"Mental instability didn't exempt Charles Manson," Stephen said simply, looking at Douchenozzle with an expression of stubborn defiance. He looked back to Christi, a look of simple astonishment written on his face. He'd seen Marcus a few times, but never spoken to the guy. He looked nothing like him, so how did Christi connect his face to Marcus' visage? The columnist shrugged mentally. If Christi was more communicative in this strange, parallel world of hers, she was more liable to speak to him candidly. He may as well take advantage of this little escapade, no matter how strange it was.

"I need you to tell me everything you saw. Did you get a look inside the car that hit you? Did you see anything at all?" Stephen/Marcus kept his arms at his sides, looking Christi straight in the eyes, wearing his investigative mask. "Tell me everything." He had effectively shut out the world around him, concentrated specifically on the task ahead. He was mystified at his own ability to do that, sometimes, unsure of how it happened but perfectly fine with using every last second of it to his advantage. For a moment, Stephen Blackwood unhooked himself from the harsh, grim reality of his own death and suspension in unholy limbo and focused on Christi. Focused on his task.

((So, I'm not sure we've stated any specifics, but I'll just run with this and if there happens to be any problems, I'll fix it ^-^))

"I need you to tell me everything you saw. Did you get a look inside the car that hit you? Did you see anything at all?" Marcus asked. Of course, it wasn't really Marcus, but Christi had no trouble believing it was. His voice was the same, his eyes were the same, his face was the same; in all appearances it was Marcus, her beloved brother. "Tell me everything."

Christi bit her lip and studied him, looking somewhat frightened and confused. "I. . . I. . .I didn't really see anything. The car. . . the car. . ." she pondered like a small child. "It was. . . small, low to the ground? The headlights were near the ground. It. . .It broke my legs, Marcus," she looked at her legs with a hurt look to her eyes. "I hit my head and I don't remember anything else. I just saw the person when I was falling. . . does. . . does that help, Marcus?" she asked innocently.

"Christi, your mother's freaking out. Listen, I know you don't want to, but I need you to come home. Please," her father pleaded through the phone. It was just after her mother had verbally accused Christi of murdering Marcus, but the night was falling fast. She'd walked out, going to walk through town, unsure of where she would stay.

"She doesn't care about me. Why would she want me back home?" she retorded, tears streaming down her face.

"Please, come home."

"I might," she snapped and shut the phone. She began walking slowly towards her house. She couldn't believe she was giving into this mess. But it was awfully cold.

The sun set as she gained a few miles down the road, the town lights being her only light to walk by. Realizing she had to cross the street, the town long deserted in this area, she went ahead and crossed it. Unfortunately, she wouldn't get very far. . .

A small car, the headlights near the ground came around the corner. Christi thought it would stop, but instead it sped up. Afraid she moved out of the way and flipped off the driver, not in the mood to care what they thought of her vulgar gesture. She shook her head and kept moving, now on the sidewalk near closed, old buildings.

Christi ducked a low hanging sign, but tripped over a box that she hadn't previously seen. She cursed herself and tried to stand up, successfully twisting her ankle as her foot slipped on the curb. She got and brushed herself off, unsure of what the hell her problem was tonight. Giving up on walking on the trashy sidewalk, she looked around for the car. She didn't see it, so she walked onto the road, sure she would be okay, even though her ankle really hurt.

The squealing of tires in the distance cuaght her attention, but as she turned, she was blinded by bright headlights, even though they were near the ground. Shocked, she couldn't move. The car collided with her, snapping her legs with the grill of the car. It halted and she fell backwards, hitting her head and seeing nothing more.

((Typical story, but it works for her.))

Rinni's eyes went wide as she brought her hand up to her throat for a moment, fingers touching the thin line running across. "T-there's a mark..?" she asked, lowly, looking at Leila. "I didn't think.." her voice trailed off as she mentally flashed back to her death. Running through that damned forest, near hyperventilating with fear as she could hear someone, something, behind her come closer, and just as she felt safe - just as she managed to gather her mind, she only saw the wire flash before her eyes before the panic rose, her back pressed against the tree where she had been resting as she brought her hands up to fight..

