it scared even himself.
“I don’t like to talk about …things,” he admits in a small voice.
“Give the guy a chance, okay? Promise me?”
“I suppose…”
“Good enough. Now go get some sleep. Drink some water first though. Is this okay or do you need me to stay on the phone with you a bit longer?”
Vegas’ throat constricts again, and he swallows, briefly overwhelmed with emotions. “Porsche… you are a good friend, you know? I really don’t deserve you.” A pause. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t get all mushy with me.” The other man chuckles softly. “Please go to bed, Vegas, everything will look better tomorrow. Trust me. I’m hanging up now… And don’t forget to drink some water!” Then the call disconnects.
----------------------------------------
The following week is hell on earth.
Vegas takes the next day off from work because he has a nasty hangover and figures no one wants to see him today anyway. As an added bonus, this will give everyone the opportunity to cool down, which sounds like a reasonable idea. Calling it in, he hears that Tem has been granted sick leave and rumour has it that he has applied to be transferred to another team. Damn. Over the course of the next hours, Vegas tries to call him several times without success. Either Tem is ignoring his calls on purpose or—and this might be more realistic and awfully final—he has blocked Vegas altogether.
It’s an unexpectedly painful experience to be cut off abruptly from the one person he has been spending a large amount of his time with for the last two years, and Vegas isn’t handling it well at all.But life goes on and the next day finds him back at work with no time to fret, because no partner means that he has to do the work of two people all of a sudden.
He feels unmoored.
No one is talking to him. Vegas never thought he would feel lonely at work, but now he does. He has no one to bounce ideas off. No one to complain to. No one to tease. He’s all alone on his coffee and lunch breaks. He’s all alone, and his nerves are starting to fray. Vegas finds himself getting irritated about the most insignificant things. It seems having Tem by his side has grounded him all these years. Now that safety net is gone and it feels as if he is lost.
As a cherry on top of this ever-growing pile of crap Vegas gets a memo from his boss that he has been signed up for anger management therapy with the department’s psychotherapist, and will receive a time for his first session within a week. Great. Just fucking great.
Sleep is elusive these nights and so he comes to work earlier, because he might as well be productive rather than lying at home in bed in the oppressive darkness, his thoughts and regrets going wild, threatening to overwhelm him. He works and works and sometimes even forgets to eat, and then he works some more until he has to go home. In the evening he manages to order some Takeaway before he falls into an exhausted sleep until the next morning, when he wakes up way too early, with the exhaustion lingering in his bones.
Towards the end of the week, when a call about yet another murder comes in, it is relegated to him. As if he doesn’t have enough to do already. Vegas suspects that his colleagues are trying to punish him on Tem’s behalf. That’s fine with him. He sure feels as if he deserves all the punishment in the world. Might as well suck it up. At least he is getting out of the office this way, away from the mountain of paperwork that is threatening to overtake his desk.
Coincidence has it that he arrives at the murder scene precisely at the same time as the department’s crime scene investigation team and the medical examiner. Neat. Things will go quicker this way.
Vegas parks on the side of the road, double-checking that the ‘Police at work’ badge is clearly visible. The last thing he needs right now is a parking ticket. The inevitable midday heat slams into him as he steps out of the cool of the air-conditioned car. It’s going to be one of those days when he will wish for a cool shower for the next 3 hours, he can feel it already.
No slum today—instead, a modestly affluent neighbourhood, relatively clean streets, no clutter. He scans the area. Apparently no CCTV either, which sucks. Oh, well. According to the notes he got, the murder has taken place in one of the apartments in the building right in front of him. He cannot remember when they had a violent crime in this area, at least not since he started working in this precinct. Interesting. A small crowd is being kept at bay by two uniformed policemen, from the looks of it fresh out of the academy. They don’t seem to need any assistance, so Vegas strolls towards the crime scene investigation team, who are unpacking their minivan. Team is an overstatement, it’s only two people. Money is tight these days and always seems to get stuck somewhere on the way down the chain—when a certain someone might need a new watch perhaps.
“Need help with carrying something?” he offers.
