poly_chromatic | 066 x 660 // video/action // Friday

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oc - carla morir

066 x 660 // video/action // Friday

[ It isn't the first time she's appeared on the network bloody, but never quite so much before. Her clothing is soaked, it is beginning to go tacky in her hair. It is smeared all across her face. Carla Morir has looked crazed on the network before as well, but never quite like this either. The pupils in her brown eyes are blown, huge and black and thoughtless. She's breathing heavily, blood hissing wetly from her teeth and lips with the force of it, her chest heaving.

She has something clutched in her hands, indefinable but bloody and wet like the rest of this scene. She stares down at the camera on the ground for a long, furious, moment and then as if something breaks, she drops down to her knees screaming and begins to smash the device with a fist; which rends without care against concrete and broken plastic.

As the device loses functionality, her screaming crackles electronically and breaks and then is finally gone. ]

[[ooc; she ate her not!boyfriend, she be cray. I figure she's going to flip her shit for a bit and then pass the fuck out. If you want to catch up with her at the 'family' estate you're welcome to do that. Or deal with her cray first hand. Whatever makes it float.

Forward dated a bit because I don't tend to tag a lot on weekends and know I'm going out Friday night.]]

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[A bit dramatic, to be sure.

But there were times when drama was called for. It worked. It served. But aesthetic reflections could wait, despite the overt drama in this little scene.

Anyway, he didn't want to go scrambling up to see what she'd got herself into now, like some ant rushing a piece of offal, commonplace rubbernecking. Blood always called onlookers. Even the chance of blood called onlookers. Perpetual truths. And flesh in the flesh, and unmistakably, well... (The view down from the rooftop of a hotel in the desert flashed in his mind.)

So, after a little while, snug in feathers and talons, he took a little flight up to the old temporary house (once theirs all three, now presumably hers alone, and no matter).

A perch on a railing, a bright eye to examine the scene as it lay now. A better lay of the metaphorical land and he'd drop the feathered disguise.]

[ She's quieted. There are blood-stained clothes left in a pile at the edge of the living room. She is clean now, long hair a damp mess over her ears. She had come here for the privacy afforded by the woods that surrounded the house, for the beautiful view over the treetops on the upper balconies.

It's quiet here.

It needs to be quiet now. The Reanimates endless rage is bubbling so close to the surface, and all it wants is to eat. It's difficult to push it down, like her heart is trying to scrabble out of her chest. She had said so many times that she should have eaten Barbet, but there had always been so many reasons why she hadn't.

Love. Love. Love.

She makes a quiet groaning noise, curling up in a chair, face in her knees and her fingernails digging at the back of her neck.]

[He takes off his disguise of feathers and, tap tap tap, lets himself in through the glass door (locks? what are those?).

He pauses, waiting, hoping she notices... And then bows--gracefully, but not excessively, no flourishes here. No, only the necessary low bow that the court wizard was obliged to give to the lords and ladies of the land. You know. Back in the day (his day, but the day). So he bows.]

Is mademoiselle indisposed or is she well enough to receive callers?

[She remembers the sound of his feet on the wood, the staid followup of the little girl they'd lived here with for a weekend. She doesn't know why she came back here and hid, she's migrated from home to home in the City, never quite satisfied and always looking for somewhere that she can't be found for a little while. What she feared was abandonment and disgust, so she was always swift to put the barriers up first, to exclude the chance for chastisement, worse concern. She knows he isn't concerned for her, however.

Her dark eyes peer out over her knees. Even curled in the chair the way she is, she has no ability to look like a child. Her long pale legs peek out from beneath the t-shirt she'd slid into after showering, and they bear burn scars, blooms of flame from hip to foot. The snake tattoo on one leg hides some, the scarification on the other hides a few more. Or perhaps merely brings them together into one large wound, greater for the sum of its hideous parts.

Curled in the chair she looks like a bedraggled animal, weary and too old for her bones and still feeling the pull to just let go. She could stop feeling all of this if she just let the anger grow once more. It would keep her safe, aloof from all concerns. But what a stupid thing she would be then, insensate and unthinking. Disgraceful.]

I'm well enough for you.

[No concern, no advice, no disapproval.]

[No, he is not concerned. Nor does he particularly care. But he wants things. And, if one gives him what he wants, he'll go away.]

Clicky clocky bootheels cross the wooden floor to her.]

