@t2thousand said:
“ There’s blood on your hands. ”
'blood' starters - accepting
A WORLD OF COLOR WAS LOST ON THE MONSTER THAT COULD ONLY SEE IN SHADES OF RED --------------- Their comment in passing does not go unnoticed. It's enough to pull Revenant from his moment of idle reflection during mundane travel from point A to point B. Of how he's coming down from that HIGH, unaware of where he was headed and why. A high which few others bear witness to... and survive to tell the tale. It's these crucial moments that render the machine tolerable at best, save for his sour outlook and resistance to proper cooperation. Even those with whom he is paired are naught more than meatshields to the simulacrum. But the games weren't running now, were they? So when the blood is apparent, it doesn't just stain his hands. Oh no, it practically mediums as a fresh paintjob, clinging to his frame, as though afraid it, too, will fall victim to an unseen threat. All it takes is a passing glance to his hands that sends him back forty minutes.
Sauntering footfalls echo in his mind to the rhythm of VIOLENCE.
Crack. Crack. Crack. --------------- Skull finds purchase with concrete wall, enough raw VISCERA spilled in the laboratory to feed a large family of cannibals for weeks. His persistence earned him a dead victim, sure, with the accompanying mush of flesh that digits curled into. It was mindless rage that brought him here, a bundle of SHADED EMBERS seeking naught more than to make all life suffer. But there was little imagination to his savagery. At first it was slow and torturous, plucking tendons like strings of a violin, a victim's cries but music to the monster's ears. Yet these moments were often short lived as bloodthirst took hold, catching him in a dissociative spiral that knew little more than hatred and rage.
Three men stripped of their identities, memories and minds merged into one machine. He is the product of conjoinment amidst the fragments of what's left. So who are the Syndicate to deny him the right to strip all of their identities? NOBODY !
( You only realize you've been carrying a man's spine when it snaps in your grip. )
❝ There's far more than blood on my hands. ❞ Barely louder than a whisper, but not entirely directed towards the duo, either. A personal reminder? Or perhaps an indirect warning. Nonetheless, it's in this moment that amber optics flick up, GLARING daggers into the other's own eyes as shards of bone are finally released from vicelike grip. But this isn't the same glow most are accustomed to. It's a glimpse beneath the looking glass, a momentary visitation from the OTHER SIDE. ( Yet you don't let them in enough to see the pain. They will only know your anger. )
They look at him, and DEATH ITSELF stares back. But when Death speaks, it isn't with whispers carried upon wintry winds. It's rough and abrasive, a BEASTIAL GROWL that would accompany gnashing teeth.
❝ When Death comes for you, will you run? I HOPE SO . ❞
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