Rinni cleared her throat, blinking and shaking her head slightly as she returned to reality. "Yes," she managed to answer. Bringing the hand up to her mouth, she closed her eyes for a moment. She wanted to simply run home, throw herself on the bed and let go, allowing herself to let the tears flow. The effort of keeping her composure was beginning to get to her. For the love of God, she was dead. Everyone she ever cared for, even if they hadn't been many.. She'd never see them again. "Uhm," she finally managed to speak again, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't, uhm," she cleared her throat again. "I didn't expect it to be so difficult," she admitted.

"Well, I didn't do it because I was hit by a car. I wouldn't have got myself killed when I was on my way to get laid. And Christi wouldn't have done this because look at her, she's a freaking mess. So, that takes me and her out which are the last two dates. That means that someone is lying about when they were killed." He told the group. "And, you guys could go over and over about who died when and how, that won't help us solve anything. I say we just take a vote and whoever gets the most votes is the killer."

Matt continued to lie on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, or gray roof or whatever was over them, if it was anything at all. His vote was with the asswipe known as Stephen. He wasn't changing his mind. He knew that he hadn't done it and so if he didn't the only other person he saw capable of such an act was Stephen. The girls just didn't seem strong enough, mentally or physically in his eyes and he thought they were all too cute to be killers.

"So, for entertainment and to occupy time, which one of you lovely girls wants to come over here and entertain me? I can promise you won't regret it while everyone else casts their votes." He smirked, finally glancing there way to see if there were any takers. "And just to avoid any confusion that their might be, my vote is still with Stephen."

Difficult? Leila wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that, but it was probably remembering her death. Of course it was difficult. She ran a hand through her hair, wanting to hug the distressed girl, too wary of her reaction. It wasn't the place or the time. She hoped her expression would get across all the sympathy and empathy she felt, in the moments before Matt spoke again and she was distracted.

"...I say we just take a vote and whoever gets the most votes is the killer." She considered the idea, and shook her head. No doubt he would vote for Stephen, but didn't he realise Stephen would probably vote for him? Christi was in no state to make such a decision, nor was Rinni, and Izzy was...well, Leila thought she'd seen the girl take something, so she wasn't going to be paying much attention. As for herself, she wouldn't vote in such a situation. It wasn't like they had a time limit, so what was his rush? Maybe he thought he'd wake up if they made a vote. She wouldn't put it past him.

"So, for entertainment and to occupy time, which one of you lovely girls wants to come over here and..." Incredulous, caustic laughter suddenly bubbled up in Leila's throat and she covered her face with her hands, pulling her jumper sleeves over them. She allowed all the expletives she knew to run through her head -- she didn't especially want to shout them at him, but it would have made her feel a bit better. She started tapping her foot again, concentrating on her familiar rhythm. She liked fours. Involuntarily, she remembered her piano lessons, arguing with her teacher, asking repeatedly for a different piece. It was what she had been thinking about before the first stab of pain...

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to concentrate only on her foot moving. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. She was glad she hadn't laughed aloud at Matt's stupidity. He'd probably take it as a compliment. Who knew, with guys like him?

"Alright then," Stephen thought quietly, vocalizing his thoughts. One hand slowly rose to scratch at the bristly growth of hair that was struggling to take hold on his chin, the other dangling limply at his side. Matt said something - his usual pointless bullshit, no doubt - but the journalist remained silent. Like any bad storm, Matt's douchebaggery would have to run out of steam at some point. The journalist was hopeless if he thought he could do anything to change that idiot's mind.

Besides, he would eventually come to terms with the fact that none of these girls would put out for him. They were far too smart for that.

Stephen went over to where Leila and Rinni were conversing. He stood silently next to Rinni and at one point knelt a bit, placing one of his hands on her shoulder - a calm, soft grip, nothing like the human vise grip he had used earlier. "Everything will be alright," he said quietly, then looked up at Leila. His voice was steady, calm, cold. He was investigating again. "Christi says the car that hit her was low to the ground, and looking at the bruises on her legs, something well below street-legal height," Stephen explained. "Do we know anyone with a low-riding vehicle?"

