Sleep Is The Cousin Of Death
Posted: Tue Sep 17, 2019 6:29 pm
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From I Know in Darkness, I Will Find You (Giving Up Inside Like Me)))
Blaise needed practice. Still a relevant imperative, but one complicated by persistent annoyances. Fire-arms. Groups. Vengeful allies. The banality of slow, methodical stalking. Intolerable. Not in this weather and perhaps even not without it, they would not stoop to indignity any further. Yet was there another option? Something else that could simulate the movement and risks of a living target without exposing them to retribution? Mobile, so that they might chase it if needed? Abundant, so they could pursue as much as they desired? Unrestricted in access, so that they might pick up practice whenever they desired? Unwanted, so that they would not need to add more sights to the target on their back? Finding something that filled two of these requirements would be a delightful surprise. Satisfying them all?
Such was the proposition that led to Blaise's intimate acquaintance with macaques.
Ugly things in their resting positions. Bulbous frames bulging in all the wrong places, not so much humanoid forms as lumps jutting stub extremities in vulgar defiance of the purity form. More palatable to a degree when stretched out, the masses of fat and fur splitting into discernible arms and legs, but still undesirable. Digits gnarled with fat, wide nails, the imagined sensation of them digging through the fur upholstering these mistakes left them shuddering. The fur itself was dirty brown and matted in the least appealing way when wet, though the dry specimens they noticed were often caked with patches of what they hoped was mud but was more likely shit. God, they could imagine the smell at a glance alone, unable to decide which would be worse. The worst aspect by far, though, was the faces. Bare swathes of leathery faint red skin around each eye, extending oblong around the nose and mouth with little interruption in a manner unnervingly phallic. Beady eyes of tans and golds that blinked too little for their liking. Noses little more than upraised slits, as if each nostril was formed by sudden but equilateral violence, tools jammed into a mockery of a face that refused to expire even when distended with attempted lobotomy.
The sounds, though. They hadn't even begun to detail the sounds. Language was too high a form of communication to capture them. It could be said that when close they observed the young chittering as if animated by a swell of clicking squirming hard-shelled parasites burrowed into the flesh of their now rotting bodies, which would do much to explain the smell. If pushed one might elaborate on the high pitched squeals of alarm emanating from high branches on approach ripped straight from the mad science amalgamate breeding of a particularly distressed tea kettle and nails sliding across a chalkboard. It would not be accurate though, not nearly so. The hatred they inspired within Blaise was equally difficult to capture, but it kept them warm despite the chill on their bare skin. They lay naked in the brush, as close to primal kinship with these malformed branches of their evolutionary tree as they ever had been, and felt nothing but contempt. Practice was an excuse. This had become a service, not only to themselves but to everyone still living. Every dead monkey was one less pest for them all, and thankless as the task would be they would follow it as long as convenient.
There were five that they could see. One high in the branches looking south, paying them no attention. One pair lower in the trees, a mother and infant by the size. Another pair on the ground, what they assumed was the subservient of the pair plucking through the other's fur. Finally, the one that saw them. The one that stared from atop its own tree perch and had not looked away since they had settled. They had maintained eye contact for a minute at the least so far, waiting for it to give some warning. It continued to stare. Were it not for the occasional slow blink, Blaise could not be certain it was alive. Their eyes shifted first, then their body to contort their aim. If it would not take its opportunity than they would.
A shot rang out.
Squeals that defied comprehension rang from every corner of the group. Branches heaved and snapped with sudden activity, three bodies rushing to gather around the smallest on the ground, but another shot sent them fleeing without finding its target. Blaise's gaze did not linger on what was abandoned. They were drawn upwards to the silent, unmoving watcher. It continued to stare even as the gun came up a third time. The only acknowledgement they received was bared teeth.
The third shot cut through the rain.
A scream.
A fall.
A disappearance.
A rustling of branches.
A scream, now human, as beady golden eyes glinted from the foliage.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to be this panicked. It was another of the little beasts come to observe the fallen, and even if it was not what did it matter? It was a helpless thing, wounded and stupid. So much that should have inspired fear here washed over them, but this? This was what rattled them? No. They would not accept that.
