#praxis bathurst

Proserpine put down the shovel. She was not physically tired and she did not sweat but she needed a break from this. She needed a cigarette. There was a downed tree nearby, a member of the Whispering Forest that had decided to take a nap apparently, making a fine place to sit. The forest did not speak to her, either out of respect or inability, which was unfortunate because she could use a compliment or two right about now. She was speckled with blood, streaks of it on her bare arms, patches of it soaking her dress even inkier black, even bits of viscera in her garishly neon hair. She had smeared her makeup in her efforts, and though she could right it with a fraction of a thought she was too irritated to bother.

She tripped on her way to the tree, catching herself before she fell to the forest floor and cursing in a dead language. The offending object was a foot, still attached to a significant length of ankle, broken bone protruding beyond the ragged flesh. It was partially lodged in the arch of her boot, and she had to totter on one leg in order to remove it. Plenty of skin still stuck in the treads, but that could wait. She tossed the bit of limb back towards the rest of the pile, and settled on the tree. A former Night Vale resident, she instantly knew, touching its bark gently. It was the old lady who was always sitting in the window of the laundromat, watching the traffic and muttering to herself. She was much happier here, it gave Proserpine a small comfort to know. She took a cigarette from the pack, tucked it into her glossed lips and lit it with the tip of her finger. The nicotine had no chemical effect on her body, her bloodstream that swam with inhuman blood, with ethereal matter, but the psychological pleasantry of exhaling it slowly through her nose was worth it. Just the one puff made her the slightest bit calmer.

But not so calm that she didn't still have a bone to pick, so to speak. She tilted her head, although it took no effort at all to communicate with the other-- she needn't even speak aloud. But she did, because to do so made her feel better. She had too much vitriol inside her to not speak.

"I'm getting very... t ired of cl eaning up your messes, not-brother."

She could hear Praxis laughing as though from far back in her skull. "you make messes sometimes too. SISTER."

"I do. But not for a whil e. And you are not u sually very helpful."

She felt his grin, creeping, madly and warmly willful, uncontrolled. It would be a crime to control such a thing. That was how Praxis lived, how he executed his every action: it would be a crime for me to not. A crime against himself, and a crime against the world, to deprive it. It wasn't as if she didn't agree, deep down, but somebody had to pretend to have some reason.

"You have been making m ore since we have come to Night Val e."

"and Desert Bluffs," he reminded her. "i like Desert Bluffs."

"Then why don't you murder ther e?" She sneered a little, picking the skin from the treads of her boot, because she knew he hated it when he didn't have her full attention. "It's much less frowned upon. M aybe we coul d..."

She cocked her head, pulled a string of flesh out with her fingernails and held it up in faux-examination so she could think for a moment. It wasn't as though Praxis couldn't know her thoughts if he tried hard enough-- they were the same, they were one after all. But they had long ago decided to keep their thoughts separate, because they worked so much better this way, as two. It was better, for the sake of the world. When they were always one they had been a fearsome thing.

She let the skin splat to the ground. "We c o uld... divide them. You could have Deser t Bluffs and I could have Night Vale. A nd you could handle your own messes."

She felt him sitting up at attention, as though closer to the forefront of her mind. Bright. Crackling. "oh but i LIKE Night Vale! i like the color of the sky and i like the arbys and i like the feral dogs and do you know what Desert Bluffs does not have?"

Proserpine could think of a lot of things, but she didn't bother to mention them, instead taking a lengthy drag on her cigarette. She held her breath, feeling him bounce around in her mind, in their mind, growing more frenetic and his edges beginning to blur. Then she exhaled slowly. "W hat?"

"CECIL. BALDWIN." The words burned, deep and electric violet, curling off Praxis's dexterous lips, himself glowing so bright he seemed seconds from brilliant, beautiful, world-ending destruction. She could feel his delight, barely contained, like trembling fingers reaching for a throat.

BECAUSE

WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHEN PRAXIS SETS HIS SIGHTS ON CECIL