Closed RP Lead-In
- Thread starter Reyn
- Start date
This RP is currently closed.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid smelled him, before he saw him.
So far the patrol had been pretty routine. Mostly just hopping from rooftop to rooftop and looking for bad guys. With the Jackals otherwise occupied, and Connor left to the last target he’d actively tried to pick up, he’d decided to go with the classics. Hey, if it worked for Batman, it could work for him.
Although his intentions were a little more violent than Batman’s. After his moment with Sam – well. He’d healed mostly while she’d been curled up in his lap. Days later, she still apologized, even when his scars were gone and instead his bones seemed more pronounced. Her eyes had still been worried, still apologized. As, when she wasn’t looking, he let himself tremble with the cold left over. Tonight, he was hunting. Only food would fix this, and maybe she’d stop worrying.
The scent was thick. Heavy. Blood and infection. Sick prey.
He’d been able to smell it for a while now, and he’d dropped to the ground a few blocks back to investigate. At first he’d followed the scent on instinct, but as he came closer, the person in him started to put together what it meant. Someone was injured, badly, and had been for a while. He had already pushed his instincts aside in preparation for whatever he was going to come across. The blood was fresh enough that they were still alive, the infection a good sign only because it wasn’t mixed with decay.
There – that man. The trail led to the person down the next alley. The guy who started walking toward him when he saw Cryptid. Todd drew himself up to full height, watched him come, looking for inconsistencies in movement as he called out to him.
“Hey, Mister, you doing okay?” The voice was human, tinged with a gruff edge. No threat, no need to scare the guy. One of his shoulders looked off in the dim light, or maybe his shirt was just clinging to his body funny. Could be where the injury was. Cryptid stayed put and let the guy come to him. Again, no reason to scare him off when he was clearly already in bad shape.
So far the patrol had been pretty routine. Mostly just hopping from rooftop to rooftop and looking for bad guys. With the Jackals otherwise occupied, and Connor left to the last target he’d actively tried to pick up, he’d decided to go with the classics. Hey, if it worked for Batman, it could work for him.
Although his intentions were a little more violent than Batman’s. After his moment with Sam – well. He’d healed mostly while she’d been curled up in his lap. Days later, she still apologized, even when his scars were gone and instead his bones seemed more pronounced. Her eyes had still been worried, still apologized. As, when she wasn’t looking, he let himself tremble with the cold left over. Tonight, he was hunting. Only food would fix this, and maybe she’d stop worrying.
The scent was thick. Heavy. Blood and infection. Sick prey.
He’d been able to smell it for a while now, and he’d dropped to the ground a few blocks back to investigate. At first he’d followed the scent on instinct, but as he came closer, the person in him started to put together what it meant. Someone was injured, badly, and had been for a while. He had already pushed his instincts aside in preparation for whatever he was going to come across. The blood was fresh enough that they were still alive, the infection a good sign only because it wasn’t mixed with decay.
There – that man. The trail led to the person down the next alley. The guy who started walking toward him when he saw Cryptid. Todd drew himself up to full height, watched him come, looking for inconsistencies in movement as he called out to him.
“Hey, Mister, you doing okay?” The voice was human, tinged with a gruff edge. No threat, no need to scare the guy. One of his shoulders looked off in the dim light, or maybe his shirt was just clinging to his body funny. Could be where the injury was. Cryptid stayed put and let the guy come to him. Again, no reason to scare him off when he was clearly already in bad shape.
Wendigo
Member
There was something wrong with the man. It was like watching a sick deer, something that invoked equal parts hunger, compassion, and disgust. With the open wound, the man’s fear was clear in his scent. But he didn’t respond by running, or in words. Todd saw the movement, labored though it was, as the man pulled his gun and took aim.
Cryptid was used to his reputation doing him more harm than good. It made his work both harder and easier, especially in a town full of metas and other vigilantes. It also made dealing with people he didn’t intend to kill that much harder.
No more words, not yet. He didn’t pay attention to the man’s aim. If he hadn’t pulled the trigger yet, Cryptid might’ve tried to talk to him, but it was too late for that. Instead Todd took off at a weaving sprint towards him. He needed to disarm the man, maybe break his wrist if he could. It would put him in an even worse way than before, but that mattered a lot less than Cryptid not getting shot right now. Maybe he’d be more inclined to listen once he was helpless, dangerous as that spot might be with the cold chewing on Todd’s bones.
Cryptid was used to his reputation doing him more harm than good. It made his work both harder and easier, especially in a town full of metas and other vigilantes. It also made dealing with people he didn’t intend to kill that much harder.
No more words, not yet. He didn’t pay attention to the man’s aim. If he hadn’t pulled the trigger yet, Cryptid might’ve tried to talk to him, but it was too late for that. Instead Todd took off at a weaving sprint towards him. He needed to disarm the man, maybe break his wrist if he could. It would put him in an even worse way than before, but that mattered a lot less than Cryptid not getting shot right now. Maybe he’d be more inclined to listen once he was helpless, dangerous as that spot might be with the cold chewing on Todd’s bones.
