Post by Raron on Aug 31, 2010 21:11:01 GMT -5
That wet strong copper scent, that bright color, that fluid texture... so integrated with his being, so familiar he couldn't even remember life without it. It was so soaked in his skin that even through no one could see it he knew it would never wash out... he wondered sometimes. He wondered how many had fallen by his hands, how many had died merely by being in his way at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was not counting the targets, those that had attacked him for his bounty... he still remembered every mission he had taken back when he was still just a mask, back when he was a gray. He remembered it when he shut his eyes, when he laid down his head. He remembered their faces, their screams, their tears.
He idly looked at the sword in his hand as it perched upon it's pommel, as it spun on the back of his hand. He watched the spinning steel as it reflected the walls, the ceiling, the red surrounding him, on him, soaked into him. He gazed enraptured by the simplicity of the object in his hand, a simple creation designed for one purpose, made and manufactured to fulfill one need to kill again and again. Despite the engravings, despite the pretty little carvings upon guard and blade, upon hilt and pommel it was without a doubt a killing edge. The work of a master... a killing edge... made by a single smith... He could identify despite the fact it had taken a team of experts to make him. He looked at it and wondered if it remember the tears, the screams, the begging.
He wondered if it felt bad about them... or like him there was a void where the guilt should be, a empty hole that the bad feelings fell down and vanished as soon as they appeared. He understood guilt brought on by taking a life, he could sympathize, he could even pretend he had it, but he never felt it. Not more then a moment, not more then once. It fell down that hole and without a trace it left his life. So many emotions went that way, regret, sorrow, guilt, depression. They all came and went... mostly what they left was either a soothing calm, a primal joy, or a horrible rage. He wasn't sure which he preferred to feel.
Each had their attraction. The calm was like a lake of molten steel. Flat, unmoving, but ready to move. No need to rush, no need to scream. He could think, move, operate without worry of emotions clouding his judgment. The Joy... that was nice to. The rush of motion, the surging of passion, the blatant thrill of motion bringing on the lack of motion to another again and again and again. It never got old really... and finally was the horrible rage. It was rare, he almost never felt it, was almost never touched by it despite he could feel so much bubbling within him down deep within him, down even farther then the void was this heat. It boiled and screamed and shouted and demanded action but most of the time he just didn't experience it... but every once in a while it burned up to the surface, a crack, a word, a action at the right time and place at it appeared, so horrible so wonderful. He could feel the heat ignite his entire being, could feel the fire consume his limbs and those around his limbs. Could feel the pain but it just fed the heat. The world went red and cold, black and hot, the lights got darker and the shadows got oh so very bright.
He laughed his hollow laugh. Who needed drugs when you could feel like this, could experience the world in such a simple way... truth be told he almost wished he could thank those responsible for who he was.... no that was wrong, who was for people. He was not a people, he had not been one of them in a long time. He was a what like every other monster. Oh he had no delusions about that, about what his status in the world was. He was somewhere between the Boogieman and that old hat Jack the Ripper... only so much worse. But yes he wished he could thank them sometimes... but rarely after he met one was there enough left of them to thank, and thanking the pieces just seemed... odd...odd even for him. He tried to make it quick, tried to give them no time to feel what was happening... of course sometimes there was an exception, like the guy who rearranged his nervous system.
His smile faltered a moment. The needles, the wires, the electricity... there had been no reason for that. No one should have done that. He would admit that maybe he had been rash, that maybe that he had over reacted when he found himself in his presence, when he had felt the wait of the knives in his hands, when he had smelled the fear and sweat, the man had reeked of it... that and that garlic smell... that smell he could remember over him as the pain assaulted him over and over again. The rage had come... but it had not been quick like usual... it had been smoldering rather then fiery, cruel instead of swift.... granted he did not regret he did... he was not sure he was able to.
He looked over to the sword and watched his hand slap it into a spin once more, it had been a shame that this wonderful blade had been locked in a box, unable to touch, to smell, to see the world... it had been criminal... speaking of he heard it, the sound he had been waiting on. The card clicked in the lock, the beep of acceptance, the creaking of the open door.
"Hey guys I am...."
He did not turn at first, just continued his study of the light on the blade, but after waiting and hearing some bags hit the floor he slowly turned his head, his mouth curled into a savage grin, his hands soaked in blood continuing to keep the blade spinning for a moment before slapping the pommel up into the air and with the same hand lifting up and snagging it by it's handle from the air. He looked briefly at the blood staining the weapon now and the looked in his prey's eye. He saw the scene reflected in her emerald green eyes, not hard with how dilated they were in fear. He saw the pile of bodies, friends of hers, torturers to him, slumped in various positions on the floor, pieces strewn about like toys in a child's playpen, pools of blood coating the once pristine white carpet, the smashed furniture and blood edged cuts deep in the walls, the broken window behind him, and he himself. He was seated on her desk amongst her friends, his blood soaked cloths dripping to the floor beneath him, his feet up on the table in a pose of per relaxation.
"Hey there doc, don't worry the party started without you but there was no way I would leave with seeing the guest of honor... don't worry."
He stood in one fluid motion, his feet squishing in the pools noisily. As he walked forward step by step the sword's tip traced patterns in the air as if it was conducting what was to come to some wonderful music, it seemed to move of it's own volition within his hand as he advanced toward the woman frozen by fear, he limbs shook and a spreading wetness spread from the crotch of her expensive pants. Yellow liquid streamed down her ankles and pooled at her feet. He looked joyfully at her knowing how memorable her last moments would be. He remembered her so well... in fact he could remember what they had told him time and time again... the difference between him and them is their might be a bit of truth when he said it... not that he would know...
