@jblaire liked for a starter
“Blaire.”
That the beast is able to spit the name with even the faintest trace of emotion is something of a surprise. Its attachment and reliance upon a flesh vessel has been a learning process, and inflection and facial expressions haven’t been on the priority list over the past few hours. Still, it manages to curl a lip, a display that could be taken either as a smile as a grimace.
Ah, it would seem Miles is invested in this at last. No longer fighting, no longer resistant. Perfectly willing to tear the executive apart out of some overwhelming sense of righteousness. The Walrider could care less -- it would have dismembered him completely if that’s what Miles had wanted -- but some fraction of the reporter’s subconscious must have yearned for further punishment. So Jeremy had merely been incapacitated, sufficiently roughed up to allow the whistleblower time to escape, but not enough to kill him.
If he’s missing a few fingers or toes, well. Wasn’t like they’d be mourned for much longer.
“Do you remember us?” They’re still in the lobby, the executive flat on the floor with the Host crouched above him, one knee resting on the ground while the other presses against his sternum. “We remember you.”
Most of the Variants could recall that face, the one now streaked with blood and bruises. He’d signed off on so much pain and torture -- how could they not remember the one responsible for it all? And those fearful, visceral memories built the Walride,r and they festered, grew, latched to a body, and now...
Now they sought penance.
