What's on your mind?

[Mariana]

I'm flexible...

[Myles]

See, you're not exactly making things any easier, heh, just stoking the crazy. Meh, tis easy to slip into manic mood with Myles, frighteningly easy. They say that a writer always draws upon some portion of his or herself when it comes to creating a characters. When I think of Myles, I try to forget this. Not so much the Myles that exists on this site, but the original Myles, the one who depopulated hospitals....

[Mariana]

*shivers* Ooo scary Myles... Hmm... I'm still not making it easier am I?

[Myles]

Let's just say, that you remind the soul of the character template within my psyche, of another character, a red-headed fire cracker named Zelia, who was the only creature capable of holding down a semi-permanent relationship with Myles, a relationship that involved a great deal of mutilation, healing, blood play, and many other very disturbing. This new Myles, this bruxo, is a much calmer, more calculating sort of beast (perhaps because he's not a nigh immortal demigod son of Tethys), but you bring out the old Myles in him more often than is healthy.

[facemelter]

Wow Myles... you are one dark and affable person.

[Mariana]

Still not seeing what's bad about that...

[facemelterrp]

I guess there isn't.

[Myles]

Hmm... perhaps this truly massive post/short story, will clarify the matter....

Probably one of the darkest things I've ever written:

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The following post is rated M. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: The actions, opinions, views, and expressions made within this post are the sole intellectual product of the character, Myles. They are in no way indicative or representative of the 'To Storm or Fire' users as a whole, the administrative and moderating staff, any particular author, or the author under the alias EnigmaticSevens.


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Thank you for... making me...
Feel like... I'm guilty....
Making it... easier to...
Murder your sweet memory....[/font]
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They watched... with beady little eyes so full of perverse desires... damning that which was breathing for that which would soon lie still.... They did not usually haunt hospitals... such things were the realm of Whining Thanatos and Whelp Macaria... but they knew the scent of suffering that led them to this place, they knew it all too well. No forms of beautiful vixens today... no alluring figures masking deadly truths, such things would be impractical... when there were so many of them in attendance.... A mass ruffling of feathers, a black cloud descending over north central Pittsburgh, all the unclean birds of the old testament faiths... the ravens, crows, vultures... the carrion eaters, living off the dead and the dying.

No escort of two or three this time... first dozens, then hundreds, swelling into a myriad of pestilence and coming violence. Keres. They'd known the boy was coming, knew his dizzy trail could only swing in one direction, that he would give them what the Gods would not... a banquet. They'd been hard at work... prepping, preparing... tainting an aquifer here... spoiling the produce of a few local supermarkets... a few flu outbreaks amongst the regional schools... anything to flood a single place with the ailing and the weak.

He was coming... their bloody messiah was coming, a tremble in the air amongst the horde of goddesses, an intent like murder clogging the senses of any human who strayed too close. The Keres found their collective perch, shading whitewashed walls gray with their penumbra. The winged beasts grew still... no rustling, no fighting or petty squabbling, no cawing or squawking, just silence, and stillness, silence and stillness and bellies aflame with hunger....

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A large building, massive and white washed... covering a half dozen city blocks with its various arms and legs, the central hospital... all of its resource centers and wings clustered about the pulsing heart of the emergency room. At long last... the fun was soon to begin. Myles sighed and fiddled with the Greyhound Bus' controls, egging the massive vehicle onwards. He hadn't driven a bus in quite some time, wasn't really used to it, but that driver had been so quick to disobey, so obstinate and unreasonable. So what if Myles was gleefully dismembering the other passengers, the boy made sure to inform him that so long as he kept driving forward, he'd spare him... for last.

But noooooo... thick bus driver was thick, tried to use that little radio, kept hollering even after Myles smashed it into so many little pieces, kept trying to pull over even after Myles told him to stay on the road, kept struggling and flailing about even after Myles put on his 'Borg' face and told him 'resistance is futile' (gotta love the classics). Thick, truly thick. Well... no matter now the bus driver was strewn about the cabin in so many 'thick' chunks.

Really, this was all Sandra's fault. Sandra was her name right? Or was it Sandy, Susan, Samantha? No matter, it was still her fault, whatever her name was. Myles hadn't planned on starting the party early, he hadn't ridden on a bus in ages, and it was to be a nice treat, gave him a chance to take a nap on the six-hour journey. But noooo... Sandra wanted to talk, fussy little upper middle aged woman that she was, coarse blond hair tied up in a tight bonnet that must've been cutting off the flow of blood to her brain. What in the name of the Gods made her think he was interested in her existence in the slightest?! For the first hour he remained polite, nodding, smiling, even asking a few questions, after all, she could weave quite a remarkable yarn at certain points. However, by the third hour the sound of her shrill, somewhat nasally voice had become the equivalent of auditory Tartarus. For a moment, he strongly considered the idea that this was some very clever monster trying out a new hunting tactic. But no it couldn't be the prelude to some clever attack, that would've been interesting. No, instead it was the fifth recounting of Sandra's oldest son's life as a roustabout, caught in the shadow of his brother's success as a veterinarian!

Myles wanted to sleep, and he did sleep, for about an hour, until he realized that Sandra hadn't stopped talking, and that deer in his dream speaking in a Midwestern accent and primping her mop of scraggly hair... was a thing that should not be, that should not exist. Fuck it; he'd been affable enough, time to be evil. Why did people want to talk to him? Why did people want to discuss their worries and woes with him. Maybe Myles smiled too much, maybe his threadbare clothes evoked pity and some blasphemous want of companionship. But really, people needed to learn, needed to learn that, with relative ease and impunity, he could tear out their throats. Sandra learned, Sandra learned in a glorious spray of red and a sort of squishy feeling between Myles' fingers. The sight of her head flopping backwards like a pez dispenser, coupled with the knowledge that her vocal chords were now on the opposite end of the bus from her body, brought a deep sense of satisfaction and joy to the pit of Myles stomach.

Silence, blessed silence for a few moments, and Myles nearly settled down to sleep... and then they had the nerve to start screaming. All of them, in some odd bastard symphony of discordant wails and shrieks of terror. Myles sighed, planted the palm of one hand against his face, pale eyes staring back impassively at the doe-eyed sods backing away from him, squirming against their chairs, begging the driver to stop. Myles wondered, wondered what happened just before their dying moments. In that final look... did the deer forgive the wolf? When pale eyes met moist, quivering souls... did they really blame him anymore? He was a predator is a sense wasn't he? Perhaps the murder didn't feed any physical sort of hunger (not most of the time at least)... but that was far from the only kind of lust. There were other thirsts that needed slaking... would it really be fair to deny them? So surely... surely these spineless, pathetic little bags of meat and intestines... didn't fault Myles for bringing them to Hades' door. This was nature... right?