Hearing the muffled voices of nearly all of the people in the room, everything seemed to go by far too quickly. Rinni made a good point, about trying to figure out the physical condition of the murderer. Izzy wanted to respond, but before she had her thoughts formed and had even thought to open her mouth, they were on to a new subject.

Something Matt said had made her snort aloud, but she could no longer remember what it was. He'd said something about taking a vote, but that was just something she would not participate in. She had no idea who it could've been, but she didn't want her vote to be the one sending someone to the dark depths of hell. However, as the fog that had clouded Izzy's mind dissipated slowly, she noticed that Stephen was taking a valiant effort to investigate.

"Do we know anyone with a low-riding vehicle?" he asked, turning to the rest of them from his knelt position. Izzy thought hard, but couldn't remember what car any of them drove, or if any of them did drive at all. She took the bus everywhere, as buying a car now -er, then, she corrected herself- was out of the question money-wise. She was sure out of the other 5 in the room someone would know. They would figure this out, she thought optimistically.

Matt listened to the conversation as he lay there without a care in the world. He'd stopped wittering on about girls helping out with his sexual needs and had his hands between the floor and his head as he looked laid back and relaxed, as if they weren't in the room with a killer. He opened his eyes and frowned though when the conversation turned to cars and low ones.

"I have a low car." He spoke up and it was truth. "But, I was also hit by a low car, so it doesn't count, and I wasn't hit by my own car either." He told them. The fact that he could have easily being killed in a car accident and not being hit by a car didn't cross his mind because as far as he was concerned, he wasn't a killer. He had better things to waste his time on rather than killing people and that was sex.

"No one is going to admit to being the killer so I say we all just get this over with, vote so we can all wake up from this stupid, pointless dream and get back to reality so I can get laid." He told them, still believing that he was in some fucked up dream rather than reality itself.

"Do we know anyone with a low-riding vehicle?"

"I have a low car. But, I was also hit by a low car, so it doesn't count, and I wasn't hit by my own car either. No one is going to admit to being the killer so I say we all just get this over with, vote so we can all wake up from this stupid, pointless dream and get back to reality so I can get laid."

She frowned at Matt, but didn't comment on what he was saying. "My mother has a low-riding car," Rinni said, after a second's thought. "But I don't even have a driver's license," she added truthfully. Cars had always made her uncomfortable, and seeing as she really couldn't picture herself driving one, she'd never bothered with even trying. Her mother, on the other hand, was quite fond of her car. Rinni guessed it was because it reminded the woman of her late husband, but had never actually dared to ask her about that.

"My car's at street-legal clearance," Stephen said aloud. He knew for a fact, however, that saying such a thing would make him sound rather criminal-like. So, after a moment, Stephen began rummaging through the contents of his vest pockets. He came up with a half-chewed pack of gum, a little container of Tic-Tacs and a worn-out notebook with a nub of a pencil for writing on the notebook with.

Stephen's hand immediately went to the back pocket of his jeans, where he produced his wallet. Ticket stubs from the last few movies he'd seen - From Paris With Love, Shutter Island, The Book of Eli, et cetera - fell from one of the miscellaneous pockets of the wallet onto the grey floor, forming a pile on his right side (he was still seated on Rinni's right, or his left). A driver's liscence came next, followed by about thirty-five dollars in varying amounts, and other refuse - then, finally, a folded-up Kodak picture. Stephen brought the picture out and showed it to everyone looking. "1985 Buick Regal Limited Edition. Cost me a pretty penny, too." He offered it to Leila, then shrugged. "Pass it around."

He turned his head towards Matt, his eyebrows already arching downwards. The possibility of having to deal with him again was revolting... But it had to be done. He wanted his seat in Valhalla, god damnit. "Matt," The journalist said in even tones, "What did the car that hit you look like? Did you see any other distinguishing factors - make, colors, body shape - anything at all?"

"Matt, What did the car that hit you look like? Did you see any other distinguishing factors - make, colors, body shape - anything at all?"

