ngelah

Councillor             Sector 1 Scavenging

[ngelah-osei]

( Idris Elba, 52, cis-male, he/him ) — Look who it is! If you take a look at our database, you’ll find that NGELAH OSEI is a SCAVENGER/COUNCILOR that works in SECTOR 1. That must be why they’re FOCUSED and DOGGED If you ask me, they remind me of eyes peering out through broken windows, abandoned homes caked in a layer of dust and sand, an empty sun-bleached shell. They are affiliated with THE DEMOCRATIC COUNCIL.

UNDER THE CUT: TASK 1 || BIO || POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS

basic information:

character name: Ngelah Osei ( pronounced n-jeh-lah oh-say )

nickname (s): N/A

face claim: Idris Elba

mutation status: N/A

birthday:

sexuality: Bisexual

moral alignment: Lawful Neutral

occupation: Scavenger / Councillor

work sector: Sector 1

affiliation: The Democratic Council

3 positive traits: Focused, Resourceful, Protective.

3 negative traits: Dogged, Private, Pessimistic

biography : TW: Child loss / Death / OCD Born and raised out in the wastes as the only surviving child of many, many births, Ngelah was a miracle child but also the last attempt his parents ever planned to make. It felt cruel, at times, to raise a child in this world, but it felt worse to let themselves die out. Ngelah spent his formative years outside of the safety of Sol City. Witnessed first hand the suffering of mutants pre-cure and the many deaths they caused. It lead to him becoming outwardly cold-hearted and overtly practical. He loved those he grew up with, would never turn away a stranger unless they proved to be actively hostile or dangerous. He'd spent thirty years out there before finally finding solace (heh) in Sol City. Ngelah lost so many people, friends and found family, his own parents. Perhaps he'd have been less angry about it if every death were due to mutants or violence. Instead, he witnessed the most tragic deaths of all. Human failure. A lack of resources. A fever that wouldn't break. A simple lack of supplies or safety. He wished to never return to the wastelands, to never see those horrors but once he step foot into Sol City he knew someone had too. He worked hard as a scavenger, worked hard to keep those he went out with safe until he climbed his way to the top. Ngelah views being a Councillor as important work, too many failings had lead to more deaths than he cared for amongst his fellow sector workers. Too many missed opportunities and too much callousness in the higher ups. Ngelah remains on high alert. Whilst not presenting as someone who's typically 'anxious' he does have OCD, compounded by years of imposing so much importance on his own actions and blaming himself for any loss or failure both before and after Sol City. It's a closely guarded secret that many dismiss as a 'quirk' of his. Of course the overly pedantic, Sector 1 Councillor will triple check locks and doors and locks and doors— It often manifests more as pure O, a lot of obsessions and compulsive thoughts.

questionnaire:

how do they feel about living in sol city? have they always lived there or did they travel from another settlement? He greatly appreciates the city. Born in a smaller settlement that fell due to lack of resources and so people, he had to move to Sol City. Ngelah took a few survivors with him, people he fiercely protected, moreso after every loss throughout the years. He loves it's safety, it's protection. Ngelah's only concern is the way so much resources are dedicated to pure entertainment—he doesn't think they're at a point civilization wise to spread manpower like that.

do they trust the council’s leadership? why or why not? Ngelah trusts himself, and has a working relationship with the other Councillors. He doesn't think they're all the best for the job—some he thinks are simply too young or naive to have such positions so early on in life. He also worries about people putting their own self interest above what's good for the rest of the group.

if they chose their sector and profession, why did they make that choice? if they didn’t, why not? were they happy with their assignment or not? He chose it and he's not happy about it. But he wouldn't have it any other way. Ngelah has more experience than most, it'd be a waste to do anything but.

what’s one object that they always keep on their person? A Swiss army knife. Just in case.

Possible Connections / Plot Ideas

Fellow Settlement Survivors: Ngelah became the defacto leader of his small settlement. It never had a name and was a group of rag tag survivors from the very beginning of the fall of civilization. They would have come to Sol City as a group roughly 20 years ago. Ngelah is fiercely protective of them, no matter how they turned out or if they're a mutant. He will, however, have exiled any dangerous mutants (or people) without a second thought.