Arm tears his gaze from the tablet he has been typing on, giving Vegas a distracted glance over the rim of his glasses.
He is the department’s medical examiner, and one of Vegas’ favourite co-workers. Maybe it’s because they both suffer from a certain social ineptness that makes interacting with more normal people difficult at times. While Vegas is trying to fake it, Arm has embraced his divergence and flaunts it openly by refusing to wear the standard uniform. He favours a variety of t-shirts with geeky quotes that he seems to consider a warning sign for anyone hell-bent on interacting with him.
Today’s t-shirt is no exception: “Dear God. What Is It Like In Your Funny Little Brains? It Must Be So Boring.”
Way to go, Arm, way to go. Vegas approves.
Meanwhile, the other half of the crime scene investigation team is busy unloading essential equipment from their minivan. That he manages to work quickly and efficiently while eating his takeaway lunch at the same time comes as no surprise to Vegas. When does he ever see Pol without food? Never. The day that Pol stops snacking will be the day the world ends.
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“You got the briefing notes?” Why does he even ask, of course Arm got the briefing notes. Arm, too, deems this question unworthy of a reply and just grunts, still looking down at the tablet in his hands, typing quickly.
“All right then, let’s get started.” Pol hands Vegas two bags which he shoulders before making his way to the building entrance. Arm and his assistant trail after him, carrying the rest of the equipment. The report says 3rd floor and of course there is no elevator. Up the stairs they go; in this heat and with this much equipment it is not a pleasant task. The other hallways and the staircase are deserted, their tired steps and huffs interrupting the eerie silence over the dull background whine of a central AC unit that hasn’t been serviced for so long that it sounds as if it’s about to take its last breath.
Two floors up and they catch the first whiff of decay drifting down towards them, the harbinger of death.
They find another police officer by the entrance to the third floor hallway, sitting on the stairs. He is supposed to be guarding the scene, but judging from the smell of the bucket beside him, he has been busy throwing up and yes, he looks positively miserable. At least he didn’t throw up all over the scene.
“Bad one?” Vegas asks.
Dark, haunted eyes look at him as the officer nods. The poor guy seems unable to find the words to describe what he has just seen.
“Anyone else up here?”
A firm shake of the head.
“Did you check the other apartments?”
A nod.
This is a waste of time. Deciding to ignore the visibly traumatised officer, Vegas turns to Pol and Arm. “Shall we?”
The three of them don the disposable overalls that Arm insists on everyone wearing who is involved in one of his crime scenes. There is a fair amount of sloppiness when it comes to crime scene handling in the departments across the city, but Arm runs a tight ship and no one dares to defy him. No matter what weather, full body overalls with head covers it is, as well as shoe covers, vinyl gloves and disposable face masks.
The heat up here is oppressive and this is going to suck big time, Vegas knows from experience.
Arm hands the officer an evidence bag and reminds him that he will need to leave his shoes down by the van. He has entered the crime scene, and they need to make sure to exclude his shoe prints. Meanwhile Vegas gazes absently into the hallway in front of him. All the doors are closed except one. A ray of sunshine shines through the crack and highlights lazily drifting dust motes, dancing in the afternoon heat. No visible shoe prints on the floor. Maybe there won’t be a lot of blood. Possible, but unlikely, judging by how traumatised the officer who has had the pleasure to be first on the scene looks.
Pol appears next to him, with his state-of-the-art camera dangling from a strap around his neck, and a bag of assorted other forensic equipment on his other shoulder.
Completely unfazed by the smell of vomit and decay, he is still eating the last bites of his sandwich. Before he can step even further into the hallway, a hand shoots out and yanks him right back again.
“No food at my crime scene, how often do I have to remind you?!” Arm hisses. Here they go again.
“Shoory bosh,” replies Pol cheerfully with his mouth full.
“Moron. I will get you replaced. No work ethics at all. Unacceptable.”
“Of course, boss, of course.”
