DEMON CAT

[u-jin]

HELL HOUND.

It isn’t a sixth sense that armies Katirci into the covers of darkness – that’s an impossibility too certain that cannot even be humoured as an idea; the shadows are his as much as they are intangible to the rest of Ilbern. He wouldn’t be forced into anything that isn’t entirely on his terms, but there’s a tingling on his arms like a ghost is teasing him, hairs stand on edge, the faintest of goosebumps prickle to surface on marred skin; an unwavering clawing that refuses to lessen with every wisp of a glitch whenever he transfers into a neighbouring obscurity. It’s constant, too realised and Locke’s fuelled by the hunt, swallows the peculiar sensation that he’s close, he must be. A monster chasing a monster under orders. A thrill he craves. The one circumstance where being known but unseen works in his favour. There’s a thought that sits prominent at the front of his mind, the kind that often leads to mistakes; the idea that he wants the monster once found to stare him in the eye – if it, had such things, and figure if the form was like him and wore a personable mask.

A wonderment that creates a myth about creatures; a tale of fear hard driven in by the emperor about how monsters loose are the beginning of the end; the absolute condemnation and decimation of Ilbern. A misconception of capabilities that are created from the natural terror of the unknown. What nobody can possibility understand. Therefore, it must be destroyed; a foolish act to antagonise the same creatures they cower from. But there’s something else unseen in the dark, the only visible tell of its presence the way a tall length of a shadow is cast on the concrete; caught in his peripheries. Locke shouldn’t know, it’s implausible of a gift to simply just know what it is but he should be more adept than most to how easy it is to become a ghost; a watcher with beady eyes and a hunger sparking to the surface of them.

Slowly, Locke’s head turns, sideways, as though tipping his ear in the suspicious direction, can’t quite see the figure he knows is there, yet finds the smile appearing on his face with a glow off-white teeth. It’s him. The thing that’s in the same dark he is; two beings crossing paths, entirely separate worlds colliding to reap lives in tandem, watch flesh peel off bones, hacked away by something sharp – gnawed on to pry tendons apart and leave a spray a message on a way. It’s as though all thoughts of the chase cease, something better in his sights, another kind of recognition able to be earned. He’d yank his teeth before he’d ever bite his tongue, he’d slice his gums, get struck by lightning twice at once before Lokman would ever miss the opportunity to do the same to him. It’s more just intrigue, a duality of souls – if monsters, again, had such things, clashing hard against one another. Katirci feels that, quiet where shallow breaths keep him unseen, but he wants to be now, the man who’s got such venom in his tongue and a way about him that he wants recognition for the shared ability in knifeplay.

He always does; always wants the man to notice him. And there he stands, interrupts Locke mid hunt for another kind – doesn’t cross his mind until later that the other could be the creature on the loose. The prey of the Emperor and how complicated it suddenly becomes if he’s to recover the other. Doesn’t yet know his name, just that he draws Lokman in. Captured him without even touching.

But he wants to do that too. Even if it’s just to split flesh.

Locke doesn’t answer immediately, can see the way the man’s mouth form words, that the pauses aren’t the end; the taunts that Katirci wants to match are almost enticing enough that if he got closer, he might appreciate them more. Delusions.

“If it were, you’d never find me,” a truth to anyone except the one in front of him, because Locke would want to be found; to be seen by the other, just because it’s him. It’s unexplainable, the attraction that he wants validation from a person he only sees in the more twisted of circumstance, stays ignorant to the crimes they both witness. A silent understanding. The drawl in the message; haven’t you heard? As if the sirens were quiet and the obliviousness to a creature running ravenous isn’t Ilberns fear in play.

The smile, mirrored; deadly and finally, as though Lokman’s set his sights on something else, he draws his entire attention back. A tease unmatched; a ploy that’s as genuine as the wicked glint in Katirci’s eyes; an answer wanted for where they stand:

“But, prowler, you did find one,” calm. “What’s your plans for such a monster?”

Because cutting them to pieces as you say; we know that’s far too easy.

--

AND ONCE AGAIN THEY END UP HERE, two opposing forces and yet a matching pair, each hungering for the other’s blood, the other’s, more ghastly still, attention. Here they take the roles of cat and hound, both poised, faded canvases created with only charcoal, smudging and bleeding into one picture, one being. They are two outlines, the perfect example of what a monster truly is, one demon reflecting the other, one using the shadows and the other using the light, something most commonly seen as a beacon for hope instead contorted and deformed into the most hideous of things. 

He sees him descend from the darkness as always and he can’t help but wonder; how does it feel? What sensation is associated with not existing, even if only for a moment, between one darkness and the next. Ujin is a solid being, the most detachment given from his person being when he crawls into the bones of someone else, when he digs deep into a ribcage and for a moment finds himself completely detached, a being outside a body. Is it strange, then, for him to romanticize the feeling of weightlessness? The idea of existing outside this one plane, not just illusions but actual transformation, something tangible?

He doesn’t ask these things, doesn’t let such fantasies come out into the chill of the air, his tongue clicking between teeth, eyes slits, dragging slowly up the other man’s person. The cold bites at skin, runs up and down any bare stretch it can find, november grasping for something to swallow. There’s flushes of red barely discernable under the epidermis, a reminder than he, too, is human. For a moment he drops his gaze, eyes catching on his own fingernails that run entirely ragged, cracked into halves and oozing from climbing walls and blunt force. He listens, head tilted slightly, as he grabs one nail between his teeth and rips it off entirely, pain radiating through his hand and up his arm, but his expression remains impassive, he spits it out and his eyes fall back on his counterpart, mutilated fingers dropping back to his sides, his bottom lip briefly pulling into his mouth, tasting stray blood.