Sector 1 Workers (& Other Sectors): If your muse works in Sector 1, Ngelah considers them his responsibility. He also like those who work in security, food and medicine. Anyone who works in a more 'frivolous' sector ( 9 & 10, for example) have to work harder for his attention.

[ngelah-osei]

@momosweettreats

"Tell me the rationing hasn't stopped you from baking?"

[buriedwithit]

there's a moment where he thinks ngelah might refuse—question him, rather—but to his relief, he never does. max doesn't have any good answers left in him. why now, of all times, would he opt for that? ngelah seems to understand. maybe on some level, he can even see the signs. where it should make him feel better, the idea only makes max feel worse. he doesn't want anyone to know this kind of ugliness lives inside of him. even if it doesn't matter. it's not like he'll have anyone left to perform for. sucking in a shaky breath, he nods. he waits a few moments once the door is shut to slowly, subtly, as quiet as he can possibly manage, flip the lock. somehow, all the stress of his attack compounds on him for that singular task—it takes a century until he feels safe to move again. and a second longer than that to remember he's not hiding from a monster. just someone with intentions too good for what he can handle right now. crawling back over toward the toilet, he pulls down a towel and bunches it up into his face, stuffs a good portion into his mouth. it's dry and tasteless and exactly what he needs. a moment later, the torrent is upon him, the full weight of how easy it's been for everything to crumble around him. shaking violently, painfully, he chokes on every sob that wracks through his broken body, desperate to keep his ugly lack of composure to himself. gone. it's all gone. his entire life is just... gone. his perfect solution frays at the edges as easily as his mind does, the towel spit out and turned over and shoved against his face again. all the while, he's powerless to keep himself from full-out sobbing, vision blurred with tears and mouth thick with the taste copper and salt. he's sure he can be heard by now. he can't find the strength to care about that, anymore. he can't find the strength to care about anything. days, hours, minutes later, he's tired himself out enough to regain some composure. once his breath slows, he slowly wipes his face and manages to pull himself to his feet. this time, he hobbles more than he crawls, flicking the lock and pulling open the door before he can think to retreat again. no doubt his eyes are bloodshot, his face is splotchy and a million other clear signs that he's lost every shred of a facade he has left. thankfully, now he's just numb. "would you help me back to bed?"

[ngelah-osei]

Ngelah hears all of it. He hears the lock click into place, but he doesn't protest it. All it means it will take a few moments longer for him to open the door and get to Max if need be, but the way he snuck to locked it.... Ngelah thinks he'll allow this. He'll have too. Staring at his own hand, Ngelah flexes his knuckles, intently watching the muscles and bones of his hand as he hears muffled crying. It's not just crying. It's weeping, it's painful. He's heard this before, come across people in the throes of grief in the Wastelands and see everything from tearing themselves apart to turning that despair and rage outwards. The sound of the door opening is only what makes Ngelah aware he'd at some point jumped to feet and stood ready for Max. Offering his hand out to Max, he nods in a silent answer. Only he can't walk striaght away, it feels wrong. "Do you want to wash up?" he tries to ask as gently as he can, his natural stern nature not always easily giving way to genuine concern. "Let me help, I can bring a wet cloth to bed, when you're ready?"

[ofruinations]

"Then let yourself be treated to something a little more special, Ngelah." He says his name like it's a bit of a prayer, like the most luscious thing in existence, the catlike grin of his never leaving as he eyes the man in front of him. Powerful, suave, with a voice that's bass down to its core. Being called pretty has its perks too, and one of them is the luxury of the man's interest, and knowing that the night's going to be as fun as he'll make it. "Put it on my tab and let me handle it," Victor says, "I... insist."

[ngelah-osei]

V's intentions are crystal clear: if it weren't for his confidence, he'd almost think of the man as desperate. Not that desperate has ever turned Ngelah away. Quite the opposite: he loves that in a partner, and so he doesn't hide the way he rakes his gaze over the pretty man's face. His hands. God, he's pretty. "No need to insist, darling. Whiskey, neat." He gives his order with a smile, expecting V to run along and bring it too him.