Wendigo
Member
The man did the stupidest thing he could in the situation he was in. He recognized Cryptid, recognized him as a monster, as a predator. And he ran. And, without fully thinking about it, Todd took off running as well.
Something stirred under his skin as he put on the burst of speed necessary to catch the target. It throbbed like an old bruise, itched like a mosquito bite just begging to be scratched despite the consequences. The beat of each footstep, the smell of blood, the smell of fear, the adrenaline in his own body, the hunger in his bones. The different instruments all came together in tune, just waiting for the conductor. Every part of him begging him to make this a hunt.
He swallowed back that urge. He hadn’t hunted – not fully hunted, not succumbed to the huntsong – in years, not since he’d met Arlo, so he had long practice in suppressing it. The man was injured, badly injured, injured enough that the recoil of his own weapon forced him to drop it. The scent of blood went from dried to fresh in the same movement. He needed to rest, not to run through the streets like a maniac–
One of the poorly aimed bullets hit him in the knee, and Cryptid’s step faltered as pain shot up his leg. He bit down the snarl that came with that. He should’ve stopped to give his knee space to heal, but he couldn’t lose this guy. That wasn’t just the hunt talking, either. Something was up, something was wrong.
So he didn’t pause, even if his speed was significantly lowered by the stray shot. And instead of using that pain to work up the energy for the necessary pounce, he used it to ground himself enough to try words again.
“Hey, listen,” he called, as he started to pick up speed again. “Stop running. You need help. I just– I just want to talk.”
And while Todd spoke, he shifted something in the face under the mask. Rather than the sharp, hawklike eyes he’d worn in the mask since his first meeting with Wolf, he chose the pretty, hone-brown eyes of a much more recent kill. They’d hold the sincerity of his offer much better than the near-black ones he’d had when he first spotted the target, and hopefully calm him down enough to at least slow down before Todd’s worse instincts got the better of him.
Something stirred under his skin as he put on the burst of speed necessary to catch the target. It throbbed like an old bruise, itched like a mosquito bite just begging to be scratched despite the consequences. The beat of each footstep, the smell of blood, the smell of fear, the adrenaline in his own body, the hunger in his bones. The different instruments all came together in tune, just waiting for the conductor. Every part of him begging him to make this a hunt.
He swallowed back that urge. He hadn’t hunted – not fully hunted, not succumbed to the huntsong – in years, not since he’d met Arlo, so he had long practice in suppressing it. The man was injured, badly injured, injured enough that the recoil of his own weapon forced him to drop it. The scent of blood went from dried to fresh in the same movement. He needed to rest, not to run through the streets like a maniac–
One of the poorly aimed bullets hit him in the knee, and Cryptid’s step faltered as pain shot up his leg. He bit down the snarl that came with that. He should’ve stopped to give his knee space to heal, but he couldn’t lose this guy. That wasn’t just the hunt talking, either. Something was up, something was wrong.
So he didn’t pause, even if his speed was significantly lowered by the stray shot. And instead of using that pain to work up the energy for the necessary pounce, he used it to ground himself enough to try words again.
“Hey, listen,” he called, as he started to pick up speed again. “Stop running. You need help. I just– I just want to talk.”
And while Todd spoke, he shifted something in the face under the mask. Rather than the sharp, hawklike eyes he’d worn in the mask since his first meeting with Wolf, he chose the pretty, hone-brown eyes of a much more recent kill. They’d hold the sincerity of his offer much better than the near-black ones he’d had when he first spotted the target, and hopefully calm him down enough to at least slow down before Todd’s worse instincts got the better of him.
Wendigo
Member
What saved Cryptid this time was the fact he was starting to let himself drop back. His reputation was fucking up any good a full chase would do for him, and his leg was fucking up any kind of good chase. It wasn’t healing fast enough. He knew why, obviously, but if he wanted to make the part of his mind begging to turn the chase into a hunt shut up, he’d need to fall back and make a better plan. It wasn’t like he was losing the man’s scent any time soon.
So he slowed his limping pace and moved to the side opposite the gun, making it almost impossible to shoot at him without the man having to stop and turn around. His knee joint was already resetting wrong; Todd felt the way the bones were mending, and knew it’d hurt to walk on for a while. The only way to fix that was re-breaking and resetting that, and this was hardly the time. Especially since his instincts were screaming that something was wrong.
Obviously, something was wrong. The man was running from a predator. He was badly injured, and had been long enough for the wound to get infected. But there was something about his fear that was… off. Todd watched him round a corner, and stopped running completely for a few seconds to get his bearings. He had no idea what exactly was wrong, but something – something was not quite right about all this. What was it?
Was it just that he was projecting? He turned chases into ambushes all the time, especially when he was injured. But he was built to be an ambush predator. Most humans would’ve just stopped and blown his brains out if they were so sure they were going to die. Maybe he could just let the man go and find him again later. That would be the safe play.