Yes, well... How flattering.

[He hunkers beside her chair.]

Quite a bit of blood there before, if I may say so. I guess it was another needful thing.

[Her eyes flick up, looking at him directly. Her expression leaves no question as to where her mind wanders.]

I have my piece of him now.

[Her voice is flat, eerily so.]

Have you? And what piece is that, may I ask?

[Anatomically, not metaphorically.]

[Her lip curls, snide.]

There isn't much left.

[So it would be easier to ask what she didn't eat.]

Edited 2013-09-15 02:09 (UTC)

[A wry half-smile.]

That answers that, I suppose.

And it looked as though you brought a bit back for later too.

And I wasn't finished.

Of course.

The City seems inclined to interrupt these things.

I was going to kill myself.

[Her head falls back, eyes closing. She was finally going to have her satisfaction. She would kill Barbet and (with her heart broken and weeping) she would finish herself, she would have her revenge and then her rest.

It's a bitter disappointment to be dragged back here again, away from the arms of Death.]

Yeah, I think I've heard that before. Somewhere.

But, hey, like I said: the City likes interrupting stuff. And you can't really do it here. You'll just keep coming back and coming back and coming back. Unless maybe that becomes your "thing."

[She laughs miserably.]

Fuck you.

[And he laughs brightly and loudly, head thrown back, downright amused.]

[She just lets the sounds echo for a moment, silent except for her long, slow breathing; precisely controlled. After a moment however, she leans towards him, sagging closer like the broken doll she is.]

What are you going to do, while I'm doing my 'thing.'

[And he touches the tip of her nose.]

I don't know, do you have a thing for having someone watch?

Yes.

[ She didn't want to be forgotten. ]

Then I'll watch.

[ It's rarely concern that stirs Hei, where Carla's concerned. Only an offhand kind of curiosity. He watches her from a distance -- drenched in blood as if her pores are perspiring it, her keening more like rusty nails than knives tearing the air. The scene is familiar, but it weaves no predictable picture-sequence in Hei's memory. No sweltering jungle at night, no sea of blood around the thighs of a fourteen-year-old girl. No floating bodies around her, all with staring eyes, illuminated by false stars. ]

[ These are the thrashings of a sad, dangerous animal -- trapped in the ugly world under her skin. ]

[ He doesn't try to touch her. Dark shirt, jeans, faded green hoodie, he stays just beyond her circle of wildness. A figure just in the fringes of her vision, the space empty one moment and silently filled in the next. He's interested in how long it'll take until she's wrung out, until her flailing thoughts have hardened into speech again. Until then, it's a waste of effort to try and question her. ]

[She can't smell him beyond the permeation of blood, but he's also not the only one staring, some backing up, others running, others frozen when hands over their mouths. She should rip them apart, and she can feel it inside of her. Tar and filth drips from her mind--(broken, corrupted, traitorous)--into her starving belly and rage foams there, ready to come up.

Her screaming has been powerful, a beast incensed, but she gives one brief despairing wail as she fights back the urge to run at the crowd--(and see how high the bodies would go.) Despite having long smashed the device, she raises her fist again and again in a futile search for satisfaction--(Crack. Snap. Crack.)

She keeps her head and eyes down, curtained off from everything but the bloody fist-prints on the concrete, violence deteriorating into a slumped figure shivering on the ground. The storm is not yet dead, but it weakens.]

[ The bystanders aren't Hei's primary focus. He registers their murmurs as a dim susurrus. But with Carla's every movement, her pummeling fists, he edges closer. There's a slow ratchet in his senses, so he's aware of anyone within a seventy-five yard radius, and that the blood is bright, bright red and smells of rust. She screeches like a wild thing caught in a trap, and he waits until each drag of air cuts through her vibrating field of violence. He won't tell her useless things like, Breathe, get grounded, reestablish the present. He knows breakdowns too well for what they are. Even without the notes he's collected on Carla, filed away in his neural cabinets, Hei has spent years working with disasters -- emotional, political, tactical. Sometimes he was the spectator. Other times, the catalyst. ]

[ It's been ages since he's felt what Carla has -- that sense of shattering. But that feeling of destructive rage, of being damaged and wanting to damage in turn. That -- is familiar. More than. ]

[ When the tantrum subsides, he regards her carefully. Blood-smeared and jittery -- as pitiful as she is repulsive. More than anything else she has the air of a diseased pet who has long since succumbed to desolation; an obsolete pet that is given food, water, and even the occasional scrap of attention, but has no use for living at all. ]

[ His voice is low and flat, pitched to her ears alone, ] Should I tie you down? [ It'd be messy as shit, if she attacked someone. ]

[She rocks back into a slow crouch, coiled tight. She snarls at him, teeth snapping, blood flying from her lips. But her jaw tightens then, a grimace of humiliation, it doesn't last long, anger is quick to follow.]

