of string and wire, your katabasis

If I had a pound for every white-haired murderous queer character I've commissioned Aleks for, I'd have two pounds and I will absolutely do it again. 🩶🩶🩶 Behold the leopard selkie that's been taking up my entire brain space for weeks

Thankfully, this fool had burned himself enough times to know better than to arrive unprepared. Coils wound, outer layers tense, the fire firmly contained.

From the dark, from above, he nears on perfectly silent tips of its hooked talons- dark umber optic illuminating little more but that ghoulish, scarred smile.

"Karma it IS, I see."

For destiny comes for us all.

"He once told me..." Trilled on the Joymaker, taking in the scene of scattered bodies as his faintly larger form snaked in, out of the corners of that Reflection's vision.

"-out of sight, out of mind... is a fool's task. Wise men SEE through. But, didn't he turn mad... from what HE, saw, too..?" Burly talons spread, taking on a wide stance.

A challenge stance.

@joycarver

TW for pain, blood, dismemberment....

"In a way, perhaps I had." Must play along. "I SEE now... my own efforts were in vain." Machinery ground out on a coldblooded rew, subtle it thought it was as hooked talons made to crawl closer... until they were stood securely over what's left OF Lycosa's true self, bulk of 5's frame stood between the time anomaly and the present.

"That being said... I'm afraid I don't „DO”, „handouts”. HOW about I first treat you to a wound or few, and one, bitter LESSON to go with... and fairly EARN my own keep?"

"If you had staked your claim, you should've harvested it before now," he rumbles, eye moving to fix on that battered, broken form on the Fifth's other side, watching the faintest of movements as the Copy fights to stay alive. It was...pathetic, yet amusing, seeing this inferior copycat trying so hard to cling to a life it didn't deserve.

"Very well. If you have no need of it, I shall take it back." Head tilting back upwards, The Prototype makes as if he's going to step forward and take back the fallen jester....only to freeze mid-step as The Fifth threatens him. THREATENS him. How dare this....thing threaten him, after he'd been so gracious?!

"You really presume you could stand against me, Wretch?" he hisses, his own needle like fingers snapping taut, "We shall see who is the one learning a lesson here..."

....

....

Unseen, or ignored, a weak light flickers on, shattered mask twitching as the Sixth tries to move, to look around, to try and figure out what's going on. But....he's so tired....

Watching the memory's every move, he allowed his claws to spread out through the air before making to echo the threat display, curling last two digits down flat against its palm, opting for a longer, yet narrower means of retaliation- adjusting their positioning to block his path just a little more effectively. "That fully depends on how MUCH hurt YOU'RE able to bring... No better teacher... than YOUR, own, mistakes."

To keep him busy, even if at the cost of themselves becoming lumber to chew on until this is over... as pointer and middle claws flicked only once at the imitation in fully intended taunt, before reforming into one rusty, jagged blade... unlike his.

Claws fan out wide, light gleaming on the gel-and-blood-stained steel needles, before snapping shut with sound not unlike that of scissors snipping. The body moves slowly, methodically, each and every single movement measured to the finest detail as he sizes up his opposition. The faker had been easy prey, still recovering and distracted, but this...thing before him? He knew this wasn't going to be an easy fight.

But like Hell was he going to back down.

"I offered you a chance," The Prototype growls, arms pulling back and legs going tense, "Do not say I am not a fair God."

(warnings: violence, severe injury, blood abound)

Momentary frustration at one hand being caught in this other's trap is replaced with a confident glee when he sees the other blows hit clearly at the other's core, a vicious cut that soon starts to bleed deeply.

Good. The creature can bleed, so it can die. Or at least be dismantled. All he needed to do was put this abomination in his place, then he can finish his..."conversation" with the copy.

...Wait....

Something....is wrong....

....The negation gel?!

Metal sizzles, smolders, melts, BURNS. The Prototype tries to pull his arm away, away from the liquid that is eating from his fingers, his hands, melting the steel digits down to the core.

But even as he manages to wrench his hands free, he feels something slip behind one of his legs, then there's a terrible tearing sensation. Pain erupts along the leg as it seizes, sparks, locks up in agony. It's a fight to pull back and away, but somehow, with a sharp snarl, he manages to do so, stumbling back on his five working legs (five, like the copy!), trail of poppy gel in his wake.

"How DARE you."

