The Black Dragon - Black Dragon R4 - Bad Omens[Toggle Names]
Description: With the assassination of the Mayor of Southtown being investigated by the NOL, Crock has been kept in holding as they grill him about his tattoos and his involvement in the murder. But when the ace interrogatrix Kazue is brought in, Crock finds himself wound around a familiar spool, by an unfamiliar face.
Crock expected abuse.
The brown-skinned punk knew what pigs did to red-mohawked men like him. When the NOL came to the SNF, when they saw the head of the mayor on the ground, he knew what would happen when they piled on him. He knew when he spat on them, he would be smacked around. And he would relish it. His studded face would be up in a sneer, the scars, the tattoos, the brands twisted up. The punk wanted their hate to wash over him like a sponge bath. He knew what he expected.
But it never came.
He was in the white interrogation chamber of the NOL detention center, strapped to a chair. The room's only color change was the outline of the white doorway, and the slate grey one way mirror right in front of him. He had an IV in, to keep him hydrated. They normally didn't do that, but they were very, very tired of being spat on. They already released the other man captured at the assassination, and handed over to local authorities. There was some low level distortions on him, but nothing out of the ordinary for a world class fighter. Besides, he checked out fine. The problem was this guy. He had some high level distortions; not atypical for a fighter... but the markings he had were concerning. The first was the shape of the L on his forehead. The second?
A snake tattoo, branded on his chest.
Normally, they would just question, and question, and question. But Crock wasn't cooperating. The officers securing him didn't want to get physical. They had no authority to be physical. They just wanted to get answers. ANd Crock wasn't giving any. That's why they needed a professional. They reached out internally, and they were approved of an interrogation specialist from the intelligence division. One of the very special specialists. The room had the means for privacy. The normally always had to record every interrogation. But not for specialists. Not for her.
But she was late.
Elsewhere in the facility, inside a restroom, a woman leans over a sink, finishing the last touches on a fresh coat of ruby red lipstick. She smacks her lips as she finishes applying it, turns her head to and fro, then puckers them up. Satisfied with the faces she's pulled, she twists the cap back onto her lipstick, tucks it into her jacket pocket, and walks out the door, the heels of her boots clicking as she goes.
A few minutes later, the door to the white interrogation room opens, and into the chamber comes Intelligence Specialist Kazue: a relatively fair woman, her height - already on the tall side - accentuated by the black heeled knee boots that she wears. She is distinguished by her uniform - customized, as is often the Organization's style - consisting of a flared skirt and cropped jacket, both in raven black rather than the more typical NOL blue. The jacket is worn over a tight-fitting white collared shirt, the collar and bottom leaving bare the belly button and a generous amount of cleavage.
She is also distinguished by her strikingly sapphire blue eyes and ruby red lips - contrasting sharply with her fair skin. She projects a certain calmness - a knife's-edge balance between serenity and frostiness.
It's of little wonder that, in the division of labour in NOL Intelligence, Kazue was assigned to Interrogation rather than Espionage.
The specialist steps up to the table at her leisure, placing both of her white-gloved hands on the surface and leaning forward over it to peer silently at Crock's face, studying it closely - eyes lingering particularly on the 'L' on his forehead.
Finally, after what is for some in the room an awkward pause, Kazue straightens and folds her arms across her chest, turning her head to one side, addressing the nearest of the rank-and-file with a glance of her blue eyes over her shoulder.
"Arigato. I'll take it from here."
Crock lifts his head, when she arrives.
That sneering, caustic contempt boils out almost immediately. They took his guitar. They took his clothing. And now, down to his soiled skivvies, he just had his nearly naked self. Crock himself looks over the new arrival. From the boots up to the top... to the woman's lipsticked face. He narrows his eyes, jaw tight. When she stares at him, he cackles, shaking his head.
"What the fuck is this."
He jerks around suddenly, the biometrics spiking from the surge of chi. Crock doesn't seem to notice it, as he lashes out erratically. "Come on, just beat the answers out of me. You -know- you want to. You all are the same. New World Order piggies, trying to get a grip on a planet, on the people. Doesn't matter what color your jackboots come in, or how new style it is. Here's my face!" Crock juts out his chin. "Stomp on it! You guys have no right to keep me! I have nothing to say! And you have no reason to keep me!" He leans forward slightly, narrowing his eyes at Kazue.
"So at least be honest, and get the abuse out of the way for your sake."
