#isaac thread.

He comes with the mists.

Like rolling water, thick vapours roll down the streets, the waves spreading and gently folding in on themselves as they hit buildings, cars, street lamps. The night sky is interrupted by the lights overhead that only barely penetrate the thick mist having seemingly taken an entire street hostage. 

And there, a glimpse.

Some destructive entity from the depths of a corroding fog, dark clothes and darker eyes, the mask on his face hiding his identity as well as allowing him to breathe in his own death shroud. Even if a full name eludes most, there were few who wouldn't immediately recognise him. Pan, a King of the urban wilds, and everything in his path withers.

That's the outside; cool, calm, an acrid monster of ruinous consequence and anaemic conscience. Wanted in plenty of states; something something destroyer of worlds. Water boils, asphalt melts, metal rusts; Orphnaeus, fleet and ferocious, quick as death; a dark horse of War. And with the treaty in tatters, it's finally unleashed.

Beyond the mask, tension creeps. His shoulders are squared as he walks down the street, gas pouring from his hands like a torrent, and angry eyes peering through the clear plastic of the mask look around. On edge, you could call him. His chest rises and falls, steady right now, despite the irreparable damage in the form of anyone caught in the mists — suffocation would be the very least of it. Calm but vigilant. Anaemic conscience.

But it's dark and they know who he is. Beyond the thick vapours is the tell-tale red-and-blue flashing of police. What could they possibly do against a walking chemical storm, one asks? Bullets still hurt. Acidic blood doesn't prevent them from ripping through vital organs and he's yet to figure out how to turn his acid into a defensive property, if such a thing is even possible.

The vapour stops pouring but hangs in the air still, and the drip-hiss of the asphalt beneath his feet indicate a change of ammunition. The street is quiet as everyone waits. In the mists, Eoin's body goes rigid, his eyes widening behind the mask, the once-steady up-down of his chest becomes a heavy heaving. There's an acceleration in his stomach, one he felt almost a week ago, one that nearly killed him, and like a rollercoaster cart being dragged down by gravity, Eoin tries to stop it in vain, managing only to slow and delay it.

Out of instinct, he makes a throwing motion with his left hand and turns his body in anticipation. Silence. Seconds pass. Nothing happens. He stands straight slowly, in time for his eyes to squeeze shut at the sudden explosion further up ahead. The vapours are blown away by the blast, and he stands there, unshrouded, witness to his own desolation. A police car levelled, on fire, and dead strewn around it. It's enough to unsettle even him.

the laughter that she manages to pull from him from just a measly text is full-bodied and bright, a hand coming up to brush over his mouth briefly in thought as to what to send her next. could he have just risen from his spot on the couch to stand beside her instead and gossip? sure - but millie's role at the party is ever multi-faceted and far be it for isaac to get in the way of her work.