The staring was growing boring, the fear in these people was growing boring, shouting at the driver and demanding he keep going was growing boring. But this too was the way of things, was it not? That's why humans existed, to make things boring, to drain Myles of his fascination with living, with creating, with the dawn of the new, by wallowing in their status quo and their little luxuries and comforts. And so they stole from him his holy addiction to the master's brush stroke, and left only the Black Tide, the smoldering beneath the skin, the roiling in the belly that built and built and built....

Myles didn't want it to come yet, didn't want the tide to pour from his body just yet, didn't want to lose himself to the fury and the lust and the love just... yet. A little black line of dribble trickled down the corner of Myles' mouth; the boy swallowed and wiped the evidence of his yearnings away. It was like this every time, every time he neared the precipice. This was waking up, coming from a deep dream shrouded in Gaussian blur, to a world lost in a holocaust, everything burning. The swine, the sheep, the humans... they'd all conspired, conspired to destroy everything, and they didn't even have the courtesy to invite Myles to the party. Myles didn't mind the destruction, destruction was beautiful, breaking down the old to create something anew, something worse, something better, something different. But the swine didn't know that... just rooted about in their muck and filth blind to the carnage born from their breathing, taking great steaming shits all over what little faith Myles still had in the human race.

Aha... aha... aha... perhaps none of this was real. Was that not the call of the solipsist, that one could prove the existence of no other soul, could fathom the thoughts of no other being, for all intents and purposes becoming a god, aware that the only consciousness was one's own conscious. Bollocks.... Myles sneered. All in his head indeed. They wanted him to flee into some little corner and ball his eyes out. Who could honestly say that the feel of human bone in his grip... surrounded by warm and pulsing ichor, muscle and flesh twitching around his iron-hardened digits and straining as it was torn asunder... was all just some of Myles psyche's repressed rage. Who could say that the delightful sound of cartilage popping and snapping and tearing apart, was just some hallucination.

And what horrific disservice such slanderous notions of 'imaginary natures' would do this pretty little Asian girl pressed so tightly against him, around him. Oh she was real, she must be real, tight little cunt just throbbing around all his want and his demands, as he took and took and took, pressing her against the steel and glass of the bus window, feeling her heart beat so frantically, those strangled screams trying so valiantly to squeeze past the crooked claws he'd locked around her throat, shivers at the special little tingle the sweat on her thighs kept sending through his groin, or maybe she'd just pissed herself? Myles didn't care, just relished the intensity of it, the smells, that wet smacking sound, aiming for a thrust per minute ratio insane enough to give Hercules a blush. He kissed her, because he could be sweet, oh so gentle, even though he knew that cracking sound was her pelvis bone fracturing. Myles liked the copper tang on her lips that spoke of pulverized internal organs, the glassiness and the coming cloud in those dark brown eyes. Oh, she was dead... no matter, she was still warm....

And they just watched... all those fellow passengers just watched, watched the violation and the murder. But they weren't screaming anymore, just watching, barely breathing. No more heroes anymore... not after the first two fellows had rushed forward, trying to stop what was happening. Big fellows, could've been linebackers, could have been... if one hadn't burst into flames, if the other's skin hadn't started to boil and slide from all those other body tissues. No more heroes, not with the stench of cooking meat still fresh in the air, tinged with the putrefaction's acrid bouquet. Myles was howling and slicing and cutting and tearing and feeling warmth on his skin, and smelling urine and feces from weak and fearful bodies, the biting odor of pheromones screaming out with fear.

By the time minutes and seconds were passing normally again, by the time Myles regained some minute control over the maddened charge of sensations thrumming through his blood stream, very little of the buses interior remained intact, or clean for that matter, redecorated with quite a lively assortment of body parts, and bits of mulched red gunk that had most likely been body parts at some point in time. Myles sighed, this had been happening an awful lot lately, the whole "waking up covered in and surrounded by gore with his pants down" thing at least, wasn't always on a bus. Myles sighed, buttoned his trousers, sifted through the remains for survivors, the usual. A few kids left, Myles gave himself a round of applause, what restraint!

Myles let the children exit the bus... well... perhaps it was more of a general throwing motion... and perhaps the bus was still careening down the highway at the time, but one had to take baby steps with such small acts of mercy. Besides, children were limber, Myles was sure several would bounce back to form with nothing more than a bit of emotional scarring... if they weren't run over by oncoming traffic....

As mentioned earlier, by this point in time the driver was throwing his tizzy and had to be disposed of. Not that it mattered much... only what? Fifteen minutes left before Myles reached the city limits. He wiped away another trail of black slime, this one trailing out of his ears. He'd have to be quick... he was nearly bursting at the seams. Myles smiled a smile that stretched miles, as the Pittsburgh skyline loomed before him.

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A few more minutes, and the highway ended, and city traffic began. Myles of course, never slowed down. Bus became steaming iron juggernaut as Myles made a few subtle, and not so subtle modifications, plowing through the modern cars of plastic polymer like so many flaming swords through tissue paper. Sirens, police, ambulance, both? Did it matter? No, what mattered was the collision, the iron coated bus slamming into the side of the hospital, a bullet shot from a massive gun, blackened burnt and twisted form protruding out of the side of the ER. There hadn't been much warning, just a terrible screeching sound and a cloud of dust, and there it was, this odd-looking bus crumpled against the side of Allegheny General Hospital. No one noticed the tattered backpack tossed through the backdoor just before impact, no one noticed the shivering boy inside the bus, shivering with mirth, a hearty cackling pouring out of his lips as he crawled through the wreckage... and let bare feet touch cold sterile mauve tiles.

Myles convulsed, thrashed slightly but kept to his feet. The boy's presence was catalyst, a call to the myriad carrion eaters alighted upon and circling the hospital. Calm at first, the menacing birds worked themselves into frenzy, taking to the air and swirling into one amorphous black cloud. As one they struck one of the hospitals plate glass windows, cackling and cawing as it shattered beneath their collective weight. Shouts and screams as they spread throughout the hospital, twisting, winding, finding, waiting, knowing that a meal was coming, knowing that they would be fed despite Hades vacillation over plagues and the carnage they so desired. They were Keres, they did not care for meetings or discussions or arrangements, not now, not so close to feeding time, they wanted actions, not words... and oh would this boy give them actions.

The connection, the livid stream of thought expanding, of mind growing, synapses spreading, as soon as Myles feet touched the hospital's polished floors. He shuddered, mouth slightly agape and eyes rolled back at the near orgasmic pressure of it, the joining, and the coitus between the organic and inorganic. Slowly at first... then faster... the building began to shift under Myles' influence, stone and mortar dripping as though under assault by some intense heat source, melting, smearing into one another. The walls buckled slightly, as the concrete dripped... over the doors, over the windows, over every exit and every entrance. The last few souls to walk through the doors, going home, going on their smoke break, going to second jobs and second lives... did they realize how lucky they were? Did they realize how the Gods must've smiled upon them?

