For all their love of war, few Daemons of Khorne relished the idea of marching against the forces of the Plaguelord. Of course, no one ever so much as breathed a complaint within the Axe-father's hearing, but the relief that settled over the Blood-Realm at the conclusion of the latest tiff was unmistakable.
The Greater Daemon Mhaa'tyr the Widowmaker itched his brass hide, his snout wrinkling in disgust at the mess crusted beneath his talons. Blood; his own blood. From a wound, but not one wrought by a blade. Rather, a cluster of Nurglish ticks, specially bred to plague his kind by the Fly Lord himself, had fastened themselves stubbornly to his skin, draining his essence. Weakening him.
His host had suffered similarly, the loathsome little insects finding their way beneath scale and mail both to irritate, inflame, and infect. Mhaa'tyr sneered as he regarded them, absently sticking his blood fingers into his mouth. Yes, they were smaller and would fare worse because of it, but no Khornate bore witness to weakness and failed to react accordingly. Mhaa'tyr had marched what remained of his army here for one reason and one reason only, the spent and winded force looking up into the black leaves of the blood bark trees expectantly.
Here and there, the vegetation would shift and ripple. The tip of a tail could be seen here, the joint of a wing there, and soon enough these resolved into shapes: beings. Scruffy, pinioned, furtive; the Chaos Furies of Khorne were as grateful for the end to this war as the Warriors of Khorne, but for a different reason.
With the careful movement of creatures accustomed to being unwanted, the Furies descended down the barks in pairs and trios. Some glided down, landing a few meters from a whichever warrior they had chosen, regarding them with avian interest. Regarding their unwelcome "guests" with unmistakable hunger. And as that hunger grew, caution shrank and the Murders of Khorne quickly crowded in on warrior and daemon, pecking and nipping away the blood-filled daemon-parasites before shying away, only to return.
With greater caution was the Daemon Warlord Mhaa'tyr approached. And only with his tacit permission was he engaged, touched, scaled, fed upon. Each tick ripped free was accompanied by a sharp stab of pain and a twitch of hide by the Bloodthirster steadfastly ignoring the happenings and choosing to sharpen his axe instead. He did not enjoy it. But he enjoyed being infested even less.
So he endured the feeling of Fury hands and Fury feet running up and down his body, he paid little mind whenever two of the winged imps warred over a particularly rich patch of parasites, and he spitefully ignored whenever a larger, more daring Fury decided a warrior was a better meal than his mites...
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Send me a word or theme and " + drabble " and I will write a dabble / one-shot surrounding the given word. [ accepting ]
â â â The rain fell across the city, drenching the streets with large drops of water and leaving those caught out in it to scramble to cover. Seattle rain was different from rain elsewhere. The Pacific Northwest had a way of making one think that it might pour a river over your head before the sunshine was allowed to return.
She didnât mind it most days.
Sen7inelâs boots splashed as she walked, stepping through puddles as best as she could while moving deeper into the SoDo district. Her pack was full, and she held a few additional grocery bags in each hand. Water was soaking gradually through her hoodie now and she could feel the cool, damp bite on her shoulders.
Those gray eyes of hers were set on the building ahead. There was a side door along the alley, just past a dumpster. Home.
Keys jangled in her hand as she approached, slotting into the large lock with a thunk. But as she gave it a turn, there was the faintest noise that caused her to pause. Her head turned, looking up then down the alleyway but save for the shimmer of raindrops colliding with puddles, nothing else moved. Then she heard it again.
âMeow.â
Her gaze slid downward till it reached the bottom edge of the dumpster where two large green eyes stared back up. A cat, drenched and looking quite pathetic crouched underneath, clearly trying to escape the rain to no avail.
âMeow.â The stray complained at her again.
You gotta be kidding me.
Sen7inel flicked a hand at the thing, a feeble attempt really, leaving her keys to hang in the door. â S h o o .â
The drops seemed to fall harder as the cat held position.
âGo on, get.â She urged, her tone a little louder but with little edge. The feline, all black as far as she could tell, waited and watched.
And that wariness, well. She was all too familiar with it.
Her jaw clenched and unclenched. Then, a sigh hissed through her teeth. Checking the alleyway once more, she finally unlocked the door and pushed it open with her foot, waiting for a moment as she gave the cat a look.
It seemed to understand because after a quick glance, it darted inside.