But they were already moving without so much as pausing to dress. Because of the gunshots, they rationalized a few paces down the line, and the compromise of their position. If Nia had followed them from the Gardens they could not afford to stay in one place for long. They would see to their things once they were somewhere more secure, where they could watch what was left of the light die and retire for an early morning before the announcements woke the others. Doubtless many had come to use them as an alarm clock of sorts, secure that something would wake them before they slumbered for too long. Rising well before the hour gave them an edge on ambushing the unsuspecting.
Brush moved a few feet behind them and to the right. Their pace quickened.
The announcement stirred them awake in grumbling stupor. Sleep held them loose all through the night, so they'd woken to far less no fewer than a dozen times. Aside from their own name there were only two of note:
"Camila Cañizares was the next to go when Michael Froese shot her. In our opinion, it was simple and effective work."
That had brought a smile to their face. What had they wished upon her when they parted? Death slow, painful, unwanted? A 'Simple and effective work' by a complete unknown satisfied at least one of those conditions, and one could dream the others were fulfilled alongside it. Not even their hosts could pretend to care that she had died. It would be a shock if anyone mourned or even noticed her in all the chaos. Fatigue could not steal how delicious that was for them. Assuming some lingering spirit of Dante remained they were certain he would be pleased given the perspective the afterlife provided. Her shoddy work had robbed them an untold number of blissfully ignorant days, and just as he would understood Blaise had done what was necessary for him he would appreciate how much more painful she had made the decision. Yes, that seemed reasonable, no?
It was almost enough to survive Lorenzo's arrival. Another fight, another victim. Anger came as quick as joy. How dare he? What selfish, senseless rage drove him? It was a waste, an unquestionable waste, but would he care? Would he even consider it? Of course not. Deep down, Lorenzo had only ever cared about himself. He did not realize that his life was theirs, and every one of these crude outbursts risked denying them the right to snatch it by their own hands. A dispassionate line blared through the woods was not good enough. They were going to watch the life leave his body, but only after he'd atoned. hey thought of Artem, unwashed, under-nourished, glassy-eyed and hidden in whatever place he had turned into his personal sanctuary of shame. Trapped and watching, waiting, hoping for the release of retribution he would not be able to take himself. To see Lorenzo receive anything approaching mercy in his final moments, even in the form of an unthinking bullet to the skull, would send him into a pit of utter despair he would never leave again.
No one else could be trusted to do what was necessary. It was their duty not for Dolly, or even for Artem, but for the world his captivity denied to release him.
They had to prepare.
The area they'd found themself in had been off-limits until this morning. They could be certain that no one was here to trouble them. Dolly's bag and their own contributed to a new identity, one that would not require a new name but would not so easily evoke their own. From Dolly they took a dark teal romper, shoulders bare save for the thin strings tied around their neck, thin slit cut through a few inches along their belly button to just below the bottom of their breasts, and a sewn on belt tied in a large bow to their right side. An spare pair of white tights helped draw the ensemble together in stark contrast to the hideous sneakers they were still forced to wear. Out their own bag they drew a long, red wig and its cap, as well as a maroon scarf with golden line accents along its length. The original look had called for a simple ribbon tie, but they did not imagine Parker would object to embellishment at the time. They wondered how he was as they dressed; it was not in their nature to be sentimental for the absent, but it was curious to be four days in and not have heard him on one end or the other of the game. Perhaps he had managed to escape it all. Unlikely, but it brought a new smirk to their lips to envision him having outmaneuvered even their captors, nothing but a decoy on the bus to mark he'd ever been there in the first place before an unmarked car carried him away from a trap he'd uncovered months prior. Fantasy, but entertaining.
There had been a plan with their kit at some point. A look both ravishing and distracting enough to make observers uncertain of who they were at first glance. Dazzle then death, some unimaginative commentator would describe it. It had oozed out of their mind staring into their remaining supplies. In their contemplation their eyelids had sagged lower, lower, lower, until they drifted back to fitful slumber a few feet to the left of the Menagerie's ajar door.
