[ In the shadow of the football bleachers was not Farrah's first choice lunching location. He's still figuring out where is: it needs to be somewhere quiet, somewhere with good light but with shade, outdoors while the weather was still nice enough for it. He thought he'd found a perfect spot near the auditorium where there was a bench and overhang, but a group of locals had crowded around to smoke and talk too loud, so he'd wandered off to the bleachers instead.
They weren't bullying him, not really. There was more an air of impending harassment, as if they were testing out how easy it would be to push him around, what bothered him, and what they could get away with. Farrah had so far succeed in giving them little to go on by casually walking away or pretending he didn't understand what they were saying. Eventually they were going to realize that if he was fluent enough in english to be in advanced classes, then he's fluent enough to insult.
A crow joins him before long. Maybe the same crow he's seen during past lunches, or even the same one he's seen in his yard? The same flock at least, certainly been around enough to associate him with food, since Farrah tosses it a bit of whatever he has when he notices it.
He doesn't greet the bird aloud this time, seeing as he's in the middle of chewing a french fry when he notices it. Instead, he silently reaches into the paper bag with the rest of his food, withdraws a good sized fry, and flicks it in the crow's direction. A fry is probably as good for the bird as it is for him, but that's one solid upside of american schools- he gets to choose what he wants to eat. ]
[ The crow catches the fry in its beak, wolfing it down. Crows didn't have much in the way of tastebuds but hey, a french fry was a french fry.
He wasn't a crow for much longer. Next time Farrah looked away the crow would be gone and Flagg would be sitting in the bleachers a few feet away, crow feathers in his hair. No one else seemed to see him; if anyone passed too close they'd get a chill up their spine but they wouldn't look at him. He didn't want to be seen by anybody else, so he wouldn't be. ]
Now, I know that ignoring 'em is taking the high road, and all, but when one of those pricks finally comes in for the kill I'd suggest a quick punch in the jaw.
[ Like one of those cartoons with a tiny shoulder devil, he was always there to give some bad advice. Unfortunately, there was no shoulder angel to counter any of his points. ]
[ Farrah decides fairly quickly that the stranger is a hallucination. The boy jogging past didn't notice an adult man in full jeanswear sitting on the bleachers, so even if the feathers hadn't been enough of a clue, that could've done it.
Ah well. The most likely explanation is that whatever wires are crossed in his brain that makes him the way he is, has decided to replace the crow with a man. He's probably lucky that it took this long to start messing with his perception. It could be showing him things much worse.]
Wouldn't that- [ He abruptly shifts his volume down to near a whisper, self-conscious and uncertain if he is actually speaking aloud at all.] -risk breaking my hand?
[ Or is that something that happens only in fiction? Farrah takes the container of french fries out of the bag with the rest of his fast-food garbage, and puts it down on the seat nearest to him. He gives a quick nod towards it paired with a glance at the stranger/crow; he's welcome to help himself to them, whatever he is. ]
[ He laughs, loud and hearty, and leans back with his arms behind his head. Despite how loud he is, his presence still goes ignored by everyone else.
He reaches down to take another french fry. ] Only if you do it wrong. You've got to hold your hand like this - [ He makes a fist. ] - With your thumb on the outside. And lead with your knuckles.
[ He mimes throwing a punch, just to demonstrate. ] Or you could wait until your ten-year reunion when you're more successful than all of them, but that's no fun.
[ And most of 'em would be dead by then anyway, but he won't drop that little detail. ]
[ For quite a bit of the journey, Abigail didn't really know where she was going - she just kept putting one foot in front of the other, knowing she couldn't stay in her little town in Minnesota now that it was nothing more than a mausoleum and she was probably the only living person within fifty miles.
Even walking seven or eight hours a day, it takes her nearly three months to reach Flagg's city. At first it had been relatively simple, heading straight west on the highway all the way through South Dakota, covering a couple of hundred miles on a bike she could barely ride, stopping off at some of the tourist traps dotted through the plains and finding their empty silence surreal to the point of absurdity. She'd originally planned to swing south through Nebraska, figuring she'd have an easier time continuing with a flat landscape, but the closer she got to the border the more she was filled with a sense of dread, that someone or something antithetical to her very being was there, and going too close would surely mean the end of her. On through Wyoming and the Rockies it was, then - a far tougher path, especially for someone so small and slight as Abigail, but one that felt reassuring. A road that wouldn't be easy, but promised great reward at the end.
It was that first night in the mountains that she started having the dreams. She couldn't remember much when she woke, mostly a tall figure in the darkness, walking the path ahead of her in scuffed bootheels, compelling her to follow. The dreams came almost every night after that, and after yet another day on the road with her feet pounding and still feeling a million miles away from anywhere, she began to look forward to them.
One day, tripping over her own feet with how weary she is, she lets down her guard, not realising she's being followed. The three men had been travelling in the same direction anyway, perhaps pulled toward the same destination, but when they saw her trudging along, little more than a girl and all on her own, she quickly caught their attention. Cornered, she's certain there's no way out. Then, out of nowhere, a wolf leaps out of the shadows, snarling. Watching the beast tear out the men's throats is incredibly satisfying, though Abigail is sure she's next. But instead the wolf pads up to her, tugging at her sleeve and leading her to the safety of an abandoned National Parks hut, waiting nearby until she manages to fall asleep, feeling safe in its powerful presence. The dream she has that night is the most vivid one yet, and she wakes reinvigorated, knowing it's only a little longer now.
She's one of the last to arrive in Vegas, and at first she can't quite believe that there really are other people there, working together to build something new from the ruins of the old world. She's even more surprised by how friendly everyone seems, welcoming her in rather than moving her along, making it clear that there's a place for her here, if she's willing to pitch in and work. First things first, though - everyone new needs to be taken to meet the leader. And as soon as Abigail sets eyes on Flagg, she's certain he's the man she's dreamed of. ]
[ He's very tall, his smile is sharp, and there's something odd about the way the light almost seems to recoil from him, but his voice is soft and warm. He offers her a hand in greeting. ]
It must have been hard, all by yourself. [ He knows she wasn't truly alone, but his nebulous presence was only good for protection, not emotional support or companionship. Going from Minnesota to Vegas without a single friendly face alongside you was rough on anyone, let alone someone so young. ] Can I get you something to drink?
