come_sailaway | monday's child is fair of face (2/2)

CW: death, probably gore, possibly more TBA

[and that’s what you missed on glee.

and so, there “Friday” is, standing on the roof of the bar. the attention of the party has surely turned to her by this point, but she doesn’t care about that. she just needs one person to still be a little too distracted to stop what was coming next.

Monday snaps her fingers, and Jenny disappears from wherever she was standing before, reappearing directly in front of Monday, who embraces her from behind, an arm wrapped firmly around her middle. those with enhanced senses might catch what she whispers, seconds before she snaps Jenny’s neck so hard it hangs at a 90 degree angle as Monday kicks her, her corpse toppling forward onto the deck below.]

Surprise, bitch.

[well, there. unfinished business settled. onto more pertinent matters.]

Let’s get a little more comfortable first, hm? Can’t waste too much of her magic, but audiences love a quick change.

[she snaps her fingers, and Monday finds herself in an outfit that is far more to her taste. now. time for her grand performance.]

Greetings, foolish mortals! You may or may not have noticed that things have been a little bit different this month. While the Captain is off having a good old bitch cry about whatever it is he’s so upset about, poor little Friday was running herself ragged keeping this shitheap floating! She was so distracted, in fact, that she happened to have a little accident, while fixing something in the elevator shaft! [a laugh] I guess even clay bitches can break their necks! And there I was, sitting in Fucking Nowhere, doing Fucking Nothing, feeling Fucking. Nothing! And I saw her empty shell. And I was, like, hey, free real estate!

Whatever tear in the veil that your whiny little Captain just didn’t feel like fixing? I ripped that fucker right open. And you’ve all met a few of the sorry little fuckers that fell out already, hm? [another snap] Not all of them, but, hey, that’s what now is for, right? Because, see, we all kinda got together a little bit, and we were like… You know, just borrowing some shitty bodies to have some fun for a few weeks? What a waste! And we still have a lot of bitches we need to spring from jail!

And that! Is where you assholes come in! And, trust me, you are all assholes. Have you even seen some of the psychotic shit you people have said and done to us? Like, yeah, Mary is legitimately insane, but she’s still a kid! Even I’m not gonna call a fucking nine year old a bitch!

You can try to run, but I fucking hate running in heels, so I made that a little bit… difficult. So. Why don’t you nice people just lay down and let us kill you. I’ll be gentle. Promise.

[perhaps people have tried to flee already. they likely have. and they’ve found that the entire party area has been blocked off by the same sort of barrier that surrounds the realm, an invisible orb holding them captive.]

Now. Let’s get the actual party started!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Darcy doesn't know this, so you aren't aware either -- but I would be honored to be even a fraction of the man she thought I was."

He doesn't lower the gun, although he does gesture with it in wide, sweeping strokes of his arm, his finger off the trigger.

"You do realize how creepy it is that you're using her to call me that, right? You have to understand how gross that is."

"Obviously I do! Fucking obviously I do! It's- you people have no fucking appreciations for dramatics, e? I'm obviously going for something here and you just- vai a dar via il culo-"

He was doing a Bit!!! God!!!

A moment to recover from momentarily going red in the face, and the breaths he doesn't need to take shake his shoulders.

"She wants me here, you know. I know she does. I killed her and she still wants me here. You could make her happy, for once, if you let me stay."

"I know what you were going for, and I'm telling you, it's weird. Stop it."

He remembers Darcy telling him about Avery. About what he'd done to her, and why. It's almost enough to earn some sliver of sympathy from him -- or, it would be, if only he had any sympathy left to give. But he is tired. Numb. Ready for this to be over.

He lowers his gun, considering... and then holsters it.

"Why would she care about you?" he asks, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "You're the insane reflection of an awful man. She could just wait for a less mad version of you to be pulled onto the ship."

"I know it was-" huh, he's actually lowering his gun. Alright, the ol' exorcist 'come lick me' number can wait. Another few steps closer, they're almost at a conversational distance now.

"Pot and kettle buddy. Not like I was much better back in our world. I know she told you what happened to me."

Avery rubs above his mouth with his free hand, "I dunno why she still does. I'm in her head and I still can't- I dunno. I don't know. It's... some things are clearer and some are..."

A step or two closer. The best acts start with a grain of truth, and the longer he does sit with the feelings and memories in her head... the more confused he gets.

"It's hard, trying to sort out which memories are yours and which are hers." He imagines it must be like absorbing the memories of a reflection, except these come with the full rainbow of emotions. Lots to process. Lots to sort through.

"When you see her, what would you even say to her? What would you tell her, if you could face her in your own body again?"

He knows those bodies are here, somewhere. The zombies were proof enough of that...

"...hunters. 's what took my Darling from me back home. They exorcised her out of me. She wants to know, it... kills her not knowing. She doesn't need gooey 'I'm proud of you whatever bullshit from me. She's better 'n that. She should be better 'n that. And y'know what, I'm telling her that myself, stronzo-"

It's a pity to end it like this. Maybe they could even be friends, after he gets his body back. Avery keeps eye-contact with his sockets. And raises the gun again lightning quick, ready to smack it back down into his brow.

Skulduggery doesn't give Avery the same courtesy of looking him in the eyes, his attention trained on the gun in hand. He sees her hand flex just a split second before he lifts it; it happens so fast that he's still processing what Avery said when he has to retaliate.

He flings his hand out from where it rests by his holster, fingers held straight and tight together. The air between him and Darcy's body snaps taut, a razor-thin plane of thin air aimed directly at her throat. Air is better utilized as a concussive force, and yet here in the darkened, crumbling corner of the promenade, it becomes sharp enough to slice through muscle, skin, and cartilige. Bone, it seems, withstands the assault, but that hardly matters as the rest of her neck bursts along its new seam.

The spine is always the toughest bit; if Avery didn't have his vocal chords severed on impact he might've suggested he take tips from Darcy on the subject. His little Madame Guillotine. There's not time for any of it, it's a brutal and efficient method of dispatching him, and the gun drops from his hand. Darcy's head and terrified expression slumps backwards, and then the rest of her body hits the deck with a clatter of armour. St Jean received an arrow to the neck during a seige and lived, as written in her Hagiography; her impersonator isn't so lucky.

Dark, cold blood pools on the floor around her. Darcy looks dead enough usually that it's hard to notice a difference.

Calcite, an impassive witness to the event, flutters over after a moment. It hangs in the air over Skulduggery, button eyes unblinking.

monday's child is fair of face (2/2)

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cw: decapitation

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