[buriedwithit]

max goes limp in ngelah's arms, head tucked against his chest all the way to the bathroom. only once they're through the doorway does he try to wriggle himself into some sort of standing position, legs trembling like a baby fawn's and fingers clawing tight at ngelah's clothes. slowly, max moves them off of him and takes the countertop to steady himself instead. "i'm—i'm alright from here. i'll just be a minute." mustering all the strength he has, he even manages to keep his voice steady. at the very least, not on the brink of despair. the important thing is keeping it up. every word works harder against his resolve. "...do you mind waiting outside? i'll say something if i need you." an outright lie, he plans to lock the door. it's the only way he can save himself the shred of dignity he has left—before he's taken in to get stitched up and gawked at. just one moment. that's all he needs, a moment to get it together. just one.

[ngelah-osei]

He almost doesn't want to set Max down. The way his legs tremble and his fingers dig desperately into his chest, pulling his shirt, he doesn't think Max will be able to stand if he's set down. Max talks. Finally he's saying more than an odd word: full fledged sentences with only a slight hint of pain to his voice. Max's voice never wavers. Ngelah's hands open and close: tensing uselessly at his sides. Nodding, he won't impose on Max's privacy in a moment like this. Practicality still finds it's way through: after all it's the only way he can cope. "Leave the door unlocked, I won't come in unless your ask or if I hear a fall. Ok?"He holds his hand out, stepping out of the bathroom but still ready to leap forward at any sign of Max wavering on his feet.

[buriedwithit]

footsteps have max's breath hitching in the back of his throat, a hand coming up unawares to grab at his chest, his racing heart. it irritates him; he's not used to being quick to startle. it's ngelah. you're in my apartment. "oh." he feels warm and damp and shaky and weak and dry-mouthed, and a million other things besides... but as long as he doesn't move, breathes light and shallow, he can ignore the pain enough to talk. when he does, he sounds almost like himself. there are a couple different questions that come to mind, all of them a swarming cloud of gnats to bat away. he doesn't know if he cares how he had gotten here or what anyone had seen. the first clear thought in his mind is much more natural, a little quicker than the last. he needs to get clear before he blows his top. he can feel it building up inside with an eerie sense of calm, like he's watching it form in someone else. "...can you help me to the bathroom?"

[ngelah-osei]

Ngelah's answer is barely audible: but the fact he quickly rushes to Max's side should answer the question. He lets himself fret about the fact his fresh set of clothes will be sullied once more, because it's an easier thing to deal with than the fact he's never been this worried about anyone else before. Not to this visceral, mind shattering level. Carefully, wordlessly, he loops an arm behind Max's back. Helping the younger man sit upright, he debates whether to let Max attempt to walk. Instead he slips another arm beneath his knees and carefully stands up. Cradling him, he moves to the bathroom. Movements slow and careful as he does his best to not jostle him. It's unlike himself. The bathroom light was forgotten on. Streaks of watered down blood mar the otherwise clean bathroom. "What do you need?" he asks. He can be useful. That's easier.

[ofruinations]

Victor doesn't get people who don't know him, but he understands that people have their tastes, and sometimes that doesn't involve him. Not now though, not with the response he's currently getting. Taking a long, hard look at the man, he waves to the bartender and signals for two drinks for the both of them. A Council member in a dive, who knew? But Sector 1 always were the people who preferred a little more rough and tumble than the cushier gigs. Safe to say, it's a happy coincidence that he'd come to enjoy. "I'm always a good time," he replies, shifting his body to face the man. "But that's because I pick up bar tabs more often than not." A rakish smile cuts across his face, his eyes glinting with the flash of his mutation. Gold. Interest. Possibility. "My name's Victor—V, professionally," he says, introducing himself. "Your name? I'd like to know the guy who I'll buy drinks for."