[ Abigail returns his smile, her own soft and shy and so, so grateful to him just for allowing her to be here, and takes his hand, still finding surreal to be in the company of other people after so long. ]
It was hard. [ That was an understatement. But even so, it had never felt impossible, and that probably was far more down to him than it was to her own efforts. ] But it was definitely worth it.
Thanks, but I'm not tw-- [ Not twenty-one yet, she's about to say, then realises how absurd it is to default to the arbitrary rules of a dead society. ] Actually, sure. That'd be nice, thank you.
[ When the Countess rolled into Vegas, it was in a Rolls Royce, packed with a stack of luggage bags and trunks. Natural immunity to disease and living on a Hellmouth make one especially apt to survive an apocalypse in style. And, in fact, she would have been happy enough to stay in LA, but the issue was rapidly becoming a severe shortage of food.
Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.
[ His room had nearly nothing in it. There's a bar with all the trimmings, and some unused kitchen appliances, but other than that it's a vast empty penthouse suite overlooking the city. Some would say he has no possessions. The clever ones would gather that he has possessions on a grander scale than chairs and tables; he has buildings and bodies and souls.
He regards her quietly, and smiles. ]
Oh, I know you. You're a hard one to miss. [ He does, sincerely, mean that as a compliment. And he knows her real name, too, but he'll call her The Countess if that's what she wants. You can be anyone in Vegas, baby, as long as it's not a traitor.
He takes her hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, kisses her right above the knuckles. She seems like the type to appreciate that type of old-fashioned formality that it was getting harder and harder to find nowadays. He's a little too warm, both his hands and his lips, but he's not sweaty or flushed with fever. Just the opposite: he's kind of pale. ] Just Flagg's fine. Or Randall, if you'd prefer.
[ Some people here called him 'Mr. Flagg' but they were too low on the totem pole to get any personal attention so he let it be. This one was special, somehow, in a way that was only half-clear to him, but he intended to tease the rest out. ]
Los Angeles to Las Vegas, huh? Not a long journey, but a hot and dry one. You must be parched.
[ He could use some neon wall art, something extra cheeky and ironic. She can envision a "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS" sign within eyeline of the front door. But even without fun novelty decor, she can feel a sense of ownership within the room -- ownership of the city rather than the hotel. Ownership of everything within the settlement.
He touches her and she feels her nerves light up, tingle at his warmth. She's the opposite, cold like marble, and she lets her fingers linger before she takes her hand back. There's a savoriness in her voice when she echoes his name. ]
Randall. You can't possibly imagine how thirsty I am. That's why I've come to Vegas. Well, that and to search for better company.
[ Her need to be away from those fucking ghosts cannot be overstated. It figures she wouldn't seriously need an exorcist until they're all dead.
Despite the fact that she came here with a clear agenda, her nature takes over and she reaches up to touch his face; he towers over her by more than a foot, and she does have to truly stretch her arm. ] You could cut diamonds with that jawline.
[ How long has it been since he's taken Michael under his wing? A couple months, maybe. Time's a little difficult for a man of his age to keep track of.
Most of his days were spent walking by the road. Sometimes he'd play with an unfortunate motorist. When they arrived at a city or town he might stop at the diner and leave a big, fat tip - or he might lean in and whisper something to the waiter that made their face go pale as they dropped their clipboard to the ground. He was unpredictable, acting on whatever mood he happened to be in.
If they slept it'd be in a motel or just outside. No one'd bother them any more than they'd poke a sleeping wolf.
He wasn't a teacher in the traditional sense; he never pulled out a magical book or gave him any spells to memorize. He preferred a more organic approach: let Michael decide what he wants to do and help him accomplish it. How much help he gave was dependent on his whims, too, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't tease the boy every now and then, but it was affectionate. His non-affectionate teasing, the kind he did with unsuspecting regular folks, ended in bloodbaths.
Tonight he's been staring up at the sky, still as a statue, for over an hour now. He's done this before, but never for this long. ]
Something's coming. Something real big.
[ His voice cuts the silence like a knife. There's a soft-spoken, almost reverent tone in his voice. Clairvoyance was never his strongest ability, it came when it wanted and was never perfectly clear, but this time the message was strong enough that he could feel it in his bones. ]
[ Things are far more different around Flagg than he'd anticipated. With the dramatic entrance he'd given, there had been so many possibilities that he hadn't been able to fathom. A creature dark enough to set his own demonic heart racing with dread. Someone untouchable.
His teaching style isn't with books or lessons, rather letting Michael call the shots and helping him along the way. He's learned more than he thought he might at the beginning. He's learned to see things differently, certainly, and his confidence has been bolstered from the support. Not without its barbs, Flagg does love to tease him mercilessly, but now that he's used to it, it doesn't ruffle his feathers quite so much. It's never been malicious.
Michael has his nose in a book when Flagg's voice breaks the silence. His attention immediately turns to his mentor, tipping his chin skyward to see what he sees. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the ability to see what will become, only visions of grandeur. As he pays closer attention to the heavens, he thinks he can feel it, too. Not a loud and booming presence of knowing what it is, but like an itch at the back of his head. How animals might feel just before a storm. ]
[ He laughs, high pitched and giddy. He's had moments like this before but they're few and far between, a rare treat to indulge in. The world he plucked Michael from had a similar feel to it right before the end, but he was always a guest there. Other sorts of darkness had already established themselves and taken hold of it.
This world? Was ripe for the taking, and he was beginning to understand why he'd settled down here. ]
We're going back to California. [ It wouldn't be too long of a walk. They were in Idaho, last he checked, and they may have slipped into Oregon by now. ] Ninety-nine point four percent fatal. Ninety-nine point four.