A smile upon Myles lips, as the Black Tide swelled and surged forward, no barriers blocking its progress this time, no damns or diversions, no little murder spree on a bus to dampen its coming. This was it... this was climax! The Black bleed through the pores of Myles' skin, his hands dripping with it, coated in what looked for all the world to be slick, black tar, dripping along the ground in pained splashes, sloughing off the flesh. It came from the feet too, started at the ankles and dripped down, covering the feet and leeching from them, leaving a diseased trail in the wake of Myles stride, filling the immediate vicinity with an odor not unlike mesquite, overpowering the sickly sweet smells of entropy and the myriad cleaners meant to mask it. The walls dripped with the Black, it trickled from the ventilation systems and replaced the water in the pipes, and all who touched it felt its burn... and they knew, deep within they knew, back in the primal, survival driven part of the brain they knew... that the black meant murder.

By some lovely perversity of nature, the remnants of the totaled bus' radio sputtered back to life, distorted and warped, but pouring forth a SONG that sang to Myles' thoughts. He let it play, he let it echo, and through subtle machinations, let all the building to its farthest reaches stir to its wailing. A man stumbled into what was left of the room Myles had come to occupy, dressed in nurses' scrubs. He was allowed no comprehension, no explanation, just honor... honor... for he was the first. A dizzying rush of movement, and the man was against the wall, Myles on top of him, both black hands thrust through the man's abdomen, shock painting angular features, skin paling and eyes watering as the pain took hold. Did he know? One hand reached upwards and found the breastplate, wantonly tearing through the lungs as it found a hold underneath the sheet of bone. Did he know? The other wicked surgeon and his five twitching nurses tunneled deeper into the man's flesh, found the spine and gripped it, pressed it into the wall. Did he know? And the first black hand pulled away as the second resisted, and both held fast in their determination... if only the man's body were so resilient. Did the man know... how good it felt to rip him in two?

There were others next... those from what they called Public Safety... but could they shepherd the public safely, in all those little pieces. Myles lunged towards the men armed with batons. An arm shot forward and became a blade, then a dozen, then a hundred, spreading outward as a perverse flower and skewering such soft fragile bodies, pinning them to the wall. The arm reverted as quickly as it had changed, and Myles strolled along, grinning at the pretty little pictures done in the red ink the men left in their wake, juicy little bodies sliding down the painted concrete walls. They were running now, running and screaming and making so much noise, but Myles didn't mind it now... he wasn't sleepy now... now they were singing... now they were dying, for soon they'd be playing, their bones he'd be frying. Trails of pitch and ink and oil followed the monster as he stalked, as he walked with nary a care. Why run, why hunt, they'd nowhere to go, and the anticipation of it... was half the fun....

One was too slow, those plump little legs not getting her far enough, that pathetic waddling gait leaving her stumbling and crying. Tears falling over flushed cheeks, quickly matching the shades of her fiery red hair. Maybe she'd been powerful once, maybe she'd given out assignments and tasks and broke others down to her whims. Perhaps she was incompetent; perhaps she was a nobody, just a festering pustule on the face of humanity, and just as easily excised. Myles severed her legs at the knees, right out from underneath her as she waddled along, freeing her of those cellulite ridden burdens. She never fell though, never touched the ground... he never let her, an arm already plunged through her back, fingers spread and growing... growing and growing and growing until they stretched to the farthest corners of her figure, and the clenched hand blossomed, and the pudgy woman's body bloomed and let the red waters spray, skin wide as a tapestry, her bile and muck turned to nectar. But now she wasn't fun anymore, twitching sheath of flesh and grease that she was, hollowed out and splayed. And so she was tossed aside, slung from Myles arm and discarded in an ignominious heap. And Myles never stopped moving, just kept walking forward in a now trademarked slow shuffle, content to let this last forever.

Another rush of men and women beating their chests and calling themselves security guards, creeping forward now though, no reckless charge, no gung ho shout. Myles had to give them some credit, they weren't as slack-jawed as the average human definition of 'defense'. Twas Pittsburgh though, a major metropolitan area was bound to have some sort of 'Ready Response' system in place, in case of the ever present terrorist attack. Was this a terrorist attack, Myles wasn't quite sure... it must certainly be terrifying. Well no matter, this mob of goons deserved something... spectacular for their professionalism. A rapid dash towards the nearest man, a rather pasty fellow with a bulging belly. Fingers that were blades wrought by uncanny magics cut into flesh, just enough... just enough to gut him. Myles grabbed that length of putrid, scarlet twitching flesh, the small intestine. A foot to the man's chest, a push, sending him hurtling forward, unraveling the surprisingly long organ. Myles was giggling, giggling as he turned the ropey tissue into steel, giggling as the end burst from the man's gut, now a spiked steel ball attached to ten feet of rattling chain. Power in Myles steps, momentum channeled and distilled as he whipped the newborn flail and smashed it into the pretty dark-haired head of a female 'officer', leaving it a pretty little dark smear on the wall.

So slow... they reacted so slowly, puzzled little sheep, barely able to gawk at their comrade's fates before Myles ripped the jawbones from their gaping maws, lodged the surprisingly thick bone in another's skull, kicked him forward into grasp of the last man, only to turn them both to a screaming pillar of flame. And it was glorious, and it was sensuous, and it was not enough! So many of them, running and screaming and crying and dying and trying not to shit themselves! No more strolling, no more disdain, how could Myles be so rude! They were worth it! They were worth the thrust of Myles' hands down their throats, they were worthy of having their spines torn from quivering, twitching bodies, they were worthy of beholding pale eyes filled with such ecstatic joy and youthful glee!

Down hallways, room by room, Myles struck and Myles killed and Myles tasted the thrill of it all, and nothing breathing remained in his wake. Another floor now, what was this one? Ha! A maternity ward! Oh they were defensive here! Even better than the security teams! They tried to lock doors, tried to bar them and barricade themselves into some semblance of safety. But Myles never changed course, never rethought his plan, not when a fluttering of sticky black fingers turned all their fortifications into dust, not when he could breathe life into that dust and turn it into a multitude of stinging flies. Myles roared under the sobriquet Beelzebub, was he not lord of the insects, lord of the flies? Perhaps he should carry about a pig's head on a stick. He clapped and laughed as the nurses flailed about and swatted, tried to shield their infant charges and failed, as more and more of the world about them dissolved into dust and turned into ravenous gnats. Gnats whose meaningless, insignificant forms became asphyxiation in their light blocking swarms. Nip, bite, chew, gnaw, relentless, merciless, and soon the movement stopped, and soon the wailing of infants stopped, and only the buzzing remained, until it too stopped, as Myles had no more use for them.

