#ghcstmcth

[u-jin]

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? ”

[lockekatirci]

WHEN GHOSTS COLLIDE.

Location: Million’s Square, side street.  Time/Date: 13th November, 2180. Not long after orders received. Closed for: @ghcstmcth​

It’s a poor idea to shoulder the belief that Locke has anything melodic inside his head; something that negates the thirst for knowledge and the criminalistic creeds that place him in a particularly virulent of positions. A harmonious rhythm doesn’t find home there even above the scars of horrors that do take up residence in the crevasses of brain matter and skewed neurons. Sirens that reverberate from every street, building and sentinel assisted vehicle do penetrate through; the only kind of sound that earns a tip of Katirci’s head, cigarette between calloused fingers lowering as though the sound is a momentary inconvenience. An opportunity is more fitting a descriptor. It’s an easy order – at least in the sense of understanding; approached like a job, failure seen as weakness is any regard. But a game of chase to Lokman that appears to have potential to end in red. Last resort, only, Locke. The sliver of a loyal soldier to SR that reminds him that he can still find the fun in hide and seek. A grin that’s a little too wide splits the opening of his face to reveal tobacco stained teeth; an off-white, yellow tinged shade that deters most from approach; but never stops them looking.

He’ll pretend it bothers him; but craves their eyes whether it’s absent adoration, unimportant. Fear still means he has a legacy; a name.

A man with a memorable one; known to the underworld by notoriety; off-kilter and barbarian in some ways, though, hidden in the stealth and grace of shadows that provide a mystique that isn’t quite matched anywhere else. Well, perhaps by a couple – those who he hasn’t entirely pieces puzzle pieces together of, yet; the rest of the Renegades. Whilst the dials of Katirci’s mind crank, he’s discarding the smoke against a brick wall, pressed like a squished accordion, grey ash marks the bricks and he lets it fall; crumpled, used. The grey mist from his sly grin breaks through the cracks in teeth; the slow wispful escape of a beast inside, fighting for escape.

It’s released when he turns to see the panicking crowds that desperately search for a haven of their own. Dispersed like ants fleeing a boot that’s come down on them, crushes hope and reminds them how breakable, squishable they are; how they run in fear when that sound screeches through the roads of Ilbern and evoke the cortisol response in all.

Orders are flexible, just as he expects the Madhouse to have spread fast through the lanes and alleys on the hunt for the monster let free. There’s an envy there somewhere, because the attention to be seen; Ilbern on guard from something without a name; a face, but is spoken in the mouths of all. Once more Locke, alive. He knows; doesn’t ever forget.

He steps into the road, boots hit concrete and a hand naturally reaches for the rear of cargos, the cold of a blade a comfort, curved fingers tease to slide and split flesh; like a fuel he doesn’t admit to anyone. A reason to begin the pursuit of the monster that’s leaving carnage in its wake; admirable, if only to Locke himself, a quiet approval.

It’s the sirens that confuse senses, takeover one of the five and deafen even the most perceptive of entities. Leave the other four on overdrive to somehow pre-empt the world around them. A ripping of tyres; a overpowering scent of burning rubber slaps those in the streets with a nauseating aroma – unless they’re accustomed to the more foul of things, it’s probably quite pleasant. But, Locke’s only just catching it over the blaring that rips through the town on the beginning of his hunt, and as though the only response if to become the ghost, the mechanical structure that barrels at speed carries a shadow on its left side like a monster it cannot detatch. He moves, flickers like a glitch in the matrix to stumble to the rear of the motorcycle; misses being taken out by the metal bike hurtling at him.

“Fuck,” quiet, unasked for through gritted teeth when he whips around, same dangerous fingers wrapped around the hilt behind him. It’s another second for another sense of sight to fully kick in, recognises the person skidding like a racer in the heat of finishing as champion of a street – ah, Locke knows. The visor of the pristine helmet worn is open, the glint of the woman’s eyes unforgettable and the tension once coiled in stiff muscles ease, breathes a laugh like it’s the most amusing of situations.

“Speed racer not only fallen from her podium, but has found pleasure in running rampant in the streets to take lives of innocent civilians now, I’m kind of envious,” the jibe is said lighter than it’s implications and Lokman’s met the glorious Astrid; found comfort in the ghost that’s his soul partner in playing in the acts of shadows, but hers, light where his is shrouds.

But there wouldn’t be any shadows if there were no sun to cast them.

“Where you running off to, Astrid,” a tease, tongue sliding along drying lips where cigarette smoke sticks like a slick layer of tar, “it’s not because you’ve seen a monster around, is it?”