[ He hums those words like a nursery rhyme as he starts to walk, not entirely sure of what they refer to but he sure likes the sound of it. What were these mortal morons toying with that could be that dangerous? Time would tell, he supposed. Time would tell. ]
[ Flagg growls when Lloyd moans, low and inhuman. He absolutely sees something he likes, and having Lloyd underneath him like this - all dazed and relaxed and vulnerable - is filling him with that monstrous hunger he's never been good at holding back.
He strokes his cheek, eyes dark and unblinking as he grins. A single string of blood drips from his lips onto Lloyd's exposed collarbone. ] I could tear you apart.
[ He leans down and takes Lloyd's short between his teeth, ripping it off with discomforting ease. A man's teeth couldn't shred like that, but Flagg was no man.
All the better to eat you with, my dead, he thinks, and laughs under his breath at his own unsaid joke.
But he's had his fill of blood and flesh for the night. The sustenance he craves is of a different sort, the kind that Lloyd is just so good at providing. Even the Big Bad Wolf needs some lovin' every now and then. Monsters ain't free of carnal desire, ya dig? ]
But I'll be gentle, don't worry your pretty little head. [ As gentle as he was capable of being, which wasn't too much. ] How much do you want me, Lloyd Henreid?
[ That growl sends a shiver up his spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A smarter and possibly soberer man would recognize the danger for what it is- it's not that he doesn't know what kind of man Flagg is. He's witnessed firsthand what he's capable of, knows he's shaken the devil's hand. Among other things.. ]
Please. [ It wouldn't take much of anything to tear him to ribbons. Lloyd whines in protest as his shirt is ripped, though he knows it's replaceable, he liked that one. His hands slide reverently up Flagg's arms and over his shoulders. He would worship him however he asked if only to keep the intensity of this man's attention.
He cranes his head upward so he can lick at the blood smeared on his face. ]
Want you so much, feels like I'm on fire. [ Sure, he's drunk off his ass and Flagg is a furnace, but there's always the burning need to prove he's worthy and show him how good he can be. ]
[ That's about the level of adoration he wants (expects) from Lloyd, and he can feel the adulation pool in his chest. One person's devotion wouldn't usually be able to empower him so much, but they are quite close, and Lloyd is very devoted.
He strokes his hair, like a little pet. ]
Aw, sweetheart, I'll show you fire. [ He unzips his jeans with one hand, pulling out his cock with the other as he adjusts his position so his knees are on either side of Lloyd's hips, and he lets his cock rest on his right hand man's now-bare navel. Crimson-tipped and sinister and hotter than the rest of him, even soft the sight of it - the feel of it - would make a normal man hesitate some.
But worship does funny things, makes you crave what you shouldn't. For every person who's repulsed by him there's another that's drawn in like a moth to a flame. Better to embrace what burns ya than subject yourself to the cold emptiness of its loss. ]
D'you really want me?
[ He thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock further up Lloyd's chest. Bless his simple heart, the boy needs a hint sometimes, so he takes him by the wrist and sets his hand over his shaft, right below the tip. ]
[ Being nuked was a damn nasty way to go out. It took Flagg who knows how many years to pull himself together; all he knows is by the time he finally makes it back to the Vegas-that-was the dust and debris had all settled down. Buried deep within the part of him that was still human, there was an ache in his heart that came from standing on the bones of his old kingdom. If you weren't there you'd never know it was a city at all, it had been so thoroughly leveled.
It wasn't the former city that called out to him now, but rather a small fragment of something else he'd lost. He crouches down where the feeling hits him hardest, his fingers rifling through the sand and debris until he pulled out a small black stone with a red flaw.
Lloyd's. No doubt, all that was left of him.
Reviving someone without so much as a single bone to work with would be a difficult task, but it was worth a try. The stone contained something that bound them both together, so it could be done.
He stands still and squeezes the stone with both hands, whispering words he'd read in some forbidden tome centuries back. Words that'd drive most ordinary men to madness if they were around to hear them. A small pulse emanates from the stone. He squeezes harder, inhuman language rolling off his tongue smooth as silk. A strange liquid starts to drip from his clenched hands, mostly black but with some bright swirls of red as the rock melts away and begins to reform. It moves and shifts of its own free will, growing larger and larger until there's nothing left of the stone in Flagg's hands.
A great dark portal yawns out in front of him. He plunges a hand in, feeling around for any sign of life. It occurs to him, briefly, that trying to summon Lloyd in the same way he'd summon up some fellow creature from Todash space might have some strange effects on the boy, but it was that or nothing. Being revived as he'd revive a regular human required a partial body and Lloyd didn't have any remains.
His hand finds another in the darkness, limp and cold. He grasps it, his warmth spreading throughout the other body until it started to stir with life that wasn't quite right - a little too warm to be a completely human, just like him - but was life all the same.
He starts to pull away from the portal, Lloyd's hand clasped in his own. Then came the rest of him, naked and drenched in what could only be described as liquid shadow. Flagg'd conjure up some clothes for him. Maybe one of those tacky colorful shirts he liked so much.
(He'll be angry, Flagg thinks. Patience isn't his strong suit, compassion even less so, but he's trying to prepare himself for an adverse reaction.)
The portal closes up into nothingness, leaving Flagg and Lloyd alone in the desolated New Vegas. He cups Lloyd's face in one hand, looking him in the eyes as they go from glassy and vacant to bright and aware. Good, there's a soul in there after all. ]
Howdy, Lloyd.
[ If Lloyd was gonna freak out, he was gonna freak out whether or not Flagg started rambling off some long explanation, so may as well leave it at 'howdy' for now and give the real juicy details when he's calmed the fuck down. ]
[ His death had been instantaneous, that much was certain. Anything that happened after wasn't his problem. Their empire had kind of been fucked out from under their feet. He doesn't know where the hell he went after.. there wasn't really anything. Just non-existence. Certainly no damn afterlife.
