[This gets worse and worse the longer Chilton talks. A store that offered taxidermy. An elk head, meaning there would be antlers, not that Chilton had knowledge of that feathered stag, the nightmares and hallucinations about antlers. And then he goes and drops the figurative bomb that no, Will can't just take care of hair and prints and the usual. A gun registered in his name, bullets stuck in the wall.
Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long night. But hey! If Gideon managed to dematerialize completely in the time it took Will to see everything through, maybe he could take the wheelchair, too. Because that wouldn't look suspicious at all, wheeling that bloody thing down the road. He's just holding it for a friend, he might be back, he'll need the chair if he comes back. God. He says only two, and Will's face screws up. Yeah, easier to say when he's not the one who's taking care of it, but Will doesn't vocalize that. Chilton was already showing enough physical unease, it wouldn't be sporting for Will to rattle him further.
Should've given Chilton those gun lessons for Christmas, he thinks. Hindsight is 20/20 and all.]
Got it. [This could be worse, it really could. It could also be better, but he'll take what he can get, here and now. That's is a good enough rundown; Will pushes off the wall and makes his way across the room, steps controlled and quiet.] I'd suggest you give your Beretta Pico a thorough cleaning tonight. If anything's leftover to connect you to the Carthage Company, it won't be found there.
[There's hunting for trophy or food, and then there's obliterating entire acres of game while throwing Greek fire at any signs declaring the closed state of hunting season; Will's intent to do the latter. He reaches for the lock on the door, stops to make sure they're done, again completely unconcerned about leaving his prints on the knob—in Will's opinion, hiding any evidence he was ever here to the point it seemed he'd never once stepped foot in Frederick Chilton's room might alert suspicions. People from the same world could visit each other, couldn't they?]
no subject
Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long night. But hey! If Gideon managed to dematerialize completely in the time it took Will to see everything through, maybe he could take the wheelchair, too. Because that wouldn't look suspicious at all, wheeling that bloody thing down the road. He's just holding it for a friend, he might be back, he'll need the chair if he comes back. God. He says only two, and Will's face screws up. Yeah, easier to say when he's not the one who's taking care of it, but Will doesn't vocalize that. Chilton was already showing enough physical unease, it wouldn't be sporting for Will to rattle him further.
Should've given Chilton those gun lessons for Christmas, he thinks. Hindsight is 20/20 and all.]
Got it. [This could be worse, it really could. It could also be better, but he'll take what he can get, here and now. That's is a good enough rundown; Will pushes off the wall and makes his way across the room, steps controlled and quiet.] I'd suggest you give your Beretta Pico a thorough cleaning tonight. If anything's leftover to connect you to the Carthage Company, it won't be found there.
[There's hunting for trophy or food, and then there's obliterating entire acres of game while throwing Greek fire at any signs declaring the closed state of hunting season; Will's intent to do the latter. He reaches for the lock on the door, stops to make sure they're done, again completely unconcerned about leaving his prints on the knob—in Will's opinion, hiding any evidence he was ever here to the point it seemed he'd never once stepped foot in Frederick Chilton's room might alert suspicions. People from the same world could visit each other, couldn't they?]
Is that everything?