“ Hm, I think you’re wrong about that. “ He says easily, almost all air and no bite before he sinks his teeth in, his voice heavy and twisted, as if laughing, as if deranged, but still his face remains still, solid and thinking, the deadly smile not meeting his eyes, “ I’ll always be able to find you. ”

It’s because, he thinks, he wants me to find him. It’s because I want to find him. What is it? This lethal attraction, remaining fingernails dug into palms to leave distorted crescents, breaking skin and tasting ash. It manifests like anger, like disease, something his body wants to expel, a fever to burn it away. They’re playing a game with one another, circling and circling, testing waters known to have sharks, dripping blood and smelling fear. It’s a mystery, it’s intoxicating -- an adrenaline gone feral and hungry, the stench that of gasoline, the other man the danger of a lit match; don’t come too close to me or I’ll destroy us both.

“ I have a lot of ideas. “ He begins, his feet leading him, stalking around the very edges of his counterpart, slow and curious, “ I haven’t settled on just one quite yet. “ There’s a level of honesty buried under layers and layers of biting tone, of searching gaze and mismatched fragments, something building under duress, under the sheer weight of their encounter. Each time it feels the same, something about the air around them, between them -- something about a darkness that mirrors his own, clinging to another. He wants to sink his teeth into him, to rip through his skin, batter him into ribbons, taste his survival; how is it for you? Is it as glorious as it is for me? Then, soon after, I’ll devour you whole.

His eyes trace the figure gone ghostlike in the darkness, the black outlines of his being, then finally they lock onto his face, the place where his eyes should be gone hollow sockets with the shadow of his brow and he says, “ Why? " There’s something sharp, something almost mocking, serrated and venomous, could cut through skin, melted amber and gold dancing in the onyx pigment of his iris’, “ You wanna watch? “ 

[u-jin]

GHOST MOTH.

Fuck dignity and screw reputation. If Astrid had learned anything since her fall from grace, it was the fact that she lost the patience to give a damn. What she did for herself was now entrenched one school of thought: survival. And so, when things came to their worst - that was how Astrid Kuo found herself dumpster diving. It wasn’t like many people would bother her in the garbage unless they were homeless themselves. It was almost comedic seeing the woman throw herself in given that she spent a couple minutes surveying which one would suit her best. The three requisites that came into play with choosing the right dumpster was the size, shape and smell. 

The dumpster was surprisingly more comfortable than she had expected. It was the padding from all the bags that made it cushier then she had thought possible. She had almost dozed off until she heard the sound of footsteps outside. While her original intention had been to be slick, it only resulted in the bang of her foot slipping against the large container. 

At this point she felt herself sinking into the trash and she too forgot about her powers in that moment, grabbing onto what she could, cussing at the sounds that were surely going to attract attention. After all, it wasn’t normally this loud in a typically abandoned alley way. By the time she had managed to lift herself through it all, with her head bumping against the top - she was greeted with an unfamiliar image of a stranger. But her eyes were quick to access the blood splatters that were decorated on him like badges. By the look of his demeanor and face, it wasn’t his. Ah, so she was dealing with someone potentially dangerous. 

Well, if she had learned anything from her years of dealing with famous people and the likes. Danger’s natural enemy was crazy. So if it meant keeping her neck attached, Astrid would play the role as brilliantly as she could. She wouldn’t dare show off her powers or gloat, no, with the dirt and everything else on her face - she was the spitting image of a trash raccoon. 

“Fucking get yer own dumpster, this one’s occupied,” she growled. She prayed this would work. Her hand was quick to grab what appeared to be an empty can as she lifted it. “if you’re not here to donate money, then please run along,” she said, forcing her eyes to glaze a bit back to really emphasize her crackhead farce. All of this for the sake of survival. 

HE WASN’T SURE WHAT HE EXPECTED but it most certainly wasn’t what he got, easily venturing closer at the sharpness of her words and the low timber of her growl, all feral and, well, insane. The night set itself up to be impassioned, to be filled with shifting energies and power struggles, the setting one of nightmares and movie screens. Ujin had his fill of chaos and then some, the body over his shoulder only one of many for his intended search, all villians, all possible monsters, monsters like him, meant to be destroyed. The others, those who are normal, those he carves into anyways -- they’re nothing more than causalities, fodder caught in a war bigger than themselves. 

Then there was... whatever this was.

He prepared for blood, guts, and physical altercations, at the ready for fist fights and intimidation, but he didn’t mentally prepare to argue with a deranged woman over the ownership of a dumpster. There were a few easy solutions that came to mind, most of which involved more effort than they were worth, the idea of killing her less of a thrill and more of a duty -- a feeling he tended not to cater toward. The other, he supposed was that he could do what he did best and simply scare the shit out of her. It was appealing, and she was surely crazy enough no one would believe her anyways, but once again -- more effort than it’s worth. He laments this a moment as she cracks open with her raving, a possessive stance, his head tilting as he catches on her words.

At first he lets out a noise like a snort, half out of amusement and half out of annoyance because, really, what the fuck? He shifted his weight, the body getting heavier by the second, his eyes taking in the woman that was more trash than human, her arm pulled back with an empty can and fighting words. He had to admire the sheer will and stupidity that came with having the guts to threaten a man who’s wielding a dead body while soaked in blood. He sighs, thinking for a moment before making his decision.

