[Locked to RatBoy]

[mute_clay]

I keep dreaming about her.

I don't care what they say. They don't know anything.

She can't be dead. I would know if she was. I heard her in my dreams, calling out for me. So afraid and alone. She is not dead. She can't be. Not m-, not Callie. I would know

Comments

[lexiromanov]

Alex's patterns are turned upside down lately, which is likely a good thing. He'd grown too predictable during his time with... during the last year. He's not sleeping in the same place more than two times in a row again. He's not traveling the same routes. He's not even taking the same doors in and out of Luxuria. His delight in showmanship and the front entrance has shifted to a desire for quietly slipping out the back delivery doors rolling his motorcycle alongside him.

ooc:If you want to play it out, I'm game. If not, feel free to delete this.

[lexiromanov]

Balance fucked up, Alex's knife smashes right down into the pitted pavement beside Clay's ear instead of the spot he was aiming for, right between those disturbing eyes. He'd been trying to pierce a skull so the full strength of his arm is behind the stab, which means the fucking thing is now two inches buried in asphalt.

The weapon is abandoned for the moment. For the moment he's on top so fingers wrapped around a useless throat and knees squeezed tight to ribs should stop the huffs that might be laughter.

Thinking so hard about how to hurt the other man, Alex has lost track of Clay's knife. At least he loses track of it until it jabs viciously into a spot just below his armpit. The coat gives way, as does skin. Alex has throw himself sideways when he realizes Clay is still trying to push the blade deeper.

[mute_clay]

Soft inside. Soft and red and bleeding - just like everyone else.

Alex gets out of reach and Clay scrambles to his feet, trying to get his balance back. His lips are drawn back in a snarl and it feels as if he is just about to topple over, into the darkness that leaves only vague memories and the taste of blood in his mouth.

You TOOK her from me. You STOLE her. You TAINTED her with your diseased touch and sweet words, your ROTTEN words, and stole her away!

His hands can be loud, even though his raving is silent, and this time he hits with the hand not carrying steel.

It is more satisfying that way, to feel skin and flesh and bone give way.

But I showed you. And you LIKED it.

He never ever thinks about it. Never.

But the Darkness does. The Darkness likes that memory. Sweet sweat and fear and pain. Yes.

[lexiromanov]

Clay cut him. Clay actually cut into him. Alex is going to blame his shock for his failure to evade the strike to his jaw. It's not like he's never felt blood trickling down his skin before but...

The hand that's touched the bleeding wound is flicked sending spatters of blood over the ground but his hand is still smeared. Alex's eyes raise and what he sees on the other man's face makes his stomach twist and his breath catch. The memory of the evening in his new office hits Alex just as surely as Clay's fist.

"Not this time." Alex throws his whole body weight, plowing his shoulder into Clay's gut so he's knocked off his feet and his head bounces off the asphalt. It's easier if he straddles Clay, easier to match this up with the vision of pretty David's swollen wrists and bleeding head than Alex being bent over his own desk.

[mute_clay]

But Clay isn't David. And whatever is looking out from Clay's eyes right now - himself, something else, something dark and old and mad - seems unconcerned with the fact, that Alex is in charge right now.

He may not be able to draw breath properly after having been knocked off his feet, but he doesn't need air to laugh.

Fool. You think you know - and you don't. You don't know SHIT!

He twists under Alex, trying to get him off of him.

[lexiromanov]

There might not be any sound to it, but Alex recognizes what Clay is putting across. Anger he expects, contempt is unacceptable.

"DON'T YOU LAUGH AT ME!" The scream is difficult to give voice to, a little too difficult. Clay's struggling is making Alex's lower rib-cage ache worse and another spurt of warmth runs down the inside of Alex's cut coat and shirt.

Alex hits out with a backhand before shouting as loud as his lungs can manage. "You're pathetic. There's nothing around here you've touched... that you can ever touch... that I can't fuck with," Alex taunts. "I scared Orlando out of his house. I had Ranuccio for the change in my pocket. I fucking owned your precious David... put in my apartment, my bed, fed him my drugs. Don't you laugh at me, you sorry son of a bitch."

sorry, repost, spelling mistakes

[mute_clay]

Clay's head snaps back as Alex's hand connects with his cheek. It leaves him dizzy but it does nothing to keep him from hearing exactly why Alex thinks that he wins this game.

There's a brief moment where everything is still and cold and dead. Inside of him and out.

And the he redouble his efforts, trying to take advantage of the weak side, the blood-smelling side -{ Blood - yes - yes - yes } - and get the other man off of him.

He hurt David.

It's a long time ago - but he hurt David.

And you defend your own. With fists and teeth and nails.

His mouth is open in a silent scream now - and he can feel the loosening inside. The roll of the absence of reason.

[lexiromanov]

The first impact isn't much to worry about but then Clay does something most people don't have the stomach for. An extended finger jabs in through the cut in Alex's coat, through the hole in his shirt and right into his pierced side and it hooks into flesh causing the most amazing flare of pain.

Alex's screech is high-pitched. He doesn't think much past scrambling off Clay and away from that bloody hand. Alex's frantic shove off and crab-walking back is inelegant and lopsided. One of Alex's hands slams hard against the wound and the other snatches after his back-up gun down at his ankle.

All the air has burned out of Alex lungs. No more taunting. That was a fucking mistake. He needs to kill Clay before the other man gets those meat-hooks he calls hands on Alex again.

[mute_clay]

The smell of blood is far more powerful now. Someone else's blood.

