(no subject)

[teetheyes]

Your boss man's whole set up stinks to high heaven, even if you don't believe it. I like you, you're a good friend, but if you side with him I won't hesitate to take you out.


((OOC: full of omake, but this puts his note to Scarab in context))

The green eyes stared back at him, growing colder with each minute. He should have eaten them by now, should have slipped them between his teeth, popped and swallowed. His tongues knew every crevice, every lense, savored the taste and the knowledge, above all the satisfaction. Why did he not feel satisfied now? They stared at him from the tabletop, only a foot away from the terminal, an open bottle of vodka, and a shot glass.

Fuck he had reason to eat them. That little rat had been staking out the apartment for at least a weak. Only the wards had kept the padre and his Red God out. The Corinthian deserved his slice of victory, for the sake of protecting his Lord, for the sake of being a nightmare. Dream (either of them) wouldn’t approve, he knew this. He found himself wishing they were blue, wishing for the scent of oranges and pomegranates at Carnivale.

“Motherfucker,” he hissed to himself, poured a shot and drank it. The more he consumed, the less likely he’d be responsible for his decisions, or at least force himself to think about them, keep himself from thinking about John.

Why John? After their brutal encounter with the full moon? The same man who’d broken him out of his watery cell, the same one who bit him and broke him. It was a strange game they played, one meant to end when either of them returned to the waking world. He will forget you, said his maker.

The Corinthian grit his teeth. Two months, two months he’d been here, followed by his former lord, the Thessaliad, Constantine, Matthew, Lady Delirium, and His Lord. A strange chain of events, forging a friendship that might never have happened had he not lacked the motivation to leave. Now John was gone, Cori’s right mouth was a mess, and his appetite for eyes, the true hunger, had made a brief and most terrible comeback.

“Believe me, this weapon has uncreated worse mistakes than you.”

Lucien, always calm and collected, a little fussy even, honest. Lucien, the keeper of books, keeper of knowledge. Knowledge.

The nightmare shifted his attention back to the eyes. He didn’t know how he came to be in the city, why his Lords were here, how last night’s trouble could have rippled, where John was… but he could know Vincent. He could know him and his Red God. The knowledge would benefit them all, whether the Corinthian used it to guard those he loved or bartered it to throw the god off their backs.

He sat up straight and reached for the first eye. Hrrrsrchzz…His tongue rolled it into its mouth, teeth pinching on the gummy flesh till it split and spilt red down his cheek. It tasted wonderful despite its age. The second eye his right mouth swallowed whole, and still it bled, warming his face, hooking into his belly. Good monster.

And the flow of knowledge, the flow of truths, was incredible.

Truths he wished he knew, truths he wished he understood. He mourned them with a low anguished cry.