Crossing the threshold, Sen7inel kicked the door closed behind her and stepped inside. Wet paw prints followed the cat to where it had stopped several feet into the warehouse, tail flicking as it looked around.
âDonât get any ideas,â she huffed, walking past with hands still full of grocery bags, "you're out as soon as the rain stops." If she found one thing out of place or knocked over, she wouldnât even wait for that. The cat gave itself a shake, water scattering on the floor.
The kitchen space of this hideout was actually decent. The building was once a mechanic shop with a break room equipped to cook a proper meal. Not that she cooked much, but it was nice to have the option. She set the grocery bags down and started unpacking the goods into the proper space, much of it canned or shelf stable and some of which she'd pulled from the 'clearance bin' at the store because, in her view, the reduced price was worth the risk.
"Meow." The sound came from behind, and she whipped around to find the feline had followed her, perching itself on the small table. And there it sat, tail swishing once almost expectantly.
"Nuh-uh, nope." Sen7inel waved the cat off and returned to her unpacking. "Don't sit there and act like we're friends."
Was she really talking to this thing?
The cat ignored her complaint, bringing up a paw as it started to groom itself.
When she was done, there were only two things left on the counter: a can of ravioli and a bottle of soda. Sen7inel dug around for a can opener, opening no fewer than three separate drawers until she found one and started on the ravioli whenâ
" M e o w ?"
The noise came from her feet, and when she looked down, the scrawny cat wove itself between her boots, staring up with even wider eyes than before.
"Really?" Sen7inel mused under her breath, though a small crack of a smile finally pulled at her lips. "Aren't you demanding." The cat paid no mind to her words, instead arching against her leg then curling around it like it was putting on a show.
Lucky for it, it worked.
"You're a terrible houseguest." Sen7inel argued back. Before she knew it, the cupboard was open and she was digging around for a small, rectangular can. On it, a clearance tag and a plain label: Anchovies.
Cats could have anchovies... right? It was just a fish after all.
"Meow!"
"Alright, alright. You win, justâ" she grabbed the little tab and pulled the tin open, "âhere, calm down." The cat seemed to recognize what was happening because it threaded around her legs again, tail flicking back and forth.
Gathering up her own can and soda with her other hand, Sen7inel wandered over to the small table, the cat following at her heels with small, excited mews. "Here." She set the tin of fish on the table, the cat promptly followed suit and hopped up. "I don't like these anyway."
The cat wasted no time in scarfing down the little snack. She watched the creature for several long moments before taking a fork to her own can, picking out the ravioli one at a time. It was... fine. Though she was certain the cat was enjoying its meal more.
As the cat finished, it sat, seemingly satiated for the time being, eyeing the hacker with those large eyes again.
"Don't look at me like that." Sen muttered over the edge of her can, finishing the last of her meal. "Weâre still not friends."
The cat just stared.
And the night went on. The rain stopped eventually and eventually Sen7inel let the cat out the door. But every so often, sheâd leave a can of clearance anchovies out and later find the same cat waiting for her, sitting on the dumpster and greeting her with its version of welcome home.
ooc; this began as an idea for an open starter but turned into a slice of life, decompressing hacker drabble with details about sen7inel's hideout and their look / feel (this one is based in san fran). cannabis use and suggestions of non-sexual nudity, otherwise, it's clean. ~1.6k words.
 â â â The sound of a deadbolt unlocking echoed off the walls before hinges groaned in protest, the heavy door swinging outwards. Low, amber light from a streetlamp around the corner filtered in, the pavement wet just past the threshold. Drops pattered against the metal roof, filling the open space and drowning out freeway noise from a few blocks away. Somewhere there was the steady drip of water hitting the concrete floor â a leak left because it was in a corner where sheâd moved everything of importance away from until she had the time to fix it.
It had been a year and a half since sheâd put the to-do on her list.
Sen7inel walked in, a worn, black leather jacket over her hoodie beaded with water. Her hood was up and damp from a long walk, a few strands of rebellious blonde hair sticking out in front of her face. On one shoulder hung a large pack, the ratty thing somehow still holding together with enough iron-on patches and safety pins to keep her laptop and other effects safe from the downpour. Mostly.
Inside it was dark, the power cycled down for what she had deemed âincognito modeâ. Standard practice for when she was on a job or at one of her other safehouses. But with a flick of her thumb, the command was fired from her phone to wake the place up. Fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling flickered on, one by one, highlighting a few cobwebs that occupied the darker corners. And from somewhere above a heater turned on.