And then there's awareness. It starts off with the feeling of being present, but not where. Like being on the edge of sleep and trying to chase it down again. Vast darkness is next, and it feels both hot and cold. He feels it down to his core, alighting his veins like the sweetest addictive poison.
Everything happens all at once, like staring at a pinprick of light at the end of a tunnel and coming out the other side, half-blinded. His chest shudders with a gasp and he can feel his limbs trembling, his skin feeling too hot and wet. He can only describe it in his head like being covered in jelly. Vision coming into focus, Flagg commands all of his attention as he always does. Did. No. No no, fuck this. Fuck him. He was dead and he never fucking asked him-- ]
Asshole! [ He doesn't really think about it before he does it, shoving at Flagg's chest with both hands in protest. He shuffles back a few feet, not really trusting his legs to take him further, hands clenching into fists and expression full of fury. ]
I-- how-- what the fuck did you do t' me?! [ Lloyd points an accusatory finger at the man who always seems to loom over everything. His savior and his undoing. His eyes dart around, only now noticing the total destruction surrounding them, the wind of anger leaving him in a bluster of confusion. What the fuck? ]
[ It stings more than he expects when Lloyd gets angry at him. His lips curl into a snarl when he's shoved back, but he manages to keep himself from snapping. The last thing he needs to do is scare Lloyd off.
He stares down at the wet handprints on his shirt, and regards Lloyd with some curiosity. There's a warmth to his touch that would suggest, in most humans, a fever so high that it's fatal, but Lloyd doesn't seem to be in pain. ]
Hm. [ He steps forward and touches Lloyd's cheek, leaving his hand there for as long as he would let him without recoiling. Still warm. And there was something else that shouldn't be there, too. Something both familiar (in that he carries it with him all the time) and alien (in that he's never felt it in anybody else).
Could it be -
Some weirdness was to be expected when someone was so thoroughly obliterated that an entirely new body had to be created for them. And, come to think of it, as much as the stone had a little bit of Lloyd inside of it, it had a little bit of Flagg, too. It was funny, really, that if Lloyd had to come back a little less human he'd be a little less human in this specific way. Lloyd might not find it so funny. Flagg would leave the subject alone until Lloyd realized something was off and brought it up himself. ] I brought you back from the dead, my friend, and if you don't have a 'thank you' in ya right now, that's alright.
[ He's trying, god is he trying, to muster up some patience for someone else for what might be the first time in centuries. His grin is tense and carries some malice with it (how dare you speak to me that way) but fuck, he's trying. ]
D'you want some help getting cleaned up or do you fancy walking around the wasteland covered in muck?
[ Was he upset that Nadine wouldn't lay with him the night they met? Yes, but he took her home to rest and skulked off to have his little tantrum in the middle of nowhere while she slept.
She just needed some time to get used to his presence, that was all. He knew he could be somewhat overwhelming. He could stroll into any dive bar in America back before the plague and have his pick of willing partners, but they were all far down the path of the Red before they met him. Nadine was different. Of course it would take some time. He waits for her to give him a sign before he initiates again and this time his advances are welcomed.
He kicks off his boots and throws his jacket to the ground, climbing on top of Nadine in bed with his shirt half-unbuttoned. He's not hard yet; he learned his lesson from last time and is making sure she can actually stand to touch his cock before he gets himself all worked up. ]
You alright? [ He leans down and kisses her on the neck, his teeth tearing through one of the straps on her nightgown. Good thing there plenty more nightgowns where that came from. ]
[Maybe it had been foolish to put Randall off. After all, Nadine had been thinking about and anticipating it since she was somewhere in the middle of her teen years. A few romance novels stolen off a bookshelf had inflamed her imagination and the promise of what was waiting only inspired further consideration.
But fantasies and imaginings and erotic stories weren't reality. Even meetings in some unnamed dreamspace weren't reality, only a facsimile of it. She hadn't expected it to feel so different, meeting him in the flesh of the waking world, how different it would feel from the fantasy. How was it possible for him to be both her closest and most intimate companion...and a stranger at the same time?
And part of it had been some strange, primal fear she couldn't quite tamp down. Also foolish, what reason had he ever given her to fear him? Further proven by his obvious displeasure but lack of pressing the matter. And that lingering fear faded, the powerful sense of him turning familiar. Appealing, even.
Now...now she simply wants him. She's waited long enough. Oh there's a certain nervous sort of kin to fear, but she supposes that's to be expected. She's a virgin, what dabbling in the sexual realm she's indulged in...lacking. But it's thrilling, in its way, as she waits for him in bed. The thrill only grows stronger as she watches him casually begin to undress. He's ridiculously handsome, to be quite honest. All chiseled angles and lean muscles. She can feel the strength of him as he joins her, his scent filling her senses as he covers her.]
Mmhmm.
[The brush of his beard and whisper of teeth against her skin sends a little shiver through her, and she reaches for him, hands on his shoulders to draw him to her rather than push him away.]
[ He unbuttons the rest of his chambray shirt and tosses it onto the floor, letting her touch his firm, bare shoulders. He's too hot in some ways and too cold in others but his appearance can't be faulted. ]
Nadine, Nadine, my queen. [ He speaks rhythmically as he fumbles with his heavy belt buckle, undoing it and pulling out his still-soft cock. There's something not quite right about it, whether it's the deep crimson head or the fact that just looking at it is enough to get a chill down your spine, but if you were in the mood for it it could be a blessing as much as a curse. ]
How bad d'you want me?
[ He bucks his hips forward a little, a not-so-subtle hint that if she wanted him she was going to have to get him going. ]
[ He's almost impressed that someone - or rather, a group of someones - has actually been able to capture him after all this time. Usually they just kill him if they find him in a vulnerable position, but apparently he's forgotten to change up his appearance enough because someone figured it out that he keeps coming back if they just kill him.
Trapping him and keeping him in this dungeon like an animal, however, could last indefinitely. Still, he sits and grins whenever one of his captors enters the room to make sure he eats something and doesn't starve himself to death so he can regenerate elsewhere. He's muzzled so he can't bite, but his sharp, white teeth can be seen through the slots they've so generously given him so he can eat without removing it.
