[ Outside the parking lot, there's an old bike parked between two stalls, like the owner couldn't give a damn about following the rules. Out here, what's the point? Not like there's gonna be a swarm of people coming in to...whatever the hell this diner is. The lights are out, one of the windows boarded up, the rest thick with grime and dust. The smell of dried blood and mould permeates the air. The closer he steps, the stronger it grows.
Probably not an overnight stay, then. But he can hear footsteps inside—light, human, probably a woman or somebody with a slight build–and that makes him want to see. Must be the other car parked outside. Other than that one, there's no sign of another soul.
Well. A human soul. Something skitters across the stained hardwood inside. He frowns. The noise travels up the wall to the left, then across the cobwebbed ceiling. The hell—
A clatter snaps his attention away. Logan turns a corner where he glimpses a head of tousled blonde hair behind the bar. An ancient bottle of beer rolls toward his foot. He bends down to pick it up. Maybe his footsteps on the creaky wood is what she heard, maybe it's the skittering, but either way, before he can open his mouth, ask her who she is or if she needs any help, the entire ceiling crashes down on top of her with the weight of something. It's big, black, coated in a layer of shifting darkness, so black it practically absorbs what little light's coming from the parking lot outside. The building shudders. Glass shatters.
He dives at it—skidding across the floor with the black mass. A single eye opens into a teeth-filled mouth. Alright, so maybe getting up close and personal was a bad idea, but. Too late to turn back now. ]
diner; w/ some wildcarding.
Probably not an overnight stay, then. But he can hear footsteps inside—light, human, probably a woman or somebody with a slight build–and that makes him want to see. Must be the other car parked outside. Other than that one, there's no sign of another soul.
Well. A human soul. Something skitters across the stained hardwood inside. He frowns. The noise travels up the wall to the left, then across the cobwebbed ceiling. The hell—
A clatter snaps his attention away. Logan turns a corner where he glimpses a head of tousled blonde hair behind the bar. An ancient bottle of beer rolls toward his foot. He bends down to pick it up. Maybe his footsteps on the creaky wood is what she heard, maybe it's the skittering, but either way, before he can open his mouth, ask her who she is or if she needs any help, the entire ceiling crashes down on top of her with the weight of something. It's big, black, coated in a layer of shifting darkness, so black it practically absorbs what little light's coming from the parking lot outside. The building shudders. Glass shatters.
He dives at it—skidding across the floor with the black mass. A single eye opens into a teeth-filled mouth. Alright, so maybe getting up close and personal was a bad idea, but. Too late to turn back now. ]