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 Posted: Tue Apr 12, 2016 7:28 am
01
He feels like s**t when he wakes up.
None of his injuries have been tended to; it's Archer who drags himself up, with some effort, staggers to the bathroom, and runs the sink. It takes a certain amount of self-restraint not to yell as he slowly cleans the cut on his forehead, washes away the blood on his cheek. He can't quite reach the scrapes on his back, but a shower at least takes care of rinsing them, Archer ignoring the sting of the hot water against his bruised and battered skin.
The mirror is clogged with fog once he gets out. He wipes a hand across it, streaks a smear of it away, and stares at himself mutely, at the dark circles beneath his eyes and the ring of dark bruises across his neck and partly on his chest. His wrists are no better; there are finger marks on them, both from violence and humiliating pleasure, but all from the same person.
Archer can still feel Chase's lips at his ear, teeth on his neck, sinking in, and it sends a wave of mingled anger and heat and several other things coursing through him. He grips the sink in his hands, a dull flush crossing his cheeks, and he wants to snap Labyrinthite's bones beneath them, feel the way they crack and shatter under his palms.
He hates Chase - Labyrinthite - for making him want more.
He hates himself for wanting more.
The house is too damn big, and he can't, doesn't want to stay here anymore. He's alone in the room, but Archer doubts it'll be for very long, and he has better things to do than play the fool of someone else's puppy. Sanidine suggested the Castle as the best place to find youma information, but Archer doesn't want to read about them. He wants to study them, observe them, take them apart and learn what makes them tick.
He dresses, leaves, and once he's a reasonable distance away, he powers up.
It's nearly night. He's been asleep most of the day, exhaustion, pain, pleasure, and the crash of the starseed consumption keeping him knocked out for almost a full twenty four hours. Wolfeite skulks around the alleyways, searching for someone, anyone, and finally finds a faceless Captain also out on patrol duty. With a little persuasion and honeyed words, he manages to convince him to take him to Negaspace under the guise of a learning experience. He wants to know more of what it means to be a Lieutenant, he says, with a convincing simper that inwardly disgusts him, but does the trick.
Negaspace is enormous, and the Castle looms in front of him, an imposing, powerful structure of dark purples and black. There are agents heading in and out, some milling around the entrance, some lounging on low, crumbling walls; and although Wolfeite is interested in all that Sanidine suggested, he doesn't want books right now. He is practically vibrating with the urge to move, tension running a thick line down his back.
He needs to do something, not sit like an obedient puppy awaiting orders.
He manages to shake the unaware Captain within a few seconds - it's not that hard, really - and Wolfeite has no intention of having a guide. He doesn't want to be led around on a leash, it's him who's going to do the leading, and he's hungry for it, for the power, for everything.
For the sensation of teeth on his neck and shoulder again, he thinks, a burn of mingled humiliation and fury on his cheeks as he makes his way through until he finds what he's looking for - the hall that will lead straight into the Rift, to the place where Labyrinthite took him.
Wolfeite can feel a tingling sensation in his hands; a strong, terrible desire to continue on, and so he does.
The Rift is vast. He can practically taste the possibilities on his tongue as he looks around, black and purple shadows twisting and stretching every which way. There are creatures, eyes that look at him and watch from a distance, and he has to resist the urge to draw nearer, to gather them up and take them back.
Labyrinthite knows nothing. He is entirely capable of handling himself, of proving himself. The General is a fool if he thinks that Wolfeite cannot do what he has set out to do, and he is here now to prove it - to show that he is better than all of them, anyway. The world beneath his feet, the world around him, every inch of it is at his disposal.
He will take it and he will crush it between his fingers until there's nothing left but dust.
[ WORD COUNT: 798 ]
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2016 10:03 pm
02
The first youma is a bird.
It's not the raven one that was there when he first came here with Labyrinthite, but a large, eagle like creature who flaps its wings and comes cascading towards him when he gets too close to it. Wolfeite gets a cut to the cheek by a sharp beak before he slams a gloved hand against it, dusting it instantly. Clearly it's just a weak one, pathetic.
"You lack finesse. You can't beat me."
"You're pathetic."
The words burn through him, course through his veins like acid. Wolfeite can practically taste the bitterness of them, and it clogs in his throat, sends fury into his head so that he can't think of anything else. Not the heated taste of Chase's mouth on his, not the cruel glint in his eyes when he discovered the advantage that he claimed as his own.
The sneering, twisted disgust that his once new lieutenant had not lived up to his so-called expectations.