There's a heavy metal collar around his neck chained to the wall, and his arms and legs are shackled as well. He can't stand up straight nor lay down with the length of the chains, and there's no doubt in his mind that being forced to sit hunched over like this is an intentional sort of torture.
He's clearly still taller than almost any human. His red eyes reflect light like the eyes of an animal, and his shaggy black hair hangs down to his back. He growls under his breath when someone enters, staring at the person they've sent down to him this time. ]
It's Nadine, right? I heard you talking outside.
[ His powers may be muted here, but there's still a certain sort of chill that fills the room when he speaks someone's name. Frightening, but in a way that - against your better judgement - makes you want more. A name on his lips is cold as ice and sweet as sugar all at once.
They're not supposed to talk to him. Everyone has been briefed about the dangers of conversing with the Dark Man. But that doesn't mean he can't try. ]
[There is no joy taken in this particular task. Nadine thinks she'd be very happy to never have to go into this dark little room, to never even look into it's dim cold. She knows what's in here, knows what he's capable of - to an extent. They say he's been neutralized but...
It isn't up to her, though. And even he needs to eat, to be tended to. Powerful as he is he's still a living creature with a living creature's needs. To withhold them would be cruelty and Nadine doesn't condone cruelty. Even towards something like this.
She hesitates in the doorway, tray of food held in her hands. There are rules. Don't engage, don't listen, don't talk to him. Ignore whatever he may say.
Still...her eyes go to him when he speaks her name. Some little jolt goes through her, a primal sort of electric current that makes her fingers tighten on the tray. He does look a monster, something close to human but not quite. Nadine swallows thickly, throat tight, fear following that little jolt of something. She takes a hesitant step deeper into the cell, trying to pull her eyes away from the dark figure contained here but finding herself unable to....]
[ There we go. He smiles, running his tongue over his teeth. He hasn't been able to get any of the others to look at him so intently, but none of them have said their names within earshot. Whoever she was talking to outside did her no favors.
Or maybe they did her all the favor in the world. Who knows.
He stares at her, his eyes gleaming like hot coals. ] The mind can starve as much as the body can, Nadine. Even an animal would go mad in a cage like this.
[ He's not actually worried about that, he's as mad as he'll ever be, but it's a good conversation starter. A good excuse for some name repetition. ]
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They weren't bullying him, not really. There was more an air of impending harassment, as if they were testing out how easy it would be to push him around, what bothered him, and what they could get away with. Farrah had so far succeed in giving them little to go on by casually walking away or pretending he didn't understand what they were saying. Eventually they were going to realize that if he was fluent enough in english to be in advanced classes, then he's fluent enough to insult.
A crow joins him before long. Maybe the same crow he's seen during past lunches, or even the same one he's seen in his yard? The same flock at least, certainly been around enough to associate him with food, since Farrah tosses it a bit of whatever he has when he notices it.
He doesn't greet the bird aloud this time, seeing as he's in the middle of chewing a french fry when he notices it. Instead, he silently reaches into the paper bag with the rest of his food, withdraws a good sized fry, and flicks it in the crow's direction. A fry is probably as good for the bird as it is for him, but that's one solid upside of american schools- he gets to choose what he wants to eat. ]
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He wasn't a crow for much longer. Next time Farrah looked away the crow would be gone and Flagg would be sitting in the bleachers a few feet away, crow feathers in his hair. No one else seemed to see him; if anyone passed too close they'd get a chill up their spine but they wouldn't look at him. He didn't want to be seen by anybody else, so he wouldn't be. ]
Now, I know that ignoring 'em is taking the high road, and all, but when one of those pricks finally comes in for the kill I'd suggest a quick punch in the jaw.
[ Like one of those cartoons with a tiny shoulder devil, he was always there to give some bad advice. Unfortunately, there was no shoulder angel to counter any of his points. ]
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Ah well. The most likely explanation is that whatever wires are crossed in his brain that makes him the way he is, has decided to replace the crow with a man. He's probably lucky that it took this long to start messing with his perception. It could be showing him things much worse.]
Wouldn't that- [ He abruptly shifts his volume down to near a whisper, self-conscious and uncertain if he is actually speaking aloud at all.] -risk breaking my hand?
[ Or is that something that happens only in fiction? Farrah takes the container of french fries out of the bag with the rest of his fast-food garbage, and puts it down on the seat nearest to him. He gives a quick nod towards it paired with a glance at the stranger/crow; he's welcome to help himself to them, whatever he is. ]
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He reaches down to take another french fry. ] Only if you do it wrong. You've got to hold your hand like this - [ He makes a fist. ] - With your thumb on the outside. And lead with your knuckles.
[ He mimes throwing a punch, just to demonstrate. ] Or you could wait until your ten-year reunion when you're more successful than all of them, but that's no fun.
[ And most of 'em would be dead by then anyway, but he won't drop that little detail. ]
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Even walking seven or eight hours a day, it takes her nearly three months to reach Flagg's city. At first it had been relatively simple, heading straight west on the highway all the way through South Dakota, covering a couple of hundred miles on a bike she could barely ride, stopping off at some of the tourist traps dotted through the plains and finding their empty silence surreal to the point of absurdity. She'd originally planned to swing south through Nebraska, figuring she'd have an easier time continuing with a flat landscape, but the closer she got to the border the more she was filled with a sense of dread, that someone or something antithetical to her very being was there, and going too close would surely mean the end of her. On through Wyoming and the Rockies it was, then - a far tougher path, especially for someone so small and slight as Abigail, but one that felt reassuring. A road that wouldn't be easy, but promised
great reward at the end.
It was that first night in the mountains that she started having the dreams. She couldn't remember much when she woke, mostly a tall figure in the darkness, walking the path ahead of her in scuffed bootheels, compelling her to follow. The dreams came almost every night after that, and after yet another day on the road with her feet pounding and still feeling a million miles away from anywhere, she began to look forward to them.