“ Hold on. “ His hands first pat his own pockets before he pauses, hiking the body up his shoulder and digging in the man’s instead, the angle somewhat awkward. He comes up with a wallet, flipping through it and pulling out the cash held there, counting it quickly before he says, “ Alright, here’s the deal, I’ll give you fifty bucks for the dumpster. Shit, if you promise to keep your mouth shut I’ll throw the credit cards in too. I don’t know what his bank account looks like but it’ll probably at least get you a fuckin’ coffee. “ 

His tone is almost too casual, something close to patience even, before he shatters it by catching her eye, a shrug of his shoulders when he adds, “ That or I can tuck you in next to him, a cute little side by side situation, just two corpses chillin’ in a dumpster. Your call. “

[2-beadyeyes-deactivated20251104]

haters will see you kill some one and be like hey that guys a murderer

[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? ”

[u-jin]

when: november 13, 2180; the emperor still hungers for the blood of the monster where: a dilapidated bar off of market zero who: @zomharrow

AND THE HUNT CONTINUES away from the harsh concrete and brick of abandoned alleyways and desolate streets; he breaks off into a small district, usually sparse and hollow, the streets cracked and buildings poorly kept. If it was usually a place of shadows now it was a ghost town, darkness stretching the streets longer and longer still, the quiet creaking and skittering of vermin and poverty. He walks squarely down the center, eyes shifting to particularly blacked out windows and creeping sensations -- the feeling that someone is looking at him.

He turns then, eyes focused and heavy on the sound of clattering, the familiar ring of people filled with fear and he rounds a corner, a single woman wrapped in rags with long, dirty hair. His eyes are locked and the world quickly falls away around him, eyes sharpened to slits and he opens his mouth to speak, elongated canines, tongue dripping red, and she screams. 

“ There! There’s one there.... please, please, leave me be, there’s one there! “ Her shaky voice rings shrill, finger pointed towards the rotting wood of an aging pub to their right. Ujin’s eyebrows raise slightly, curiosity piqued despite the seeming insanity of the shaken street rat. He smiles bright, eyes narrowed before stepping in the direction of her reach, the woman quickly forgotten behind him. He approaches the outside, the stairs creaking loudly beneath his feet, his steps always heavy and present, booming, aching against the rotting foundation.

He toys with the doorknob at first, pulling to find it locked. He considers knocking, decides he doesn’t like that idea and instead summons his energy, stepping back and slamming his shoulder into the door hard enough to hear wood splinter, pain radiating his left side, and then repeating the action twice -- three times, his body a battering ram, before the doors falls in and he steps over the rubble. He could feel black and blue bleeding, shading down his side, but he stretches, fixing his jacket as he does, stepping past the entryway, eyes shifting to take in the few patrons ducked behind tables, quivering from under the bar top. 

Then they settle on a face most familiar and his expression cracks into another terrible grin, head tilted. “ Well, well, if it isn’t my dearest friend. “ He says first, stepping closer and closer until he seats himself on a barstool nearby, leaning slightly into the other man’s personal space. “ Now what’s got you so far out of town? “ He says, not a moment passing before his voice drips harsher still, eyes narrow, melted honey, when he says,“ Looking for a monster? “

[machine-factory]

love this piece by Javier Pérez titled ‘Carroña’. Ten stuffed crows carefully placed on a shattered red chandelier to look as if they were feasting on a dead animal. 

[u-jin]

GRIFTER CRICKET.

Closed starter for @u-jin​​

Time stamp: 13th November, 2180, shortly before chaos ensues

Location: A Millions Square Casino

It wasn’t the best hand in the world, Kaz thought, her eyes scanning the five cards in her hand. Three tens, a two and a jack. There were a pair of aces up her sleeve, though it didn’t seem the right time to switch it out. She could win with three of a kind, and more than likely would. Losing wasn’t something that usually happened to Kaz. 

Tearing her gaze away from her hand, she cast her gaze around the circle. Two of her five competitors had brows furrowed, their poker faces clearly faltering. They would fold, she was sure of it. The other two remained impassive, a little more difficult to read, but she had played with them before. she knew their tells, and it was clear that whatever they were holding, she could outmaneuver them. 

The fifth player was more of a mystery. She didn’t know them, and didn’t know what approach would cinch her the win. She didn’t want to overthink it. She never overthought anything, not really. A combination of her instincts and her sheer dumb luck were usually enough, but a little influence from the powers she had been blessed with didn’t hurt. And so, Kaz swiftly made up her mind. Attack with confidence, and the rest will fall into place. 

“I raise.” She declared, pushing her chips towards the middle of the table. The smirk on her face was nothing short of smarmy, and as predicted, the two players she had singled out exited the game, scowling and swearing under their breath. She ignored the other two completely, her eyes focusing solely on the object of her interest. “What about you, hmm? Your hand not good enough?” 

-

Poker tended to be a sport for the weak and desperate, most of the patrons around the table with sweat on their brow and nothing of substance in their pockets, families at home to feed and bodies to clothe. This was a table of starvation, of hunger, ready to beg and plead to get back even a quarter of what they’ve lost. This is a last resort, the last prayer to a dying god, and that’s what makes it so damn fun. 