"This won't hurt a bit."
He said, his voice a mocking song and the sword moved one final time... he was so very merciful today... so very.
He idly looked at the sword in his hand as it perched upon it's pommel, as it spun on the back of his hand. He watched the spinning steel as it reflected the walls, the ceiling, the red surrounding him, on him, soaked into him. He gazed enraptured by the simplicity of the object in his hand, a simple creation designed for one purpose, made and manufactured to fulfill one need to kill again and again. Despite the engravings, despite the pretty little carvings upon guard and blade, upon hilt and pommel it was without a doubt a killing edge. The work of a master... a killing edge... made by a single smith... He could identify despite the fact it had taken a team of experts to make him. He looked at it and wondered if it remember the tears, the screams, the begging.
He wondered if it felt bad about them... or like him there was a void where the guilt should be, a empty hole that the bad feelings fell down and vanished as soon as they appeared. He understood guilt brought on by taking a life, he could sympathize, he could even pretend he had it, but he never felt it. Not more then a moment, not more then once. It fell down that hole and without a trace it left his life. So many emotions went that way, regret, sorrow, guilt, depression. They all came and went... mostly what they left was either a soothing calm, a primal joy, or a horrible rage. He wasn't sure which he preferred to feel.
Each had their attraction. The calm was like a lake of molten steel. Flat, unmoving, but ready to move. No need to rush, no need to scream. He could think, move, operate without worry of emotions clouding his judgment. The Joy... that was nice to. The rush of motion, the surging of passion, the blatant thrill of motion bringing on the lack of motion to another again and again and again. It never got old really... and finally was the horrible rage. It was rare, he almost never felt it, was almost never touched by it despite he could feel so much bubbling within him down deep within him, down even farther then the void was this heat. It boiled and screamed and shouted and demanded action but most of the time he just didn't experience it... but every once in a while it burned up to the surface, a crack, a word, a action at the right time and place at it appeared, so horrible so wonderful. He could feel the heat ignite his entire being, could feel the fire consume his limbs and those around his limbs. Could feel the pain but it just fed the heat. The world went red and cold, black and hot, the lights got darker and the shadows got oh so very bright.
He laughed his hollow laugh. Who needed drugs when you could feel like this, could experience the world in such a simple way... truth be told he almost wished he could thank those responsible for who he was.... no that was wrong, who was for people. He was not a people, he had not been one of them in a long time. He was a what like every other monster. Oh he had no delusions about that, about what his status in the world was. He was somewhere between the Boogieman and that old hat Jack the Ripper... only so much worse. But yes he wished he could thank them sometimes... but rarely after he met one was there enough left of them to thank, and thanking the pieces just seemed... odd...odd even for him. He tried to make it quick, tried to give them no time to feel what was happening... of course sometimes there was an exception, like the guy who rearranged his nervous system.
His smile faltered a moment. The needles, the wires, the electricity... there had been no reason for that. No one should have done that. He would admit that maybe he had been rash, that maybe that he had over reacted when he found himself in his presence, when he had felt the wait of the knives in his hands, when he had smelled the fear and sweat, the man had reeked of it... that and that garlic smell... that smell he could remember over him as the pain assaulted him over and over again. The rage had come... but it had not been quick like usual... it had been smoldering rather then fiery, cruel instead of swift.... granted he did not regret he did... he was not sure he was able to.
He looked over to the sword and watched his hand slap it into a spin once more, it had been a shame that this wonderful blade had been locked in a box, unable to touch, to smell, to see the world... it had been criminal... speaking of he heard it, the sound he had been waiting on. The card clicked in the lock, the beep of acceptance, the creaking of the open door.
"Hey guys I am...."
He did not turn at first, just continued his study of the light on the blade, but after waiting and hearing some bags hit the floor he slowly turned his head, his mouth curled into a savage grin, his hands soaked in blood continuing to keep the blade spinning for a moment before slapping the pommel up into the air and with the same hand lifting up and snagging it by it's handle from the air. He looked briefly at the blood staining the weapon now and the looked in his prey's eye. He saw the scene reflected in her emerald green eyes, not hard with how dilated they were in fear. He saw the pile of bodies, friends of hers, torturers to him, slumped in various positions on the floor, pieces strewn about like toys in a child's playpen, pools of blood coating the once pristine white carpet, the smashed furniture and blood edged cuts deep in the walls, the broken window behind him, and he himself. He was seated on her desk amongst her friends, his blood soaked cloths dripping to the floor beneath him, his feet up on the table in a pose of per relaxation.
"Hey there doc, don't worry the party started without you but there was no way I would leave with seeing the guest of honor... don't worry."
He stood in one fluid motion, his feet squishing in the pools noisily. As he walked forward step by step the sword's tip traced patterns in the air as if it was conducting what was to come to some wonderful music, it seemed to move of it's own volition within his hand as he advanced toward the woman frozen by fear, he limbs shook and a spreading wetness spread from the crotch of her expensive pants. Yellow liquid streamed down her ankles and pooled at her feet. He looked joyfully at her knowing how memorable her last moments would be. He remembered her so well... in fact he could remember what they had told him time and time again... the difference between him and them is their might be a bit of truth when he said it... not that he would know...
"This won't hurt a bit."
He said, his voice a mocking song and the sword moved one final time... he was so very merciful today... so very.