Then again, if he died because of that, then that’d be Todd’s fault, even if nobody knew.
“Fuck.”
They were still in the warehouse district. A glance around found Cryptid a ladder that led up to the second story loading bay, usually only accessible by crane or interior stairs. He followed it up the building and determined it’d be a good place to get up to the rooftops for an overhead view. As he approached the ladder, he listened to the prey’s footsteps recede into the distance.
Wouldn’t be hard to find him with a canopy view, at least. With an ear trained to the footsteps, and gritting down on his tongue to avoid yelling whenever his bad knee moved the wrong way, Cryptid started to climb.
So he slowed his limping pace and moved to the side opposite the gun, making it almost impossible to shoot at him without the man having to stop and turn around. His knee joint was already resetting wrong; Todd felt the way the bones were mending, and knew it’d hurt to walk on for a while. The only way to fix that was re-breaking and resetting that, and this was hardly the time. Especially since his instincts were screaming that something was wrong.
Obviously, something was wrong. The man was running from a predator. He was badly injured, and had been long enough for the wound to get infected. But there was something about his fear that was… off. Todd watched him round a corner, and stopped running completely for a few seconds to get his bearings. He had no idea what exactly was wrong, but something – something was not quite right about all this. What was it?
Was it just that he was projecting? He turned chases into ambushes all the time, especially when he was injured. But he was built to be an ambush predator. Most humans would’ve just stopped and blown his brains out if they were so sure they were going to die. Maybe he could just let the man go and find him again later. That would be the safe play.
Then again, if he died because of that, then that’d be Todd’s fault, even if nobody knew.
“Fuck.”
They were still in the warehouse district. A glance around found Cryptid a ladder that led up to the second story loading bay, usually only accessible by crane or interior stairs. He followed it up the building and determined it’d be a good place to get up to the rooftops for an overhead view. As he approached the ladder, he listened to the prey’s footsteps recede into the distance.
Wouldn’t be hard to find him with a canopy view, at least. With an ear trained to the footsteps, and gritting down on his tongue to avoid yelling whenever his bad knee moved the wrong way, Cryptid started to climb.
Wendigo
Member
It wasn’t all that hard to catch up with the man, now that he was on the rooftops. Even though his leg hadn’t reset properly, being one solid unit made his run possible, if painful. He kept out of sight as well as he could, kept a little distance. But without any sign of Cryptid following, the man’s flight seemed – directed. He knew where he was going, which was unusual for someone simply fleeing from a monster he’d apparently lost. Todd’s unease stirred again, the recognition, the worry. As he focused on the best place for his own ambush, he felt like a fox circling a cage, wondering if he could snatch the meat out of the middle without closing the door behind him.
Except the injured man wasn’t meat, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth as he did so. Had he slipped into the hunt for a second? It should’ve been easier to ignore the scent from up here, just following the sound of feet pounding pavement like he wanted to be heard. God, what if he wanted to be heard? Cryptid had made a handful of enemies. Slate came to mind first. With what he’d told them about himself, this seemed like the perfect kind of baited trap for them to catch their brother’s killer off guard.
But he would’ve smelled one of them on the victim, he was sure. Each of Ethan’s pack were distinct that way. All he’d caught was the man’s own blood and infection and… and what? There’d been something there, something mixed with the smell of burned flesh. Gasoline? That’d explain how he got burned. A gas fire. But that wouldn’t explain where they were going.
They were reaching the end of the warehouses, and Cryptid could see the rooftops of a residential area ahead. Residential areas…. Odd. Weird. Bad place for a coordinated ambush. Not like the warehouses, where the prey could get lost in the tangle of buildings. Hard to hide a group of four or more people. Slate was looking less likely, but still weren’t out of the question.
He knew he had to drop from his rooftop, and did so a little distance away, from the other side of the block. The scrape of his claws against brick when he slid down the side of the building wasn’t going to help calm the victim down, but at this point, nothing was. He’d just have to accept that, and put all his spare mental energy into keeping the hunt in check while he put on one last burst of speed to start closing the distance. A full sprint now, full tilt, emerging from the forest of warehouses and into the open field of residential street. Unfinished, Todd knew, without looking left or right. The smell of sawdust, naked plywood, and concrete all flooded in from every side as he slipped into step behind the target of his chase. Chase, not hunt, chase, not hunt. Up ahead was something – a light, dull and red, didn’t quite fit, but just in his periphery. Just in his periphery because he saw the prey’s leg give out in half a stumble.
Todd braced his resolve, and tightened his muscles, and pushed himself to close the last of the distance with a half-tackle, half-pounce, with the intent of taking the man’s legs out from under him.
Except the injured man wasn’t meat, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth as he did so. Had he slipped into the hunt for a second? It should’ve been easier to ignore the scent from up here, just following the sound of feet pounding pavement like he wanted to be heard. God, what if he wanted to be heard? Cryptid had made a handful of enemies. Slate came to mind first. With what he’d told them about himself, this seemed like the perfect kind of baited trap for them to catch their brother’s killer off guard.