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The life giving building became a tomb, and yet there were no groans, no death rattles and dying sobs. The boy and his black tide went about their work thoroughly, with relentless passion and lust not slaked, caught up in ecstasy bound to zealotry as they sacrificed before pagan older gods, offering them this place were death was conquered, tender hands soaked in black sins crafting them a hecatomb.

But the boy was sloppy at times, so caught up in his steady forward assault, that he paid little mind to the remnants left crawling about in his wake. And from these the carrion eaters gleaned, the unholy swarm that made its entrance just before the party was closed to the public. They were lost, one and all lost, blind to each other, blind to reality, as teeth dug into bleeding flesh, as merciless talons sent soul after soul screaming into Hades. The hungers were satiated, roused to consuming levels and then slaked again. Over and over and over, the Keres feasted, resumed the bodies of black winged women, teeth sharp and white and tipped and drenched and dredged through vital fluids.

Anaplekte writhed about upon tile once cool, now warmed by the fevered feeding and the precious, cooling fluids draining from the food.... Ecstasy within her loins, arching up her back and eliciting a howling caw, a hoarse song pushed forward by hundreds of other women robed in dripping scarlet. They shared, shared even as they fought and tore at each other over the scraps; they shared a will, shared a joy, and shared a reason for being. Heads thrashed about with stringy hair dyed with the last breaths of men and women and children.

They were crying... Anaplekte was crying, black tears rolling down grinning faces. This... this was joy, the man screaming and staring at the stumps where his legs had been, was beautiful. The little girl clutching her stuffed rabbit and clutching the gaping hole in her side, while shaking the gunk that had once been mommy, this was joy, and this was beautiful. Dancing amongst the literal rivers of blood that sloshed about the white marble floors and fed into the lakes of carnage where the land tilted low... this was joy, this was beautiful. The Keres screamed and the Keres howled, and the love in their hearts was a pure as the pitch dripping from Myles' fingers and feet, and they were loyal, and they were fed, by the dying and the dead.

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Moving on, moving on through another floor, more generic than the last. Oooo but this one had a chapel! Or was it the more politically correct meditation room, Myles could never remember. He stopped, paused before the doorway and chuckled, peeling the remnants of a rather gangly Latino fellow from between his teeth (chewy and not at all like a chimichanga in flavor). At least a dozen of them, huddled together and sobbing, clutching a little image of their lord and savior and blubbering over it. The fellow seemed to be rather... crucified, Myles never could quite grasp the fascination of it all, or how a dying man was supposed to offer you're sanctimonious and relatively healthy (for the present) ass some kind of aid. Seemed rather selfish.

An older one amongst them, a man dressed in a papist robes and wearing that stereotypical facade of priestly calm, rose and stood before his soon to be mutilated congregation. Myles rolled his eyes and sighed, he knew the words born from the man's mouth, before he spoke them, they were always the same...,"'And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in HELL!'"

Myles grinned, and responded to the impotent priest's edict, the man was an outstanding actor, but he was rather fortunate that those dark robes covered up the piss stains,"Ha... ahh... that can... be... hmmm... arranged. But really old fellow, this isn't the fucking Exorcist! I can say pretty scriptures too. For example: 'Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men's hands. They have mouths, but they speak not: eyes have they, but they see not: They have ears, but they hear not: noses have they, but they smell not: They have hands, but they handle not: feet have they, but they walk not: neither speak they through their throat. They that make them are like unto them; so is every one that trusteth in them."

The man started to speak, Myles skewered him, skewered all of them, pinned them to the walls in every imaginable pattern, all of them quite purposeful unlike a cross. What? Had they been expecting theological debate and witty banter? Fuck that, this hospital was huge and Myles didn't have all day. Well, perhaps he did have all day... not like anyone was getting out or in anytime soon. But... well... dammit, why talk when there was massacring to be done!

Elevator music, a perky little jazz band tune. Myles hummed along, drummed out a little beat with two recently procured femur bones, a bit damp, but he could make due. The doors slid open, and Myles turned to take in the several dozen glances from blue clad doctors, all wide-eyed and shocked, but not particularly fearful. Twas to be expected, Myles wasn't a gang of militants with assault rifles, nor was he some multi-limbed, abominable monster, or whatever else the garbled, frantic chatter the phones had identified before going silent. They could be disgusted, appalled, but no reason to be scared. Hmm... time to change that....

Fifteen minutes and fifty corpses later, Myles scrunched his nose at an odd sort of smell. Godling... but rather weak. Hmmm... godlings were always intriguing, always made for a bit of fun. Hmmm... couldn't say what sort of shape he was in, the smell came from the ICU. Sighs from Myles' lips, another locked door, and another door with its hinges turned to water. An older Asian man, handcuffed to his hospital bed. Well... that was different. He wasn't very pretty, skin rough and wrinkled from a difficult life, a permanent scowl on his face, tubes stuffed down his throat and shoved hastily into his arms, his nation’s flag laid on his misshapen, lumpy frame, made of pristine white bandages and the growing flower of the man's lifeblood. Myles flipped through the medical chart at the foot of his bed,"Hmmm... well, well Mr. Kurosawa, nothing remotely special about you... and yet you smell positively... divine. Ohh... so you shot your wife, ha! A bit too much nagging eh? I can understand that much. Ahhh but you forgot the stepson! Seems he wanted a bit of fun with you... with a meat cleaver. Hmm, now that seems more in line with a half-blood eh, a son of Ares perhaps? Ooohh, but you beat him to the punch, shot yourself, pathetic.... Gah, but why am I chatting with you! You're in a coma! Well then, I've got six more floors to clean out... and I'd hate to forget you amidst all the fun. Hmm... perhaps I'll just bring your boy a souvenir...."
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[Myles]

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Pam was shivering, but she wasn't cold... she was shivering but she wasn't cold. So much fear, roiling about in her breast, thick in the musty air she shared with the handful of others she'd grouped into this. She couldn't do it alone, and she wouldn't let them roll over and die like the others. Not like Dr. Lawrence, not like Kesha, not like the third floor janitor, not like that new medical unit secretary. No... these few, herself, John the nurse from Endoscopy, Sammy from Public Safety, Gloria from IT, Officer Terry who'd come in with that domestic disturbance case... they wouldn't die, they wouldn't be chewed up and strewn about the hallways. They'd been smart, been quiet when others had screamed, been patient when others had been hasty. Pam had seen enough horror movies, enough b-move SyFy flixs, to know what not to do in these sorts of situations.

