when: november 13, 2180; the streets grow emptier still -- a man walks them, unbothered, while cleaning blood from his hands where: yet another alleyway because my characters a fucking freak who: @ghcstmcth
SO LITTLE TIME has passed since the sirens hit the air, shrill and echoing through the cities streets, and yet Ujin had accomplished so much. He had devoured the questionables, had reaped the suspects -- he reigned down fury tooth and nail, less for the sake of the Emperors commands and more for his own taste for insanity, for slaughter, a knack for fear mongering. He had torn holes in the safe havens throughout the little world they all found themselves living in, his orders clear; search and destroy.
Then he quickly grew bored of the mission, after horrifying and terrorizing the innocents with little return or leads for the sought after monster he climbed to the top of a building. There he stood, fingertips raw, his nails cracked and peeling, and shrugged before tearing down into the streets once more, this time with a thirst for blood that could be sated by any passerby or unfortunate soul.
And reap he did.
Not even a half hour later he pauses to kick stray gore from his shoe, hands rubbing against his black pants to get rid of some of the excess blood, fingers stained red as he shifts his weight. He sighs slightly before kneeling over and grabbing the arms of the corpse to his left, picking it up and throwing it over his shoulder, at first wandering around with it on his person, a playful tune whistling past his lips, before hanging a sharp turn into the closest alleyway. He peers around a moment more, looking for a pile of debris or heap of trash to dispose of the deadweight when his eyes settle on a dumpster. He takes a few steps towards it, his eyes trailing in the dark, watching his feet when he hears a loud bang.
Then another clatter followed by a sharp clang, his eyes divert, his steps pausing as his gaze catches on the dumpster he was bounding towards, the lid flipped open, propped against the brick of the wall behind it. He steps slightly closer, neck craning, eyes squinted as he catches the figure of a head popped out of the lip of the dumpster, a body ( still living, he notes ) barely visible among the trash. Ujin pauses, a confused expression contorting on his face, eyebrows drawn together, a sort of morbid curiosity when he unpauses the wringing of his hands, blood spattered on his arms and face, he shifts the weight of the body over his shoulder and says, “ Fucking... hello? ”