But he would’ve smelled one of them on the victim, he was sure. Each of Ethan’s pack were distinct that way. All he’d caught was the man’s own blood and infection and… and what? There’d been something there, something mixed with the smell of burned flesh. Gasoline? That’d explain how he got burned. A gas fire. But that wouldn’t explain where they were going.
They were reaching the end of the warehouses, and Cryptid could see the rooftops of a residential area ahead. Residential areas…. Odd. Weird. Bad place for a coordinated ambush. Not like the warehouses, where the prey could get lost in the tangle of buildings. Hard to hide a group of four or more people. Slate was looking less likely, but still weren’t out of the question.
He knew he had to drop from his rooftop, and did so a little distance away, from the other side of the block. The scrape of his claws against brick when he slid down the side of the building wasn’t going to help calm the victim down, but at this point, nothing was. He’d just have to accept that, and put all his spare mental energy into keeping the hunt in check while he put on one last burst of speed to start closing the distance. A full sprint now, full tilt, emerging from the forest of warehouses and into the open field of residential street. Unfinished, Todd knew, without looking left or right. The smell of sawdust, naked plywood, and concrete all flooded in from every side as he slipped into step behind the target of his chase. Chase, not hunt, chase, not hunt. Up ahead was something – a light, dull and red, didn’t quite fit, but just in his periphery. Just in his periphery because he saw the prey’s leg give out in half a stumble.
Todd braced his resolve, and tightened his muscles, and pushed himself to close the last of the distance with a half-tackle, half-pounce, with the intent of taking the man’s legs out from under him.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid’s armor did not protect his neck. He protected his other joints with pads, and wore Kevlar around his chest, but his neck just had the high collar of his coat over the turtleneck shirt that hid his skin. The coat collar was usually enough to blunt close-quarters hits. And the neck itself was such a small target that anyone shy of an extraordinary sharpshooter couldn’t use it as a point to actually put Cryptid in the ground. Anyone who came that far with a knife usually just got an arm full of teeth for their troubles.
If his bum leg hadn’t buckled in the last step of his charge, the shot wouldn’t even have hit.
One second, Crytpid was standing, almost on top of his prey. Target. The victim. And then his knee buckled. And then the whole side of his neck exploded in agony, and his vision went white. He might’ve screamed – a human scream, muffled by the way he bit down on his tongue. But his body dropped, and the next thing he knew was on his knees, dizzy even from that much, taking shallow breaths as his hand reached up to the spot where heat had started to radiate down, down his shirt, soaking it through so that the red was visible even on the black. The fact that he was alive meant the injury had closed in the jugular and carotid themselves, but the spray must’ve been horrible, with how much his head spun just from thinking too hard about it.
And all he knew, for a little while, was that if the man he’d been chasing really thought it necessary, this would be the perfect time for a bullet between Malachite’s honey-brown eyes.
His possibly last word was spoken so quietly and hoarsely that only his executioner would hear it.
“Goddamnit.”
If his bum leg hadn’t buckled in the last step of his charge, the shot wouldn’t even have hit.
One second, Crytpid was standing, almost on top of his prey. Target. The victim. And then his knee buckled. And then the whole side of his neck exploded in agony, and his vision went white. He might’ve screamed – a human scream, muffled by the way he bit down on his tongue. But his body dropped, and the next thing he knew was on his knees, dizzy even from that much, taking shallow breaths as his hand reached up to the spot where heat had started to radiate down, down his shirt, soaking it through so that the red was visible even on the black. The fact that he was alive meant the injury had closed in the jugular and carotid themselves, but the spray must’ve been horrible, with how much his head spun just from thinking too hard about it.
And all he knew, for a little while, was that if the man he’d been chasing really thought it necessary, this would be the perfect time for a bullet between Malachite’s honey-brown eyes.
His possibly last word was spoken so quietly and hoarsely that only his executioner would hear it.
“Goddamnit.”
Wendigo
Member
The prey was begging.
Cryptid stared at him, not sure what he was hearing. Brown eyes studied green ones, at first blank, then searching. He took a slow, deep breath, taking in the scent again of blood and infection, but in his state, the high of the hunt didn’t beckon him. Even though the prey felt nothing at all except fear. It was there in his eyes, there in his blood. Instead of lunging for the throat, Todd’s head just tilted, a little bit. The prey was begging, but he was far from resigned.
Movement. Behind the victim, in the house. A curtain twitched, catching Cryptid’s attention for a second before he turned it back to the man in front of him. Now he felt eyes on him, but he didn’t let it show. He heard the clear sounds from inside, too – the click of boots, the rattle of small chains. And, mixed with the victim’s blood, was the scent of gasoline. The flash of worry, of anger, was quickly subdued. The stage wasn’t the victim’s fault, after all, any more than last time.
