//I will be up bright and early to digitally hijack your cop— to discuss the issue with you. Also, it has Thor’s granddaughters and I love the hell out of them.
//WHERE IS IT. I KNOW I SAID I’D HAVE TO WAIT BUT PATIENCE IS NOT A VIRTUE OF MINE.
Marvel. Give me the comic. Give me the comic now. It’s been 17/09/2014 for 9 hours and 32 minutes here. This time difference isn’t on.
//I’m gonna be avoiding replies tonight, namely because I’ve been exhausted for days for some reason (could be to do with medication) but also because I’m waiting for the release of GOT Issue #25 tomorrow so I can get Mal’s backstory and work that into my writing. So tonight I will be playing Legend of Zelda and taking it easy. Boom.
//I ANSWERED THINGS. Not all the things but some. I’ll get to the rest tomorrow but now my illness is playing up super bad and it’s a bit late. So I’d better beds. G’nite all!
You read my mind.”
Cera hated explosions, and the plane crash was one of the worst she’d seen. She had been sent out immediately, her superiors thinking it had not been some sort of engine failure, but a deliberate act of malice. The sirens, the wreckage, it made her nauseous like nothing else did. Here was something manipulated to appear absolutely horrific, and the idea that this idiot could do something like this while sipping a fucking latte…
Normally, she would have run forwards, assisted with the cleanup, tending to the survivors. But she knew better now. Just by looking at the scene, at the self-satisfied smirk on Malekith’s face, there were no survivors. She didn’t believe Malekith’s excuse of a “happy accident” for a second.
"You. Fucking. Asshole."
The King pursed his lips, watching
the woman with obvious disdain as
his gelid gaze worked it’s way
across her frame once, before he
took another lengthy sip of his
coffee. She’d wait for his reply
“Dear, allow me to make something
crystal clear to you..”
The Accursed stood, a brow arching
upwards as he regarded the woman
with the utmost disdain ‘neath a
hooded gaze more he spoke, each
word intoned with unmistakable
”I am not some mortal,
to be insulted at your whim.
Learn to control that loose tongue..
——Or lose it.
Putting distance between them was a double edged sword, unfortunately. It meant that the more damaging attacks he could make were limited, but it also meant he had some space with which to move, to plan. Even a small plan was better than none at all.
And as he reached the bike, with Malekith putting distance between them himself, Dante counted his blessings. “Your doin? Aw, no, swee’heart,” He sneered, “Course it ain’ you. S’me, see.” Him and his inability to sit still and accept the presence of a demon in front of him. No. It needed to be properly got rid of.
There were plenty of stories, of a hunter’s first encounter with a demon gone wrong. Of death and dismemberment and pain, of a surviving partner forever altered by the experience. Dante was not inclined to become another story — but there were also so few solid weapons going in against a demon that could be used at range. Oh, sure, he could take out the meatsack, but what good would that do if the demon inside was still kicking? They had a habit, after all, of keeping their shells ‘alive’ well after the expiry date.
His teeth bared, a zipper snnnkkkking across one bag before he snaked one hand in to grab the shotgun within. “Rash? Who’s bein rash? We’re all fuckin Goddamn rational people right now, ain’t we?"
The double barrel whipped up to level, then, while he tucked the flask into his pocket, just set at the edge so he could still reach it if he needed. With the muzzle aimed, his newly freed hand went for the phone in his other pocket.
His eyes narrowed, as his thumb slid over the unlock and blindly, by rote, found the speed dial. ”Rational people, tho’, they don’ go walkin right up t’folk that want’em dead, do they, Malekith?”
It was always a comfort, to have panic on your side. Panic made people sloppy. Panic was the mother of mistakes. Panic could mean the difference between a shit-load of buckshot and rock-salt to the face and a figuratively clean getaway. His gaze was flicking between the offending weapon and the Hunter scrabbling for his phone..
Distraction. All he needed was a distraction. Catch him off guard and have a little fun..
“See what I mean? You’re just so tetchy, Dove, you really need to lighten up a little.” A little further back, edging towards the darkness, towards the safety it might just owe as he cast another lingering glance towards the shotgun, “I’d love to agree and say were rational men, but what with you pointing that at me and everything I’m a little inclined to say you’re a bit of a loose cannon.”
Piss and beer and broken streetlights.. Then he saw it. A bottle. Broken. Busted. Dropped by whoever’d been so drunk they couldn’t keep their balance without forsaking the drink as the contribute to the stink of the place. It would do. His foot shifted, catching the neck of the brown-tinted glass as he kicked it swiftly towards his quarry. A second.
