Post by crypted on May 24, 2023 22:44:58 GMT
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Code by Illirica
Code by Illirica
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Todd reached his coat without incident, the only weapon to follow him words thrown at an uncaring back. Or, at least, apparently uncaring. He reached down to the floor and caught the coat with an extra little toss, and held both sets of claws in one hand with a metal-on-metal jangle as he shrugged into the heavy leather. The familiar weight settled onto his shoulders and back, and he visibly relaxed into it. There was no warmth to be gained from it, but there was a feeling of safety, even if it was fleeting as the hard click of a phone's camera shutter sliced through the silence that followed the boy's words. He didn't react to it, though it would be worrying later. Now, though. Now he pulled his fingers through the knuckle-holes in the bagh nakh, and curled his fist to give a few reflexive swipes. In a way he couldn't quite explain, he felt whole again, even as the boy's accusation tore a hole right into his past.
Would Arlo ever stop haunting him?
Arlo had called him a coward, too. Weak. Todd knew weakness. He dealt with it as well as he could every day. It used to scare him, the driving hunger, the waves of cold when the promise of warmth came too close. He'd had a response back then, ragged and desperate as his only friend in the world did what he thought was right, and tried to kill a monster.
What do you want me to do? Do you know how much existing like this hurts? I'm not asking you to turn a blind eye, I'm just asking you to understand. It's still me. It's always been me, Arlo, it's Todd.
But pleas would do less good here than it had back then. He'd been afraid then, there was no denying it. Afraid of Arlo, afraid of whatever he'd become. Now he understood that this was just life. It was what he was, not who he was. Who he was could try to undo the damage of what he had to do. That wasn't exactly in character right now, though. And the kid wasn't likely to listen. Cryptid had always wondered what it would be like to actually monologue. Not make excuses to dying meat, but an actual, honest-to-evil drone about intention and philosophy.
“If I took my hand,” he drawled, stretching out his arm, fingers outstretched, “and wrapped it around your insolent throat --” he curled his fingers into a fist for effect, revealing the claws in the dim light of the warehouse “-- would you be a coward for choking when you had the chance for air? Or if I politely asked your heart to stop beating, would you be able to stop it?”
He shook his head as he turned on his heel. The camera was gone, presumably back into the kid's pocket. He hooked a thumb casually into one of his own pockets, his other hand open and relaxed at his side. He started to cross the empty space, step by step.
“There are some instincts too strong to be denied. There's a kind of hunger that reaches inside of you and consumes you if you don't feed it. You've gotta survive off of what it leaves behind.”
He bent down, and collected the cleaver. it was awkward, in conjunction with the claws, but he made it work with a reverse grip on the handle. He swept up the half-eaten chunk of meat in the other hand. Then back to the drain, to the scattered tools and severed limbs, back toward the boy. He held the Wolf's eyes as he walked toward him with the same deliberate speed, but a cold edge now crept into his tone.
“I know who I am. I'm the winter wind that claims a starving traveler. I'm the blood and the hunger that creeps about the edges of the civilized fire and waits for the animal to come out in people. You're right: that coward's gone. He was weak. He couldn't survive.”
Wait- that was a little personal, actually. Cryptid paused as if to take a breath, but in reality he was turning his own words over in his head.
Where did the line between confession and monologue get drawn? He hadn't yet become what he was describing... but there was fear of that. The fear that if he didn't maintain the balance, he'd collapse into less than an animal. The hesitation might have been visible in the dark eyes he'd borrowed from some poor sap who, like the leg he now bent over to pick up and transfer into the duffel bag for transport, had been reduced to nothing but meat.
A sign of hope to the blossoming hero, maybe? Or more confirmation to his stubborn biases? Who could say.
Would Arlo ever stop haunting him?
Arlo had called him a coward, too. Weak. Todd knew weakness. He dealt with it as well as he could every day. It used to scare him, the driving hunger, the waves of cold when the promise of warmth came too close. He'd had a response back then, ragged and desperate as his only friend in the world did what he thought was right, and tried to kill a monster.
What do you want me to do? Do you know how much existing like this hurts? I'm not asking you to turn a blind eye, I'm just asking you to understand. It's still me. It's always been me, Arlo, it's Todd.
But pleas would do less good here than it had back then. He'd been afraid then, there was no denying it. Afraid of Arlo, afraid of whatever he'd become. Now he understood that this was just life. It was what he was, not who he was. Who he was could try to undo the damage of what he had to do. That wasn't exactly in character right now, though. And the kid wasn't likely to listen. Cryptid had always wondered what it would be like to actually monologue. Not make excuses to dying meat, but an actual, honest-to-evil drone about intention and philosophy.
“If I took my hand,” he drawled, stretching out his arm, fingers outstretched, “and wrapped it around your insolent throat --” he curled his fingers into a fist for effect, revealing the claws in the dim light of the warehouse “-- would you be a coward for choking when you had the chance for air? Or if I politely asked your heart to stop beating, would you be able to stop it?”
He shook his head as he turned on his heel. The camera was gone, presumably back into the kid's pocket. He hooked a thumb casually into one of his own pockets, his other hand open and relaxed at his side. He started to cross the empty space, step by step.
“There are some instincts too strong to be denied. There's a kind of hunger that reaches inside of you and consumes you if you don't feed it. You've gotta survive off of what it leaves behind.”
He bent down, and collected the cleaver. it was awkward, in conjunction with the claws, but he made it work with a reverse grip on the handle. He swept up the half-eaten chunk of meat in the other hand. Then back to the drain, to the scattered tools and severed limbs, back toward the boy. He held the Wolf's eyes as he walked toward him with the same deliberate speed, but a cold edge now crept into his tone.
“I know who I am. I'm the winter wind that claims a starving traveler. I'm the blood and the hunger that creeps about the edges of the civilized fire and waits for the animal to come out in people. You're right: that coward's gone. He was weak. He couldn't survive.”
Wait- that was a little personal, actually. Cryptid paused as if to take a breath, but in reality he was turning his own words over in his head.
Where did the line between confession and monologue get drawn? He hadn't yet become what he was describing... but there was fear of that. The fear that if he didn't maintain the balance, he'd collapse into less than an animal. The hesitation might have been visible in the dark eyes he'd borrowed from some poor sap who, like the leg he now bent over to pick up and transfer into the duffel bag for transport, had been reduced to nothing but meat.
A sign of hope to the blossoming hero, maybe? Or more confirmation to his stubborn biases? Who could say.