One day, tripping over her own feet with how weary she is, she lets down her guard, not realising she's being followed. The three men had been travelling in the same direction anyway, perhaps pulled toward the same destination, but when they saw her trudging along, little more than a girl and all on her own, she quickly caught their attention. Cornered, she's certain there's no way out. Then, out of nowhere, a wolf leaps out of the shadows, snarling. Watching the beast tear out the men's throats is incredibly satisfying, though Abigail is sure she's next. But instead the wolf pads up to her, tugging at her sleeve and leading her to the safety of an abandoned National Parks hut, waiting nearby until she manages to fall asleep, feeling safe in its powerful presence. The dream she has that night is the most vivid one yet, and she wakes reinvigorated, knowing it's only a little longer now.
She's one of the last to arrive in Vegas, and at first she can't quite believe that there really are other people there, working together to build something new from the ruins of the old world. She's even more surprised by how friendly everyone seems, welcoming her in rather than moving her along, making it clear that there's a place for her here, if she's willing to pitch in and work. First things first, though - everyone new needs to be taken to meet the leader. And as soon as Abigail sets eyes on Flagg, she's certain he's the man she's dreamed of. ]
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[ He's very tall, his smile is sharp, and there's something odd about the way the light almost seems to recoil from him, but his voice is soft and warm. He offers her a hand in greeting. ]
It must have been hard, all by yourself. [ He knows she wasn't truly alone, but his nebulous presence was only good for protection, not emotional support or companionship. Going from Minnesota to Vegas without a single friendly face alongside you was rough on anyone, let alone someone so young. ] Can I get you something to drink?
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It was hard. [ That was an understatement. But even so, it had never felt impossible, and that probably was far more down to him than it was to her own efforts. ] But it was definitely worth it.
Thanks, but I'm not tw-- [ Not twenty-one yet, she's about to say, then realises how absurd it is to default to the arbitrary rules of a dead society. ] Actually, sure. That'd be nice, thank you.
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Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.
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He regards her quietly, and smiles. ]
Oh, I know you. You're a hard one to miss. [ He does, sincerely, mean that as a compliment. And he knows her real name, too, but he'll call her The Countess if that's what she wants. You can be anyone in Vegas, baby, as long as it's not a traitor.
He takes her hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, kisses her right above the knuckles. She seems like the type to appreciate that type of old-fashioned formality that it was getting harder and harder to find nowadays. He's a little too warm, both his hands and his lips, but he's not sweaty or flushed with fever. Just the opposite: he's kind of pale. ] Just Flagg's fine. Or Randall, if you'd prefer.
[ Some people here called him 'Mr. Flagg' but they were too low on the totem pole to get any personal attention so he let it be. This one was special, somehow, in a way that was only half-clear to him, but he intended to tease the rest out. ]
Los Angeles to Las Vegas, huh? Not a long journey, but a hot and dry one. You must be parched.
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He touches her and she feels her nerves light up, tingle at his warmth. She's the opposite, cold like marble, and she lets her fingers linger before she takes her hand back. There's a savoriness in her voice when she echoes his name. ]
Randall. You can't possibly imagine how thirsty I am. That's why I've come to Vegas. Well, that and to search for better company.
[ Her need to be away from those fucking ghosts cannot be overstated. It figures she wouldn't seriously need an exorcist until they're all dead.
Despite the fact that she came here with a clear agenda, her nature takes over and she reaches up to touch his face; he towers over her by more than a foot, and she does have to truly stretch her arm. ] You could cut diamonds with that jawline.
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for michael;
Most of his days were spent walking by the road. Sometimes he'd play with an unfortunate motorist. When they arrived at a city or town he might stop at the diner and leave a big, fat tip - or he might lean in and whisper something to the waiter that made their face go pale as they dropped their clipboard to the ground. He was unpredictable, acting on whatever mood he happened to be in.
If they slept it'd be in a motel or just outside. No one'd bother them any more than they'd poke a sleeping wolf.
He wasn't a teacher in the traditional sense; he never pulled out a magical book or gave him any spells to memorize. He preferred a more organic approach: let Michael decide what he wants to do and help him accomplish it. How much help he gave was dependent on his whims, too, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't tease the boy every now and then, but it was affectionate. His non-affectionate teasing, the kind he did with unsuspecting regular folks, ended in bloodbaths.
Tonight he's been staring up at the sky, still as a statue, for over an hour now. He's done this before, but never for this long. ]
Something's coming. Something real big.
[ His voice cuts the silence like a knife. There's a soft-spoken, almost reverent tone in his voice. Clairvoyance was never his strongest ability, it came when it wanted and was never perfectly clear, but this time the message was strong enough that he could feel it in his bones. ]
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His teaching style isn't with books or lessons, rather letting Michael call the shots and helping him along the way. He's learned more than he thought he might at the beginning. He's learned to see things differently, certainly, and his confidence has been bolstered from the support. Not without its barbs, Flagg does love to tease him mercilessly, but now that he's used to it, it doesn't ruffle his feathers quite so much. It's never been malicious.
Michael has his nose in a book when Flagg's voice breaks the silence. His attention immediately turns to his mentor, tipping his chin skyward to see what he sees. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the ability to see what will become, only visions of grandeur. As he pays closer attention to the heavens, he thinks he can feel it, too. Not a loud and booming presence of knowing what it is, but like an itch at the back of his head. How animals might feel just before a storm. ]
Big for us, or big for them?
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[ He laughs, high pitched and giddy. He's had moments like this before but they're few and far between, a rare treat to indulge in. The world he plucked Michael from had a similar feel to it right before the end, but he was always a guest there. Other sorts of darkness had already established themselves and taken hold of it.
This world? Was ripe for the taking, and he was beginning to understand why he'd settled down here. ]
We're going back to California. [ It wouldn't be too long of a walk. They were in Idaho, last he checked, and they may have slipped into Oregon by now. ] Ninety-nine point four percent fatal. Ninety-nine point four.