[ngelah-osei]

Distraction is the only thing Ngelah has in his life besides work. It doesn't involved a lot of music or entertainment beyond finding some warm body to hold and fuck. The name, or letter more acurrately, does pull forth exactly where he'd seen him before. His face, plastered around the Lunar Faire. He'd caught the end of his performance but passed on it for entertainment more his own speed. It's with a little sadistic glee he decides to merely nod, not let on he recognises him. "Ngelah," he answers much more simply. No use for hype, his name and face being known isn't the reason he works for the council. "I'm usually the one buying pretty things drinks, not often I'm treated to them."

[buriedwithit]

the next time he comes to awareness, there's something soft and warm beneath him. for a long moment, he thinks it's his own bed. tries to stretch, and then—agony, dark sparks from deep within his flesh. gritting his teeth, max barely suppresses a groan, eyes blinking open—he's awake, good god he's awake. it's a soul-crushing reality that he's thrust into, not one of soft and simple comforts but of pain and fragments of horror. it's still dark. how long it's been in between his lapses in consciousness escapes him. far from comforting, it sends a wave of gut-wrenching terror running rigid through his body. he retches again, but nothing comes up. rolling onto his side, he finally blinks his eyes open, light and darkness both harsh against the senses. his voice is raspy and dry in his throat, bordering on painful. had he screamed himself hoarse? "who's there?"

[ngelah-osei]

Ngelah didnt have time to let the shower run hot enough to scald, but he damn well tried. He left the doors open the entire time, scrubbing Max's blood from his hands. Then soaking out the blood and piss from his clothes. He kept scrubbing till his fingers felt raw. Every few moments he had to switch off the water: perk his ears up for movement only to be met with harrowing silence. Finally, finally. He hears a shift of fabric that isn't imagined. A retch that akes him run because he can't have Max throwing up in a state of half awareness. Thankfully, painfully, his voice follows. Words clawing their way out of a raw throat. Ngelah stays in the door way at first, debates whether to switch on the light. He decides against it but speaks before approaching, "It's Ngelah. You're in my apartment." He answers in a flat voice, practiced calm that could sound bordering on disinterested to anyone who doesn't know him well enough. No-one knows him well enough. Slowly he begins to walk into the room. Heading for the opposite side of the bed, he switches on a lamp. Offering a low light that hopefully won't hurt Max's eyes or illuminate the painful scene in front of him. "I didn't know where else to take you."

[buriedwithit]

legs unwilling to do much more than wobble, max is suddenly aware that he's being swept off his feet. for a moment, there's terror—he seizes and chokes again, worried that he's just being picked up to be stomped on... but reality is a little more biting. there's nobody left to finish him off, just strong, gentle hands and a strong, gentle voice. finally, his eyes flutter open, unfocused and fuzzy. his tongue is still too big in his mouth to speak, but he manages to curl against ngelah's chest. even shivering, it's the warmest—most comfortable—he's felt all night.

[ngelah-osei]

Max curls into him. Even out of it, injured, there's a huge sense of relief that Max decides to lean into Ngelah's chest. He picks up his pace. Moving swiftly through the streets, grateful he decided to walk tonight but furious he can't get back to the council building any quicker. Later, he won't recall any specifics of how he got to his front door. He'll just remember flashes of streetlights across Max's warm, pale face. The stench of blood and piss. The quiet, pained moans that were so far removed from the sounds he'd rather hear from Max. Opening the door clumsily, he kicks it shut behind him before making for the bedroom. He can't think about the state of the sheets—the mess. Ngelah gently lays Max down onto the bed. Positioning his head on a pillow. A hand moving hair away from his bloodied forehead. Only then does he realise how terribly his hand is trembling.

[ofruinations]

for @ngelah-osei—

"You don't look like you're having fun here." It's a dive, places Victor shouldn't go, but are drawn to. If he has to endure one more dumbass off coke, he'll short out the grid, and Sector Three's going to kill him. "You out of drinks?"

