[b a i t]like_mine|| open

Awareness: it came and went with the whimsical misery of broken, burnt synapses of his brain. Some thoughts never started, and some, some never ended, but kept on going forever, regardless of how hard he tried not to think it. Awareness: it brought to him the putrescence of living bodies, pouring down the senses in his mouth, clogging up the sinuses with trash. It brought him the fever-bright heat wafting from every angle but his own. It brought him so many gifts, but it also took away. It took away empathy; it took away drive, and ambition. He was nothing but a vicious wind-up toy some days, twisted up and let loose on the world.

His layers were as obscured as her own, both of their goodness alive somewhere in the dark but unable to perfectly reach through the barrier of the grave. They were not strong enough to hold onto it, so they found another strength, and though it varied, it suited them well. He was aware of her body, the hyper-active energy swirling around her, the excitement and heat of rage that boiled beneath the surface. The temporary one was aware of the power in her stride, of the potential coiled around her bones, and in that awareness was a peacefulness he hadn't felt in a long time.

Shadows were erupting along the sidelines, a flickering, flittering movement of minions and thieves running about while the darkness held; he was aware of their breathing. He is the general and will be hard to get alone. Find out what you can about his going on's. He needs to be alone. I want to speak with him before he dies. Both of the nameless one's ears twitched, his eye coming around to look at her expression, though no matter how much he gaged he could never truly understand this particular desire. It didn't matter; he obscured the thought and drowned it before it could roost in his head. Nose twitching, ears cupped toward her, the nameless one felt steps within himself widen up and begin to blur. He thought of the barracks, of the sweat, and blood that dampened the ground, of the hundreds of other cats that coiled amongst themselves like faulty weaponry. They had all been tested upon arrival, but he had accidentally killed his opponent, not realizing what friendly sparring meant. He had been put on temporary probation. How long has it been? He tilted his head trying to think of the time that had gone by and was unable to do so. Darkness covered those particular steps -- but he remembered the faces that watched him, and the scents. He remembered the silence, deep and engulfing, swallowing up the air -- and he remembered the big cat that had stared at him with her eyes.

You do have the skills required to handle a general, do you not? Oh, oh. That scorn was delicious as it dripped from her tone. He understood that well enough; it had the same test as the ghost that haunted him, and her terrible, delightful cruelty. His mouth moved, a semblance of a smile that never, quite made it. It had a nice feeling to it, like a test on the line she was pulling. Would he bite back? Would he snap? Oh yes, a very nice feeling indeed, with all these different possibilities -- and still, none at all.

And he was remembering the face she called father; slowly, painfully, he was putting the face together, remembering how those cold, cold eyes had watched, pretending to be appalled but being unable to manage it completely. He had thought it half-hearted the first time, now, remembering, the Nameless couldn't help but wonder, briefly, why he hadn't noticed it sooner. Awareness: it was a fluctuating thing, creating waves, and mindless gaps in his memory. Could he kill that big cat? He had a particular skill set, after all.

"I remember him. Looks different, same eyes." He paused, ears down, "Same smell. The nameless was trying to hold onto the visual, but it was quickly unraveling. Maybe it had been longer than he thought since he had last been in the barracks. "Easy mark. He doesn't think he can die." The nameless snorted, muzzle wrinkling to glimpse his fangs, "But if you want him dead, then he will have to learn different." He tilted his head a little, keeping up, but watching her out the side of his eye, like a good kitten, waiting for the lead.

His tail ticked, the heavy thing swaying with each step.

"Wanting to talk to him will make it more -- complicated." he paused, almost delicately. "But he doesn't need to be --- whole, to be alive." he spoke with the same exactness he had earlier, a strange and careful pronunciation as if the words were being teased out from between his lips. He knew he could kill the jaguar quickly, and to let him linger in between life and death while she talked was nothing but a little bit extra effort. "How long will you need to talk?" He asked, as carefully. A punctured artery, could only last so long, after all.

"Do you need him to talk back?" The nameless, on a roll with the words now that it was familiar territory, looked less grim, and more scientifically intrigued by the whole ordeal. A cut tongue, for example, could last longer but still bleed out.

word count || 932 

tags || Nayva  

OOC || he's such a cute, fuzzy psychopath.