Chapter five.

Fury said to the mouse, that he met in the house,

'let us both go to law: I will prosecute you-

come, I'll take no denial; we must have a trial:

For really this morning I've nothing to do.'

Mouse to the cur, 'such a trial, dear sir,

With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.'

'I'll be the judge, I'll be the jury,' said the cunning old Fury,

'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'

Her name hadn't been important, but he had remembered it anyways; Carla. He'd hired her at random, just as they had planned, and he'd been surprised, when the young, pretty thing had arrived at the lab that morning, fresh and wide-eyed; she'd said that he'd inspired her.

It was a good start to a poor ending. For her, at least. If it was an end at all, now that he thought of it.

William was the first to raise question, "Bish, who's the doll?" he asked lowly as Walter was washing up in a low, porcelain basin. Out of earshot of the intern, whom continued to stare about the low laboratory in wonderment.

"Her name is Carla," Walter had replied, just as quietly, "I hired her this morning." he twisted off the tap and shook his hands partially dry, and he allowed himself a smirk, "she's a big fan of mine, apparently."

William seemed unamused, "Can we afford this piece of eye candy?"

Walter shrugged, "She won't see her first paycheck anyways."

William looked confused and skeptical for a few moments, before his features slackened with realization. He hadn't told Belly, of course, of his plan, but the man was smart enough to figure out Walter's actions on his own. A smile flitted across his face, and he smoothed a hand along Walter's shoulders fondly.

Despite his reassuring, if even approving, glances and touches, Walter's pulse fluttered against his tie.

They had waited until the evening to do it, some time around twilight- there was no rush. The bats were swooping against the high windows in the cool, nibbling mosquitoes from the grass that fringed the yellowed panes.

Walter had chosen his actions carefully, but not meticulously. He would merely do what made logical sense to him, in the presence of a completely illogical situation. He had known when he had stepped toward her back, thick glass beaker in hand, that there was no turning back from his decisions.

It thrilled him.

William had risen to follow him, eyes intent on Walter rather that their unsuspecting victim, and his footsteps were fleeting to flank them and distract her, as Walter closed the distance between them.

He stooped and brought the heavy glass article up in a swipe, colliding with the back of her skull. The beaker did not break, a low, heavy gong sound echoing in the twilight of the basement. An upward thrust- even an idiot would conclude that the attack had been anticipated by someone much shorter than his own height.

She tipped forward, swooning. But he had restricted his strike on purpose, and continued forward, the instrument splattering the skin into blood, and she collapsed forward onto the cement, a rattling moan escaping her.

William was suddenly upon her- he had been circling them when the attack had begun, and, seeing her fall, had pounced forward, a razor knife appearing in his hands, "No!" Walter cried, stooping to grip his arm and pull him back, away from the girl, "William, no!" he had intended a bludgeoning death, one with the least amount of physical evidence.

"Walter!" William retorted sharply, struggling away from him, back toward his prey, "Walter, it's now! It's our chance!"

"No!" Walter repeated again, twisting William's arm painfully, and the man winced, easing away. At last, Walter released him, and he stood over the body, his breathing heavy.

Suddenly, William offered him the razor knife, "You do it."

"What?" Walter demanded.

"Cut her throat. She'll bleed out, you won't get any on you..." William's eyes were turbulent with hunger and madness, as he pressed on, "She might not die, if we don't. We're wasting time, and if they're good, they'll wonder what took so long. Please, Walter." his voice whined, as Walter's appellation escaped his lips.

Walter's trembling hand closed around the knife, Williams' fingers icy against his sweating palms. The razor knife was rattling, as he stooped over the body, her moaning growing fainter as she writhed more and more slowly.

A tendon of her neck formed a ridge, along the smooth curve of flesh, and he extended the razor further, as he lowered it, using the flat of the edge to carve in, rather than the point to puncture. His first motion had been tentative, as little more that a prickle of slicing skin was felt, against the knife. He flexed the muscles of his arm and pressed deeper, his lips drawing back from his teeth in effort, and the tendon sliced cleanly, blood flowing more freely from the wound, and she twitched, making him hesitate. Then, he continued with his pressure across her neck, a jagged, torn line, as the razor found softer tissue, cutting into her deeply, perhaps a little too deeply, and he had to pull the thin blade out of her throat when he reached the other end, "Belly," he breathed, staring as she was choking softly, small bubbles of red issuing from the slice, "Belly, damn it, I've botched it...!"

"No, Bish, it's perfect, just perfect," William whispered softly into his ear, his hand caressing the back of Walter's neck, "Don't worry, it's perfect. See? She's dead."

Walter drew back from the body before the blood could touch his white lab coat, a sick flop sweat dampening his brow and armpits. He felt chilled, with William's hot hand still against his skin. She was dead. He'd done it. There was more blood than he'd imagined. Pure panic jolted him like an illness.

His eyes turned to William, whom was smiling. His lips were slightly agape, and he was panting with adrenaline, as he rubbed his arm in a circular motion over Walter's shoulders comfortingly, "You're trembling."