This warehouse was smaller than her others, but then again real estate was atrocious in the Bay Area no matter who you were. It had been the workshop of a local landscaping company with a large, sliding door tall enough to let a box truck in through the alleyway and plenty of space for tools and supplies. The place sat empty for almost a year after the company went out of business. On one half of the building, a second floor was raised fifteen feet above, a steel staircase leading up to what had been an office space and break room complete with a small bath and kitchenette. Sen7inel converted what she could of the lofted area into a makeshift living space â a decent mattress on pallets, a TV and VCR near a worn-in couch, a hot plate and a few dishes, shelves with various trinkets, and tech, and a lightning-fast Internet connection.
It wasnât much, but it was hers â the first place sheâd been able to make her own.
She closed and locked the door behind her, checking it twice to make sure the deadbolt was properly secured. Satisfied, she turned. Wet boot steps followed behind her as she stepped towards a large, U-shaped desk against the far wall on the bottom floor, underneath the loft. A large computer tower sat on a corner of the desk â the LEDs slowly pulsing, a system on standby waiting for the next command. Six monitors were mounted above the center of the desk in various arrangements, each one on its own arm so she could adjust the position as needed. One blinked to life with a prompt as she approached, text green on black:
>> user:
>> pass:
In a single motion, she shrugged her bag off and tossed it on one of the last open spots on her desk, a collection of half-finished projects and tools taking the rest of the space, then plopped back into the high-backed chair. A sigh escaped her as she settled in, body relieved to finally sit somewhere familiar. Somewhere⊠safe. The jacket was next, pulled off and hung over the back. She pulled one boot up, unlaced it enough to kick off, and repeated with the other.
Then she was typing.
Each screen flared to life after she logged in, displaying various messages and metrics that had been collected while sheâd been away. The Den auto-moderation log, security alerts, encrypted chats from several users, data mining progress, patch reports, and so on â the information necessary to keep her little corner of the darknet running regardless of whether she was watching or not.
The sight of it all still elicited a groan, the work feeling endless. Pulling off her fingerless gloves and tossing them on a small comic pile, she tried to rub the tiredness from her eyes. It didnât work. Her vision seemed to blur for a moment. A black smudge appeared on the back of her hand, her makeup far past its intended life. She was too tired to be frustrated by it.
Focus.
With a few clicks, the windows were all minimized. Not closed â sheâd have to deal with those things later. Right now, she needed to get a head start on the last phase of the job:
Decryption.
Reaching over to her pack, Sen7inel unzipped the padded side compartment and fished out an external hard drive, setting it up next to her keyboard and plugging it directly into her primary workstation. A new window appeared on the screen:
Her finger automatically found the Y key and gave it a press. The computer started to hum, fans spinning as it began its work. A progress tracker came next, tracking the bytes that it transferred over to her dedicated cracking server mounted in the racks against the wall to her right.
>> Progress: 00/100 blocks transferred
The stolen data itself had been encrypted at rest when sheâd finally had the opportunity to pull down a copy. It was the best sheâd been able to do while in the field with security on a three-hour rotation and a fake ID badge that barely passed a sniff test. Her plans had almost gone to shit twice. Any more and she would have risked being seen â or worse, caught.
This next part was always the part that took the longest. And no matter how many times she warned her clients that the extraction was only half the problem, they'd still start to complain after a few days. They always did. This one in particular had been a pain. Sheâd signed up for a corporate espionage gig, something sheâd had plenty of experience in, and instead she got a message every other business day asking for an update. It was exhausting. But it paid and she had some drives and a few GPUs she needed to replace soon before they failed on her.
>> Progress: 17/100 blocks transferred
With an exhale, Sen7inel swiveled her chair around, hands collecting a jar, a grinder, and some small pieces of paper. She hardly thought about what she was doing, her mind decompressing and filing away any remaining thoughts that had been left open like a process frozen in the background that was consuming resources. Every time one came up, sheâd shut it down. A hard quit.
Those too would be dealt with later.