The air of authority with which their instruction was given elicits only a momentary hesitation from the personnel who have been hosting Crock thus far before they start to file out. The sudden spike of chi from Crock gives them pause as they're exiting - but it evokes no reaction from Kazue outside of a faint flutter of her long, straight black hair. As they stop up, she straightens up and tugs at the wrists of her gloves each in turn, producing a snapping sound. While she's doing so, she turns her head slightly and speaks again.
Without further protest or hesitation, they step out.
Kazue's blue eyes fall back on Crock.
"Looks like they don't think you're too much for me to handle," she remarks, the corner of her red lips turning up in a faint half-smirk, flexing her fingers within the white glove. It's clearly deliberate - intended to evoke the sense of a doctor preparing for an examination - or a surgeon getting ready to operate.
"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for all that, but first, let's review..."
The officer rests her gloved hands on the table again, leaning over it in a too-casual manner, the neckline of her top on full display. A stray lock dangles in front of her eyes.
"You're Richard Hensley, former guitarist for the band Sad Sack. You hate authority. You expect people to judge you, so you make a point of judging them first. You have... what did we call it?"
She pulls back her sleeve, glancing at the back of her arm as if she'd written her notes for the interrogation on it, then pushes it back.
"Distortions. Anomalous power fluctuations. And you like Chinese food."
Her eyes flit pointedly to Crock's at the last, seemingly innocuous and most irrelevant point, lingering for a moment, before she tips her chin at the punk rocker.
"Where did you get that tattoo?"
"I'm Crock, that's C-Rock."
He insists as a retort, almost rehersed. "And I'm way too much for them to handle. THey can't handle a guy like me, because you don't cage a man like me. You really like to learn about me, don't you? You wanna get a whole picture." He actually -doesn't- pick up on the CHinese food point. He seemed too hyped up for that, especially after she leans over. "The power's just my music. I play the guitar. And yeah, I like Chinese food." He looks up at his forehead, and glances down towards his chest. "And all you guys want to is about my tatts?"
He glances up again, nodding his head. "This one I got in an alleyway out back behind a Chinese Resteraunt." He sneers, leaning back at her. "Convinced some groupie to carve it out on me. Some ancient chinese symbol." He hacks a bit. Going to spit on her? "Why, are you interested in one? The snake one I got in the states; a parting gift after I left my band. I bet you're the kind of girl with a tattoo on your ankle. Maybe on your lower back. What's your name?" He coos, still writhing in his seat.
"I wanna know what it reads."
The agent looks down her nose at Crock - literally; the result of the slight backward tilt of her head. Her expression remains just on the edge of icy, but not quite. She seems to consider Crock's words in quiet contemplation for a moment... then, turning sideways, she swings her right leg up onto the table that Crock is sitting at, perching her rear on the corner of it. Perhaps intending to show off an ankle tattoo? At the moment, though, the foot is covered by the black heeled, lace-up battle-boot. Her hand rests casually on the table beside her.
"My name's Kazue," the interrogator introduces herself, her voice seeming to warm slightly. "And I think you'd be surprised."
There's a faint hint of a smirk and 'hmph' to accompany it.
"You should be careful what you get up to with groupies in alleys. You never know what you'll pick up from them."
Her head tilts a little, eyes narrowing and lips pressing together.
"Although I suppose I could say they don't know what they'll pick up from you."
She leans a little closer, her eyes on the 'ancient Chinese symbol' on Crock's forehead. "Doesn't it hurt?"
There was something wrong with the woman.
Crock didn't like the confidence. He expected confidence. But something felt -wrong-. The pressure, the presence. It felt familiar. Too familiar. The composure cracks around Crock a moment, as the pressure builds. He was writhing again. But it wasn't aggressive now. No, it was defensive. "Whatever." He growls back, averting his eyes. She asks again, looking at the L. Why does she keep looking at the L. The snake tattoo was more important. It was supposed to be more important. He didn't -want- to talk about it. Well, no, he didn't want to talk about anything. He just wanted to get away. Doesn't it hurt?
"No." He states defiantly.
He jerks his gaze back at Kazue, lips curled in a snarl. The smile was gone. "It hurts at first, but then you never feel anything. You like it? It means 'badass.'" He blathers on, like it wasn't really an L. "Oh, it might look a little infected. But that's from the shitty workmanship. But you know, groupies, tattoos." That smile forces back.
"You just take what you can get."
"Oh, well, then."
