Post by tuathade on May 19, 2011 12:50:05 GMT -5
((OOC note – CW for violence, blood, general sketchiness. Prisoners and noncombatants are more or less safe from Arkady. Guards are not.))
The rapid, frantic pulse under Arkady’s hands was as good as a song, its rhythm a flawless accompaniment to the white-hot humming of Flightlust in his head. Each pounding heartbeat spilled another flagging spurt of blood over his fingers, every futile struggle of the weakening Healer curiously satisfying to the tight impatient knot of need inside him. Once those struggles ceased, Arkady let go, wiping clean the machete that Jessan had given him, but not bothering to do the same for his red-spattered hands and arms. One of the little advantages to red prisoner jumpsuits: the stains probably wouldn’t show too well on the fabric until they dried and darkened.
He’d be a fearsome sight; blade in hand, teeth bared in something that was equal parts grin and snarl, bloodied handprint smeared across one cheek from where the Healer had tried in vain to push him away. Arkady’s first victim at Warden’s, and fully deserving. The ex-Harper had a good memory for faces, and an even better one for grudges. Who ignored the cries of prisoners, who sneered at their patients, who passed judgement, whether aloud or with silent disapproval… Oh yes. He had a tally in his head of the thousand small indignities of prison life, and the opportunity had been just too sweet to pass up.
The ex-Harper had only ever been accused of one murder. The actual number was definitely more than one, but also considerably less than one might expect. Arkady, on the whole, was not interested in dead people.
Live people were an opportunity. Live people could be deceived, coerced, bribed, seduced, or outright threatened. Love of self and fear of pain: the two essential, intrinsic forces that bound all of society together. He could play those like a well-tuned harp. A dead person was not an opportunity. It was a body. A body had no worth left in it. It simply had to be hidden before it was discovered. And even if it was hidden well, eventually the absence would be noted. Arkady had learned that one the hard way, and paid well for the lesson.
Still, sometimes people deserved it. And while the result was uninteresting, the act of the kill itself was just incredibly gratifying. One of the reasons he'd never been a Duster - no drug could possibly compare to the intensity of a good adrenaline rush. And the glorious thing about the prison breakout was that he didn't have to worry about being caught, about hiding his crimes. He'd already been caught, sentenced, and thrown into Warden's. Things could only get better from here - and he would just kill every sharding guard who didn't get out of his way in time. Simple as that!
He'd spared the other healer, the little one with the apprentice's knots. A frightened rabbit - if he had run, Arkady would have chased him, but he had no interest in prey that froze and did not fight back. Now the Harper prowled down rows of restrained prisoners, detoxing Dusters all. The machete slashed out, sliced through bonds with neat little snicks, occasionally drawing shallow lines of blood as Arkady hastened to be gone. One by one, he set them free, calling out directions on where to go - wrong ones. Very wrong. Not enough Runners for everyone, after all, and Arkady had no time or patience for dead weight. The clever and the less addled would find their own way, and the others... well, someone had to feed the whers.
Survival of the fittest.
now there's no holding back, I'm aching to attack
my blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out
the saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
***
my blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out
the saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
***
The rapid, frantic pulse under Arkady’s hands was as good as a song, its rhythm a flawless accompaniment to the white-hot humming of Flightlust in his head. Each pounding heartbeat spilled another flagging spurt of blood over his fingers, every futile struggle of the weakening Healer curiously satisfying to the tight impatient knot of need inside him. Once those struggles ceased, Arkady let go, wiping clean the machete that Jessan had given him, but not bothering to do the same for his red-spattered hands and arms. One of the little advantages to red prisoner jumpsuits: the stains probably wouldn’t show too well on the fabric until they dried and darkened.
He’d be a fearsome sight; blade in hand, teeth bared in something that was equal parts grin and snarl, bloodied handprint smeared across one cheek from where the Healer had tried in vain to push him away. Arkady’s first victim at Warden’s, and fully deserving. The ex-Harper had a good memory for faces, and an even better one for grudges. Who ignored the cries of prisoners, who sneered at their patients, who passed judgement, whether aloud or with silent disapproval… Oh yes. He had a tally in his head of the thousand small indignities of prison life, and the opportunity had been just too sweet to pass up.
The ex-Harper had only ever been accused of one murder. The actual number was definitely more than one, but also considerably less than one might expect. Arkady, on the whole, was not interested in dead people.
Live people were an opportunity. Live people could be deceived, coerced, bribed, seduced, or outright threatened. Love of self and fear of pain: the two essential, intrinsic forces that bound all of society together. He could play those like a well-tuned harp. A dead person was not an opportunity. It was a body. A body had no worth left in it. It simply had to be hidden before it was discovered. And even if it was hidden well, eventually the absence would be noted. Arkady had learned that one the hard way, and paid well for the lesson.
Still, sometimes people deserved it. And while the result was uninteresting, the act of the kill itself was just incredibly gratifying. One of the reasons he'd never been a Duster - no drug could possibly compare to the intensity of a good adrenaline rush. And the glorious thing about the prison breakout was that he didn't have to worry about being caught, about hiding his crimes. He'd already been caught, sentenced, and thrown into Warden's. Things could only get better from here - and he would just kill every sharding guard who didn't get out of his way in time. Simple as that!
He'd spared the other healer, the little one with the apprentice's knots. A frightened rabbit - if he had run, Arkady would have chased him, but he had no interest in prey that froze and did not fight back. Now the Harper prowled down rows of restrained prisoners, detoxing Dusters all. The machete slashed out, sliced through bonds with neat little snicks, occasionally drawing shallow lines of blood as Arkady hastened to be gone. One by one, he set them free, calling out directions on where to go - wrong ones. Very wrong. Not enough Runners for everyone, after all, and Arkady had no time or patience for dead weight. The clever and the less addled would find their own way, and the others... well, someone had to feed the whers.
Survival of the fittest.