She rolled the joint with a practiced ease that said sheâd rolled a million before this one. Tight with the tip twisted. The chair creaked as she leaned back and kicked her feet up. Taking the stick between her dry lips, she found a lighter amongst the junk that littered her desk, brass plated with years of wear. She gave it a few clicks. Shook it once with a curse. On the fourth attempt, a small flame burst, the orange glow brightening her features for the few puffs it took to light her chosen vice. Once the tip smoldered red, she pulled the joint back, pinched between index finger and thumb. There was a faint tremor in her hand as she counted the seconds, the aftereffects of running an op without proper food or sleep making itself known. At seven, smoke whispered upward from the corner of her mouth as she tilted her head back, the tendrils unraveling in the air as they stretched above. Gray eyes watched them dissipate into nothingness before checking the progress bar once more.
>> Progress: 42/100 blocks transferred
Her free hand raked through her hair, pushing her hood back in the process and smoothing the wild strands back into place.
A watched pot never boiled.
The high started to sink in after a minute, softening her edges and quieting the thoughts that circled at the fringes of her mind. She pushed her mouse around lazily. Clicked open a few windows from earlier. Checked for anything urgent. There was nothing crazy, thank god. In fact, it was pretty mundane. An intrusion attempt here, an unhappy Den user there. She knocked out a few of the easy tasks while the transfer continued, taking another pull off of the joint and burning it down by a third. Her hand shook a little less now but hadnât stopped. She reached for a protein bar sheâd left on her desk days ago.
>> Progress: 63/100 blocks transferred
Leaving the rest of her tasks until morning, the Coyote prowled through the Den forums for a few, making sure everyone was staying in line. The auto-mod had cleared out the trouble twenty-six hours ago. She checked anyway.
It was the usual work. The daily work. And she was behind.
She lost track of time while browsing until her computer finally chimed. Tabbing through the windows, she found the terminal:
>> Progress: 100/100 blocks transferred
Finally. She pulled the keyboard into her lap and held the joint in her mouth, the ash threatening to fall.
>> howler -w ~/.den/lists/wordlistv5-THISONE.txt ~/.den/disk0.h0wl
-Target: disk0.h0wl
-Hashtype: LUKS2 [detected]
-Est. Time to Complete: Calculating . . .
The server started to whirl, its little lights flashing rapidly as it began the process of cracking. Sen7inel blinked slowly, waiting for the off-chance it might error out because she fat-thumbed an extra character somewhere. But the cracker just continued to run as it chewed through the wordlist.
And now we wait.
It would take all night to crack the pass phrase. If she was lucky. Then the decryption could begin and she could deliver on her side of the bargain.
Sheâd update the client tomorrow.
A yawn split her jaw, and she tossed the keyboard back on the desk haphazardly, ready to be done. Hands stretched upward then plucked the joint from her mouth after another pull. She dropped her feet down and stood, plodding towards the stairs in just her socks.
The cold bit the bottom of her feet all the way up to the loft. She tugged the hoodie off first and threw it on the back of a chair in the kitchenette as she passed, ignoring the dirty coffee cups next to the sink. Her top came next, dropped on the floor next to the door of the living space, ink bared on her skin that she hadnât looked at properly in years. Then she worked her pants, the joint back between her lips. She hopped on one leg a few times to get each foot out, then kicked them over to the couch where theyâd stay until she decided to put them in the hamper. She had to fuss with the sports bra for half a minute before finally getting a good enough hold to peel it over her head. Even she wasnât immune to the sigh that followed, her chest freed from the constricting clothing. Finally, she flopped onto the mattress, back first and arms out. There was a faint sting across her back, her scar adjusting to her shifting weight. It was there and then it was gone, barely noticed.
She brought the joint back to her lips one more time and took a final, long drag, the ember flaring against the dark until all that was left was the roach. The smoke burned down her throat, and she coughed once before snuffing the thing on the makeshift nightstand. Then she grabbed her phone and tapped the screen a few more times. The room started to darken, lights shutting off in the same pattern they had come on. The heater stayed on, however.
Sen7inel plugged her phone in then finally pulled the heavy comforter up over her shoulders. For the first time, she realized how chilled she was from the rain and shivered. Her gaze stared upward into the rafters, not seeing the exposed beams of the warehouse above. The thoughts were slow now, slow enough that she might be able to pass out before the worst of them showed up. She only hoped theyâd stay out of her dreams this time. Turning her head, she looked at the basic LCD alarm clock.
03:42
Fuck.
She needed to sleep. Now. Not later. Tomorrow was already here and thirty hours without a wink was only going to make things worse.
She sighed, then turned away from the clock, curling into herself.