[ He hums those words like a nursery rhyme as he starts to walk, not entirely sure of what they refer to but he sure likes the sound of it. What were these mortal morons toying with that could be that dangerous? Time would tell, he supposed. Time would tell. ]
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nsfw;
[ Flagg growls when Lloyd moans, low and inhuman. He absolutely sees something he likes, and having Lloyd underneath him like this - all dazed and relaxed and vulnerable - is filling him with that monstrous hunger he's never been good at holding back.
He strokes his cheek, eyes dark and unblinking as he grins. A single string of blood drips from his lips onto Lloyd's exposed collarbone. ] I could tear you apart.
[ He leans down and takes Lloyd's short between his teeth, ripping it off with discomforting ease. A man's teeth couldn't shred like that, but Flagg was no man.
All the better to eat you with, my dead, he thinks, and laughs under his breath at his own unsaid joke.
But he's had his fill of blood and flesh for the night. The sustenance he craves is of a different sort, the kind that Lloyd is just so good at providing. Even the Big Bad Wolf needs some lovin' every now and then. Monsters ain't free of carnal desire, ya dig? ]
But I'll be gentle, don't worry your pretty little head. [ As gentle as he was capable of being, which wasn't too much. ] How much do you want me, Lloyd Henreid?
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Please. [ It wouldn't take much of anything to tear him to ribbons. Lloyd whines in protest as his shirt is ripped, though he knows it's replaceable, he liked that one. His hands slide reverently up Flagg's arms and over his shoulders. He would worship him however he asked if only to keep the intensity of this man's attention.
He cranes his head upward so he can lick at the blood smeared on his face. ]
Want you so much, feels like I'm on fire. [ Sure, he's drunk off his ass and Flagg is a furnace, but there's always the burning need to prove he's worthy and show him how good he can be. ]
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He strokes his hair, like a little pet. ]
Aw, sweetheart, I'll show you fire. [ He unzips his jeans with one hand, pulling out his cock with the other as he adjusts his position so his knees are on either side of Lloyd's hips, and he lets his cock rest on his right hand man's now-bare navel. Crimson-tipped and sinister and hotter than the rest of him, even soft the sight of it - the feel of it - would make a normal man hesitate some.
But worship does funny things, makes you crave what you shouldn't. For every person who's repulsed by him there's another that's drawn in like a moth to a flame. Better to embrace what burns ya than subject yourself to the cold emptiness of its loss. ]
D'you really want me?
[ He thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock further up Lloyd's chest. Bless his simple heart, the boy needs a hint sometimes, so he takes him by the wrist and sets his hand over his shaft, right below the tip. ]
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It wasn't the former city that called out to him now, but rather a small fragment of something else he'd lost. He crouches down where the feeling hits him hardest, his fingers rifling through the sand and debris until he pulled out a small black stone with a red flaw.
Lloyd's. No doubt, all that was left of him.
Reviving someone without so much as a single bone to work with would be a difficult task, but it was worth a try. The stone contained something that bound them both together, so it could be done.
He stands still and squeezes the stone with both hands, whispering words he'd read in some forbidden tome centuries back. Words that'd drive most ordinary men to madness if they were around to hear them. A small pulse emanates from the stone. He squeezes harder, inhuman language rolling off his tongue smooth as silk. A strange liquid starts to drip from his clenched hands, mostly black but with some bright swirls of red as the rock melts away and begins to reform. It moves and shifts of its own free will, growing larger and larger until there's nothing left of the stone in Flagg's hands.
A great dark portal yawns out in front of him. He plunges a hand in, feeling around for any sign of life. It occurs to him, briefly, that trying to summon Lloyd in the same way he'd summon up some fellow creature from Todash space might have some strange effects on the boy, but it was that or nothing. Being revived as he'd revive a regular human required a partial body and Lloyd didn't have any remains.
His hand finds another in the darkness, limp and cold. He grasps it, his warmth spreading throughout the other body until it started to stir with life that wasn't quite right - a little too warm to be a completely human, just like him - but was life all the same.
He starts to pull away from the portal, Lloyd's hand clasped in his own. Then came the rest of him, naked and drenched in what could only be described as liquid shadow. Flagg'd conjure up some clothes for him. Maybe one of those tacky colorful shirts he liked so much.
(He'll be angry, Flagg thinks. Patience isn't his strong suit, compassion even less so, but he's trying to prepare himself for an adverse reaction.)
The portal closes up into nothingness, leaving Flagg and Lloyd alone in the desolated New Vegas. He cups Lloyd's face in one hand, looking him in the eyes as they go from glassy and vacant to bright and aware. Good, there's a soul in there after all. ]
Howdy, Lloyd.
[ If Lloyd was gonna freak out, he was gonna freak out whether or not Flagg started rambling off some long explanation, so may as well leave it at 'howdy' for now and give the real juicy details when he's calmed the fuck down. ]
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And then there's awareness. It starts off with the feeling of being present, but not where. Like being on the edge of sleep and trying to chase it down again. Vast darkness is next, and it feels both hot and cold. He feels it down to his core, alighting his veins like the sweetest addictive poison.
Everything happens all at once, like staring at a pinprick of light at the end of a tunnel and coming out the other side, half-blinded. His chest shudders with a gasp and he can feel his limbs trembling, his skin feeling too hot and wet. He can only describe it in his head like being covered in jelly. Vision coming into focus, Flagg commands all of his attention as he always does. Did. No. No no, fuck this. Fuck him. He was dead and he never fucking asked him-- ]
Asshole! [ He doesn't really think about it before he does it, shoving at Flagg's chest with both hands in protest. He shuffles back a few feet, not really trusting his legs to take him further, hands clenching into fists and expression full of fury. ]
I-- how-- what the fuck did you do t' me?! [ Lloyd points an accusatory finger at the man who always seems to loom over everything. His savior and his undoing. His eyes dart around, only now noticing the total destruction surrounding them, the wind of anger leaving him in a bluster of confusion. What the fuck? ]
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He stares down at the wet handprints on his shirt, and regards Lloyd with some curiosity. There's a warmth to his touch that would suggest, in most humans, a fever so high that it's fatal, but Lloyd doesn't seem to be in pain. ]
Hm. [ He steps forward and touches Lloyd's cheek, leaving his hand there for as long as he would let him without recoiling. Still warm. And there was something else that shouldn't be there, too. Something both familiar (in that he carries it with him all the time) and alien (in that he's never felt it in anybody else).