All he needed was a second.
He shifted, ducking into the darkness, up the side of the building. They could have their stand off here. It wouldn’t be a quick chase. Not all guns blazing. His little Hunter-Friend hardly knew what was waiting up the back of some backstreet pub, and if he had any sense he’d hold back - At least for now. “I’m beginning to think we got off on the wrong food, Sweetheart.”
You read my mind.”
"Of all the worlds, how is it that we’ve ended up in the same place again?” She ran a hand through her hair. “If you excuse me, I need to get by. I’m on a fucking mission.” She paused. “Please tell me you have nothing to do with this.”
The King raised a mug to his lips,
taking a lengthy sip of the latte
before he case a curious glance
along the street. A heard rolled
by like a tumbleweed, the ground
was awash with slick, sanguine
streams and severed limbs littered
the tarmac like grotesque decorations.
“This? This has nothing at all
to do with me.
I happened to stumble upon it.
Call it a happy accident.”
His lip curled as he flicked his
wrist in an airy gesture of
dismissal to the woman.
“——Now shoo. You’re ruining the ambiance.”
No doubt there was a Lord of Chaos somewhere having a hearty laugh at her expense. D’rorah had considered at length what might come of a dalliance with The Accursed. Fevered dreams had taken their initial flirting exchanges and fleshed them out into decadent fantasies that left her breathless when she woke.
She had finally convinced herself Malekith was best left as an enticement, enjoyed from a safe minimum distance. Their opposite natures attracted her, but D’rorah knew the danger—
Danger to them both. For a being held together by the ties she forged with others, the danger to D’rorah was that she might, in time, begin to not care. Her natural state was the eschewing of such ties, which was precisely why she worried about keeping them. For Malekith, the danger that he might, over time, come to care—even the slightest bit—thus cracking his armor of indifference. And where would that lead?
Yes, there was someone, somewhere laughing at both their expenses as they were pushed together. D’rorah’s natural instinct was to rebel, to break free of the noose that had been set around her neck. And yet, here she was, sent by the Lords of Law that they might learn more about Chaos, Darkness, Entropy, whatever one wanted to call it.
"Can we?" D’rorah watched him with knowing eyes. She never doubted for a moment that Malekith’s concern was with his own benefit, what he might gain of power from agreeing to the union.
She reached up and touched the cheek she had healed before, ever so lightly. “Oh Malekith, I see already that you will destroy me.” Or that they might destroy one another. She shook her head at the vague premonition as she pulled her hand away. “More than that, when the time comes, I think I might enjoy it.” Here she was, given the object of her curiosity on a silvered platter (as though it needed any further enticing), and inside it danced at the thought of all the possibilities.
This time, he didn’t flinch at the intimacy. This time it spoke volumes more than that day in the bowels of his kingdom, surrounded by a wealth of knowledge from the ages, dusty tomes and fading words - Today it told of a woman who knew just what sort of creature she was to align with. One who was rightly wary and ready fr a betrayal that was sure to come. For who had the Accursed ever known that he had not betrayed in his many, many years… Save himself?
A smile was working it’s way across his lips, a soft curve at the corners of his mouth before it was widening into a Cheshire grin that cut discordant features in two with all the promise of what his destruction would bring. “And wouldn’t that be grand, D’rorah? Imagine all the fun we could have, two contrasting Fae, piking one another apart.. Maybe we won’t be the only ones destroyed. Who knows. Whole worlds could burn in our wake.”
That would not sit well with her, he knew. She was a neutral creature, good - Capable of the vices he cherished to be sure, but not covetous of them. He doubted she would relish the notion of bringing down the Nine just for his enjoyment as they picked one another to the bare bones.
Not that he had any real intent to allow himself to be picked apart of course.
That would defeat the purpose of this little endeavor, as he leaned forward to close the distance betwixt them, hand finding the small of her back so long as she did not pull away from his grasp, his head tilting and sending streams of silver hair dripping over his shoulder. “I’d tell you never to fear, of course.. But I’d hate to sound disingenuous. I still imagine we can mutually benefit, however..”
"Of course not, my name is Inara Serra. May I ask your name, sir?
A smile almost made it’s way
to his lips as he watched
her, a hint of curiosity set
on his sharp features. Those
without fear were always
“Of course, M’Lady.
I go by many names,
but my most common
moniker is Malekith."