But Wolfeite is better than that. He doesn't need Labyrinthite or his ridiculous ideas and his bravado and his arrogance. He has what he needs right here, within the Rift and within himself, because he's better and he knows it.
He will show Labyrinthite - show all of them that he doesn't need them.
He is better than all of them.
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2016 10:13 pm
03
The second youma is a shapeless, formless thing that crawls out from underneath rubble and tries to climb its way up his body. Wolfeite stamps a booted foot on it, crushes it beneath the soles of his feet, and feels a distinct sense of satisfaction as he does so.
The third youma is catlike, reminding him of Sanidine's creature, but smaller. It's wary at first and doesn't want to come closer, but Wolfeite draws it nearer and then dissipates it into dust within a few seconds, glittering powder trailing onto the ground in front of him.
The fourth youma is something with many arms. It takes him a little longer to defeat this one, trying hard to combat the swing of a clawed hand towards him, and then the sensation of a different clawed hand around his throat. But Wolfeite has downed enough starseeds and he feels the adrenaline fast and thick inside of him. He twists away, lashes a kick to the thing's midsection, and it explodes into nothingness.
Every inch of him is practically shaking with the desire to fight. His fingers are trembling, and he has to resist the urge to run, to climb, to bite at whatever comes near to him. He wants it all so badly he can taste it, his gaze darting from side to side, watching as the glowing eyes of youma loom out of the darkness and the shadows.
The fifth youma is something indistinguishable.
The sixth is another bird.
He loses count after the seventh, a rodent of sorts.
None of the ones he's fought - and defeated - so far are particularly large. The largest is about the size of a small lion but not nearly as powerful as one, lazy and lethargic as it creeps towards him on heavy paws that reek of Chaos.
It's too easy. He's still at the fringes of the Rift, he thinks, and though his latest few are getting a little stronger, taking a little more time to defeat, he doesn't feel the same burning euphoria that he wants to have. The sense of glorious, all consuming satisfaction of having proved Labyrinthite wrong.
Wolfeite heads deeper into the Rift.
And deeper.
And deeper.
He's entrenched in it. It takes him a few moments to notice that he's alone. There is nothing - and no one - else around him, the presence of the creatures gone and all that is left are deep purple shadows that seem to stretch and distort beneath his feet.
Until he sees it.
A pair of yellow eyes, burning out of the darkness.
It's watching him.
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2016 10:43 pm
04
The eyes watch him in silence, and Wolfeite stays still, gaze narrowing. The thrum of the starseed consumption is making him feel jittery and tense all at once; he wants to move, wants to do something, but he forces himself to stay in place and wait.
It will come to him. He knows it will.
The shadows around the eyes shift as the creature moves, and Wolfeite can feel the anticipation sweeping across him. He doesn't need to see it to know that he's stumbled across something powerful, something stronger than the pathetic little creatures he's dusted before now.
This is his chance.
The air around him feels thicker than usual, heavy with tension. A paw appears first, ragged and clawed, into the wavering purple lighting of the Rift, half splintered by debris and crumbling remains of long discarded buildings that Wolfeite has little interest in. His gaze is fixated on the black fur of the paw, which is now a well muscled leg of a creature - and then the torso appears, enormous, and Wolfeite can see the sweep of a tail, the flick of ears -
- and teeth.
Sharp, crushing, solid teeth that end in razor points at the tips.
It's a wolf.
Not an ordinary wolf, he determines, but something monstrously large, at least twice the size of the ones found in the wild. It's jaw is open, and Wolfeite can hear the breath of it coming out, can hear the click of its maw as it shifts, the thump of its paws as it draws nearer.
"You don't belong here," is what the creature says, and Wolfeite sways where he stands, barely able to restrain himself.
"You are not welcome here."
It's voice is a low, graveling growl, a rasp unlike anything he's ever heard before. It feels as though its grating on his very nerves, like fingernails across a chalkboard, scraping at his skin. Golden eyes ringed in black lift to meet his own dark ones and Wolfeite reaches a hand up, tugs down the kerchief so that the lower half of his face is uncovered.
"This world - all of it - is mine," he breathes, and he can hear the strain of holding back in his own voice, trembling with the desire to fight. "This place is mine, and I have every right to be here - and to take what belongs to me."
A snarl of a laugh, an echo of a growl.
"You think so highly of yourself," says the creature, and it's circling him now, shaking its massive head, ears flicking back against its black head. "I've seen your kind before. You are but a little piece of this place, and you will never get what you want."