Beady golden eyes watched above from ruined netting.
Blaise needed practice. Still a relevant imperative, but one complicated by persistent annoyances. Fire-arms. Groups. Vengeful allies. The banality of slow, methodical stalking. Intolerable. Not in this weather and perhaps even not without it, they would not stoop to indignity any further. Yet was there another option? Something else that could simulate the movement and risks of a living target without exposing them to retribution? Mobile, so that they might chase it if needed? Abundant, so they could pursue as much as they desired? Unrestricted in access, so that they might pick up practice whenever they desired? Unwanted, so that they would not need to add more sights to the target on their back? Finding something that filled two of these requirements would be a delightful surprise. Satisfying them all?
Such was the proposition that led to Blaise's intimate acquaintance with macaques.
Ugly things in their resting positions. Bulbous frames bulging in all the wrong places, not so much humanoid forms as lumps jutting stub extremities in vulgar defiance of the purity form. More palatable to a degree when stretched out, the masses of fat and fur splitting into discernible arms and legs, but still undesirable. Digits gnarled with fat, wide nails, the imagined sensation of them digging through the fur upholstering these mistakes left them shuddering. The fur itself was dirty brown and matted in the least appealing way when wet, though the dry specimens they noticed were often caked with patches of what they hoped was mud but was more likely shit. God, they could imagine the smell at a glance alone, unable to decide which would be worse. The worst aspect by far, though, was the faces. Bare swathes of leathery faint red skin around each eye, extending oblong around the nose and mouth with little interruption in a manner unnervingly phallic. Beady eyes of tans and golds that blinked too little for their liking. Noses little more than upraised slits, as if each nostril was formed by sudden but equilateral violence, tools jammed into a mockery of a face that refused to expire even when distended with attempted lobotomy.
The sounds, though. They hadn't even begun to detail the sounds. Language was too high a form of communication to capture them. It could be said that when close they observed the young chittering as if animated by a swell of clicking squirming hard-shelled parasites burrowed into the flesh of their now rotting bodies, which would do much to explain the smell. If pushed one might elaborate on the high pitched squeals of alarm emanating from high branches on approach ripped straight from the mad science amalgamate breeding of a particularly distressed tea kettle and nails sliding across a chalkboard. It would not be accurate though, not nearly so. The hatred they inspired within Blaise was equally difficult to capture, but it kept them warm despite the chill on their bare skin. They lay naked in the brush, as close to primal kinship with these malformed branches of their evolutionary tree as they ever had been, and felt nothing but contempt. Practice was an excuse. This had become a service, not only to themselves but to everyone still living. Every dead monkey was one less pest for them all, and thankless as the task would be they would follow it as long as convenient.
There were five that they could see. One high in the branches looking south, paying them no attention. One pair lower in the trees, a mother and infant by the size. Another pair on the ground, what they assumed was the subservient of the pair plucking through the other's fur. Finally, the one that saw them. The one that stared from atop its own tree perch and had not looked away since they had settled. They had maintained eye contact for a minute at the least so far, waiting for it to give some warning. It continued to stare. Were it not for the occasional slow blink, Blaise could not be certain it was alive. Their eyes shifted first, then their body to contort their aim. If it would not take its opportunity than they would.
A shot rang out.
Squeals that defied comprehension rang from every corner of the group. Branches heaved and snapped with sudden activity, three bodies rushing to gather around the smallest on the ground, but another shot sent them fleeing without finding its target. Blaise's gaze did not linger on what was abandoned. They were drawn upwards to the silent, unmoving watcher. It continued to stare even as the gun came up a third time. The only acknowledgement they received was bared teeth.
The third shot cut through the rain.
A scream.
A fall.
A disappearance.
A rustling of branches.
A scream, now human, as beady golden eyes glinted from the foliage.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to be this panicked. It was another of the little beasts come to observe the fallen, and even if it was not what did it matter? It was a helpless thing, wounded and stupid. So much that should have inspired fear here washed over them, but this? This was what rattled them? No. They would not accept that.