Kazue leans sidelong toward Crock, her hair spilling across her cheek and eye until she tilts her head to let it fall away. "Let me know if it does start to hurt, and we'll see what we can do about it."
The jet-haired agent smiles before leaning back and idly fumbling with the topmost button of her shirt, undoing it. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?"
It isn't. Or, it certainly wasn't. The air system keeps the interrogation center as cool as a tomb, and yet...
"This mark, though... I think it looks like an 'L.'"
Kazue reaches out with a single finger to try and tap it against the brand.
"I bet it wasn't a groupie at all. I bet it was a darkstalker. After all, isn't 'L' for... 'Lotus?'"
Crock was squirming.
He didn't like this interrogation anymore. He already was miffed that they weren't beating him. But now, this was getting a different kind of uncomfortable. If it starts to hurt. What did that mean? And she was adjusting her top... And when she strides over, Crock jerks side to side. It wasn't hot here at all. It was cool, especially when you didn't have anything but your underwear. So why was Crock sweating too? Especially when she taps her finger against that brand on his forehead. He was helpless. He couldn't escape. And trapped, true contempt and fear was beginning to crawl across his fast.
But she mentions Lotus.
"Lotus? The carrot top Darkstalker that killed the mayor?!" Crock didn't sound so cocky now. He was talking fast, anxious. "I had nothing to do with her." Finally, some actual answers from the punk. "I was part of the SNF, I had nothing to do with it, or the killing of the mayor. I had no reason to help her, I had no reason to hurt her. You can't hold me for being a bystander. I'm not a hero like tubby. I was there to h-h-have fun." A stammer? Crock didn't stammer. "I just wanted to fight, and be a jerk! I had more important things that killing the mayor." More important. That seemed to have steeled his resolve for a moment. He swallows hard, still under the finger of Kazue.
"Thats' all you needed to know, right?"
Kazue, it seems, is not pleased with Crock's answers.
It's obvious from the frown on her lips, forming them into a pout as the woman's head drifts slowly to the side as the punk speaks in rapid-fire. She leans back, and lifts her shoulders, chest swelling as she breathes in, then sighs melodramatically - and as she does, shoulders drooping again, the cropped jacket slides off of her shoulders.
"It really is getting warm, isn't it?"
Letting the jacket dangle from the fore and middle fingers of her right hand, she slides her hips off of the table and lets her boots drop to the floor. They carry her pacing in a slow, deliberate circuit of the room, the heels echoing in the chamber as she twirls the jacket idly.
"So, you're saying that you don't know the darkstalker who murdered the mayor? Couldn't give any clues as to where she might be now?"
The black-haired interrogatrix stops in front of the mirror, eyeing herself briefly in it. The sight seems to bring a smile to her lips; perhaps a bout of narcissism. Then, she reaches up to a protrusion above the mirror and hangs the jacket from it. If it is indeed a two-way mirror, the view from the other side is partially blocked, but not fully. Kazue shifts her weight onto her right hip as she turns to look sidelong at Crock.
"Why don't you tell me more about the other tattoo, then? The one with the snake."
"It's- are- they are-"
Crock was starting to blush now. He was breathing hard. He was intimidated now. He was expected a fight, not being batted around like a ball on a string. Every motion seemed to be swinging him. He needed to fight something. He had to start something. But the NOL had him strapped down. If he could fight, he could- he would. He could control it. But now, there was nothing he could do, but watch her every movement. He knew she was toying with him.
But it was -working-
"I can tell you where she won't be." Crock growls, trying to avert his eyes from the mirror. "She won't be in Southtown. Soon. She won't be." A strange... answer. And one that was too honest. "The snake tattoo? I got it from a club- a real tough place. A trash head gave it to me. It's nothing, just means I'm part of a gang now. A real tough gang." Which was a good answer. But not the one he gave earlier.
He was sweating really bad now, looking towards the jacket. He was writhing his thighs, his eyes bugging out. "The tattoos mess with my chi. I have earth chi. It's a connection to the planet, it's really- I have a gift with it, it helps me play music. That's why I had the guitar." He sounded scared now. "That's why they are- the power goes up and down with me. Okay? I'm not with the Darkstalkers. I'm not with the monsters. I'm just with me." The shit weasel act was wrung out now, that he was naked, alone, and under the thumb of authority. From true punk, to posuer.
"So come on, let me go okay?"