He just needs a few more seconds, a few more precious seconds to say -
"I always get what I want."
And then, as though both of them have been waiting for it, they leap towards each other simultaneously.
Heavy paws crash into Wolfeite's chest, knocking the breath out of him and slamming him to the ground. He lets out a hiss of pain, of anger, and thrusts upwards with his knee, driving it into the creature's stomach. It gives a howl of fury, but stumbles off, and Wolfeite uses the sudden release of its massive bulk to stagger to his feet, his chest feeling bruised.
He doesn't care. He just wants more. He's going to dust this creature, crush it between his fingers and then all of them will know and understand that he is meant to rule; that he is meant to be above them all, and rightfully so.
They circle each other, predator and prey, though it's unclear as to which is which. Wolfeite's smile is twisted, too wide, too sharp, and then they're both running again, and this time he grabs it around the neck, swings himself around and jerks himself onto its back.
Both arms are wrapped around its neck, Wolfeite intending to crush its windpipe and successfully disintegrate it, but before he can get a good grip, he feels teeth at his shoulder. The fabric tears as the creature throws him to the ground and plants a paw in the center of his chest, looming over him.
"Give up," it breathes. "Give up before you die."
"Never," Wolfeite hisses and he kicks up viciously, catching it again on its stomach. But once more, he barely has the upper hand when its taken from him again, the creature snapping at his legs and making him stagger. Claws rake across his chest, and a quick snap of its tail sends him crashing into a nearby wall, dazing him.
He tries again.
And again.
And again.
The creature isn't trying to kill him. It smacks at him, lunges at him, claws at him. His uniform is shredding underneath each attack, ribbons of it trailing, blood welling, but nothing is life threatening. It's like a dog playing with a toy, teasing, taunting.
Mocking.
Rage is all that Wolfeite can feel, and he tries once more to get onto the creatures back - but finds himself instead knocked to his stomach, gasping, bleeding, dizzied by the impact. A paw crushes to his back, pinning him in place, as the other nearly shatters his wrist with its weight, trapping him. No amount of struggling seems to be able to free himself, and Wolfeite can feel the fury rising.
There is breath on his neck, and something grazes his neck.
"I told you," the youma whispers, "You don't belong here."
And then -
- a sudden, sharp agonizing pain on his back, blinding him -
"You will never belong here."
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Posted: Wed Apr 13, 2016 10:53 pm
05
He can't see.
There is nothing but blackness. A babble of sound, like voices, except he can't understand what anyone is saying. The words blur and melt together until all that can be distinguished is a spare word here and there, and even then his mind does not seem to work to hold it in place.
Pain is all around him. He can feel that, white hot, lancing through him like as sword, like poison in his veins, clawing up his throat, choking him, blinding him to all other sensations so that the pain is all he knows, all he feels, all he will ever feel.
He's screaming; he's dimly aware of this, and also of the fact that he can't stop screaming.
His throat feels hoarse with the effort, but the agony is clogging his every thought, his every being, consuming him from the inside out. He is unaware of anything except the feel of his own body, twisting and contorting and breaking - at least it feels like it.
There is no one to hear him scream.
He loses his voice at some point, and the screams dissipate into ragged snarls, growls, rasping coughs. He still can't see anything, doesn't even know if his eyes are open or closed. He is choking on his own breaths, coughing, gagging.
A voice is in his head.
"You will never lead.
You are not good enough."
His fingers claw at the ground, dig in so hard that he's in danger of snapping what feels like brittle bones under his skin. He wonders if he's on fire, if somehow he's been set alight, because it feels like it; it feels like he is being swallowed by an inferno.
I am good enough, he thinks, fury and loathing combating with the pain. I am better than all of them.
He thinks he hears mocking laughter. It twists and echoes and reverberates, bouncing back and forth in his mind, rattling against his skull and sounding absurdly out of place with the white hot agony that he is still struggling to breathe through.
You're so naive.
No, he thinks, and there is blackness, a hiss of breath, a sensation of sharp, agonizing teeth against skin, sinking in, digging in, holding on so tightly that it's impossible to tell where he ends and it begins. No, I am still here.
I am still here and I will conquer this world.
There is a flash of black and a long, drawn out howl.
And then all is quiet. The pain is still intense, choking him, but it's receding enough for him to be aware of his senses, of his arms, of his legs, of his chest, his body, his mind, his breathing. But something feels different. Something feels -
He opens his eyes.
 [ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 2056 ]
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