The audience might not appreciate an inorganic performance, but Cryptid kept his cool as he focused back on the moment.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m still kickin’.” His voice was soft, a little hoarse. Still not his own, thank God. He must still be wearing Mal’s eyes, too. Sometimes pain and blood loss jolted him back to his own body from surprise. This time, he seemed to have held on. Good.
He swallowed, his mouth dry, but he reached out to cup one clawed hand around the man’s cheek. His face was familiar, somehow, but it didn’t matter now. Even if he’d known what this man had done, or had been accused of, nothing would have changed here. The man was prey. While Todd had reached resignation, albeit bitchy resignation, that seemed out of the prey’s reach right now. So the predator had to offer small reassurances wherever he could. In the gentleness of the touch, in the apology in Mal’s pretty eyes, in the softness of his sigh.
“Close your eyes for me. It’ll be over quick.” The fingers of his opposite hand curled as he felt strength returning to his limbs. The cold had settled into a numbness at his core, resting heavily on his bones, but warmth was starting to creep back into his own blood now that it wasn’t leaving his body. He could smell it, but like hearing his own voice, it barely registered.
What registered was that the footsteps had stopped, that all he could hear was a generator humming in the back of an empty house. What registered was the man in front of him, who didn’t deserve his anger. He had to control himself so he didn’t fuck up and kill the man in front of him. It wasn’t a mercy to let him live, but he didn’t kill without cause. And it wasn’t the bait’s fault that this was a trap.
He hit him hard in the temple with the bar of the bagh nakh. Hard enough for a concussion, hard enough to black out. A concussion would heal. He probably needed a hospital anyway for that shoulder injury. The blow was sharp and precise, and too quick for eyes to follow – but the man crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut. Cryptid closed his borrowed eyes, took a deep breath. Then, he started pushing himself up to his feet. It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
“I can hear you, y’know.”
He raised his voice, then opened his eyes and looked at the door, surrounded as it was in a dull red glow. He took a slow step forward, over the unconscious prey. Put himself between the trap and the victim. His leg almost buckled again when he did so, but he kept his balance. He fixed his eyes on the door frame, and did everything in his power to keep control over his temper. There’d be no point in charging in now. His body wouldn’t allow for it, and given this was a pretty well laid trap, inside the house was probably the cage. So he simply had to stand outside, and glare at the door, even if his voice remained calm and controlled.
“Why don’t you come out and chat, pardner.”
I know it’s you in there, motherfucker.
Cryptid stared at him, not sure what he was hearing. Brown eyes studied green ones, at first blank, then searching. He took a slow, deep breath, taking in the scent again of blood and infection, but in his state, the high of the hunt didn’t beckon him. Even though the prey felt nothing at all except fear. It was there in his eyes, there in his blood. Instead of lunging for the throat, Todd’s head just tilted, a little bit. The prey was begging, but he was far from resigned.
Movement. Behind the victim, in the house. A curtain twitched, catching Cryptid’s attention for a second before he turned it back to the man in front of him. Now he felt eyes on him, but he didn’t let it show. He heard the clear sounds from inside, too – the click of boots, the rattle of small chains. And, mixed with the victim’s blood, was the scent of gasoline. The flash of worry, of anger, was quickly subdued. The stage wasn’t the victim’s fault, after all, any more than last time.
The audience might not appreciate an inorganic performance, but Cryptid kept his cool as he focused back on the moment.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m still kickin’.” His voice was soft, a little hoarse. Still not his own, thank God. He must still be wearing Mal’s eyes, too. Sometimes pain and blood loss jolted him back to his own body from surprise. This time, he seemed to have held on. Good.
He swallowed, his mouth dry, but he reached out to cup one clawed hand around the man’s cheek. His face was familiar, somehow, but it didn’t matter now. Even if he’d known what this man had done, or had been accused of, nothing would have changed here. The man was prey. While Todd had reached resignation, albeit bitchy resignation, that seemed out of the prey’s reach right now. So the predator had to offer small reassurances wherever he could. In the gentleness of the touch, in the apology in Mal’s pretty eyes, in the softness of his sigh.
“Close your eyes for me. It’ll be over quick.” The fingers of his opposite hand curled as he felt strength returning to his limbs. The cold had settled into a numbness at his core, resting heavily on his bones, but warmth was starting to creep back into his own blood now that it wasn’t leaving his body. He could smell it, but like hearing his own voice, it barely registered.
What registered was that the footsteps had stopped, that all he could hear was a generator humming in the back of an empty house. What registered was the man in front of him, who didn’t deserve his anger. He had to control himself so he didn’t fuck up and kill the man in front of him. It wasn’t a mercy to let him live, but he didn’t kill without cause. And it wasn’t the bait’s fault that this was a trap.
He hit him hard in the temple with the bar of the bagh nakh. Hard enough for a concussion, hard enough to black out. A concussion would heal. He probably needed a hospital anyway for that shoulder injury. The blow was sharp and precise, and too quick for eyes to follow – but the man crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut. Cryptid closed his borrowed eyes, took a deep breath. Then, he started pushing himself up to his feet. It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
“I can hear you, y’know.”