He had long since mastered the art of subtlety with his power, surprising considering his tendency for theatrics, but his eyes stayed focused, his poker face a mix of smiles and teasing expressions, never faltering nor falling flat. He plays with vision, such miniscule details that sometimes the player doesn’t even notice it -- a tinge of color, a slight difference in number or face. He tends to do this when the cards are first drawn, so the entire game they see a different hand then the one they actually have, so they play as he wants them to; prepared to win or lose at his call. Usually, of course, he inflates the ego, influences them to bet bigger and bigger only to lose, most commonly in a rather pitiful way. Another method was visual manipulation, effecting their surroundings, off in the corner of their eye they’ll see words like ‘ lose ‘ or ‘ fail ‘ or ‘ poor ‘ and it effects the psyche in a way that leads them to fold.

Sometimes, however, he would still lose. His biggest downfall was that while he could make the card holders see whatever he wanted them to see, he still never had any way of knowing what their real cards actually looked like. 

He was a cheater, but he still loved the feeling of a gamble. 

He watched most of the table squirm, some carefully blank ( one of which was currently under his manipulation ), and then one who almost appeared cocky, as confident as him. She had his attention. At first he just turned his head slightly, curious and amused, eyes searching her for a long moment, wondering what it could be in those hands that has her so sure, that filled her with such certainty. She had, at least, the brains to be curious about him; a player built of easy dealing and the sort of chip throws that only a rich man could make with such carelessness. He usually carried more chips than cash, petty deals and the blood-pumping feeling of not knowing whether he was to win or lose.

“ Oh, you have to ask? Having trouble reading me? “ His smile widened to a point, entertained as he leaned back in his seat, his eyes not looking at his cards at all. Admittedly, this round he had a fairly shitty hand, but he never worried too much over his cards. He worked on psychological basis -- manipulation, folds, and folly. Even still he held an air of confidence, something perhaps certain when he drops more chips on the table. “ I call. “ 

[u-jin]

when: november 13, 2180; the city remains plunged in darkness. where: the streets of ilbern who: @pureasdeath

SCOUR, DIVIDE, AND CONQUER -- the plan had been simple, the situation much more complicated. They had been given no traits, no physical hints or possible colors to look out for, not even so much as a mention of the ability they were seeking. It was a blind game, pure intuition; Ujin tended to pride himself on having keen eyes.

The streets were dark but were filled with life, every living thing breathing heavily in tandem, the sounds of pounding footsteps and banging on doors, wide spread fear slick and heavy, pouring into storm drains and out of open windows. He hadn’t seen insanity like it in a long time, the clattering of shaking hands akin to dropped silverware, the sirens a screaming warning, the boom of the explosion releasing bated breath and held tension. Ilbern had been waiting for an event such as this, holding in their anxieties and mistrust, pretending not to look over their shoulders for the sake of normality but such bottled pain built up, carbon dioxide and shaken bottles, begging to escape, for a reason to release their screams.... and release they did.

They all feared the Night Monsters, almost as much as the feared the Emperor, and he spread vicious words of them and beat the city black and blue. Neighbors, friends, children, parents; no one was safe from the possibility of a seared mark, no one was cleansed of the sin that was released with the last siren this small world had heard -- Delulu scarred them, and now the Monsters have been born to finish them off. 

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche.

He seeps through dampened streets, the ground a dark abscess where light would normally bounce off, the pavement gone oily and slick, the walls creating an invisible maze. His eyes linger only briefly over most passerby, most running or shaking or hiding, mere blips in the timeline, inconsequential victims, pawns -- until, however, he sees her. 

She’s tall and stealthy, weaving; she is patient. She is looking, just as much as he, but he doesn’t know her, her face unfamiliar, her stature brand new. She isn’t afraid, she’s curious, and in return, so is he. He follows her, hides in shadows and blends with his surroundings, eyes keen and body haunch like the cat he adorns, slinking limbs and slit pupils. He watches her for quite some time before deciding she was worth coming out of hiding, fingers brushing over the hilt of the knife hidden inside his jacket before dropping his arms and descending on her, all sharp teeth and bleeding fingers, nails cracked open and oozing from climbing and clawing.

He appears in an otherwise abandoned part of town, no hope of someone interfering, no distractions or inconveniences -- she will answer his questions, and he will decide what to do with her from there. 

“ You look lost. “ He says first, all turned head and heavy gaze, voice testing, almost intimidatingly playful, “ This isn’t the time to be off on your own, is it? “ 

[u-jin]

when: november 13, 2180; chaos swarms onward. where: a back alleyway with little light -- perhaps a man finds himself there on purpose. who: @lockekatirci​

Welcome to Wonderland -- the other end of the rabbit hole, fallen so far underground that there is no longer any visible light when looking up, neck craned and eyes squinted; the stars do not come here, they don’t shine over this cursed land. There stands the Mad Hatter, more darkness than man, more blood than organs, gorged on nightmare fuel and open veins. He walks the streets searching and devouring, fingers running harshly over exposed brick and cement as he seeps through the city like a dense oil, fingernails cracking and bleeding, slamming metal and tensed triggers. Nothing feels better than the hunting, than the searching, the sadomasochistic process of self destruction and ruination -- first he descends, splitting open in the process, then he swallows the enemy whole; skin, bones, and all. 

He finds excitement, indulgence, in the horror vibrating throughout the city, the sound of teeth scraping the ground and clattering elbows and knees, the sounds of fear and no sign of reprieve. The world is rung dark and loud, the crying echoes of both the sirens and the citizens, Ujin’s teeth sunk tightly into the taste of blood and chaos. He doesn’t find that he’s particularly worried about the Night Monster, fear not a sensation he experiences anymore but instead only the thrill of thickened veins and headrushes; exhilaration. 

