Statement of @DECOMPOSEYOURSELF, regarding their involvement with
The Archivist (and a remnant of THE SLAUGHTER).
PROMINENT DARK EYES LINGER : The Archivist remains in sentinel silence and behind shrouds of morbidness grown dim. From depths unfathomed stirred, he reaches for those fluctuant flavors—whose intellectual capacity is from the abhorrent. He has scanned the fleshy scroll and palimpsest of their face plenty, and they, an atom in the ferment that is life, cling desperately to what to them seems stable. To this, The Archivist thinks himself bound in honor to his unceasing spirit of inquiry, and is a being of the systematic study of structure and behavior of the physical and unnatural world ( miserly obscurities, in truth ). No torn flesh or peek of bone will dissuade him from resuming his NEED TO KNOW ; the brain, seemingly complex with its inscrutable truths and surety of motor control, is a friable organ ; he is well-informed of this.
—so The Archivist withholds his cast-iron stomach : seeks the clotted portions of coagulated blood containing its coloring matter ( subjective, that ), the steady flow of venous bleeding caused by a devotee of THE SLAUGHTER through their body bag which excretes and excretes, and the static rises ; a tape recorder near his lips, and he says :
”There is a murderer who is not eager to refuse to radiate infinite menace and agitation. They masterfully change face with remarkable self-possession : yet I cannot see their face. If I look, I am not met with the bright burning of the sun, but ceaseless streams of blood. The finest details of their face are encrusted with dried blood ; gore that is not exactly theirs. Gore that settles in their teeth as they reveal a heavy sneer. This devourer’s teeth are so red. It’s a wonder they are not gulping down gobs of viscera as I watch.”
”A fit of sniffling hastens to mask how acidulous their manner is ; positively sour, bitter. They have learned to misdirect, masterful at the craft. They will not be so simple to track down, but they have yet to encounter me.”
“There is no excellency in the struggled art of dragging a body bag—especially one that reveals a trail.”
Spotting yourself from a ways away is frightening. Even when it was their own, (semi) recognizable face, painted in bright colors, it still would startle Amalie. Despite being in a set of identical triplets, they had an innate recognition of their own face, which expressions and energy was uniquely their own. You were only meant to see yourself in certain situations, they think, and that their world was not ready for what was done to it.
Entering into this place offers a particular transition between reality and something a bit more frightening. Amalie can practically smell the mess of this place, and for awhile, it reminds them of their own work. Amalie isn’t quite this messy, no, everything she does is done with such decisive motion that it would be impossible to not be at least a little thought out. This is too messy to be Amalie’s hands under Phanuel. Something about that, between the invasion of their space (their Thing, really) and the disgust that laces them, rubs Amalie completely the wrong way.
Frankly, they could do much better. So much better. After all, they’re a living legend who has terrorized the better half of the United States. That’s a sort of infamy most people don’t manage to achieve in their lifetime, and while Amalie is not smug about it, they do recognize the extent of their ‘success’ in scratching that itch they have.
Tangent aside, Amalie focuses back to the danger presented by being here. They had spotted themselves, mask melded into the skin and lamp eyes flashing across the dim light. Phanuel is their own, and in this case, torn off, detached, and let loose like a rabid dog. Amalie had made far in the other direction when they first spotted this distortion the first time, before the streets ran bloody and they were playing cat and mouse with each other once again. It was for the best not to be spotted, they had little clue on how a figment of themselves would counteract their usual abilities. Amalie relied on deceit and surprise most of the time, after all.
Pulling at their hair, the curls begin to go slack as they work their powers on them without thinking, body low to the ground and curling in on itself as Amalie moves for cover once again. Things are well and fine, until she catches the sound of someone talking, and immediately moves to try and cajole them into silence.
“You!” Their voice is a strangled thing just above a whisper, a hand reaching but not quite grasping at the other’s sleeve. There’s viscera on their shoes, clinging to their fingers from accidentally touching a wall. They have the sudden urge to melt their fingerprints off.
“You need to keep your voice down, or we’re both going to be in it deep.”