The Specialist's lips quirk up, her cool gaze shifting away from Crock for a moment as she seems to consider something silently. Then, she starts working the buttons of her dress shirt with her gloved fingers, undoing them one by one from top to bottom.
"It's funny, isn't it? How it keeps getting hotter in here whenever you contradict yourself? It must be... what's the word? Psychomatic?"
For Crock, it is getting hotter - like a fever, especially in the head. If it's psychosomatic, though, then why would Kazue be responding to it, as if it were affecting her, too?
Not that the heat does appear to be having a real effect on her - her clothes are perfectly sweat-free.
As is her now barely-clothed upper body.
The top peeled off, Kazue is down to a black bikini-style undergarment, seemingly designed for function. The shirt is hung up with the jacket, covering another section of mirror.
"Tell me more about the interference. What do you mean by that? Does it have something to do with the dragon?"
Side-stepping closer to Crock, Kazue stops in front of another section of mirror, her hands slipping down to the front of her skirt and starting to tussle with it the way that she had been with her shirt. She's certainly taking her time with it, though.
What was happening to his head.
The heat was unbearable, and was drilling into him, deeper and deeper. It was madness, and while Crock had the act of a lunatic, he didn't really have true madness. This was consuming him, devouring him. And the woman, the Kazue, she was stripping down more and more, as the barrage of questions hammer him down like a nail. He was melting away, his senses, his will. And all with the shape of a beautiful woman disrobing before him. It was funny. And it was under her finger. This wasn't right. The mirror was getting more and more covered. What was going to happen next? What about the interference. What about the dragon. Crock the answers why, and what. As best as he could.
But why should he cooperate?
"What the fuck is this?" He says, with stunned disbelief. "This can't be real. You have me strapped to some machine that's making me think I'm in some kind of deranged fantasy. I'm not falling for this. This isn't real, man. This isn't real. The heat's not real, the fire's not real. Reality is an illusion, the only true words is the words of g- g-" He swallows hard, keeping his gaze straight down into his lap. "I'm cracking up! You're cracking me up! There is no dragon! The dragon doesn't matter, or Jedah, or any of the NOL, or anything. In a few months, nothing is going to matter." He was shaking, drenched in sweat. But he wouldn't look at her. He wasn't brave enough. His senses were swirling. He needed to remember. He needed to remember. He couldn't crack.
And then, he begins to repeat out loud, his thoughts within.
"Find the people." He mumbles, as he thinks and thinks. "Harrass them, attack them. And make sure you leave an impact. Then move on. The world will end soon. But only those who you touch will be blessed for the coming awakening, where all will return to it's natural state." He sways back and forth, in his chair. "Everything will be back to normal. Humans are a parasite, a louse. The human germ will be extinct... And the world will be back to normal..."
This normally would be not what you wanted to say while in NOL custody.
Still, the heat rises.
As it does, Kazue turns her body to face the prisoner. As he starts to break down, to claim that it's all a fantasy, her ruby red lips curve into a slow smirk. And by the time that he starts to talk about the dragon, the skirt comes off, its buckles undone. Without turning her eyes away from Crock, Kazue hangs the skirt up on the mirror. It's practically blotted out, now. Though, one may wonder: why isn't anyone interrupting this? Is it standard NOL protocol?
She doesn't interrupt Crock as he starts to spill his brains out. She just steps forward slowly, now clad in only her boots and underwear. Clip, clop, clip, clop. Each glove is peeled off one at a time, dropped on the floor.
By the time that Crock says that the world will be back to normal, she's reached the table. She places her hands on it, leans over it again. And then, she goes further. She climbs up onto the table, on her hands and knees, her face leaning close to Crock's. The heat seems to be emanating from her, now. Her eyes are covered by her long black bangs, leaving only her smiling red lips in view.
"Oh, good. We're getting somewhere. Here, I thought I was going to have to really turn up the heat."
One hand props Kazue up as she reaches the other out to start to undo the straps holding Crock to the chair. It's almost feline, the way that she rests on top of the table and toys with Crock; like a cat slowly letting a mouse out of a trap.
"This blessing. How does it manifest? Lightning? Where does it come from?"
Her voice becomes more forceful, but she stlll isn't making eye contact again through the curtain of jet-black hair.
"Who do you serve?!"
It's not ice, anymore. Kazue isn't a being of ice.
"Who GAVE you those orders?!"
As the fever builds, Crock felt deeper and deeper in the bad dream.