[ngelah-osei]

He doesn't want to think about Max, curled up in pain, hopefully sleeping his injuries off. He'd cranked the aircon up, made his own flat too frigid for Ngelah to stand but perfect for Max. The clink of ice makes him think of him, though. "I'm not," he answers before turning to look at whoevers joined him. Ngelah is ready to quickly tell them to fuck off, but when he looks to the side he seems a vaguely familiar face. Not someone he's met, but a famous enough face even he recognises it. A handsome face he can't quite place a name on. Ngelah knocks back the last dregs of his drink. "Now I am."

[buriedwithit]

"yes, sir," he agrees, all the while continuing to grind down against his lap. max doesn't miss that little grunt that escapes him and is keen to chase down another. this is what most of his clients miss—genuine enthusiasm. he can fake it for the masses, but it's only when someone who actually deserves it comes along that he really shines. of course, not that anyone knows that... least of all ngelah. he gets the feeling that he doesn't talk to many other people in the bar other than seth and him. can't blame him for that, either. it's a little embarrassing how eager he is for that kiss, a soft sigh trailing from his lips the moment theirs meet. it hasn't even been that long and he's already missed it. that says something about him, but like hell he's going to examine it. "i like the way you think," he mumbles into his mouth, tongue dipping out to swipe along ngelah's lower lip, a graze of short fangs close behind. "why don't you undress me and i'll take good care of you..." his tail snakes up to tease at the councilman's thigh, hands resting firmly against his chest. if this was every christmas, god, he wouldn't hate it so much!

[ngelah-osei]

"Good boy," he answers with a smile. Max is eager, and normally Ngelah would pounce on the opportunity. Today he feels like something lazier, a little more self-indulgent. His hands stop roaming Max’s back to settle on his hips. He presses down, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to hold Max still and stop his grinding. "I want to take my time today," he says between kisses. Ngelah’s kiss deepens: tongue and teeth as he focuses on the warmth of Max’s mouth, on letting the warm body weight of Max settle in on him. He wants him to try and move again, do something small he can gently scold. If he doesn’t? He’ll reward him well, if he doesn’t? Ngelah will still be good to him. There’s not much Max could do that wouldn’t make Ngelah happy.

[buriedwithit]

max seizes up painfully as he's picked up off the ground, trying—and of course, failing—to find balance with his tail. the very same one that isn't there. it's almost like he can feel it... until he can't again. but the pain helps to pull him back into awareness too, just enough to register the buzz ( the voice ) in his ears. it's familiar. gut-wrenchingly so. still, his own voice fails, a dull wheeze in the back of his throat. he whimpers, instead—he's thoroughly kicked. he can't decide if it's more painful to be awake or to be asleep. on one hand, it's clear by now that his wounds aren't as immediately fatal as he would like them to be... so dying seems fairly out of the question. that leaves conscious embarrassment or unconscious embarrassment, and really he has no power either way. he can't speak. he can't open his eyes. it's like he's dead weight, without that one, last little step that would make it all fade away. in between seems to be all he'll ever manage.

[ngelah-osei]

Max sways on his feet and it’s clear he’s not about to die, but he’s certainly not about to be able to walk even with support. So Ngelah moves to scoop him up into his arms, bridal style. He does his best to support Max’s head so it won’t dangle. It’s even a small relief that the dark patch on his trousers doesn’t seem to be all blood. At least he won’t bleed out on him. “Max, darling?” he whispers now, voice low as he looks at his face. Sweaty and pale. “Keep your eyes open, ok? We’ll get you home.” He begins to walk, instincts slowly kicking in. He’s not out in the desert, but it certainly feels it. Deep down he always knew the city wasn’t safe, it’s almost enough to make him pretend it’s not anxiety riddling him. It’s then he realises he doesn’t know where Max lives—should he take him to a hospital? The Bearded Lady? He moves without thinking back the way he came: back towards his own home. 

[all-cf-me]

Trinkets, collectables, jewelry... All things that, even if Dodge had a use for them, would be risky to try and recover. Items with meaning had a way of disappearing quickly in the Wastes, and he knows that scavengers are often in the most danger when they manage to dig up something valuable. Dodge realizes how dumb he must look still holding a pen to the blank form, then, and before he can stop himself he scrawls a word barely legible for the tremble in his hands: "cufflinks".