This wasn't a movie, that's what Sammy kept saying at first, but he'd hushed up and listened closely, got real attentive, when she kept them alive. The uh... the first thing to do, was get information. That's what you're supposed to do, you can't just... just run away if you don't know what to run away from. Sammy helped with that, got them into the Public Safety offices, let them into the surveillance room... where they watched... watched that kid.... Oh God... oh God how? Why? Pam still couldn't shake the stupor from her bones, running fingers through long brown hair spasmodically, sweaty hands constantly adjusting scrubs that were one size too small. Too small... that's right, because she had to borrow Jodi's. She'd seen Jodi... seen her on one of the screens... the birds were fighting over the pieces of her left in the boy's wake.

A shaky nudge from Gloria snapped Pam back to reality, the reality that would either save them or damn them. The boy's route was clear, and leisurely. The exits were sealed, they'd found that out soon enough. The main lobby offered no safe haven... that's where the first floor people had rushed, the visitors who didn't know the safety code training... and the staff who'd forgotten the procedures. But the boy had already been to the lobby... and the blood was ankle deep... oh God it sloshed around the tiles like a fucking lake! The boy... no, not a human, not even a demon, or a monster, not even death, just a... 'thing', anti-life, took the elevator to the ninth floor... and he was working his way down, further and further and further. So they... they knew where he was going, Pam knew, could guess how long it'd take him to reach them in the basement.

No running, no place to run... and no dying either, no submission, no giving up, not yet, not without even trying, trying to killIt. Officer Terry was supposed to be brave, supposed to be a cop! But he wasn't brave, and he wasn't stupid, when John and all his muscle bound stupidity wanted to take the fight to It, Terry was the first to shoot it down. They had to be smart... set a trap, let It come to them. He was right, dammit, he was right... and Pam knew how....

They gathered at the Emergency Room entrance, sealed like all the others, but that's where It was coming, if it kept to Its pattern. No one followed them, no one minded them, caught up as they were in their own schemes to seek out a few more seconds of life. Pam cringed, felt the shivering in the sides of her belly as It hunted them, saw the spray of blood gush across the walls, saw people turn to flee... saw them mowed down and turned to pulp and mulch. A few joined her haggard band, joined her because she looked determined. Not much bravura in her... but at least she wasn't babbling, at least she wasn't crying or praying. And besides... she had a gun. Officer Terry's gun... this was supposed to be his job, this was supposed to be his role, his moment to shine... but he wouldn't do it, couldn't do it, the shame in him dwarfed by the fear of it... the black blight that drew ever closer. So it fell to Pam... it was her plan wasn't it? It was only right that she pull the trigger, that their lives rest in her hands, that she protect them, defend them. She was messiah, pretty little brunette, nubile lithe figure born of a drive to go to the gym even after a twelve-hour shift. Bright blue eyes, boundless potential, a resident! Surely she was savior, with her pretty perfect teeth, and her pretty perfect record, and her pretty perfect speech....

Pam nearly vomited... held it together... just barely... just barely, body already swaying slightly, psyche buckling over the weight of the trust... the desperation... draped around her shoulders and shackled to her limbs. The doubts of humans, their faith, all that she was to be, a final hope, the answer of a half dozen different gods, the long shot, the dark horse....

A hacking, shuddering breath threatened to tear Pam's chest apart. She could see It... see him at the far end of the hallway, painted red with mortal claret. And It was smiling, and It was looking at her... with eyes of white and ivory, eyes that dug and took and offered nothing in return, that wanted to touch and to taste and to tear and to render her obscene and defiled. And Pam never looked away, refused, even as bitter tears stung the scrapes on her cheeks with the salt of the earth, the biting flavor of living. Silently, her mouth formed a word, even as her lungs fought to keep her breathing... Why?

"Why? Aha... aha... ahhaa...," Oh God... it spoke and she could hear it, they could all hear it, even though it was still at the other end of the hall, still fifty meters off at least. The voice came clear and sharp, right into the earlobe, and Pam and her survivors could feel his breath on their necks, could hear the slight condescension in his voice, and the overpowering happiness, the sticky sweet euphoria in his words. And he spoke to them, gave them honor, just as he'd given the first... for they... they would be the last. But even as the words sank into fevered skulls... It never stopped killing, turning the air in the rooms It passed by to flame, driving out those that hid, only to cut them down like harvest wheat,"

My friends... it has often been said that I like killing. Friends, I like killing. No, friends, I love killing!

I love murders. I love wars. I love genocides. I love pogroms, assaults; I love pre-meditated killings, and compulsions.

Killings within homes, in streets, in trenches, in grasslands, in frozen tundra, through deserts, on the sea, in the air, I love every act of violence that can occur upon this earth!

I love rending a human in twain with massive exertions of strength applied to opposite ends of his body!

My heart leaps with joy whenever an infant is tossed from its mother's arms carve a wide hunk out of her fleeing back!

And there is nothing like turning a husband's corpse into some manner of exotic weapon, or better yet! a mindless ravaging chimerical beast intent on ripping out and assimilating the organs of its former wife and children, it is such an exquisite feeling.

Like when noble-minded heroes rush out bravely, to quell whatever havoc I wreak. It moves me deep within my heart to watch them stab and shoot and bludgeon an enemy that doesn't die, shouldn't die, can't die, will never die!

The sight of cowards being strung up from a street lamp is an irresistible pleasure. And there is nothing more arousing, than the sounds made by impotent police officers dropping like flies, screaming in agony as they're mowed down by sheets of pressurized needles!

When a band of pitiful resistance fighters makes their final stands with nothing but small arms, common folk not unlike you, only to have their hopes smashed to atoms and their organs ripped from them, I'm in ecstasy.

I love it when my plans fall apart. It's so sad to see machinations and schemes I so carefully planned and desired to execute, rendered fruitless because I was too busy fucking some pretty young thing.

I love to be squashed under the heels of wrathful, vengeful gods. The humiliation, as I'm pressed into this task or that, told to crawl through the putrid muck of their sordid affairs just to spare myself and eternity in Tartarus.

Ladies and gentlemen... All I ask for is murder, a killing spree so grand as to make Hell itself tremble and buck under the weight of a flood tide of new residents. My dear friends, I ask you as my next victims, what is it you really want? Do you wish to escape me? Do you wish for a return to your pathetic, pedantic, fruitless lives? Or do you wish for even a moment, to be part of something glorious!? Do you ask to be swept into the tempest of my Black Tide, leaving only the death ravens, the Keres, to scavenge the remnants of your corpses from this earth!?"

Ahhh... but even as your mouths hang open and your eyes water and quiver, I can hear you shouting! I can here you roaring, 'Take us, take us, take us, take us!!!'

Very well. Then murder is what you shall have. You are but quivering masses of skin and bone and juicy organs, waiting to be enlightened, to be raised to glory and understanding. But.. After enduring so many decades of your pointless, meaningless existences, for you, a simple "ordinary" death will no longer be sufficient. We need to be a part of a MASS-murder! A slaughter beyond any other that man's history has never known!