Then, of course, he sees him. 

He sees him because he always does when he’s off alone, when he finds himself scouring these parts of the streets -- his own personal ghost, his stalker. The air around them always seems to shift and move as if it can’t get far enough away, and the darkness hugs close, devours the two men as if starving, as if they stand to be the only meal in all the city, even with lights blown out, shadows searing hot across the entirety of the pavement beneath their feet. 

Ujin’s eyes don’t need to adjust to see him anymore, he can always spot him at a first glance as if adapted to him, as if his gaze sought him out everywhere, always searching -- a horrible thought, one he would spit out like poison, one he drowned with his favorite thoughts of what it will feel like when he finally digs his blade into the other man’s skin, when he carves out letters and numbers and fractions of his being. 

It’s a feeling only akin to hatred, to anger, that boils deeply into his chest, leaves molten lava and burn scars in it’s path. He wants to kill him so badly, wants to be the one to shred the man to pieces, to tear limb from limb,

‘ So why, ‘ one must think, ‘ isn’t he dead yet? ‘

‘ He dies on my terms. ‘ A response like a snapping of teeth, eyes caught narrow, tongue red and bleeding in his mouth, fingernails digging crescents into the palms of his hands, lips draw back as if a growl, ‘ He dies when I say so. ‘

“ It’s not you I’m looking for, is it? “ He says, eyes trailing darkly over the shadowed figure. His tone rings conversational, almost a sigh, something mocking deeply buried, “ If it is I’ll have to cut you to pieces sooner than planned. “ He sounds disappointed, but perhaps not for the right reasons. His voice is deep and honeyed, thoughtful, his eyes hooded and narrowed, trailing down his counterpart before meeting back at his face. 

“ You’d think you’d be better at hide and seek than this. Haven’t you heard? “ It’s sarcastic, almost playful, a complete turn around in his tone of voice, his smile like that of a shark, elongated and terrible in the dim light, teeth almost glowing in it, gloating and broken with a noise like a rasp, almost a laugh, “ We have a monster on the loose. “

[u-jin]

when: november 13, 2180; shortly after the chaos begins. where: the streets of ilbern who: @severedchimera​

The streets are flooded with screams and the sound of running footsteps, doors locking echo loudly, the thin cadence of metal scraping into place, the darkness drowning the streets, the sound of sirens ringing filling the air, stealing the oxygen -- ‘ take cover, go inside, there’s a monster on the loose, a beast to be feared. ‘ 

The very sound of the wailing sends shivers down a spine, blood pumping hotter, adrenaline spiking, the feeling of light-headedness -- euphoria. The sirens haven’t rung since Delulu poured toxins into the air, not since it ran ripened through the city, killing, maiming, and blinding, a new Omen tearing through poisoned psyches. The smoke billowing nearby causing quite the panic, the quaking ground sending the citizens to duck in fear. At first he thought it must be a truly horrible occurrence, there must be something heavy in the oxygen they breathe, there must be something foreboding, something closing in tightly on this night, the darkness eating them from all sides.

He finds it strange, then, when he finds the true reason for calling the city to panic; a loose Night Monster. An occurrence not all too strange, the devilmen flooding the streets more often than not, shot down with tranquilizers and streams of solid metal, decapitated in remote areas, hunted and tore to pieces. So what could it be, then, that makes this one so special? What did it do to create the boom that shook the ground beneath their feet? What retribution would soon find them?

Ujin walks the streets seemingly unbothered; buried in black fabrics and heavy boots, the communicator on his wrist beeping, screaming, caught on deaf ears as he finds his way out of the clearing of Million’s Square, back streets and empty alleyways, eyes sliding through shadows and over fire escapes, through grit and grime, only half-heartedly searching for the missing creature on his way to meet, mostly fondly, his partner. His teeth would clack to say it, smile widened with fangs gleaming, shining red with neons. His eyes flicking up to watch the Sentinels flying wildly by, long metal arms like ropes, lights dull and blinking as if to say, ‘ We’re alive too, don’t feel so special. ‘

His instructions were clear, ‘ lay low, stay undercover, ‘ but he wields weapons through the streets, not hiding or pulling closer to himself but instead flashing horrible smiles to started passerby, eyes wide in fear, caught wider at the sight of guns and knives, the disposition of a man who could just as easily be the Monster himself. It does, he thinks, help the citizens, they hide quicker, start banging on locked doors and swallowing hysteria in pitiful whines. 

He can’t help but be proud of what he’s become, and as his eyes find them, waiting so patiently nearby, he can’t help but feel proud of what they’re soon to be as well.

“ This is an exciting night we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it? “ He says, eyes melted honey, voice almost conversational as he swings his hand gun around a single finger, as always, cocked and loaded, only a slight pressure away from a misfire, his smile wicked, testing, always searching for a reaction. “ It’s sad, really, I wish I had my bazooka for this... but I can make do. “

[u-jin]

IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci  situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

It’s like an animal bent over prey, a darkened image of a not-quite man bent over a not-quite corpse, a carving knife in one hand, fingers stained red and face sprayed, blood dripping from the ends of his hair as he works in the back alley of an abandoned pub. This, he thinks, is art. He reels back and slices down again, a horrible tearing sound, a dull thud. He leaves his knife protruding for a moment, bare hands reaching into a gaping crevice, past bone, past the squishy, slippery texture of human insides, seemingly searching for something, a growl of frustration. He pulls back again, the cold air freezing the wet texture of his skin, and is stopped by a feeling like ice, a slow prickle running up his back, a sensation familiar to one thing -- someone is watching him.