Pol and Vegas have heard this before. Arm has been threatening to replace his colleague for as long as Vegas has been working as a cop. It’s all talk and no action. No one else can stand working with Arm except for Pol, the big, cheerful and ever so hungry teddy bear. Winnie the Pooh.
Once Pol is done eating and has donned his gloves, they set out to work, making their way slowly down the corridor towards the open door. Pol points and clicks his camera, documenting everything as they carefully check the floor and walls for blood and other trace evidence on their way.
“The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.” His teacher at the police academy always stresses this, staring at Vegas with accusing eyes… everyone is aware who Vegas’ family is… they all know… they think he doesn’t belong here. Vegas disagrees. He can speak for the dead… he can…
Finally they arrive at the apartment door. The stench drifting towards them is overwhelming. Pungent. It hits Vegas’ face like a thick noxious cloud of rotting decay and meat, invading his nostrils and even lingering in his mouth.
Automatically he stops breathing. Bloody hell… that is way worse than he expected. Since not breathing isn’t an option, he cautiously inhales again. Yuck. How long has this body been in there? It smells ripe. Thankfully he hasn’t had lunch yet because his stomach is heaving. Speaking of lunch… he glances over to Pol, who has just eaten, and it is unfair: not even this stench is enough to make Pol queasy. He calmly continues to take photos of the door, the handle, and the area around the lock. No visible blood there either, strange. Vegas finds the lack of blood puzzling. He would have expected to find at the very least some blood smears while approaching the scene of a violent death, some transfer stains. Perhaps the victim was strangled? He’ll find out soon enough.
No signs of forced entry. Moving on. Vegas and Arm are both taking notes, communicating now and then in a hushed voice.
Vegas carefully steps to the side to make space for Pol and Arm as they enter the apartment first, all the while trying to avoid possible pathways that could have been used by the suspect, by stepping as close to the walls as possible.
Once upon a time when he was a rookie, Vegas considered using menthol salve spread beneath his nose to alleviate the particular smell of a murder scene, but he quickly learned that even the smell of a crime scene might hold valuable clues. So now he sucks it up. He will simply have to take a very long shower as soon as he is back at the police station. From past experience he knows that it will take a while to scrub the scent of death from his skin. Eating a spicy curry will also help clean away the lingering smell from his nasal passage and his mouth. Vegas doesn’t like spicy food. Oh, well.
They enter into a combined living room-kitchen. A doorway to the right leads to another room. The door to that area isn’t fully closed, and this is where the stench of death is coming from. They have to restrain their curiosity though, and process the living room first. Nothing in here seems out of the ordinary, but Pol photographs everything meticulously. Arm and Vegas move around carefully, taking more notes. No blood here either. No signs of a fight. Everything looks peaceful, sunshine is filtering through the sole window. Everything is clean. Even the kitchen area. No dirty dishes. They document everything for the next 45 minutes.
At last, there is nothing else to do than to open the door to what must be the bedroom. It’s a perfectly inconspicuous door. Nothing special about it at all. Yet all three men eye that door warily, mentally fortifying themselves for what lies ahead.
“To boldly go where no one man has gone before,” Arm comments drily and proceeds to slowly pull the door open after Pol has taken a few more photos.
If this were a horror movie, the door would make an eerily creaky sound. But this is reality, and the door swings open silently. In some way that’s even worse. The heat emerging from this room is solid; a wall of damp, cloying warmth. Since Vegas is encased in a full-cover overall it aggravates the situation.
Because he is not part of the CSI team, Vegas has to wait for his turn to enter the actual crime scene. He’s standing behind Arm and Pol, so he does not immediately see anything. The silence stretches. Pol swallows audibly. That is a first, and it instantly makes Vegas nervous.
“…Interesting…” is Arm’s first comment upon viewing the scene. Even he is not able to sound 100% steady.
Vegas clears his throat. “Is that so?” He’s sweating and on guard, and the reaction of his colleagues upon seeing the scene is not helping either. He hates being in the dark.
…click… click… click…
Pol is calmly taking photos, but Vegas is so well attuned to his normally easygoing body language that he can feel the deep unease rolling off the other man. His own nervousness increases yet another notch.