Sen7inel didnât remember exactly when she went under, she rarely did. But the rain had kept on going until her eyes slid shut, exhaustion finally taking its claim.
It was already a restless night. Mikoto was about to give up on sleep for the night when she fell into a light sleep and wish she hadnât, in retrospect.
Her pulse quickened as seconds ticked by as she stood in the empty room. The sounds outside were atrocious. Screams had filled the air, from those who were still awake, until there was nothing but a heavy silence.
She didnât move from her spot when the door opened and there were soft footsteps. Mikoto didnât need to turn around to know who it was. Cue her settling on her knees. Footsteps were head again, closer. Her heart thundered rapidly within her chest. Every fiber of her being screamed to fight, to run away, but she didnât.
The searing pain of her back is what caused the ravenette to awaken with a cry. Sheâs awake in a cold sweat, and sitting up in bed. The nightmarish memory occasionally plagued her and she never could shake it off. But paired with the excruciating pain of her back, in the present, the memory was in full reign in her mind.
slipping out of bed and to the porch, Mikoto leaned against the porch railing as she smoked. No way could she return to bed. And she knew the full pack will be gone well before dawn.
She should leave the house, enjoy the night. Occupy her thoughts with things other than that horrific night. Surely someone was up. If not sheâll wake someone up. Mikoto headed back inside to put on shoes, not bothering to change out of her pajamas, chugged down a handful of pain pills and headed out to find someone. Anyone.
Once more, and once over // Qaqu, Setepen-it & Suhketi (drabble)
Time was an endless shifting sand, and if Qaqu had learnt anything from their three thousand years like fluid dunes in an endless desert, it knew little mercy even for the immortal. You adapt, or you die. Be cunning, be powerful, or you die. Qaqu knew this to be the truth until the moment they diedâ such a pitiful death, and the truth was Qaqu had known they would die that day, they knew because Arthur Beaumontâs devil had told them they would, and that there would be nothing they could do about it. So they accepted it. They let it be, and in a hell they did find themselves. Such a thing could only be expected at the time. The path of fate was not so linear.
A weariness had settled across Qaquâs limbs as they stepped into their apartment. Despite the vibrance they presented to those who were and those who were simply passing by, Qaqu's body was stronger in this age, but their own frailty was something they had been always painfully aware of, and it wasnât something they acquired simply due to maturity. It was in their very genetics, their blood in fact, although that too might have contributed to nullifying some of the effects while others prevailed; it was only last century they found the condition had been given a proper name. Sickle Cell. The mystery of their âdiseaseâ which had crippled them and oftentimes contributed to the idea of them being rather slothful for so many centuries, revealed. It was perhaps fortunate and at the same time unfortunate that they should return in this century, with modern medicine there to help but by no means there to cure the condition. If only they had known what they knew now, perhaps they might have been able to bargain a better deal with their devils. Still, Qaqu pressed on with their life as they always had.Â
Their eyes brushed their apartment. The loft, modern, and industrial in its styling, but darkened by the time of day. Their mortal eyes had not noticed the towering shadow which had stepped forward as if manifested behind them, nor the hand which reached out until it was already unfortunately too late and their face already slammed against the sideboard.
A cry of pain left their throat, the taste of blood in their mouth, their head throbbing, trying desperately to latch on to their attackerâs mind. They attempted to process the violence for they could not quite gather their focus to make sense of the blur as they fell to the floor. Then the passing flicker of gold from eyes, harsh, struck their vision. Ah⊠so he finally noticed.
A splutter of blood flung from their lips. âOh â please â harderâ The sorcererâs voice snarled a chuckle into a cough as the man tore them up with a handful of black hair and threw them into the railing of their internal staircase.Â
âDonât be so lewd, Qaqu.â A pointed voice rose from behind Setepen-itâs shifting visage and came into view, a beautiful ethereal figure familiar but not in body, dressed in loose garments. Ah, sister too. Their lips spread to a grin. Oh this was good. This was delightful.Â
âMy kin ââ They croaked, swinging their own fist at the haunting shape as they were downed again with a violent kick to their ribs throwing them back into the steps. Â
âWaqu, Waqu. What trickery is it this time?â Another beat from the manâs boot came sharp over their chest. âYour wards did not follow you into this life.â They felt the weight of Setepen-it, who had remained silent up until this point, come down and press hard over their lithe frame to pin them to the ground. A deep seething displeasure grew against Qaquâs bloodied, broken beauty. They could feel the warmth radiating in their cheek, gashed, swelling. Heâd broken their left eye socket most definitely, maybe something abdominal and the witchâs nose but with the rush of adrenaline which had come hard and fast these were of little concern. That and it was nothing their blood couldnât fix, eventually.