He raised his voice, then opened his eyes and looked at the door, surrounded as it was in a dull red glow. He took a slow step forward, over the unconscious prey. Put himself between the trap and the victim. His leg almost buckled again when he did so, but he kept his balance. He fixed his eyes on the door frame, and did everything in his power to keep control over his temper. There’d be no point in charging in now. His body wouldn’t allow for it, and given this was a pretty well laid trap, inside the house was probably the cage. So he simply had to stand outside, and glare at the door, even if his voice remained calm and controlled.
“Why don’t you come out and chat, pardner.”
I know it’s you in there, motherfucker.
Wendigo
Member
The hair on the back of Todd’s neck stood up when he heard the thick, false accent from behind the door, the Hollywood laugh. Just hearing Lament, even without the noise underneath, made his monster want to jump up and rip the door off its hinges. Even – no, especially in his shape, Todd resisted that urge. Most unpowered humans could probably kill him right now even without a gun, what with the blood loss still leaving him a little dizzy.
Actually. Lament should know that. Should realize it. If he stepped out the door with his pistol in hand, Cryptid couldn’t run. He wouldn’t have the reaction speed to even dodge without more unnecessary damage. He thought back to last time, to the warehouse, to the gun, to the moment when he’d known he was going to die. And then the hostage had died instead. If he’d known Lament was here, that the man he’d been chasing was just another hostage, he would’ve approached with a lot more caution.
But Lament stayed inside, in the clearly visible cage with the door propped open just enough for the fox to wriggle in. Malachite’s eyes narrowed behind Cryptid’s mask. Did Lament want him to kill the prey for him? So why the show? Just sending a monster in Cryptid’s direction would’ve been enough, and Todd never would’ve been the wiser. If that had been what Lament had in mind, then Cryptid never even would’ve known he was here.
“My purpose, huh? What might that be?”
That meant Lament wanted him alive, and wanted him here, which meant that his “purpose” hadn’t been served at all. That didn’t make sense. Did he want him to talk? To suffer? Was there a torture room hidden in the half-finished building? Todd could handle some burns – already had, this week. His bigger concern was for any other hostages that might be in there. If that awful fucking sound Lament could make triggered his predatory instinct, in his condition, in a closed environment, then last time was going to look like a joke compared to what would happen to the food now. Did Lament know that?
Even if he did, Lament gave him a choice. And the right choice was to leave. Assuming the door didn’t open and a shot got fired as soon as he picked up the man’s dead weight, Todd could just take the prey and go. But if he planned for Cryptid to kill someone in there, then there was someone in there to kill. He didn’t smell anyone else in the yard, but the blood and the infection and the injury and the fucking gasoline kept distracting him, so that didn’t say much.
Todd ground his teeth, clenched his fists so that the bagh nakh caught the moonlight. Then all at once, the anger drained out of him in a soft sigh. He looked down at the victim, wondering what to do with him in the meantime. Then again, if he woke up and ran, there was no way Cryptid wouldn’t be able to catch him gain. Not with the condition of his shoulder.
So he had nothing to worry about, and everything to worry about, as he exhaled and started limping to the door without waiting for Lament’s answer. It wasn’t like he was going to just be handed a chance to talk to Pittsburgh’s own omen of death again. Even in his condition, information took priority. Information was his best asset. Anything he could learn here would be valuable, maybe even keep this from happening again.
He did stop on the other side of the door, his voice turning dangerous for a second. “Point anything dangerous at my face, and I’ll rip your arm off.”
Then he closed his gloved hand on the knob, a little awkwardly because of the claws, but he wasn’t going to disarm himself when going into the belly of the beast. He pushed the door open ahead of himself, braced to move just in case, and then crossed the threshold.
Actually. Lament should know that. Should realize it. If he stepped out the door with his pistol in hand, Cryptid couldn’t run. He wouldn’t have the reaction speed to even dodge without more unnecessary damage. He thought back to last time, to the warehouse, to the gun, to the moment when he’d known he was going to die. And then the hostage had died instead. If he’d known Lament was here, that the man he’d been chasing was just another hostage, he would’ve approached with a lot more caution.
But Lament stayed inside, in the clearly visible cage with the door propped open just enough for the fox to wriggle in. Malachite’s eyes narrowed behind Cryptid’s mask. Did Lament want him to kill the prey for him? So why the show? Just sending a monster in Cryptid’s direction would’ve been enough, and Todd never would’ve been the wiser. If that had been what Lament had in mind, then Cryptid never even would’ve known he was here.
“My purpose, huh? What might that be?”
That meant Lament wanted him alive, and wanted him here, which meant that his “purpose” hadn’t been served at all. That didn’t make sense. Did he want him to talk? To suffer? Was there a torture room hidden in the half-finished building? Todd could handle some burns – already had, this week. His bigger concern was for any other hostages that might be in there. If that awful fucking sound Lament could make triggered his predatory instinct, in his condition, in a closed environment, then last time was going to look like a joke compared to what would happen to the food now. Did Lament know that?