Seems this one would be a much harder opponent than he'd anticipated. But....there was something he had noticed - the way the other moved. Not on the offense, but on defense, keeping themselves between him....and the Copy. The little broken jester who had somehow survived his work, and when he managed to get a glance behind the wall of murderous intent before him, The Prototype can see the trail of poppy gel and broken parts left behind by the pathetic thing as it had attempted to crawl away from the brawl...

Gears start to turn, to plot.

A stumble to one side, another attempt at a lunge and a swipe, but even as the Fifth is getting ready to counter, he's moving again, swinging around the opposite way to try and slide past the fifth, every intent on snatching up that pitiful waste of parts behind him.

Unfortunately... so it seemed, this Angel might just too have to learn the hard way.

Entire body jerking to block his path at every false swipe, the Scarred Machine watched- one arm still securely behind his back. Unbothered, to let itself bleed.

It was momentary- the breather its eye took to focus, yet far too crucial, to keep disaster at bay while the other took full advantage of it. Own musculature gone rock solid with tension, it whirled around on the tips of his talons, like the world's deadliest spinning top- and under total combined force of centrifuge lifting his FULL WEIGHT-"You're NOT going anywhere." Sunk an entire serrated glaive of metal, "-MY blades... ARE HERE!"-into the reflection's own shell, puncturing it without mercy, right between connectors of two other legs. All the while... his free arm moved at last- recognizing all bets are off, now that the „Past” is attempting to run away.

At least... they're hoping that's what it is.

Not ONCE, has their optic chanced look upon a downed jester's own ruined form from where he'd been left, to writhe on the cold flooring- alone... with ONLY his OWN two arms... to support his OWN body.

Claws clatter into the ground, just falling short, because of the blow that's struck to him. He shrieks in surprise and pain when the blades sink deep, right into the delicate joints that kept two of his legs held together and functional, poppy gel spurting from the wounds.

The effect is almost instant, legs snapping under his weight and collapsing out from under him, driving his weight to the ground with a resouncing thud. Hissing from the pain and furious humiliation at being so bested, he twists his upper torso around to quickly slash and stab at the other Prototype behind him.

How is he being BESTED by this...this...this abomination of a mutated copy?!

.....

He does have one trick that he'd prefer to not use, but it seems he has no other option.

Jets kick in, nozzles twist and open, and The Red Mist pours forth from hidden outlets, quickly dousing the area immediately around the dueling spiders in a deep crimson veil.

....He knows this won't affect the other in the way that the mist affects others, not if this other is anything like him. But that's not the point. The point is a very different one, and as he disappears into it, a sudden sharp shriek reveals it's true purpose....

Their own... tainted lifeblood, speckling cold ground, faintly steaming against it in most places... only to violently bubble and roil with a vicious chemical reaction whenever it happened to mix with stray spilled drops of that ever invaluable gel.

The noise was already warning enough- Until... there it was. Like a scared reptile shedding its tail- a cephalopod inking itself. "Playing dirty, ARE we..." Hissed its voices into the mist, watchful for figures in red rolling fumes. Shaking their head, Mark Five then willingly drew a breath of that horrid smoke... to ease up and focus. To numb the nerves. Luckily for the Fifth- HE, was not alone. A wet cough racked their wounded core, while a clean hand's needles reached up, towards its smile..? "Now you've FORCED my hand..." Or, no- they crept into his mouth. Down, down... deep, down it's throat.

Upper half lurching over after a struggle- the Joymaker seemed to choke on their own blades for but an agonizingly long moment... only to THEN abruptly YANK its hand free, something tarnished and long snaking- WHIPPING through the air in its grasp... "GHLK-! Ah-hah, now then..."

It certainly couldn't have been his own string of spinal segments forming that whip of stolen, sharpened bone... right...?

That....wasn't what he'd expected to happen.

For his own smoke reserves were still full.

Unfortunately, he is not an omniscient God, as much as he wishes he is, and in the heat of the moment, it had not occurred to him that this Other could also possess The Red Mist in its arsenal and might attempt to use his own trick against him, concealing itself within that deep crimson veil.

Still. He had the advantage, the Copy still writhing in his grasp, daring to hiss and try to feebly swipe at him. Pathetic attacks that cease when he slowly increases the pressure of his grip on its skull, instead opting to merely glare at him.