[Her expression is a challenge: try it. Words, however, seem beyond her.]

[ The way she snaps her teeth would make most people's hair stand on end. ]

[ Then again, Hei isn't most people. He regards her for a long moment, red layered on red, a puddle of seething rage and tangled limbs. Her face reminds him of a swollen lump of meat, slimy with blood and saliva. But right now, that's all she is. Meat and more; no human intelligence in the eyes. A well-known sight, in its own way. The messy marvel of being human animals, with the audacity to style themselves as gods. ]

[ After a beat, he draws closer. The crowd of spectators is thinning around Carla -- skittish, sensing danger. He doesn't have to worry about blowing his cover. (Then again, pretense isn't much of a priority for Hei, these days). By stepping into her sphere, he isn't rising to her challenge. There are no waving red flags. No taunts flung at the rampaging bull. Hei functions on efficiency, not rashness. His sole interest is to give her something to lash out at -- or try to. ]

[ Tire her out. ]

[ She doesn't pause to think about it, to gauge his stance. It is not provocative, but he had ignored her warning. That was all it took. If she could take him down he would be hers. ]

[ She lunges with none of Carla's coordination, easy to dodge, but her fury to reach him makes her quick to pivot and dive after him again. ]

[ This isn't like sparring practice. ]

[ Carla's usual grace, her strength, the canny way she anticipates an opponent's moves, crosses his signals, tries to screw him up -- it's all absent. She's a snarling wildcat right now, raining down on him a staggering rage. But Hei is ready for her. Knows what will be coming. He doesn't get his licks in hard and early. But he doesn't spare her, either. His movements are all precision and under-the-surface tension, nothing showy about the way he pitches his weight on his heels, flowing in inverse with Carla's lunges, evading her attacks. ]

[ When he does strike out, at last, it's a blurred movement. Almost imperceptible -- although Carla will certainly feel and hear it -- the eruption of pain against the nerve-cluster at her shoulder joint, the unmistakable sound of fist on flesh. He doesn't enjoy delivering it, particularly -- no more than he enjoys the whole tedious situation. He could put Carla down any time, but he takes her blows and craziness and feral-faced snarls with a grim deadpan that conceals an underlying patience. No one who knows Hei, apart from Pai, maybe, will spot it, but this is mostly for Carla's own good. It's like tiring out an overstymied cat. ]

[ When Hei decides he's through indulging Carla, they'll be done. Meanwhile, the agonizing blow will give her something else to focus on. ]

[ When he first approached her, she recognized him. Not by scent, but by shape and by aura although she would never claim to believe in such a thing. He assuredly had one, however, something heavy and dark and cold that bit at the skin like lightning.]

[The recognition has faded now, all of her attention focused on tearing this thing in front of her to shreds. It had stepped over the line, had invited this upon itself and it was a Reanimates way to dominate, to exhibit power, to stand at the top of the food-chain above all else. Her kind--(the docile slaves)--carried a constant curl of outrage in their stomachs, rage boiling in the back of their thoughts.]

[But they were kept so hungry, and their hunger kept them so weak.]

[She isn't weak. Always hungry, but there is fresh blood in her mouth and she will feed her monstrous dynamo, she will never let the fire go out again.]

[It would be foolish to call these her thoughts, only the imperative that drives her to snap and claw and scream, but Hei knows his work. The blows he delivers do no hurt her--(the rage turns such receptors off)--but the fatigue sinks in, weakened by each shot. She is not truly a Reanimate any long. Not a human either. An ugly in-between thing that fits nowhere except the jagged edges where things are lost and left behind.]

[Eventually, she stumbles, grating her hands against the concrete, leaving another smear of red. It breaks her frantic momentum, and she remains down, breathing heavily, and suddenly completely inattentive to her prey.]