{- Yes! yesyesyes - red, thick - yes -}

The smile on Clay's face is no longer his own and he doesn't care. Doesn't care at all.

The Darkness doesn't understand weapons, guns and knives and such. It understands teeth and nails and knees and hands and that is what it tries to use, flinging the Flesh And Bone at the sick one, the wrong one.

And then She will come back. Yes. She will come back and the Darkness will hide and look at Her, and She will smile, yes. She will smile at the Flesh and Bone and then She'll smile at the Darkness too. Yes. Smile.

But first ...

Clay's fingers are rigid as he claws at Alex's face, ignoring that the other man is trying to get hold of a weapon. And his knowledge, his surety - she is coming back - is so loud. So, so loud. It blocks everything else.

[lexiromanov]

Alex is frightfully aware that he only has two hands. He wants to grab his gun. He needs to keep himself from bleeding out from the widened wound in his side. He should protect his face. Broken noses might heal, but Alex has his doubts that his nanites can grow back an eye that's been gouged out

[mute_clay]

The pain is sharp and sudden and the haze lifts a little from Clay's eyes as the taste of his own blood explodes in his mouth.

The kick connected with his shoulder first and then his face and that sound he is hearing might very well be the grinding of broken bones.

It drowns out any other sounds, that and the thundering beat of his heart, as he pushed away, to try and get out of the range of Alexander's boots.

The pain makes it hard to think, but it also makes it hard to not-think in a way. It wakes him up to the reality of the blood and the asphalt and the man in front of him. Even as he feels the coldness inside, the one that needs to make him run and scream. The one that just now made him want to dig into {- that one's -} Alexander's chest and gnaw at his heart.

[lexiromanov]

The rational thing to do, once he kicks free of clutching fingers would be to throw himself back toward the club where the security guards will step up to protect him and the staff will call for a doctor. The problem is that Alex isn't big on 'rational' when he's bleeding and in pain.

As fast as it would be over the longer term, the bike would be too slow to set up. It's faster, more instinctive to make a break for the darkness on foot. Away from the lights, away from the cameras... the soles of Alex's boot hit hard and he tears out the end of the alley that services the back of the nightclub. A screeching right turn followed by more twists and a dive under a chain-link fence gets Alex a little distance. Clay should be limping. It's too dark to see a blood trail.

Shoving himself into a crevice by a dumpster Alex holds his breath a moment to keep the sound of panting from giving him away.

[mute_clay]

He should take the chance. Grab it with both hands and bolt out of there as fast as he can.

But he doesn't.

The coldness inside is spreading again, forcing him to his knees and then his feet.

His jaw is throbbing as is the cut and the bruises and he is limping, one hand fumbling for the wall to help keep him upright.

But that is the flesh and bones.

Weak and tender and deaf, dumb, and blind. With a useless nose that doesn't pick up on important scents, and eyes that strain against the darkness of the alley.

Never try to pierce the darkness. That won't get you anywhere.

Become it.

Perhaps, the pain is from the barbed wire. The barbed wire that he has twisted around his - -

No wait. He didn't do that. Darkly did.

Clay shakes his head a little, as if to clear it, as he stumbles against a cold metal chain, blocking his way.

The wheezing breath may be caused by a broken or dislocated jaw and bruised ribs.

Then again, it may be caused by laughter.

[lexiromanov]

Clay's not far off. He's a near enough that his odd puffing breath seems to pound in Alex's ears. The chain-link hasn't rattled much, just on first impact. It could be the fence is enough to discourage Clay. Running at this point would be inviting the other man to chase him again and the searing pain in Alex side is telling him that running is going to be fucking uncomfortable for a few days.

So Alex crouches. One hand is pressed hard to the wound. The other hand is halfway cupped over Alex's own face to muffle sound and remind his stubborn body not to gasp for air. There's no way movement is going to be silent right now so Alex is beating on camouflage and the fact that Clay is hurt too. Of course, if it sounds like the links of the chain are lifting to allow a heavy body underneath... this rabbit is going to bolt again, bloody wound or not.

[mute_clay]

Metal.

Metal is confusing. It blocks his way and it takes a while before he seems to realize that he can lift it up.

For a while he just holds it, feeling the cool, smooth texture against broken, too-hot skin.

Breathing.

It hurts.

Pain is bad. It reminds him that this is dangerous, that Alex is dangerous.

His hands are wet with blood.

The chain rattles again, but there are no footsteps. Just the heavy breathing. A cough.

And then there's the faint notes of bird-song, sad and haunting. A blackbird.

She likes blackbirds. And she'll come home. She has to. Even if this makes his certainty slowly come apart.

Alex wouldn't have dared - he'd been told no, he'd been -

But she will. She will.

[lexiromanov]

The pause has given Alex enough time to gather together a few shreds of him wits. He's ready to slip on of his knives out as soon as it's safe to draw his hand away from his mouth... not his side. It's bleeding bad enough even with the pressure. Too much more and Alex is going to get light-headed. Running would mean a loss of blood, but fighting would too. Six of one, half dozen of the other. Mama Uritzski used to say that.

The chain rattling has him poised but it's the whistle that does it. It's the whistle that provokes Alex into drawing and flinging his blade, handle over tip, back towards the much hated noise. Not that's he's going to waste any time listening for the thunk of metal hitting flesh or even looking to see if the tool falls to the pavement.
A push upright, one that's far too close to a stumble, and Alex runs. It's what he does.