But they were already moving without so much as pausing to dress. Because of the gunshots, they rationalized a few paces down the line, and the compromise of their position. If Nia had followed them from the Gardens they could not afford to stay in one place for long. They would see to their things once they were somewhere more secure, where they could watch what was left of the light die and retire for an early morning before the announcements woke the others. Doubtless many had come to use them as an alarm clock of sorts, secure that something would wake them before they slumbered for too long. Rising well before the hour gave them an edge on ambushing the unsuspecting.
Brush moved a few feet behind them and to the right. Their pace quickened.
The announcement stirred them awake in grumbling stupor. Sleep held them loose all through the night, so they'd woken to far less no fewer than a dozen times. Aside from their own name there were only two of note:
"Camila Cañizares was the next to go when Michael Froese shot her. In our opinion, it was simple and effective work."
That had brought a smile to their face. What had they wished upon her when they parted? Death slow, painful, unwanted? A 'Simple and effective work' by a complete unknown satisfied at least one of those conditions, and one could dream the others were fulfilled alongside it. Not even their hosts could pretend to care that she had died. It would be a shock if anyone mourned or even noticed her in all the chaos. Fatigue could not steal how delicious that was for them. Assuming some lingering spirit of Dante remained they were certain he would be pleased given the perspective the afterlife provided. Her shoddy work had robbed them an untold number of blissfully ignorant days, and just as he would understood Blaise had done what was necessary for him he would appreciate how much more painful she had made the decision. Yes, that seemed reasonable, no?
It was almost enough to survive Lorenzo's arrival. Another fight, another victim. Anger came as quick as joy. How dare he? What selfish, senseless rage drove him? It was a waste, an unquestionable waste, but would he care? Would he even consider it? Of course not. Deep down, Lorenzo had only ever cared about himself. He did not realize that his life was theirs, and every one of these crude outbursts risked denying them the right to snatch it by their own hands. A dispassionate line blared through the woods was not good enough. They were going to watch the life leave his body, but only after he'd atoned. hey thought of Artem, unwashed, under-nourished, glassy-eyed and hidden in whatever place he had turned into his personal sanctuary of shame. Trapped and watching, waiting, hoping for the release of retribution he would not be able to take himself. To see Lorenzo receive anything approaching mercy in his final moments, even in the form of an unthinking bullet to the skull, would send him into a pit of utter despair he would never leave again.
No one else could be trusted to do what was necessary. It was their duty not for Dolly, or even for Artem, but for the world his captivity denied to release him.
They had to prepare.
The area they'd found themself in had been off-limits until this morning. They could be certain that no one was here to trouble them. Dolly's bag and their own contributed to a new identity, one that would not require a new name but would not so easily evoke their own. From Dolly they took a dark teal romper, shoulders bare save for the thin strings tied around their neck, thin slit cut through a few inches along their belly button to just below the bottom of their breasts, and a sewn on belt tied in a large bow to their right side. An spare pair of white tights helped draw the ensemble together in stark contrast to the hideous sneakers they were still forced to wear. Out their own bag they drew a long, red wig and its cap, as well as a maroon scarf with golden line accents along its length. The original look had called for a simple ribbon tie, but they did not imagine Parker would object to embellishment at the time. They wondered how he was as they dressed; it was not in their nature to be sentimental for the absent, but it was curious to be four days in and not have heard him on one end or the other of the game. Perhaps he had managed to escape it all. Unlikely, but it brought a new smirk to their lips to envision him having outmaneuvered even their captors, nothing but a decoy on the bus to mark he'd ever been there in the first place before an unmarked car carried him away from a trap he'd uncovered months prior. Fantasy, but entertaining.
There had been a plan with their kit at some point. A look both ravishing and distracting enough to make observers uncertain of who they were at first glance. Dazzle then death, some unimaginative commentator would describe it. It had oozed out of their mind staring into their remaining supplies. In their contemplation their eyelids had sagged lower, lower, lower, until they drifted back to fitful slumber a few feet to the left of the Menagerie's ajar door.
Beady golden eyes watched above from ruined netting.