Could it be -
Some weirdness was to be expected when someone was so thoroughly obliterated that an entirely new body had to be created for them. And, come to think of it, as much as the stone had a little bit of Lloyd inside of it, it had a little bit of Flagg, too. It was funny, really, that if Lloyd had to come back a little less human he'd be a little less human in this specific way. Lloyd might not find it so funny. Flagg would leave the subject alone until Lloyd realized something was off and brought it up himself. ] I brought you back from the dead, my friend, and if you don't have a 'thank you' in ya right now, that's alright.
[ He's trying, god is he trying, to muster up some patience for someone else for what might be the first time in centuries. His grin is tense and carries some malice with it (how dare you speak to me that way) but fuck, he's trying. ]
D'you want some help getting cleaned up or do you fancy walking around the wasteland covered in muck?
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for nadine, nsfw
She just needed some time to get used to his presence, that was all. He knew he could be somewhat overwhelming. He could stroll into any dive bar in America back before the plague and have his pick of willing partners, but they were all far down the path of the Red before they met him. Nadine was different. Of course it would take some time. He waits for her to give him a sign before he initiates again and this time his advances are welcomed.
He kicks off his boots and throws his jacket to the ground, climbing on top of Nadine in bed with his shirt half-unbuttoned. He's not hard yet; he learned his lesson from last time and is making sure she can actually stand to touch his cock before he gets himself all worked up. ]
You alright? [ He leans down and kisses her on the neck, his teeth tearing through one of the straps on her nightgown. Good thing there plenty more nightgowns where that came from. ]
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But fantasies and imaginings and erotic stories weren't reality. Even meetings in some unnamed dreamspace weren't reality, only a facsimile of it. She hadn't expected it to feel so different, meeting him in the flesh of the waking world, how different it would feel from the fantasy. How was it possible for him to be both her closest and most intimate companion...and a stranger at the same time?
And part of it had been some strange, primal fear she couldn't quite tamp down. Also foolish, what reason had he ever given her to fear him? Further proven by his obvious displeasure but lack of pressing the matter. And that lingering fear faded, the powerful sense of him turning familiar. Appealing, even.
Now...now she simply wants him. She's waited long enough. Oh there's a certain nervous sort of kin to fear, but she supposes that's to be expected. She's a virgin, what dabbling in the sexual realm she's indulged in...lacking. But it's thrilling, in its way, as she waits for him in bed. The thrill only grows stronger as she watches him casually begin to undress. He's ridiculously handsome, to be quite honest. All chiseled angles and lean muscles. She can feel the strength of him as he joins her, his scent filling her senses as he covers her.]
Mmhmm.
[The brush of his beard and whisper of teeth against her skin sends a little shiver through her, and she reaches for him, hands on his shoulders to draw him to her rather than push him away.]
I want you.
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Nadine, Nadine, my queen. [ He speaks rhythmically as he fumbles with his heavy belt buckle, undoing it and pulling out his still-soft cock. There's something not quite right about it, whether it's the deep crimson head or the fact that just looking at it is enough to get a chill down your spine, but if you were in the mood for it it could be a blessing as much as a curse. ]
How bad d'you want me?
[ He bucks his hips forward a little, a not-so-subtle hint that if she wanted him she was going to have to get him going. ]
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monsterfucking ahoy;
Trapping him and keeping him in this dungeon like an animal, however, could last indefinitely. Still, he sits and grins whenever one of his captors enters the room to make sure he eats something and doesn't starve himself to death so he can regenerate elsewhere. He's muzzled so he can't bite, but his sharp, white teeth can be seen through the slots they've so generously given him so he can eat without removing it.
There's a heavy metal collar around his neck chained to the wall, and his arms and legs are shackled as well. He can't stand up straight nor lay down with the length of the chains, and there's no doubt in his mind that being forced to sit hunched over like this is an intentional sort of torture.
He's clearly still taller than almost any human. His red eyes reflect light like the eyes of an animal, and his shaggy black hair hangs down to his back. He growls under his breath when someone enters, staring at the person they've sent down to him this time. ]
It's Nadine, right? I heard you talking outside.
[ His powers may be muted here, but there's still a certain sort of chill that fills the room when he speaks someone's name. Frightening, but in a way that - against your better judgement - makes you want more. A name on his lips is cold as ice and sweet as sugar all at once.
They're not supposed to talk to him. Everyone has been briefed about the dangers of conversing with the Dark Man. But that doesn't mean he can't try. ]
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It isn't up to her, though. And even he needs to eat, to be tended to. Powerful as he is he's still a living creature with a living creature's needs. To withhold them would be cruelty and Nadine doesn't condone cruelty. Even towards something like this.
She hesitates in the doorway, tray of food held in her hands. There are rules. Don't engage, don't listen, don't talk to him. Ignore whatever he may say.
Still...her eyes go to him when he speaks her name. Some little jolt goes through her, a primal sort of electric current that makes her fingers tighten on the tray. He does look a monster, something close to human but not quite. Nadine swallows thickly, throat tight, fear following that little jolt of something. She takes a hesitant step deeper into the cell, trying to pull her eyes away from the dark figure contained here but finding herself unable to....]
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Or maybe they did her all the favor in the world. Who knows.
He stares at her, his eyes gleaming like hot coals. ] The mind can starve as much as the body can, Nadine. Even an animal would go mad in a cage like this.
[ He's not actually worried about that, he's as mad as he'll ever be, but it's a good conversation starter. A good excuse for some name repetition. ]
Talking to myself can only do so much, Nadine.
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