Then he looks up, red up to his elbows as he draws the knife out of the body's ribcage, the air moving and transforming, a face somewhere in the darkness. He stands slowly, making the shadows writhe and shift around him, the light cascading into the dark, his own person being revealed like a feral dog, eyes wide and face beautiful in it’s stoicism, it’s in freedom from hunger in the one moment after hunting, covered in blood and chunks of flesh. He finds him, a being more wraith than man, appearing as if conjured. The knife hangs loosely in Ujin’s hand, curious and open, he takes several steps towards the shadowed figure, face cast like the undead in the way the darkness hangs over his eyes. He pushes light closer, plays with his own mind in the form of illusions, the slow, clandestine drip, drip, drip of scarlet falling past his arms to the concrete, a mutilated corpse lying motionless in the background.

He’s curious, treacherous, he creates the illusions and yet he isn’t sure if he conjured it himself, sanity sometimes slipping in his ache for blood, his draw to the macabre, then the light reveals a face and he realizes that it cannot be a creation of his own because he doesn’t make beautiful things. He draws closer, eyes narrowed, knife heavy in his fingertips, something in the back of his mind saying that he must take this one too, that he has to reap every last creature he sees, he has to devour, consume. He can’t stand the sight of something that appears so clean despite the way the blackness clings to him, something untouched despite the intensity in his stare, but there is no fear, not exactly, instead something that looks as starving as he is, and Ujin wants nothing more than to slice him open and chew on his bones.

The shadows are domain to the beasts and the butchers, and the man appears well at home, he steps closer, eyes molten gold and tinged velvet, narrowed and curious. Who are you? What can you do for me? How he loathes pretty things, hates those that mirror himself, delicate features and dark dispositions, is it possible to be this empty? This angry? He sears molten lava, mouth spitting ash, the ground rumbling with the tightening suture of an oncoming storm, a building intensity in the locked stare of two monsters, two unholy creatures, one caught feasting in his right and the other a watcher, an onlooker, an uninvited guest.

His head turns carefully to the side, his mouth opens his mouth as if to speak, reaches out as if to touch when behind him there’s a clatter, and he turns, paranoid and sharp. He sees a rat scurry from beneath a heap of trash and just as quickly he turns back, greeted with only the image of a brick wall and, for a moment, he appears thoughtful. Eventually his tongue clicks behind his teeth, as if this occurrence was nothing strange, as if performing for an audience of one. He still feels the presence nearby, but worse things have burdened him, far worse has happened, and he turns back around, head cocked and smile returning, wild and wrathful. Another monster in his midst, one he does not recognize, one he’s surely meant to hunt. The features linger, transparent, almost crystalline, not solid or definable but just as vivid.

He’ll be back, he decides, before drawing his knife up and returning to his art project.

AND SO RETURNS HELL HOUND ( @lockekatrici ) , WATCHING FROM THE SHADOWS:

Through static darkness; suspended in the shadows like an invisible fly on the wall; obscured by all living creatures, Locke almost becomes the dead in the way existence no longer stands tangible. Only the nearly inaudible breaths whisper his presence in amongst the night and he’s simply watching. It’s not clear how much time has passed, but in the veil, there’s a weightlessness that keeps time as an illusion; a figment of reality that no longer cares for such trivial cogs in a clock. Not even the metal hands under the steel of Katirci’s watch can attract his attention when such a display of vehemence captures his admiration. A sickening snap echoes; evidence of tendons tearing from tissue, an explosion of liquid bursts from the hacking of meat where silver carves deep, splits open the disfigured animation like a fountain and allows arteries to spurt red and paint the streets in colour. Like a mosquito that pierces with the same necessity to thrive; saps life; energy from a being, a strange obsession with needing to inch closer starts crawling under Locke’s skin. It’s as though that craving for a knife to cut open his own flesh overpowers reasoning; he wants to be in the place of the canvas currently being maimed to forge a new entity. It evokes a memory, the harsh sound of bones cracking a small boy’s shoulder blade in youth; a wail that’s fast silenced when another comes down and drives deep the venom that in elder years swarms the man’s veins like a parasite; a poison that builds him to something beyond becoming ruination.

He’s the god of the night and deities like to be seen; worshipped and offered sacrifices as favoured by most sentients; Lokman as a divinity is an image formed entirely of delusion, though, diluted by his own deep rooted belief he is greater than his own beasts.

Because he stares in awe at the one before him; sees everything in the hues of the man – if he could be called such a thing, the frenzied ghoul that appears to be the reaper of offerings; such a beautiful thing that Katirci’s own false illusion of playing silent spectator falters and he steps out to meet the other; as if only to see his face close up, marvel in the features that are blessed with the sangria that peppers warm skin, melts down perfected features; a jaw that even belonging to something with ferocity; untamed in the actions of the blade he holds can only belong to something of primal nature. Would you take my hand if I wiped red from your face, if only to see deeper? A madman’s misconception, because he already sees it all.

And above that, the stranger sees him. A kind of outlandish stare that’s a myriad of perplexion and the hunger behind the man’s eyes; matches Locke’s own if only by a single shade, so he believes. There’s no shift of eyes to the knife in the other’s hand, knowing that Locke’s own is sheathed in the rear of trousers; a personal measure, opposed to that of protection. For a moment, both men are still, admiring each other and any third eye could assume a standoff, but it’s nothing of the kind; there’s only a drawn need to the grisly and Lokman’s lip ticks in one corner, not as a taunt, but as an unorthodox manner of greeting. It might have been as prominent as firing a bullet, the only shift that begins the shift of the two that’s evident past the two heaving chests that indicate they’re alive.