Well, at least he hadn't been referred to as douchenozzle. Matt still lay on the ground (or floor, or whatever it was called here) staring upas he thought back to the moment he was hit by the car he referred to, whether it was a dream or not. "Red. Or maybe that was the colour of the skirt of the girl I was following. It was rather short. But it was dark. Plus, I was more focused on her legs. They were hot. Long, smooth... I just wanted to get my hands all over them and further..." He commented, a stupid grin appearing on his face, his eyes still closed as he imagined the girl he was chasing again. "Real hot..."

He had totally forgotten that he was supposed to be talking about a car, not a girl. But he still continued on talking about the girl instead of the car. "Oh she was a beauty. Red, black... Beautiful. A dream. Probably could have cost a pretty penny to if she were being sold. Somehow I don't think she was one of those 'for sale' items. Body shape was perfect though, complete dream and she had too many distinguishing features to focus on one." Anyone could have thought that he was going on about the car with that description, but his next words revealed all.

"Her breasts. They were the most distinguishing if I had to pick though. Perfect they were. Complete perfection. And I was so close to getting my hands on them. So close. Maybe when I wake up from this dream I'll find that I'm naked in bed with her sleeping from having one hell of a good time!" With that, he opened his eyes and looked over at Stephen. "That a good enough description? Got it all written down." A small laugh came from his lips, a deliberate one as he craned his neck to look at everyone before letting it hit the floor again so he could continue staring up. "Perfection."

Stephen's face was agape at first. Matt recalled quite a bit about the car that hit him, Stephen could tell just by listening. To the middle part, at least. For the first bit he was returning his belongings to his pocket; save for the nub of the pencil and the notebook, which he was jotting down notes in. As Matthew spoke, Stephen grinned. He could feel it. He could feel himself getting closer to a breakthrough, closer to something important. He was just that much closer to finding out who the murderer was -

"Her breasts."

Stephen's face matched his thoughts exactly - a perfect expression of "what the fuck"-ness appeared on his formerly-excited face as one hand moved to look at the paper he had been writing on. Scrawled, spidery handwriting describing the characteristics of a car now slowly morphed to describe a girl that Matt would never see again, and was still obsessing over. The expression of "what the fuck"-ness vacated his face, replaced by a neutral, unreadable expression. One hand reached down and tore the top page off the notebook, then crumpled it and threw it at Matt. It wasn't a hostile gesture, but one of annoyance. The journalist planted his face in the palm of his hand and drew in a deep breath, then - voice still muffled by his own hand - spoke.

"Matt..." Here the journalist sighed loudly. "Matt. I meant the car. As in, the one that hit you. As in, the thing that put you in here with us. As in the thing we're trying to tie into the investigation." Silence. Then: "Think, man. What did you see on the street besides that girl?"

Leila listened in a neutral silence, struggling to put together a reasonable case for suspicion against anybody present. Stephen was talking about cars now -- what did she know about them? She walked wherever possible, or took public transport. Cars were too expensive on her limited funds, and besides, she'd have to raise the money for driving lessons first. When Stephen offered the picture of his, she glanced at it only briefly, catching the blunt square shape and reasonable height. She glanced around, unsure who to give it to, and eventually gave a mental shrug and held it out for Rinni. It was then that she tuned into what Matt was saying. Something about legs. He was grinning to himself as he rambled, clearly pleased with what he was envisaging in his mind. Why was he suddenly talking about a woman? Having missed the beginning of the conversation, she was bemused, right up until Stephen broke in.

"Matt. I meant the car."

Now it made sense. Trust Matt to go off on a tangent about something both lecherous and irrelevant. She rubbed her eyes, feeling mentally exhausted. "For what it's worth," she put in wearily, "I don't drive. Too expensive." It was true, she had no license and no funds to afford lessons. When she needed to get somewhere, she'd get a lift from one of her friends. She couldn't recall what kind of car any of them had, and didn't especially want to for fear of identifying someone she had thought her friend as her killer. Her mother used a pickup truck for her gardening work; she knew of nobody else in the area that had a car. Another point of the investigation she couldn't help with.