Even if he did, Lament gave him a choice. And the right choice was to leave. Assuming the door didn’t open and a shot got fired as soon as he picked up the man’s dead weight, Todd could just take the prey and go. But if he planned for Cryptid to kill someone in there, then there was someone in there to kill. He didn’t smell anyone else in the yard, but the blood and the infection and the injury and the fucking gasoline kept distracting him, so that didn’t say much.
Todd ground his teeth, clenched his fists so that the bagh nakh caught the moonlight. Then all at once, the anger drained out of him in a soft sigh. He looked down at the victim, wondering what to do with him in the meantime. Then again, if he woke up and ran, there was no way Cryptid wouldn’t be able to catch him gain. Not with the condition of his shoulder.
So he had nothing to worry about, and everything to worry about, as he exhaled and started limping to the door without waiting for Lament’s answer. It wasn’t like he was going to just be handed a chance to talk to Pittsburgh’s own omen of death again. Even in his condition, information took priority. Information was his best asset. Anything he could learn here would be valuable, maybe even keep this from happening again.
He did stop on the other side of the door, his voice turning dangerous for a second. “Point anything dangerous at my face, and I’ll rip your arm off.”
Then he closed his gloved hand on the knob, a little awkwardly because of the claws, but he wasn’t going to disarm himself when going into the belly of the beast. He pushed the door open ahead of himself, braced to move just in case, and then crossed the threshold.
Wendigo
Member
Borrowed, honey-brown eyes focused in on Lament as soon as he moved. The wave was patronizing, but that was the least of Cryptid’s concerns. Once he was sure the other monster didn’t have his gun drawn, he risked taking another step in and taking the room in at a glance. Unfinished was the best word for it – half-built, smelling heavily of plywood and concrete and dust, like it had gone a long time without use before the vulture came to roost. Everything was lit in dim red light from lamps that radiated warmth, turning the whole room a good deal warmer than most people would be comfortable with. It didn’t bother Cryptid, even with all his layers. His internal temperature had taken a nosedive after the blood loss. If anything, the heat was welcome.
There were little yellow lights in the corners that drew his attention next. Plain black boxes, with a small company logo, were strung up throughout the house. Speakers of some kind. He remembered Lament’s microphone well, and the unpleasant thought crossed his mind that the man could be bugged right now, rigged to send horrible noises anywhere in the house.
Well. He’d just have to deal with that, until he had a better idea of what he could do.
Once he was sure the room was empty, that the only human scents under blood and burned skin were Ivan’s and Lament’s, he relaxed his hand. The gasoline from the generator was going to start to get to him, that was for shit sure. He added it to the list, then took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders and hands. The claws disappeared between his fingers in the dim light, and Todd walked toward the stairs. If left unimpeded, he’d sink to the bottom step, stretching his bum leg out in front of him. It still throbbed.
“Subject and condition, huh?” He was still using the same voice from the first time, although he lacked a lot of the energy from then. “So, Dr. Lament, what’s the point of this experiment? See if Cryptid will walk into a trap willingly?”
Not like he’d trust a word the bastard had to say, but what he said was more important than whether or not it was true. The disdain was infuriating, but could be endured like a bad smell until he had what he needed. Just a few minutes to rest, see if the leg would figure itself out on its own. He was at least grateful for the chance to sit down.
Not like he’d tell Lament that part.
There were little yellow lights in the corners that drew his attention next. Plain black boxes, with a small company logo, were strung up throughout the house. Speakers of some kind. He remembered Lament’s microphone well, and the unpleasant thought crossed his mind that the man could be bugged right now, rigged to send horrible noises anywhere in the house.
Well. He’d just have to deal with that, until he had a better idea of what he could do.
Once he was sure the room was empty, that the only human scents under blood and burned skin were Ivan’s and Lament’s, he relaxed his hand. The gasoline from the generator was going to start to get to him, that was for shit sure. He added it to the list, then took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders and hands. The claws disappeared between his fingers in the dim light, and Todd walked toward the stairs. If left unimpeded, he’d sink to the bottom step, stretching his bum leg out in front of him. It still throbbed.
“Subject and condition, huh?” He was still using the same voice from the first time, although he lacked a lot of the energy from then. “So, Dr. Lament, what’s the point of this experiment? See if Cryptid will walk into a trap willingly?”
Not like he’d trust a word the bastard had to say, but what he said was more important than whether or not it was true. The disdain was infuriating, but could be endured like a bad smell until he had what he needed. Just a few minutes to rest, see if the leg would figure itself out on its own. He was at least grateful for the chance to sit down.
Not like he’d tell Lament that part.
Wendigo
Member
It's nice to be part of the background sometimes, y'know? It's nice not to be Vanity.