An abrupt clatter of tin resonates, tears the other’s gaze away, offers Lokman opportunity to disappear; create a new diversion in the beams of black that shape inconsistent waves between the pub’s alleyway. He’s become a ghost again; once more opportunist, stealthy in becoming absent to the other who’s own speed is admirable. But it’s never quite fast enough, he can see the momentary flicker where lowlights project amber street lights over the features of the stranger. It could easily be a dream manifested from hauntings; memories that plague Locke’s head from years prior. But it’s far too real, he can sense it like a false sixth sense that is all in his mind, the need to still capture a streak of red on his own fingertips if only to become closer to the man; so Lokman can be seen by him as Katirci plays witness to his misdeeds.

Then, like it never happened, the brief encounter of two monsters in the dark, the other begins hacking at the mutilated mass, unhinged and ignorant perhaps to any ghosts gracing him. It seems so pitiful to be disheartened, that Locke’s not accustomed anymore to feeling forgotten so swiftly in situations with such merciless intentions. The stranger’s got something better in the dead in front of him. A demon in the rear of Locke’s head, coaxing lies; truths? Into him like sweet pumps of that delicious poisonous venom he’s drowned in.

The briefest emotion, unrecognised – entirely unfamiliar; so fast to fleet from his body like a powerful force uses him as a conduit to another world for just a split second. More so that it’s such an old feeling, he’s forgotten what it’s like; rejection; being unknown once more to the person he’s spent perhaps hours staring at in the mists for the other man to only see him for seconds.

Unlike the stranger who’s hijacked his thoughts; all rationality – if there ever was any, Lokman does not forget such a moment and there’s no denying the bloodied face that he’s memorised isn’t the last painted picture he’ll leave with; a promise. He’ll be the ghost that haunts the man.

[u-jin]

PART I: Headcanons

           1 // It feels as if light, the very thing he bends and morphs, pulls away from him as he descends into the city like a plague, a wraith spreading and sinking into every foul piece of land and chunk of flesh he can tear at. Or perhaps, instead, he wills it away, the flashes in his direction revealing walls painted red, misery falling endlessly in his trail. He hides from his shame, protects himself while devouring others. This is not what he set out to do, but it’s what he has to in order to survive, the mental box he’s pushed himself into, the model son he was raised to be designed in bullets and knife wounds. Self care makes the mind kill it’s darlings, his favorite parts of humanity and empathy pushed underwater until they stopped gasping for air leaving only the parts of him that can survive, only the parts that can persevere -- and so his teeth are sharper, so his fingernails become weapons, his face never wet with tears but instead soaked in blood.

Why else would they call him a monster?

          2 // At night his muscles twitch and ache in sync with the pain in his chest, stood in his bathroom mirror with smudged glamour and horrid eyes – humanity, and disdain for his humanity. Who is this person in the reflection? Weak, and caked with dirt, hideous, with weighted skin under dull eyes that look pitifully vengeful? At night he stalks the streets and devours prey to avoid the man he shares his living space with, the one who glares at him through the framed glass in his bathroom, the sleepless beast that feels everything he ignores, drunk and full of nightmares, regurgitating all the buried demons so that he can work and spit and jeer and kill. The man who cowers under sheets and stares at blinking clocks is human, disgustingly so, and he rots and rots until he hunts again. He does not cry, but seethes, and then he pulls himself together, all intoxicated and wild, the character, the jester, the mercenary. He plants his hands on the cold porcelain edges of his sink, locks eyes with the reflection he sees, and laughs as if mad.           3 // Why create something beautiful just for the sake of making it monstrous? Innocence and childhood not even things of memory, only blood over blood over blood -- family is not something he covets, not anymore, not since he stopped wearing pull ups and claimed his first life. Not since he’s tasted blood. Now the memory of his parents is tinged sour, the idea of family nothing but another invisible chain around his neck, the weight suffocating, the subject too sore

 Most things are easy to bury, but the banging coming from the trunk sounds so much louder when you know who’s inside.

PART ii: Sample Paragraph: TW // gore, blood, mutilation (vague)

MILLIONS SQUARE was awash with neons and precious metals; silvers, blood, gold, filth, and decay lining the streets of the wealthy and the robbed -- the poor man’s gamble poured out onto sleek cobblestone with the clicking of expensive shoes or scabbed, barefoot soles. Then comes Ujin in poor taste; sharpened and faded nails adorned like small knives, loaded guns and all black clothes, but so damn pretty. He’s giddy with it, pupil’s thin like slits and iris’ melted red and savory. He comes hungering for a thrill, starving and ready to pick flesh from between his teeth. Who else can gamble in his place? Who can tear into holy wounds and sinner’s pockets more steadily then the executioner, more bloodthirsty than man? He’s made of one part desire and two parts insanity, a mere shadow of a person, indistinguishable; a patron saint of switchblade fights. Where he walks tendrils follow, where he hovers cities fall, men die, like Death himself with silver-dressed fingers and throat.