"You can't win this."

Now it's his turn to glare at the Copy, ignoring the wry chuckle it gives when he hisses in pain when he tries to take a step. There was no this pair of rejects was going to -

Then the whip came for him.

A startled yelp, one he would absolutely deny ever happened, comes from his throat as the razor edges wrap around his arms, trapping them and causing him to involuntarily drop the damaged Copy. Snarling as he looks up when the Other talks, ignoring the cackling from the Copy as it crawls away from him.

"Told you so."

He doesn't even spare a glance for the smug creature, focus instead solely on the Other.

Just, a, little, longer... need to hold out.

Until then, it'll happily make him eat those words.

"How DARE you. I am no ANIMAL, you wretched - "

The Prototype doesn't get to finished his insult as he's suddenly yanked forward, unable to prepare himself as he's pulled forward into that cloud, horrid screeching of metal against ground. Right into that waiting fist, driving itself into his torso, right where the supports that attack spider and jester are.

That sickening crunch....He knows he's in trouble now. He has to get free, or else he'll be in even WORSE trouble. But how, while that damn whip is wrapped around his arms....?

....There's one way.

A second sickening crunch as he suddenly SNAPS his own arms quickly to one side, the wrist already damaged by the negation formula snapping under the force of the movement and the razor sharp whip. It's what he needs - while the damaged arm remains ensnared, it gives him just enough wiggle room to pull the other free.

There was a secondary snap he had not anticipated, words getting stuck in their vocalizers in the gap between moments 5 took to recalibrate its own senses- while they were made to pay the toll, snarling out on a low rew of bubbling RAGE as their shoulder joint was audibly severed in its socket, tension bleeding out of the arm that threatened to lose its grasp on that very weapon... almost going slack, until.

Without even slowing to consider such, something else overrode their infamous urge to spout mockery at the reflection's own comeuppance... instead making to personally ensure that it now gets meted. They have wasted its own breath enough on him.

Whirling around with one SEARING glare in their EYE... its opposite arm reached across, firmly latching onto his own from where he'd stabbed through the coarse fabric, torn through muscle and tendon alike- only to, with an uncannily human kind of savagery- drag his upper frame aside and out of the way, just to impale another bladed leg straight through bulk of the imitant's lower body. Only, now...

The serrated glaive didn't stop at just that. No, it- was directing last of its strength to SAW through.

It had started with a satisfying strike, the feeling of bone and steel and fabric giving way under his blow. Almost gleeful at the sound of the joint being severed with his might, the arm going slack bit by bit, no matter how hard this Other fought it. The Prototype could still win this, just a few more hits like that....

"Nothing to say now, Cretin?" he jeered when they didn't respond to their blow, "Or have you finally realised you are outmatched - "

Should've kept his mouth SHUT.

He barely has time to react before that other hand snakes across and YANKS his jester half to one side. Barely has time to even REGISTER what is happening when that serrated talon DRIVES through his lower half, carving and sawing its way through him.

It. Is. AGONY.

The Prototype screams, yanking his undamaged hand back out of the wound it had made to try and strike at the talon currently gnawing at his abdomen, but it just bounces off of the metal limb. If he doesn't do something soon, he's going to end up like that wretched Copy -

So he does, switching target back to the main form, using the whip to his advantage - pulling the Fifth in closer, so that he can drive those wicked talons through their chest -

Another screech....but not his. Nor the Other.

Too late comes realization its weakened arm should be letting the whip go before- wires and nerve gave way under the pull through a shriek of fabric, ripping apart, and the shoulder was painfully dislocated from its socket with a guttural bellow of raw, furious anguish. That'll be fun to fix...

Still, in its blinding wrath... they saw the flash of metal. His undercarriage already bracing to tense, curve aside, out of the way... and then opportunity struck from behind. Coils wound, thought unbound...

For if his little bug can carry on... then it must too.

And, upper frame bowing- they tackled HIM with its full weight, throwing all care to the wind as burly talons crashed into his lower body at an angle... even as the leg already gouging into him, twisted at its joint unnaturally with a gnarly crack- threatening to knock him DOWN, DOWN... like the false "DEITY" that he is-- SLASH.

Tubing RUPTURED. Steam began to pour as poisoned life frothed to the surface... He... got them good. Real... good. So he has SOME guts to him after all. HUGE, guts.