The word surprises him. He's not sure he even owns a shirt with long sleeves, much less a button-down that necessitates cufflinks. There's a little confusion in his eyes as he glances back up to Ngelah.

[ngelah-osei]

Finally, Dodge seems to think of something to ask for. He watches as his hands tremble so violently but something is written. He hopes it’s something deeply personal; he hopes that the tremble indicates there’s more life to Dodge besides his dogged devotion. Ngelah steps closer, hands held behind his back. Dodge looks at him, confused by his own request. When Ngelah looks over the feeling is mutual. Cufflinks. He doesn’t strike him as a cufflinks sort of man.

Instead of saying anything he smiles. Close-lipped, hardly reaches his eyes. It’s a start, he supposes. “Cufflinks it is, then.” Perhaps he could find him some utilitarian ones, something modest yet smart. A small step towards indulgence for Dodge. It even occurs to Ngelah then how hypocritical this train of thought is: he won’t allow himself these small indulgences but he can see the point it in it for others. Oh, Sable would have a field day if she caught wind of this. “I’ll put it as a low priority,” to anyone else, he imagines that would be an insult. To Dodge, he thinks it will soothe any anxiety. “Thank you for checking.” With that curt dismissal, he picks up the bit of paper and turns his back on Dodge to look out the window.

[all-cf-me]

Seth watches the distaste tighten Ngelah's face, all too familiar with the expression of a cat rubbed up along its spine the wrong way, and he smiles with a little click of his tongue. "Hey, always worth a try, huh? Variety is the spice of life, baby." At least, it is for someone looking for flavor... Ngelah seems like more of a military ration, water-and-hard-tack kind of guy.

The suggestion of a game piques his interest right away, though, and gives him some hope that maybe the councilor won't leave entirely disappointed. As stiff and difficult as Ngelah is, his satisfaction as a client is still the only goal. "You're on," Seth accepts, finishing off his drink and straightening right up in his seat as though he intends to take the game very seriously: after casting a ponderous glance around them at the selection of escorts, his eyes cut back to the man across from him, playfully narrowed. "Alrighty, first guess. College roleplay, you're the hard-ass professor who only accepts extra credit in the form of obscene sexual favors."

[ngelah-osei]

Perhaps Seth is right, but Ngelah would never admit such a thing to him of all people. He has chosen his path and the wheel has dug it's grooves in deep. It's easier to ride the same routes than to branch out.

Ngelah narrows his eyes a brief moment. That fantasy, he thinks, says far more about Seth than it does himself. He doesn't like where his mind goes. "Wrong on most levels." Not all. He enjoys the power dynamics of a scene, always wanting to have the control. Not everything in life can be orchestrated perfectly, so at least in the bedroom he can enjoy himself. "The only thing I reward is hard, honest work. In work and play."

[buriedwithit]

that place between living and death, conscious and unconscious, means that max doesn't know how much time passes between the attack and between when he's found. it could have been seconds, minutes, hours, days, centuries—all he knows is an unrelenting fog of misery. no matter how hard he tries to drift off, to let the cold dark take him, no light appears to go into. no relief comes. he's stuck with blood drying on his face and body and the horrible knowledge that nothing he's endured is enough to kill him. not even exposure. it's the hot season and still it's not enough. hours, weeks, months later, a voice breaks into the abyss. recognizable, but heartbreaking. he steels himself for several long moments—maybe hours—before finally, his eyes flutter open, lidded and unfocused. who is that? he can't even see. it's too dark, not just outside but in his own mind. he can't even hear what they're saying, only managing a pitiful groan as he slumps into their touch. maybe it's the beast again. good god, just get it over with!

[ngelah-osei]

"Shit." He curses under his breath. He begins to search Max over. He wills himself to remember ever bit of training he's had. The routines he'd drilled into his scavengers minds in case someone is ever injured. Ngelah should be better at this but he only curses at himself as everything slips through his fingers.