The cards are laid out on the table one by one and he watches with sly, sharpened eyes, wisps licking under the table, stretched like elongated shadows around the other patron’s feet. Do they see it yet? His poker face is that of a smile, always stationary and wide like the cat that caught the canary, teeth bright and shining luminescent, glowing in the dark. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose, because even missteps on his way to victory end with his hands and pockets full; it’s because he’s a cheater -- filthy and unstoppable, a liar for sport. His fingers roll chips back and forth, back and forth, eyes finding the other players, the sweat of their brows, the shifting of their pupils. The mounted lights feel brighter, burning hot as if center stage, their cards suddenly feel like a worse hand, or perhaps, a better one -- no... a trick of the light. 

Two folds and a flush, a look of indignation and he breaks out into laugh, deep and crackling in his core. He will continue to win until he grows bored, until fists fly and the casino breaks out in security, until batons are swung and blood spatters the floors and ceilings of such flashy poverty. He will continue to win until there’s no one left to play, until his pockets overflow with plastic coins that he doesn’t exchange for currency, clicking and jangling, sliding between fingers and clattering to the concrete. Ujin stuffs himself full on the feeling of victory, gorges on the other’s suffering and the widened eyes of desperate men starving for just a taste of what he holds in spades. For now he soaks in the gasps and the furrowed brows of lesser men, the feeling of a meal for their families or a safe ride home from this church of agony caught tight in his gluttonous grasp.

His hands slam onto the velvet of the poker table, body leaning heavily with a joker’s grin and a jester’s laugh, teeth sharpened and stained the color of bloomed roses he says, “Again.”

Then he’s walking the streets at night, his gun adorned on his pointer finger, spinning carelessly as he explores the furthest gutters with a name burning a hole in his pocket. Impetuous as he walks among the poisonous field of the city’s most vibrant flora, it’s most tempting and dangerous wildlife in the form of Renegades and rogues, all vying for the most useless of all things: survival.

Divinity is not something that welcomes them, the afterlife not promising the demons and devilmen any reprieve -- as if this hell on Earth could be any better, as if it could be worse. A Machivellian thief, a pessimist of a killer -- perhaps he’s doing them a mercy. A horrible thought. If he plagued himself with the idea that he was sending scattered filth to a quick and painless “better place” he isn’t sure he’d be able to bear picking up a gun again -- a knife, however…

His steps halt, head turned, curious. He hears shuffling in the depths of the alleyway, “Hiding?” He’s made of heat, of pumping blood and a slow simmering pot, a maelstrom devouring, destroying only for the sake of destruction. His spine is bent, hunched, as if he’s hiding as well, “I’m good at games.” It comes sharp and low, almost a dark playfulness buried in it. Black hair hangs long enough in front of his forehead that it shadows his eyes, the usual thinness of his pupils blown large as if euphoric. Power, what he coveted in spades, spilled forth from those full pockets as a man shakes and trembles behind mountains of trash. Familiar are the Greek Gods to what mercy looks like from a devil, what kindness means when received from a wooden horse, a face that appears both warm and friendly, handsome and charming, but cracks in two with the hunger of his posture, the shape of a spine that is not merely human, cracking open to something disgusting, something terrifying, falling out and bleeding onto itself -- it’s an illusion, of course, something of his design, a mutation created to be seen by only one person at a time.

                                        AND WHAT AN ILLUSION IT IS.

He makes himself something he is not, he makes himself an evolving mass, a thing of nightmares because no freedom from pain is quick, not from him. If he’s a monster then this city is hell, this city is what grows and breeds things like himself. He wants to see the man suffer, but as he grows more horrid still his vision goes dark, his trigger hand grows hungry, and just as he reaches his peak (fifty feet tall, open wounds cracking into voids of gore and featureless faces, he’s greeted with a scream of terror) he sees black and the sound of a bullet rings loudly.

For a moment, the world is bright, flashing near blinding behind his eyes and when it clears there’s nothing, the darkness too dense, his eyes not yet adjusted to the depth of this blackness. Luckily he doesn’t need light to see it, the image seared into the backs of his eyelids, the makeshift image of the empty sockets, the stickiness of a liquified brain seeping out of a cracked skull, pouring damp and harsh against the pavement. He makes his own gore, manifests the warm feeling of adrenaline. His hands don’t shake anymore, but his fingers clutch tighter to the gun, the cocked trigger and the feel of steel in his hands. He doesn’t linger long, the silence following the bullet broken only by a whistled tune, the first movement he makes the pursing of lips, eyes blindly staring down at what is surely a mangled body, before he turns, the gun slowly beginning to revolve around his pointer finger once again.

From the end of an alleyway, an onlooker sees the disappearing silhouette of what can only be a man; the only thing clearly visible is the embroidered symbol glowing bright red on the back of his jacket; a cat with it’s teeth sunk into the throat of a snake.

[dcmoncat]

“ Divinity is not something that welcomes them, the afterlife not promising the demons and devilmen any reprieve – as if this hell on Earth could be any better, as if it could be worse. A Machivellian thief, a pessimist of a killer – perhaps he’s doing them a mercy. ( A horrible thought. ) If he plagued himself with the idea that he was sending scattered filth to a quick and painless “better place” he isn’t sure he’d be able to bear picking up a gun again – a knife, however… “

[somesacredquestions]

Memento Mori, Philips Gijsels, 1650.

[megairea]

“I thought I had no heart. I find I have, and a heart doesn’t suit me,”

— Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan, 1893

[derangedrhythms]

Margaret Atwood, The Animals in That Country; from ‘Speeches for Dr Frankenstein’

[zsltkmrm]

Chelsea Wolfe Hiss Spun