"What did I see on the street beside the girl?" He asked, seeming to think about it for a moment or two. "Nothing. Not a soul in site. I mean it was pretty late and I was just following the girl that had piqued my interests. It was silent all around and that's why I didn't notice the car until it was too late. All I know was that it was low, and red in colour. Kind of reminded me of a sports car but I think I was dead before I could take in any distinguishing features." He finally told Stephen, finally saying something semi decent other than his sexual needs.

The girl was far more interesting than the car though. He didn't need to think about the car. He hadn't seen who was inside or anyone get out before he died or anything like that. He didn't even care because Matt still believed that he was in some fucked up dream with fucked up people and he wasn't going to believe differently - ever. He wouldn't accept that he was dead, just like every other person in the place.

"And before you ask, I didn't see anyone or anything before I apparently died. Now, no more questions. For what I told you guys anyway I should get a reward..." He grinned, looking at the girls with hope.

Stephen nodded, allowing himself a ghost of a tired little smile. So he had gotten through to Matthew, at least a little. That was a tiny plus. Stephen knew that the thick-headed ingrate wouldn't ever accept he was dead, as had the others, but at least he had contributed a little. He jotted down the few things that Matt had said about the car - low, red, sports car - and then stood up. He completely blew off Matt's comment for once - he was in a good mood, now, and almost nothing would bring him down from it. He moved over to Christi and looked at her.

"Christi?" He said in a calm voice, tapping her lightly on the shoulder to get her attention. He brought out his little notepad and pencil and looked her in the eyes, as if probing her mind for information. "Do you remember anything else about that car? Did it sound anything like the description Matt gave?" The journalist then held out the note-pad, intending for Christi to take it and read it over.

Christi turned her head from studying Leila, for a reason she didn't know why, and looked at Stephen. To her, though, it was Marcus. He had a pad and pencil in his hand, a light tap on her shoulder gaining her attention. She looked at him with wide eyes full of curiosity.

She took the pad from him and looked over it. Everything seemed right. "This seems right," she told Marcus, handing the pad to him. "I didn't really get to see it. Maybe there's paint on my legs or something. . ." She started searching amongst the dry blood, not relazing it was pointless to do that. As long as she could be happy and entertained, they should just leave it be.

'A thread!' Stephen's mind did a backflip of joy. His face broke into a big grin, and he let a satisfied guffaw escape his lips. "A connecting factor!" He said out loud, then did a fistpump. Ignoring Christi's own sudden, morbid fascination with the blood-spattered cracked remains of her own legs, the columnist made his way back to the main group. Still wearing his smile, he launched into a summary.

"So, ladies and... Matt," he said, barely-restrained excitement evident in his voice, "We have a connecting factor. Both of our hit-and-run victims were hit by similar vehicles, if not the very same one." He began wringing his hands and pacing, his voice picking up speed as his excitement built. "That means that either the murderer owns the car, or has access to it. I don't know how far that gets us, but we have a thread connecting the two murders. Which is something you could already have guessed, but I'm saying it anyways." He smiled again, and briefly stopped pacing. When he resumed pacing, his speaking was rapid fire. He stopped, turned on his right heel, and faced Leila.

"I need your help here. You were murdered on the streets, but not by a hit-and-run. If the murderer is the same person - and I'm assuming that he or she is - then he may have been driving the same car that day. So I need you to think back to the day you were killed." He paused a moment, thinking. Then: "What do you remember about that day? Did you see any cars that match the basic outline of what I wrote here? Parked on the side of the road, in the street, anywhere?"

"It doesn't get us anywhere in my opinion. No one will own up to owning or having access to the stupid car. But looks like us two victims that got hit by cars can't be the murderers. We didn't hit ourselves or use it as a suicide attempt so that makes us clear." Matt just didn't want to be put into the killer's position. He knew that he didn't do it but there was the possibility that he'd go hit by accident after killing people. In his eyes though that wasn't possible. He didn't care what the others though and in his eyes, he couldn't see the girls being killers. So that left Stephen.