His brand didn't burn, it just endured. It oozed and ebbed, the heat and madness coming like waves, again and again in his own brain. The dreamlike instance was transfixed in his lap. Why wasn't this being interrupted? Why was this working so hard. And now, the warm was coming somewhere else. From her. She's climbing across it, squirming like a night terror oozing across as he feels the warm wash over him. The straps are being undone. He feels like jelly, beyond weak. Broken?
This was broken.
"... Lightning..." Crock repeats back... "It's... within... hidden power." What did it mean. "Every man and woman and monster has a seed in their soul, a reflection of themselves, a shadow and shit. He said it was repressed desires, or sin, or something, the Trash Head Priest... He... he serves... I serve... I serve..." And suddenly, Crock locks up. He stares into the hair, stares into the bangs, as a light dawns on him. "... Lightning... Serve..." There is a wheezing cackle, a hiss more than a laugh. But his eyes all bugged out, makes the connection.
"... It's -you-"
The last strap comes undone; Kazue's hands start to raise up, running up to her face, about to part the curtains and show her face once again. Then, with the hint of recognition, she stops, going still for a breathless span somewhere between a moment and an eternity.
She draws in a breath, then sighs dramatically, shoulders sagging.
"Ugh... spoiler alert~"
Then she plants her hands on the table, swinging her legs forward and plopping her rear end down on the hard surface, her boots dangling either side of Crock. A flick of her neck sweeps her black mane away to spill down her back as she sits up straight. Red lips part to reveal a set of grinning white teeth, and her green eyes lock ravenously on Crock's face.
Another push of her hands and Kazue slides off of the table and onto Crock, toppling a chair not meant for two and bringing him down to the floor beneath her.
"It's such a shame. All that time working up to the big reveal, and I had to play one... card... too... many."
She walks her fingers up the punk's head as she says the last four words, and when she finishes, a pair of leathery purple wings burst from the black-haired woman's shoulder blades. A matching purple tail flicks out from behind her - in fact, it seems as though it may have been present, but hidden from Crock's view the whole time.
There's no question, now - the voice, the wings, the sweltering air of superiority. Crock may not know /how/, but he certainly knows /who/ he's dealing with. The predicament likely feels very familiar.
"They can't see us now, but sooner or later, somebody's going to wonder what's going on. Luckily, I've got most of what I want from you already, so we can keep the rest of this short and sweet."
The woman leans down, close enough for her hot breath able to be felt on Crock's ear as she whispers venomously into it.
"After I get you out of here, I'm going to find you again. And when I do, you're going to take me to your Priest."
Crock felt the dream shift into a nightmare, a harrowing, hollow nightmare. Screaming and whirling around him. It was the kind of chaos and anarchy he wanted. The raw, primal urges and passions, that was just short of straddling him in his mind. The reveal comes, and he finds himself in the clutches of that creature again. But it was something he knew. He didn't understand it. When he is released, he falls on all fours. A bow? Or a collapse. He doesn't have the strength or the will to make sense of either. For all his anger, he was only human. And yet, as he was stewing, swimming, burning, he gasps.
"You want to meet him..."
And that laughter comes out again. She wanted him to escape. And take her to him. "You don't know what you want. But you know what you need. You... you can't control it anymore, can you. He gave it to me." Crock touches on the scar on his chest, head lowered in prostrate. "And it won't stop, until you let him make it stop. "Okay, I'll let you let me go." Crock hisses, easing up into a stand. "But I can't take you to him. But..."
"You will meet him, when you find me again."
Slowly, Kazue eases up to her feet. Her hair is disheveled, spilling about her shoulders and face in untidy waterfalls. She reaches her left hand across to draw the drooping right strap of her bra up over her shoulder. As she does, the wings protruding from her shoulder blades seem to meld back into her skin, disappearing into her back.
"It's almost a shame, you know."
The voice is back to the one that belongs to Kazue; her mannerisms once again careful and deliberate, the heat draining back to an airy frostiness.
"Here, I went to all that trouble to keep my uniform pristine, and this turned out far less violent than either of us were hoping for."
As she turns around and starts to walk back toward the two-way-mirror-turned-clothing-rack, Kazue bends over to pick up each of the white gloves in turn, then pulls them on one at a time. That spaded, purple tail still sweeps the air behind her as she does.
"I should interrogate people more often, if it's always this easy."
Next, she pulls on the button-down shirt and slips into it, doing up the buttons one by one.
"And the uniforms here are really cute! I mean, a bit constrictive for my tastes, but still."