Finally the two men move cautiously further inward and Vegas steps forward as well, past the doorstep to what indeed appears to be a bedroom. One look and he comes to an abrupt stop.
Holy. Shit.
His mind goes blank. Refusing to make sense of the sight that presents itself to him.
Holy. Shit.
…ShitShitShit…
The bed and what is on top of it—oh God—sheer carnage: a red and black nightmare.
Too stunned to say anything, his eyes drift to the left side, away from the immediate horror right before him to something more normal. He registers that the sole window to the bedroom has been closed. On purpose it seems. There’s a portable AC unit standing right next to the window, its hose disconnected and meticulously rolled up on the floor beside it. It’s very hot in the room without the AC running, stiflingly hot. No one who has access to an AC would turn it off and disconnect it in the middle of the summer. Vegas makes a note to have someone check if the AC unit is broken. Somehow he thinks that isn’t the case though.
At least there are no flies. Maybe that is why the window was closed.He hesitates for a second, then glances back towards the centre of the room.
Holy. Shit.
It doesn’t get better on the second look either. Vegas feels a tension headache coming on as his shoulder muscles constrict themselves into a tight knot. Okay, he can do this. As long as he tries to forget that this … mess … before him used to be a human being, he will be able to function and do his work. One thing at a time. What is the protocol again? He momentarily forgot. Shit. Notes, he needs to take notes. Observe the scene. Find possible clues. Think, Vegas, think!
…click… click… click…
Pol continues taking photos, cautiously moving around. Arm is inspecting the room as well, making notes and quietly pointing out what he wants photographed.
Vegas goes back to taking notes as well, taking great care to move only where Arm has gone before. The room first. One cupboard to the right, closed. A single bed. A simple nightstand beside it, with a drawer. On the nightstand, a lamp that is, unnervingly enough, flickering ever so slightly. The bulb must be about to die.
There’s a book as well, well-read, with a bookmark visible. In another corner of the room stands a bucket with a mop. Someone has tied a bright red ribbon around the handle of the mop. Come to think of it, the floor here in the bedroom is remarkably clean for such a bloody crime scene. Now Vegas knows why. Fuck. A mop, really? Who does that, mopping up after themselves and then leaving the mop behind as an obvious present to the police? Fuck.
A quick glance over the bed—no pillow or blanket—and then to the other side—yes, they have been thrown on the floor there. The bed itself is occupied though…
Holy shit.
Despite the terrible odour, Vegas takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s so damn hot in here that his uniform is already soaked through with sweat and yet he feels cold, so cold as he finally allows himself to look at the scene on the bed.
The body is lying on its back. A quick glance downward. Male, definitely male. Okay. The whole face is covered by some sort of cloth, apart from the genitals it is difficult to guess the sex of the victim. Because… holy shit… everything else is a blood mess.
He takes it all in and tries to make sense of it. What kind of sick person would do this to another human being?
Back to the body again. The legs and arms appear to be unharmed; there are no directly visible wounds, and no signs of constraints either. The torso though… the abdominal cavity has been opened, emptied and now gapes like a red and black maw with pale streaks of bone—ribs?—reaching outward like clawed hands.
Holy shit.
Vegas can do this. It’s just another dead body. He has seen so many. Dead is dead. And he has a job to do. But holy shit. His attention drifts to another interesting feature in this room. Three brightly coloured plastic buckets stand neatly arranged at the foot end of the bed. Red. Yellow. Blue. And they are not empty.
Damn, it’s hot in here.
“May I…?” he checks with Arm who is hovering near the buckets, taking notes, and only steps cautiously closer when he gets the okay. The stench gets worse the closer Vegas moves to the buckets. Another step, one glance and he understands why.
