@demunitization ⧐ you think you're better than me? prove it.
PLATONIC BONDS & DYNAMICS
"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?"
It's cold and aching, like the height of winter settling on the ends of his nerves to frost over with an icy grip. It's no longer hot and fiery; opportunistic and ravaging like the biting predator that had lain in wait for the right moment, the right bit of flesh to whet its appetite on. This feels worse, no matter what the permanent plasticine grin on his features illustrates; little to gain, no longer worth the strain on whatever remains of his bitterness continue to lash at him with tendrils not unlike his own. And yet he cannot shake the habit - the desire to circle like the vulture he is, feathers primed and fluttering high amid the blazing sun to find the perfect swollen, maggot-filled carcass upon which he can glut.
It's an addiction - to stare into those eyes that only eye him in turn with defiance and blazing vitriol. He senses in them, anger. He senses in them, vanity. He senses rage and contempt, bleeding from every pixelated pore as they dance the immutable dance they have been locked into for decades, now. Poised at the precipice of another explosive collision, and yet the radio demon is not quick to unsheathe his claws and take the bait. He is calculating as his steps trod one at a time, ever-closer as he finds purchase on the icy surface of his own unease and dissatisfaction.
It is no longer fun. It is repetition and familiarity. What else, if not this? What else, if not the war? Nothing awaits him other than the clashing of proverbial teeth, not even the prospect of the full release of true death. For once, Alastor can only hope to be consumed by the hatred that blossoms from the other in bright bursts of thunder and lightning.
The radio demon should be dead already.
"Are you not tired?" He dares to ask, the words slithering from his silver tongue with one, two, three crackles of feedback which reverberate from throat to teeth; the final word dripping with suggestion. "Is it not enough to pose on the precipice of greatness, only to tumble back down? You have to steep yourself in your own blood, too, by picking another fight?"
His own power regained, but not yet his energy. Limbs weigh him down, and so he is slow in his stride, painting it as entirely intentional. All perfectly plotted; all perfectly purposeful.
"If I were you, I would have taken a vacation."
Sing-song intonation; mocking and made to prickle and sting. What else does he have but to goad? Bygones continuously stoked for further pain inflicted before it can be inflicted upon him. Hurt you, before you can hurt me.
That is, after all, what has started this whole thing, now isn't it?