Alas, I cannot quite give you that, but I can give something spectacular nonetheless! Something memorable and unexplainable! I can make you a part of urban myths and conspiracy theories that will last for DECADES! I can join you the Apocalypse of mankind! It is time for them to awake the ones who would send your souls screaming into oblivion, who would keep you trapped in an virtual eternity of mindless consumerism and idolatry, and who now lie sleeping. Let's drag them out of bed by the hair, and remind them of the living, emotional, powerful beings you one were! We will remind them of what it feels like to live in fear. We will remind them of the sound the wolf's jaws make against their throats. We will remind them, that there are more things between Heaven and Hell than are dreamt of in their philosophy!

Soon... both I in body and You in spirit will burn this world's consciousness down to ash. Yes, my friends! Soon, this building's charred remains will illuminate the night sky! I have brought you all to the end just as I promised I would! To your graves, to your tombs, to your mausoleums! All in the name of our beloved murder!

At last, the lion has crossed the marshes and is heading to your pastures!

Friends...let me show you fucking Hell!"

It ended its colorful monologue, tapering off in a storm of white noise as far as Pam was concerned. it seemed to frown slightly at their silence and stupefaction, perhaps expecting a round of applause after such a rousing death knell. Pam didn't care, the others didn't care, didn't care about the salvo of words, on the death those black hands dealt with every step he took forward, intensely aware of the shrinking distance, of the rising Black Tide. That stroll was an hourglass, and the sands were falling faster and faster, soon nothing would be left. So they gazed into the abyss... and waited, waited for It to get closer. Pam's hands were shaking, the mouth of the weapon in her hands shaking, but she could still see It at the end of her sights... and in her mind, that was good enough.

So close now... close enough to make out the little details, the fair skin beneath the spattering of red, brown hair matted with sweat and blood, the blackness on the hands and feet still rank and prominent, teeth white and sharp. Not very large... muscular but wiry, maybe... really... It was an inch shorter than Pam. Faintest glimmers of relief in the girl's eyes as It stopped a few a couple meters in front of them, perplexed at their seeming... anticipation, arms akimbo and a boyish smirk and cocked eyebrow painting the features beneath the gore. Pam could barely breathe... but she could feel the now of this, no drifting away, no mental retreat, only the now, only the survival, only the triumph, and the almost-victory of it that swelled within her chest.

It stared at them for a moment, still somewhat puzzled, perhaps not so much confusion now... more like surprise, a slight respect that wasn't grudging,"Fuckin' hell. After all of this!" It gestured furiously to the holocaust behind him, the cooking corpses being pecked at by a multitude of scavenging birds oddly unaffected by the flames, the walls that dripped with the same black ooze that It did,"Do you honestly think... that unloading every last bullet you've got in that little toy, will do shit to me?"

Pam stopped shaking, stopped breathing, and she smiled, something like madness in deep hazel eyes, all the hospital's holocaust reflected within her eyes. She smiled," No."

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The gun's sights turned and the young doctor fired. The bullet flew, ball of metal and fire soaring, past It, to the side of it, to the tile that Engineering never got around to fixing, the one that Sammy knew because of the complaints he'd gotten. The bullet struck, into the hollow... into the O2 tanks, the CO2 tanks from the soda fountain machines, the cooking oil and wine from the cafeteria, a massive bundle of toothpaste for sensitive teeth that somehow Gloria knew contained a sizable amount of potassium nitrate. The bullet struck, burrowed into the hopes, dreams and schemes of four souls, and ignited the glorious light of victory.

Pam was on her back, and someone was shaking her... Terry, Officer Terry... he was shaking her and smiling, smiling even as he wiped the dust and soot from his face, pointing frantically in front of her. Pam struggled to her knees, and nearly wept at the sight. There lay It... well... half of it at least... one arm, a leg, and a wide chunk of its torso gone... disintegrated, what remained smashed into the wall... bleeding black from whatever wasn't burnt to a crisp. Pam smiled, a smile that broke out into a wild giggling, not the healthiest of sounds... but it was better than the tears and the fears and the sounds of sobbing. She was free, free of the nearness of death, free of courage, free of expectations. It was stupid... stupid to be celebrating, they should cut off Its head first, but now Pam understood, understood the heroes' elation at the end of a film,, this feeling... this bubbling mirth... it was intoxicating, glorious, and she was powerful, and she was might, for she had survived.

"Ah.. we need... need to...," Pam swayed as Officer Terry pulled her to her feet, still light-headed and giggling, leaning on her cowardly defender for a moment before righting herself and wandering a few paces forward on wobbly, uncertain legs. Kind and merry hands kept her up.

"It's okay Pam, you did good, our turn to help out," A weak smile from Sammy, no longer the coward, no longer the doubter, no longer the naysayer, just a man, looking to regain some face before what few peers of his remained. Pam didn't mind, didn't care, she's won, she was victorious, she was victory incarnate, and nothing else mattered save this feeling. Sammy was speaking again, giving directions as though he had the even the slightest understanding of their situation," That was some boom, looks like that thing cemented the doors and windows, maybe another blast like that will get us clear of this place. Let's see if the cafeteria has any m-"

The man stopped, and Pam giggled, giggled at the pointed stake of stone that wore coil of red... red from where it hat pierced Sammy... right up the shitter... and up and up and up... Pam knew it was still going, wasn't surprised at all when it peeked it's scarlet-black tip out of Sammy's gaping mouth, wasn't surprised when the stupid, little man's body jerked, and the stone spike pistoned outwards, a reverse pincushion that riddled the few close by with holes. Pam was laughing, nearly shaking with the mirth of it all, even when the others began to scream, began to wail and run about. The walls came alive, came alive and grew hands hewn from cinder blocks, massive palms that reached and gripped and snagged Gloria by her mop of course black curls.... They groped her... fondled her with the gentle touch of bulldozers, carving out swaths over flesh as she writhed and blubbered. One hand took the leg... the other took the head, and they pulled and pulled and pulled until Gloria tore and made it rain crimson dewdrops. Pam kept laughing, vigor returning to her limbs as she danced beneath the carnage.

"Aha... aha... aha..." A sound that came from no body, that echoed down the hallways and licked at the earlobe, penetrating, relentless. Pam just twirled about and sang. She'd known... of course she'd known that It wasn't dead, that a makeshift bomb couldn't keep It down. But she didn't care, because she'd one... just for a little bit, and that was all that mattered, and she could dance and dance and dance. Dance even as jaws rose from the floor and dragged John screaming into marble tile suddenly turned liquid.

The gun in her hand went off. Pam's eyes widened, a madman's glee alight in hazel set aflame. The feel of the shot, the tremor in her, the rattling in the bones of her hand when the bullet dislodged. It reminded her... reminded her of the killing shot, of her victory blow, and it felt... felt so good! And Pam was shooting now, spinning about and firing her borrowed weapon, at the walls at the maddened mill of people, at the floor, at the ceiling. It didn't matter, only the action mattered, only the release mattered... and Pam was spinning and firing and reveling in death and the memory... no... the reality of her victory! She was invincible... and nothing could touch her!