[ An in-between. Hei won't say it, but he knows what that's like. In thoughtful moments -- of which there are several -- it makes the world grow too blurry. Makes him feel like he's caught in a maw staled by time, reeking of the awful things that exist to be caught between life's teeth. It's a strange place -- one of exile, sometimes of bitterness, other times regret, but ultimately of loneliness. Not human, but not Contractor, either. However, it isn't Hei's primary focus. Belonging, in any sense, is no longer familiar to him. In many ways, it is no longer possible. ]

[ It's smarter to merge the best of both worlds with the worst. Stay centered. That keeps you alive. Self-indulgent vacillation does not. ]

[ Right now, Huang would refer to what Hei's doing as Damage Control. In spite of Carla's escalating levels of violence -- the dark eyes blazing with fury and her movements an eruption of brute force that edges on lunacy -- he stays largely tolerant. A predator's tolerance that draws blood, leaves bruises, but maybe isn't all that different from the Reanimate variety. He waits until she's buffeted herself into exhaustion by her own ferocity. Playing his waiting game, his eyes suggesting that he's just turned himself off to wait for the moment when he'll have to engage in the universe again. ]

[ When she stumbles, he studies the unspectacular smear of blood, lightly garnished with grit, glistening on the concrete. Red in the dips of Carla's knuckles, red on her hair and skin. The sound of her labored breathing is like a signal, tugging hooks into his reflexes. Now. It takes him seconds to reach her. A bright tendril of electricity whips from his palm, lighting everything with a tungsten clarity. Not a lethal voltage. But Carla will feel her heart hammer erratically, her elbows locking and her skin going clammy. The paralysis will leave her body heavy, and somehow amorphous, as if she has more than one trunk and four limbs, as if she's something else altogether, a jellyfish quivering in the sand. ]

[She makes a garbled noise as the shock hits her, eyes rolling back for a moment, and she goes still, eyes blank and mouth open. It is a very strange sensation, it reminds her of when Isaac had injected her in the neck and dragged her back to Barbet to die.]

[Being taken up by the memory keeps her silent and distracted, not that she was going anywhere in the first place.]

[It had been cold, snowing. She remembers the shape of her footprints in the snow. She remembers how quickly Isaac had come out of the shadows, furious and powerful. A pinch to the neck, going down in the concrete, being wrapped up and dragged at a breakneck pace.]

[Isaac's little poison hadn't lasted very long, by the time he dumped her onto the floor of the warehouse she had been getting her bearings, starting to move and beginning to mock him. He'd hurt her until she was too dizzy to stand, but her mocking never stopped.]

[Even with Barbet in the doorway and the gun on her forehead: Do it. Do it. Do it.]

[ Do it. ]

[ The thought -- factual, emotionless -- flits through his mind. He could do it. A stronger voltage. A set of fingertips to a nerve-cluster. A palm-heel strike to the throat. Easy as easy, and mess-free. No sensible person can hope to save this creature Carla is, this half-crushed, half-crazed demon of pure instinct. It's cleaner to put her down. ]

[ But it isn't Hei's prerogative to judge or damn. Carla's not a target; he'll receive no compensation for his troubles. All he feels is a vague and distant revulsion for her -- with all the wretchedness which constitutes humanity, and with himself, both for getting involved and, conversely, for thinking it petty and mildly disgusting when surely one should try to find these things poignant -- for one's sanity, if not one's morality. (Has he lost both? Maybe.) The City holds nothing for him. No profound puzzles, merely fear and force. It's a collection of strange and isolated people bound together and balanced by fears which pull them in opposing directions. ]

[ What a waste. ]

[ He approaches Carla, the focus slipping away from his gaze, and leaving him looking strange, tired, older. Just as fast, it settles into a calm neutrality. Kneeling, he reaches down and brushes the hair off her red-smudged face. Strands of it are caught in the drying streaks of blood; he picks them away with a precise, almost scientific delicacy. But it's not to soothe her. It's to examine her closer, to check for an erratic pulse or uneven pupils. Satisfied, he scoops her up, then rises -- one arm encircling her shoulders, the other under her dangling legs. He could take her to a hospital, but he's in no mood to answer questions or fill out paperwork. ]

[ Better to deposit her at her home. ]

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066 x 660 // video/action // Friday

[ Later, at the family estate ]

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//suicidal stuff

//cautions to readers from this point forward

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[ Action/CrayCray? ]

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