"So, I hate to break it to you, I still think it's you and we're still no further into solving this pathetic dream than we were when we first got here. Geez, I hope to God when I wake up you people really aren't real and are just some figment of my imagination and fucked up dream just here to piss me well and truly off. If this is a dream God knows what it's trying to tell me either; except for the fact that I have a fucked up head to be dreaming this in the first place." He continued before shutting up.

"Just in case people want to give up now, my voting idea is still out in the open."

At the link between cases, Stephen was suddenly animated, restless. Leila had to stop herself flinching as he turned around to face her, and fired a question at such a fast pace she could barely understand his words, as if he couldn't get them out quickly enough. To remember the day...the 3rd December, she recalled, not long past eight o'clock. Her piano lesson had just ended. It was cold, and she had been shivering inside her jumper...

The street was quiet, empty of life. She hurried down the pavement quickly, her hands cupping her elbows, arms folded across her chest as if to keep the omnipresent chill at bay. The houses that lined her side of the road were silent, locked up against the winter night. On the opposite side was the canal, frozen over. Her mind was occupied with the disagreement between her and her tutor; she didn’t pay attention to the street as she walked down it, until she slipped and skidded on some black ice smeared over the drive she was crossing. She almost went down, managing to rectify her balance at the last second. She paused to catch her breath, and continued with more care. There were more cars than before, parked in a neat row along the kerb. They were orange reflections in the lamp-lit dark, and it was impossible to identify colours. Everything was bleached and lifeless. Even she was becoming numbed by the cold – right up until the first stab of agony…

She stopped, unconsciously tugging at the neck of her jumper. She didn’t want to remember further than that. She backtracked in her mind, summoning images of the street. There had been a couple of low cars, she was certain, but below the street-legal height? Did she even know what that was? She cleared her throat self-consciously, and spoke. “I’m not sure about the same as the others, but there were definitely low-riding cars parked along the kerb. Nobody drove past.” She stared at her shoes, feeling useless again. If only she’d paid more attention – but how was she to have known it would be a matter of…not life and death, maybe, but something to that effect?

"Alright, alright, thank you." Stephen smiled, then spun away from her on his heel and moved quickly, almost flying across the grey nothingness towards Catherine. He stood in front of her, still smiling gamely, and produced the notebook again.

"And what about you?" He said, still mildly excited. "Did you see that car? Any time at all?"

Okay. So they had a link - the car.

Rinni thought hard, trying to think of the night she had been.. Well, murdered was the only word she could think of. What sounds had she heard, other than her own breathing, and the sound of heavy footsteps behind her? The grass had been wet, and it was night, so there weren't many sounds other than those she had been making herself, and the ones already mentioned.

"There might have been the sound of a car," she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else. "It wasn't that far away from a parking-spot, and I might have heard the killer's car."

Stephen's brain ran out of steam at that point. So he had a tying factor between the murders - every one had, at least to some extent, been murdered by the owner or driver of a dropped red sports car. Other than that... What? Nothing, that was what, and Stephen was perplexed by it. The journalist finally nodded, the manic energy fading from his eyes, his face returning to its normal stony expression.

"Right," he grunted, sitting down next to Rinni, "I guess that's all I have for now."

They had done the car idea to death, and Stephen didn’t seem to have any more bright ideas, so Leila again deduced that things were down to her. It wouldn’t be a bad way to proceed, she reflected briefly, alternating between her and Stephen. He seemed unusually enthusiastic, although that had altogether faded now, and had even brought out a notebook, a notebook for God’s sake. She didn’t even have pockets. She allowed a deep sigh, and remembered something Rinni had suggested earlier. The physical condition of the murderer. She shot a furtive, uneasy glance at Stephen, who had deflated again, and awkwardly swallowed.

“I was, uh, obviously, attacked from behind, and I didn’t see the murderer…” She hesitated, before summoning resolve. “But was anybody approached from in front? Did anybody so much as glimpse who did this to us? Anything at all…” She trailed off, cringing for every second it took them to respond.