Mercy buried their claws in the bodies of the undead, sending limbs and viscera splattering against the trees.
They felt the undeadâs pain. They still hurt even while being torn apart. But they were dying. Their pain was ending. They would find peace. Their salvation.
It wasnât these zombies she killed. It was those first two, the ones who helped her find her calling, all over again. Rileyâs blood mixing in with the blood of her enemies, all spilled over the prairie grass.
Each death was like reliving their death, over and over. Rage. Justice. Hate. Emptiness.
She held one by its head, and shot a tendril of green into its throat.
Joy. The overwhelming satisfaction of fulfilling her duty, of saving more souls from their eternal torment. They greatly enjoyed this moment. The rush of their blood. The shrieking pain of the undead turning to silence.
This is what they were made for. What they joined together to do. They caught a glimpse of their accomplice. With a glance, they understood. He was like them. A creation made to destroy. For the greater good, remains to be seen, but the killerâs joy that courses through him was palpable.
The way her body easily relaxed into a killing machine was tantalizing. Mercy was at peace here, in the slaughter of her hands, or as close as she came to peace â he knew that. Even rest was not replenishing as it should be. Peace was meant for the lesser people; and for the greater: the high-strung heroes with their malleable moral high grounds. He knew this; and he understood. They were the same. At peace.
The look in her eyes; no, she didnât have eyes, her scent maybe; it told him they were on the same page. She understood him.
He was created to kill his father. Alright, created was almost certainly a strong word for what was actually nurture; he was built up to believe that he could do it, and to want to. He had been the favored pawn of the man who raised him. That was the past. He hadnât been believed in. He was his own man now. He formed beliefs. (He had his own reasons for killing Logan now.) And he liked to kill. It was satisfying. It was terribly mundane, too; often a thing he took for granted, a reflex he used to use without thinking. But it made him feel a little more alive than he usually felt. It soothed his restlessness. It made him almost happy, yes. At peace.
With a toss of his head Daken flicked his hair from his eyes once the zombies were dead, baring his teeth in a smile. Glancing down in disappointment at his ruined clothing, he shrugged, and wiped off his claws on his slacks before retracting them back into his forearms.
He liked this companion very much. He emitted pheromones gently to âtellâ her so. He approached her, smiling with closed lips, and planted a small chaste kiss somewhere on her face. It was a symbiote. Disgusting, perhaps, but she was surprisingly good and familiar; he found he wanted her to arouse her, and perhaps most important, she was something he could use. Whatever extrasensory talents symbiotes used to do what they did were talents he certainly wanted in on; not to mention, she packed a mean punch.