âSuhketi.â Setepen-it motioned for Suhketi, who was looking over the scene with a distinct wary and uncomfortable expression to come forward. âBind them.â And as he said these words with some heaviness Qaqu saw she did, with the magic bring forth shackles to do so. âKinkyâ This comment came with a disapproving glare down from Suhketi whose own appeared to shrink as Setepen-it turned. The witch said nothing further to this, though they did kick at first then after only find themself sneering. They would not fight. They did not have the physical strength to fight off their brother even if they wanted to, and Suhketiâs mind was far too versed in their tricks to allow them in, and truthfully she was too power for either of them, so they lay until Setepen-it moved them to once he saw the witch was sufficiently chained. Hands bound to feet. Their brow rose. They laughed. Looking between their two siblings they roared. Oh how the witch could laugh.
âMy, my â well, I canât say this was how I thought Iâd spend my Friday. How about you? You know. I could suggest a few venues who might apprecia ââ There words were strained with every breath. A stern hand, flashing at first from bone then back to flesh, from Setepen-it wrapped around Qaquâs mouth before the witch had a chance to finish their words. âShut up.â His golden eyes matched with an equally chilly mirrored by their swollen gaze and with this moment of silence they took in his accursed appearance. It had been the first time in over one hundred years since theyâd last seen their brother. The hatred was all the same.
âI grow weary of this back and forth with you, Waqu. How many times will it take for you to just goddamn die?â Setepen-it's voice was a deep thunder though through the obvious inflection of hatred in his voice he was amused or maybe just surprised by this, even so for Qaqu, Setepen-it to be considering discussing anything was rather intriguing, then again Qaqu had known Setepen-it to love the sound of his own voice.
âWhat was the offer Waqu? And donât play with me Waqu. There would have been an offer. The damned donât simply wander out of hell without⊠a purpose? What could the pale serpent offer when hell had his soul?â He paused, searching their gaze in his question. The witch remained silent.Â
âIf you were half a man you wouldâve stayed dead.â
âIf you were a man, you wouldnât have dragged our sister into your hate.â Qaquâs gaze turned to Suhketi who had taken a cigarette out from her pocket and now rested herself quietly away from the two with her back against the wall, watching the scene warily.
âI am here because we know your tricks andââ
âYou're here because heâs a coward! And a monster! And you donât want that on your conscience. Donât lie to yourself sister. I know your sins!âÂ
The sorceress fell silent giving Setepen-it a sharp look who in turn remained indifferent to these comments.
âInteresting choice of words from a sinner.â His voice quietened, looking over Qaquâs body. âYou look well Waqu, your devil has made your body strong. I donât think I remember your looking so, good, but I must ask when the devil returned you to your mortal form, was he kind enough to make you whole? Or did he leave you this half⊠thing?â
âThatâs enough!â The snap had come from Suhketi.
The expression on Qaquâs face hardened and then entirely darkened to something which could have turned anyoneâs blood cold at the mere look. It was the first moment that night that Qaqu showed true anger and absolutely all consuming hatred for the man who knelt so near to them.
âOh, still so narrow minded.â They spoke barely above a whisper. âTell me. Did your devil take your soul when you handed Arthur the gun to shoot me?â Through the blood they smiled gently watching Setepen-it straighten ever so slightly as Qaqu forced themselves forward. Coughing a plethora of blood in between their breathless words. âOf all the countless witches and innocent lives, the witches who fought you with power, protection and curses greater than mine without effect, it was always mine you couldnât take. And how you hated it. And when you finally grew enough balls to do so, you gave the gun to a boy? Why, Setepen-it?â
With his eyes locked to Qaqu, Setepen-it stood, moving his hand to his every shifting, time warped garments to pull forth a large blade. He brought the blade to their throat poised.Â
âCome now, brother. Do it. What does the righteous soul really have to fear?âÂ
There was a long silence between these words then once more Setepen-it moved, taking with his blade still in hand Qaquâs face as if to cup it.