The skirt is buckled into place, the jacket shrugged back into.
Kazue turns her head, looking out the corner of her blue eyes at Crock.
"Oh, and I would apologize for this next bit, but instead, I'll say: 'This is for calling me a groupie.'"
There's a brief glint of green in Kazue's eyes, and suddenly, the heat from the brand on Crock's head rockets up from simmering to sizzling, denouement to agonizing crescendo. It's liable to put the punk rocker out of commission until it stops.
Kazue carefully checks herself out in the mirror, adjusting her top and smoothing her skirt and jacket, then presses a button on an intercom.
"This is Intelligence Specialist Bando Kazue. I need a medical team to collect a wounded prisoner from Priority Processing in Detention. ...No, take your time. It isn't urgent."
The word almost slips out of Crock. Why would she apologize? Everything was going exactly as Crock wanted. She even dressed herself back up again. Slowly. Carefully. Crock felt himself coming back together as she dresses up one on one, more and more. He didn't need to be intimidated now. He was free. He can't help but snarl a stab in her back. "Oh yeah. You wear fascist real-"
And he screams.
Howling, pure pain, absolute agony. He claws and he writhes, spasming on the ground. He tears out a piercing, hooked on his finger. And he squirms and jerks, howling, howling, howling. Until it stops. The pain doesn't. But his mind, shocked by the agony, still reeling from the pressure, was gone. He was trapped in the agony still. And would only be free when Lyraelle lets her.
Only the beginning in the price her would pay for his freedom.
What's to come for Crock is likely to be a blur of pain, voices, and passing ceiling lights.
It takes a strong dose of sedative before the incident comes under control. Consciousness will fade.
==*== SOME TIME LATER ==*==
Inside the staff restroom in the medical wing of the NOL base, a young, lightly tanned woman with powder blue hair finishes applying some peachy lip gloss, smacks her lips, then turns her head to and fro before puckering up. Satisfied, she slide the cap back onto the tube of lip gloss and deposits it in the pocket of her nurse's uniform shirt, adjusts the cap on her head, and pads quietly out of the room in her medical shoes.
When the door to the room opens, Crock will likely barely be conscious. There's a sound of rolling wheels.
"Hiya, Mister Hensley. It's me again. Just checking how that dose I gave you is working."
The nurse has a light Southern English middle-class accent. The name tag on the left breast of her overshirt reads 'Valentine.' She walks up to the bedside, taking a clipboard to jot some notes down as she takes readings from a machine next to Crock.
Finally, she writes 'Discharged - Dr. Akehart 7:30' at the bottom of the sheet and returns the clipboard to the foot of the bed.
"Alright, now. Let's get you some fresh air."
Soon, Crock finds himself in a wheelchair, being pushed along the corridors by the blue-haired nurse. It's busy, and passing faces look their way, but no one stops them.
Eventually, Crock finds himself outside, in an out-of-the-way spot behind a hedge near the base. Nurse Valentine is fishing in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. She takes one out, examines it between two fingers, crinkles her nose.
"Ugh. So gross. I don't know why anybody does this," a familiar, American-accented voice chirps.
She tosses what's left of the pack onto Crock's lap, then starts to wander away toward an alley next to the NOL base, stopping to look over her shoulder.
"Well, then, I suppose I'll be going on smoke break forever, now. Take care of yourself, Mister Hensley."
The Londoner accent is back.
And then, the nurse is sashaying away, a disappearing vision in a white skirt.
It was a miserable time for Crock.
He didn't even register the person, the role. Just shapes, and sounds. Pressure. Lifting. His head still burned. Everything burned. Fresh air. Even the fresh air burned. He felt like the bad end of a match. Even when it didn't hurt, the memory of the pain rattled in his cage. The only thing he clung too, in his haze, was hatred. Hatred for the woman. The thing. The demoness. Hatred, hatred, hatred.
Something falls in his lap.
He hated his lap too. He was in a wheelchair, wasn't he? Slowly, jaw slack, he looks around. It was like moving underwater. The accent. The nurse. -Her-. Everything her. His lips slowly twist into a sneer of hatred. He was going to be suffering for this worse. She would be finding him. And when she did... she would be dealing with -him-. When she slips out, having been graciously rescued, he only has two words, as slowly, so slowly, he slips from the wheelchair.
Log created on 14:21:43 06/23/2020 by Crock, and last modified on 16:31:57 06/26/2020.