Hopefully, his back isn't injured because Ngelah begins to scoop Max up. He's worryingly warm, moreso than usual, and the blood from where his tail once was has soaked through the back of his clothes. "Max, it's Ngelah." He speaks more for his own sake than Max's, "Can you hear me? C'mon..." Ngelah looks over to the tail, wonders if it could be put on ice. Re-attched...

[embraciingchange]

starter for @ngelah-osei

"i realize that it's dangerous, but the best way to get the data we need is to actually go with one of the scavenging teams. if our theory is correct, this could make a huge difference in the overall safety of your operations."

[ngelah-osei]

Ngelah is not opposed to research teams heading out. In theory. In practice? Well... He taps his fingers on his desk, thinking of ways to politely and reasonably shoot down their request. Ngelah yes up the researcher who looks built for domestic environments and dusty offices at best. "Is there no way someone else could collect the data for you? You could train someone who already has the skills to go out safely."

[sureabel]

It was an honor, he believed, to be the chosen one. It was an honor to be chosen to rid the Earth of all its evil, of all the whores and the bloodthirsty and the abusers. But he would seldom kill the first time around. The ability to turn to His light and provide Him with more children always remained, even in those marred by evil.

All it took was a nudge.

Ripping off the tail of this child, modeled in Satan's image (or how he was pictured in modern day, at least), he held it in his mouth like a dog would hold a rat. He would not let it go.

But that meant his mouth was occupied. That meant that from, that moment forth, he had to rely on the claws of his handpaws.

However, this child was already so close to the brink. This child's blood ran hot and it ran in puddles upon puddles upon puddles. His piss, his shaking -- he would have to stop himself soon if he wished to give this child the chance to repent.

Thus, he took one handpaw and placed it atop the child's head, scratching at the horns.

And the last manner of business: the claws of his free handpaw lightly traced upon the child's forehead -- not deep enough to cause much more blood loss, but deep enough for the child to look in the mirror and see a cross between his eyes.

[buriedwithit]

it's a horrible halfway point that he's in, where he feels everything so nauseatingly sharp, and yet is too dull and limp to do anything but take it. he can't move anything, but a special focus is put on the limb he's lost. he can't feel his tail. he can't move it. the crunch of bone and horrible tear of flesh plays over and over in his mind. gone. just gone. like he never had it all. but no, worse than that—it's going to leave an ugly reminder. many, in fact. many ugly reminders. it's the ultimate insult that more than just dead, he's going to be made ugly, too. but it turns out that the monster has more in mind than that. head up, he's disappointed to find that he's dropped down into the mess instead of torn open at the throat. come on! he wants to say, but his tongue is swollen and dry in his mouth. he can't find the strength to make the words... or much of any sound at all, beyond the occasional choke in his breath. of course it's just going to leave him to die. max shuts his eyes, too cold and too hot and too miserable, and hopes that whatever end is destined for him comes before anyone finds him.

@ngelah-osei

[ngelah-osei]

Ngelah had been thinking about his Christmas visit. It had become a major distraction: the thought of Max in his bed was an overwhelming nearly intrusive image he couldn't shake. He worried it would cause him to get sloppy, put some of his Sector 1 workers in danger if he were out in the field. It's ridiculous. Common sense tells him that he should wean himself off of the young devil. Let himself have a clean, sudden break before he gets more distracted.

Common sense has not prevailed: he's walking towards the Bearded Lady at this very moment. He has every chance to turn around: and he won't. Turning a corner, he freezes. Nothing ruins the mood like the heavy scent of metal. A sad pile of someone on the floor. Ngelah's hands leave his pockets as he rushes over. There's what seems like a bit of rope on the floor—until he sees what it is.

The world tips. It's not just someone. It's a tail. His tail. The same one that had curled around his back so many times. The same tail he'd run his hand over and played with. Ngelah rushes ahead. He reaches for his face immediately, turning his face towards him. Blood has dried down his face. Ngelah's hands shake, cradling his cheek as another pushes hair out of his face, "Max? Max can you hear me?"