Todd couldn’t help but think of Kosuke’s words after Bohemian Rhapsody. Vanity was such a poignant word for him, now. The phantom half-mask and perfect-pitch voice added a new layer to Kosuke, one that helped to ground him as he calmed himself. He wasn’t in danger, not unless Lament decided to use his monster somehow. Unless Lament figured out how to use him.
First, he had to give the wrong impression of his purpose, his violence.
“I trapped Obsidian. He lost one of his freaks in the process. I even kept a trophy.”
He batted Mal’s pretty eyes through the mask, before focusing back down on his throbbing leg. Playing the scary side, the side that Lament seemed to have expressed to Ivan already, seemed safer. After all, if he knew who Obsidian was, he knew he wasn’t to be fucked with. The idea that he’d go so far as to call Slate freaks meant a lot, too, given what Lament had already heard about Cryptid.
This would do a lot of things. It would put an extra wedge between Cryptid and Slate. It would either make Obsidian seem less dangerous – which was dangerous to Lament in its own right – or make Cryptid seem more dangerous, like a threat display that made a small animal look large. That made a coyote look like it could take on a wolf pack.
His leg had reset wrong. Running his hands along the knee already told him that. He took a deep breath, a sigh, even, as he made a decision. He slipped his hands into his pockets, and deposited the bagh nakh there. No point in having those if Lament could just shoot him. And they’d just be in the way for this part.
The pants leg was bloody, but the surface wound had healed into a scar. He sighed. This was going to suck without anesthesia, and if he did this to get the knee into the proper shape, he’d probably still have a limp for a few days. He ran his hands over the wound again, then set them into place and bit down hard on his tongue.
He wasn’t going to scream for Lament, after all. Not again.
He did snarl and growl through closed lips, but the sound fell under the sharp crack of bones as he re-broke his own knee. He’d come too far to run away; and, if Lament actually wanted to turn him into a hunting dog, he’d be better off a little inhibited. It would probably save Lament’s own life in the case that he made the sound that triggered his animal.
His mouth was full of blood by the time he’d readjusted the leg. His eyes had changed back this time to icy blue, but the angle of his face hid them from an outside viewer until he could swallow and shift them back again to Mal’s. The only thing that kept him from devolving into a shivering mess while the bone started to mend again was the external heat of the house, filling his lungs, soaking through his coat and through his skin.
He had to wait until his tongue was mostly intact, and until he could adjust his voice again to be the one Lament knew best. “In that case… what did you do to that man? Besides, y’know. The obvious. He seemed pretty fucked even by my standards.”
Todd couldn’t help but think of Kosuke’s words after Bohemian Rhapsody. Vanity was such a poignant word for him, now. The phantom half-mask and perfect-pitch voice added a new layer to Kosuke, one that helped to ground him as he calmed himself. He wasn’t in danger, not unless Lament decided to use his monster somehow. Unless Lament figured out how to use him.
First, he had to give the wrong impression of his purpose, his violence.
“I trapped Obsidian. He lost one of his freaks in the process. I even kept a trophy.”
He batted Mal’s pretty eyes through the mask, before focusing back down on his throbbing leg. Playing the scary side, the side that Lament seemed to have expressed to Ivan already, seemed safer. After all, if he knew who Obsidian was, he knew he wasn’t to be fucked with. The idea that he’d go so far as to call Slate freaks meant a lot, too, given what Lament had already heard about Cryptid.
This would do a lot of things. It would put an extra wedge between Cryptid and Slate. It would either make Obsidian seem less dangerous – which was dangerous to Lament in its own right – or make Cryptid seem more dangerous, like a threat display that made a small animal look large. That made a coyote look like it could take on a wolf pack.
His leg had reset wrong. Running his hands along the knee already told him that. He took a deep breath, a sigh, even, as he made a decision. He slipped his hands into his pockets, and deposited the bagh nakh there. No point in having those if Lament could just shoot him. And they’d just be in the way for this part.
The pants leg was bloody, but the surface wound had healed into a scar. He sighed. This was going to suck without anesthesia, and if he did this to get the knee into the proper shape, he’d probably still have a limp for a few days. He ran his hands over the wound again, then set them into place and bit down hard on his tongue.
He wasn’t going to scream for Lament, after all. Not again.
He did snarl and growl through closed lips, but the sound fell under the sharp crack of bones as he re-broke his own knee. He’d come too far to run away; and, if Lament actually wanted to turn him into a hunting dog, he’d be better off a little inhibited. It would probably save Lament’s own life in the case that he made the sound that triggered his animal.
His mouth was full of blood by the time he’d readjusted the leg. His eyes had changed back this time to icy blue, but the angle of his face hid them from an outside viewer until he could swallow and shift them back again to Mal’s. The only thing that kept him from devolving into a shivering mess while the bone started to mend again was the external heat of the house, filling his lungs, soaking through his coat and through his skin.
He had to wait until his tongue was mostly intact, and until he could adjust his voice again to be the one Lament knew best. “In that case… what did you do to that man? Besides, y’know. The obvious. He seemed pretty fucked even by my standards.”