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A tired chuckle, a dazed simper, as Pam slid against the sticky wall painted with her friends, slumped against it, somewhat weary, but not exhausted, not finished. She could never be finished, not in this state, not as she was goddess. Nothing bothered her, not the sudden reversal of fortune, not the crows pecking at her fellow survivors’ corpses, not the bullet hole between Officer Terry's eyes, the one she'd given him... her special gift from all her whirlwind tumbling. Pam wasn't bothered when the burnt out husk of It began to twitch and shiver, didn't mind when the flesh tore itself loose from her former fair-weather allies and slithered towards the ruined body, binding itself to it, joining with the shivering mass as limbs regenerated and charred skin shed away.

It stood... new and reborn, skin free of blood and bile, new... slightly pink, fresh and flawless, white eyes bright and playful, a young man's grin stapled to a monster's shadow,"Ooooooohhh that felt... intense. Good girl... good girl... you caught me there, you made me work for it... I'm so proud of you...." It was closer... he was closer, definitely a he now... padding amongst the carnage without so much as glance to the left or the right, bare feet on cool tile... bare feet... not consumed by black.... A hand against the wall at the side of her head, a clean hand of mauve color like the rest of the man's body. So strange... It wasn't so frightening, just a man, a man with a playful if lusty look gracing baby-faced features. The hospital grew... how to say it... less imposing, as the darkness, the foreboding and the menace seemed to retreat back into this man's body, disconnecting the inorganic from some unholy well of power. Oh yes the place was still on fire, still covered in gore, still sealed from the rest of the world and still brimming with scavenger birds... it just seemed... less immediately dangerous, even as the power failed and the emergency lights clicked on, dim red glow accentuated by the warm light from growing flames... and It was so close.

Pam didn't mind, didn't mind that lusty stare, the smell of him... something like mesquite and bitters, she just smiled, content in her victory. She had laid It low, even if it was just for a moment. She'd done all that was expected of her, she had proved herself worthy, and even if it ripped her limb from limb... she would know, she would always know this thrill, this cherry flavored liquor of triumph and success more powerful... more potent than any number of diplomas or awards or promotions. Pam sighed, hazel eyes flickering with a deep-seated mirth, matching the cunning gaze of playful pale eyes, as she leaned her head against the young' man's outstretched arm. It was warm... he was warm... hot, almost uncomfortably so, as though the more death he caused, the more he lived. Pam wondered if she was the same... if she would've ever experienced this high if the others hadn't sacrificed themselves to this god of blood and chaos.

"Brave little bird... you aren't scared of me are you?"

"No.... Should I be?"

The young man who had once been fear inspiring 'It', cocked an eyebrow, tilted his head back to the hellish landscape behind them and chuckled slightly.

"Oh that? What does that matter? I still won...."

"Really? How impressive.... Care to... explain it to this thick old soul?"

Pam cackled slightly at that, extended a hand and gripped the side of the boy's face, ran her fingers across the smooth flesh until they found purchase amidst a tangle of soft, nearly silken hair, “Kill me, eat me, destroy me, it doesn't really matter. This feeling matters, and it is mine, and you can fuck yourself for all I care. I win, I've won, and there's nothing left of me... 'cept this... and you can't have it...."

"Aha... aha... aha... I like you human, I think I'll let you live. I've had my fill of flesh... but there are still other hungers to ease and thirsts to quench...."

Pam knew what was to come... knew that she should be frightened or repulsed, knew that she should scream and fight back, knew that these were the natural reactions, knew that she didn't give a damn about the natural reactions. Why not? This whole day, this whole life... was utter absurdity, why not on a floor slick with blood? Why not with a cute stranger, a fucking madman, a psychopath, a sociopath? Pam had always been a good girl, a few boyfriends, a few flings, but nothing too serious, nothing to distract her from her purpose, from her goals. What goals? Fellowship, a complete residency, a fully fledged-doctor? Why, why care, why not just rut and tumble about in the hay and scream and cut and bleed? Somewhere in the hollow crevices of her mind, Pam knew she was losing it, knew that any semblance of sanity had long since left her... but it was beautiful... the echo every emotion left behind in all this empty space. So why not? She played coy," Oh? And what sort of desire is that?"

The scene didn't make sense, none of it made any sense, it shouldn't be happening, and yet it was, and it was wonderful. Just to make sure reality did not rear its ugly head, the boy began to SING in response to that question, a husky low tenor that Pam could feel as he drew close. She could feel his breath tickling her ear, the brush of his lips against her earlobe, trailing down the curve of her neck, leaving a vibration in his wake. What was that? Pam chuckled before a moan overtook her. She felt dizzy, but not sick dizzy... as if she couldn't keep her balance. Heat, heat from him... pressed against her... he wasn't wearing any clothes... no wait... that wasn't right... he was wearing shorts at least... even though they did little to hide his intentions.

"The moon shines in the autumn sky,
Growin' cold, the leaves all die....
I'm more alone than I've ever been,
Help me out of the shape I'm in....

After the fires, before the flood...
My sweet baby, I need fresh blood...."

A howl, right into Pam's collarbone, a primal sound that sent a thrill up to her neck and down to her thighs, the humming growing and spreading and shaking her insides. Hot... hot flesh, hot blood... sweat, her sweat... it was like burning.... exquisite agony as the man wove a trail from zone to zone. Subtle magics in his fingers... running over the too-tight scrubs and unraveling them like so many clumps of yarn. The sharp and fleeting nip of teeth over a stiffening nipple, Pam winced and leaned into it, writhing slightly against the wall, past the sticky warmth and back to the cool paint coated concrete. A rough tongue, a rough and wicked thing that teased and taunted and tugged. The man dipped lower, down to the naval, so slow... so slow... why wouldn't he go faster? Did Pam want him to go faster, to end it, to get it over with? Did she? Maybe... maybe not... not when the suffering tasted like candy.

Fingers at her hips now, the boy on his knees, the layers of fabric falling away and lying all bare. Pam bucked slightly, pupils dilated and shimmering with the fire in her belly and the fire creeping up the hall. A wicked tongue indeed... that knew the secret caches within and without, that knew when to thrust, and flick, and fondle. Sounds out of Pam's throat, harsh calls and goads brought to her lips without conscious thought. Both hands buried in brown hair now... one tugging at her own locks, trying to keep her anchored to the physical, trying to keep her from slipping away into holy ecstasy, from drowning in the wines of older gods. The other grazed the young man's scalp, clinging to him, looking for any sort of purchase, any sort of leverage to egg him on... on- To where? There was nowhere left go, they were in the chasm, within the black, falling and screaming and laughing into infinity. Nowhere else to go, and still she urged him forward, towards something, anything, death? Little or big?