âOne day. Waqu-ilu. One day the devils too will tire of you.â
He drew the blade over their scalp and with his hand with a fist full of curls he began to cut through the first few of Qaquâs locks.Â
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There's a sickening crack coming from his body, his sinew and tendons stretching far what a human is capable of. He heaves on the ground, wheezing, clawing at the floor of his apartment. His nails growing into talons, fingers fusing together as he tries standing up, but he's unsteady, his feet stumbling as he tries going for the window. He has to get out. He has to feel the wind.
His heart beating hard in his ears, as he struggles to push the window up, his feet finding perch on the fire escape outside. Kirk's vision blurs as he sees nothing but a landscape of red.
A sob can be heard, trailing off into the sky as he flies up and away from his home, his body tightly wound and balled up as he tries making it to the abandoned skyscraper, shoes touching down on concrete as he crumbles on a half-done balcony that probably costs more than what he'll ever make as a professor.
He lies there, sobbing into the ground, his ribs cracking and forming over again to make room for the enlarged lungs that are rapidly growing in their place.
Somewhere between sobs, he blacks out, welcoming the peace as he hears his body still morphing into the giant bat he's becoming.
Send đ for my muse to share a memory from their childhood
They could hear them bickering again downstairs through the door. Mortimer and Aunt Jude. Mortimer, their father, although the boys never referred to him as such.
âItâs important you have some inputâ â
âas their fatherââ
âI really donât careââ
â âyou might as well send..â
â-- lower your flipping voice.â
The words had become a half-drone in Vincentâs ears. His head leaned pressed half against the thick wooden bedpost, scoring it with the tiny knife heâd found near a construction site beside the playground theyâd ridden to earlier and smuggled inside. His gaze locked across at Lou, who sat across the thin green carpet playing with the tiny toy soldiers and the green shoddily painted rubber dragon theyâd been set upon to fight.
âYou know if Aunt Jude sees you with that, sheâs going to kill you,â Lou said, his eyes steely and blue, tossing a glance up at Vincent as he fed one of the plastic figures into the slack-jawed dragonâs mouth.
âOh, sod off.â Vincentâs nose wrinkled, whittling a splinter of the wood from the frame. âSheâs ainât going to see it. She wonât know.â
Lou gave Vincent another glance as he brought his knee up to rest under his chin.
âYou know bad things are gonna happen if you keep at it.â
âKeep at what?â
Lou gave his brother a shrug. There seemed to be something troubling him, but Lou always had that sort of expression. The adults always talked about him being gifted in ways that there was someone much more mature and unspoken behind those eyes of a quiet child. That, too, was one of the few reasons he never really got along with other children. Lou was weird. Vincent was weird, too, but Vincent never got it that bad. Vincent knew how to be fun. Look fun. Make trouble, which came to him naturally, and he rarely tired, or could be settled when he was in one of those moods.
âYou know theyâre talking about us. He wants to send us away. He doesnât want us around. Mortimer wants us far, far away. He canât afford it but.â
The ebony-haired boy made a sour face, turning his head.
âSo?â
There is a pause from Vincent. Even if Lou didnât always show it Vincent had a sense when his brother was upset. Then again, he knew with most people. He felt through them. Felt them. He didnât understand what he felt, though. Especially whenever they had to go to the doctors, or the hospital â he hated those places because there was a different feeling that came in those places too. It always created problems, and it made him angry because he didnât understand, and nobody else seemed to. He couldnât describe the feeling, and that made them angry.
Without much else, Vincent put the knife down and crept over to his brotherâs side, sitting cross-legged to him, trying to catch a sliver of his brotherâs attention.
âSo, if you keep it up, heâs gonna find a way. You remind him too much of mum. Thatâs what they both think. You get yourself into too much trouble. You donât do what you're told. Youâre gonna scare them. Theyâll take you away, and you wonât come back. Because thatâs what they do when youâre not right in the head.â He wasnât entirely sure if he understood Lou. Neither of them had ever really met their mother. Nobody ever really spoke about it or her, and when the two ever asked about her, what she was like, everyone always seemed to have a different story. Whatever the case, there was always one truth. She was very sick, and she couldnât be with them anymore.
âYeah. And what does he know âbout our lives? Nothing.â Vincent's head tilted to the side. His hand reaching out to ruffle up the top of his brotherâs hair despite his protest, which turned to laughter as the two began to play fight.
âI ainât going anywhere. Think of all the ice lollies youâll get without me.â