The red bucket seems to hold that which is missing from the abdominal cavity of the corpse, namely its intestines. A stinking, glossy wet mass of giant worms…
“You hold the hook in your hand like this and then you take the worm with the other hand, like this, and press it down, see? And then again… and again… it won’t come off easily that way.” … and the worm wiggles in agony as it is impaled alive segment after segment on the metallic hook and six year old Vegas is sure he can hear the worm screaming… and he knows if he so much as moves or makes the wrong sound, father will surely impale him on that hook as well, so Vegas swallows the tears threatening to spill from his eyes and stays as still as a statue, listening to the instructions like the good boy he is…
That memory, the sweltering heat, the stench, and the bucket full of thick glistening strands of nastiness—Vegas almost loses it then. He feels burning bile rising in his throat. No no no… not happening… he will not throw up and embarrass himself like a rookie. Not happening! With iron willpower he forces himself to swallows it down again.
…movingon…
Bucket number two, yellow with some red-black smears along the sides, is filled to the very brim with what appears to be soaked …towels? Vegas takes an educated guess that someone used them to mop up the blood from the gaping abdominal wound—a quick glance towards the scene on the bed—yes, the sheets around the body seem to be soaked with blood and there’s a fair amount of spray on the bed and wall as well, but the amount is far too small for the quantity of blood this wound would have caused.
A trail of blackish stains on the mattress—drops—lead from the body towards the buckets.
…movingon…
A glance into the blue bucket reveals an assortment of organs, glistening dully. Vegas recognises the lungs and what looks like the heart. He assumes the rest will be in there as well. Arm will make sure to check, of course.
“What a mess…” he mumbles to himself.
“Actually, this seems to be carefully staged, every single detail of it,” Arm points out, leaning over the head of the corpse.
The cloth over the face is still in place; Arm is currently focused on the throat, and Pol is taking several photos from all angles.
“Anything interesting?” Vegas inches closer to get a peak as well. The throat has a gaping wound as well. Vegas narrows his eyes and looks closer. Huh. “That wasn’t cut…?”
“Hmmm…” Arm shines a penlight at the wound, a frown on his face. “Looks like a bite to me.”
“Dracula?”
Both Vegas and Arm turn simultaneously towards Pol and glare at him. What an idiotic comment. Winnie the Pooh gives them a quick grin and shrugs.
“As I was saying before I was interrupted …,” another quick glare at Pol, then Arm continues: “I can’t be totally sure until I have done the autopsy, but it looks as if someone has bitten through the Adam’s apple.”
Vegas gulps. “Anything else?”
“I’m fairly sure the victim was still alive when this was done. The spray pattern is indicative of it. See…” Arm points at the overlaying arching patterns of drying blood on the wall. “The blood is propelled out of the breached blood vessel by the pumping of the heart. You can clearly see a new pattern for each time the heart pumps.”
Vegas feels his headache increasing. There are some truly sick people out there. It’s hot and he is tired, they’ve been processing the scene for ages, and he really wants to go home and take a cool shower.
Arm very carefully lifts the cloth from the face, allowing Pol to take more photos of it from all sides before bagging it according to protocol. Everything is evidence.
They finally get the first look at the victim’s unexpectedly unharmed face.
The young man looks surprisingly peaceful. As if he were sleeping. Sleeping beauty. He is handsome—in a horrifyingly familiar way!
… skin slick with sweat…
… he is licking the back of his lover’s neck, wringing from him a long moan of pleasure…
… salty…
… they are both panting…
… moving frantically together, the bed is slamming against the wall with the force of the thrusts…
… so much pleasure… feels so good…
… almost there, almost there…
… the man beneath him throws back his head as he comes, the handsome face contorted in a mask of bliss …
… that face…
… is the one he is looking at—right now!
Vegas jerks violently backward, away from the body and the bed, as if he has been unexpectedly hit by an invisible baseball bat. Arm and Pol, startled by his sudden movement, freeze mid-motion and look at him, wide-eyed with surprise. But Vegas is already backing further away, stumbling for the door, and then he is in the living room, blindly lurching for the exit as if he is haunted by the devil incarnate. He barely makes it into the hallway, ripping off his face mask to frantically gulp in air before his stomach heaves and he falls to his knees and vomits uncontrollably all over the floor. He retches until there is just bile.
…This cannot be happening…
… no…
… nonono…
… nonononono…