Knees buckled, and Pam was with him, with her Monster on the ground and writhing in coitus calling so coyly and carrying them to creation’s crux and oh- fuck.... Pam bucked into it, the rut and the thrust and the hunger and the wanton abandon of it all. To move like Buddha twisted up in the Ouroboros snare of unending cycles, rock forwards to pleasure, fall away to pleasure, dancing along ocean drift and staring into light. Light... the blackness behind eyelids clenched for fear of falling, Pam gasped as each serpent motion pierced a pinprick of livid light amongst all that inky black. Sweat slicked bodies moved in unison to one another amidst the burning away of life, joining the Keres in their orgy and reaching for something uniquely human, something that even Lecherous Zeus could not touch from his divine throne.

Pam had no anchor, her grip lost as she clung to this creature between her legs, nails digging into the skin of his back and drawing up his own ichors. To hear him groan, to hear him panting, breaths heady and mingling with hers, to know that she owned him as surely as she was owned... this was victory... this was victory's reward. Coiled lightening through the temples, Pam flushed, thrashed beneath her blessed burden and felt the world sink away, consumed by light and triumph and glory... as heavy as the exhaustion pressing her back down onto the floor slick with blood and lust and perspiration. Pam heard her lover mutter, heard him mutter 'Zelia', the title of a goddess perhaps, some pagan witch queen. Pam smiled, rolled the name about her tongue and then forgot it. And Pam was mortal, yet for a moment she was divine, and the world was hers, within her grasp, even as her scene faded to black....

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Myles lay still for a moment, staring at the patchwork tiles on the ceiling, at the tendrils of smoke, that danced across them, skipping over one another and probably playing grab ass. The godling chuckled, a slight content sound that turned into hearty gale of laughter, refreshed, unburdened. Oh he felt good... wonderful... content, satiated in every sense of the word. Tired too... fuck he couldn't even conjure a shirt, or full pants for that matter... but the Black Tide had come... and he'd drowned in it... as had everyone else, as was proper. Myles spared a glance at the sleeping woman beside him, hair matted with seat and strewn about her face, body brazen and exposed, shrouded only in strips of blue fabric... hmm... still breathing too, good... she'd earned it. Ha, if only humans knew what potent aphrodisiacs fear and fury made! Hmm... that name had slipped out.... interesting. They certainly didn’t look similar by any means... but that glorious abandon, that chaos loving possession in the eyes, madness in a broken young woman taken past her failure point a dozen times over... madness in a half-blood from some corruption of the Mist within her? Who knew... but Myles did find it kinky as all hell.

The weary and full boy stood, tugged on his shorts and fished about the various carcasses for a certain large bleeding, lumpy object in a black pillowcase. The godling's souvenir... mustn’t forget that. A few minutes search turned up the quarry, a bit bruised but still recognizable as Mr. Kurosawa's severed head. Wonderful then, that little last-ditch effort hadn't robbed him of his peace offering, would've certainly complicated some matters. Well... lovely as all of this had been, it was time to move on, the outside world was waiting, no doubt caught in the dead of night by now, surrounded by a few dozen swat teams, helicopters, snipers, demolition crews, and firefighters. Half of Pittsburgh public services gathered roundabout. A diversion then. Myles knew the routine, this wasn't the first Black Tide by any means, and one developed a certain artistry to committing mass murder after a while.

In through the ER, out through the ER... it brought a certain air of completion. Myles brought his face to the poured mass of concrete that sealed off this doorway just as it had done every portal in and out of the hospital. Myles licked it. Not quite concrete... but something similar, highly durable and resistant to shock damage and heat damage... but incredibly reactive to an enzyme in Myle's spit, a door only he could open. The surface of the concrete bubbled, as the catalyst set in motion a series of reactions that trailed through every corner of the building, taking hold of the godling crafted barricade that sealed up this grand altar to the freshly deceased. Tumult for a few moments longer, then a sudden stillness.... Myles held his breath, knew what was coming. An explosion, a massive propelling outwards as the concrete dissolved into dust and shot out of every opening in the hospital, as though some great beast where hacking out a handful of inhaled soot. The force sucked Myles outwards, sent him sprawling along a stretch of asphalt, presence masked by newly born thick cloud of dust and smog. A furious cacophony of outraged caws, and the massive hospital seemed to vent one more wave of detritus, floods of birds pouring from the structure en masse, the Keres having eaten their fill, departing for their dark homes.

Myles smirked, and dusted himself off, no conspicuous exit, nothing as grand as his entrance to say the least, although the roaring back draft that sent gouts of flame streaming from the upper floor windows of the hospital, did make for an interesting background effect. They'd burned for quite a few hours after all, just embers by the time Myles vacated the premise... running out of oxygen... well... not anymore. The young man danced to the symphony of worried humans springing to life, the clatter of strike team jackboots, the wail of fire trucks and ambulances (awww, how sweet, coming to aid their competitor, and maybe gloat just a little bit). Myles ignored the sounds soon enough, well beyond their 'security perimeter' by the time they would've seen fit to notice him, not that he made for a very probable suspect... so long as they didn't look inside the sack he was twirling around....

The alluring scent of the divine led him to a parked car at the hospital's front, just far enough away from the main ruckus not to warrant any undue attention. It was just another one of the hundreds of pedestrians that had gathered around to watch the chaos, cavemen instincts roused by the sight or pretty fire and the smell of dead men. Myles swaggered up to the driver's seat, squatted and peaked in, giving the two young people in the cabin a little wave and a disarming grin,"Aww... isn't that adorable, I didn't know the Greek Gods were into take-away. Well no one can charge them with any lack of diversity eh? No matter, it’s my very good honor to meet you both; I'm Myles, son of somebody. Any chance I might be able to score a bit of that famed Greek hospitality? I do come bearing gifts...."

A cheerful grin as Myles tossed the bloody sack into the car, aiming for the lap of the boy in the driver's seat. Nothing shook the grin and the calm though... after all, Myles knew how to play his roles, and for now, it was time to be Satan in a Sunday Hat.


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Severing the heart... then I'm....
Leaving your corpse behind....
Not dead but soon to be and
I'm gonna be the one to say I told you so. [/font]
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[Mariana]

Okay. Now I see how it might be bad...

[Myles]

*sage nods* The girls oft times like to chase after the bad boys, until they find an actual bad boy, and then they usually aren't in any shape to go sniffing up that tree ever again. Hell, they're lucky if they can go sniffing anymore, period. Old Myles sent a lot of people to the afterlife, still not sure how DA Myles is shaping up, though he seems nicer, somewhat less psychotic. Key word being 'somewhat'.

[Mariana]

Yes... Somewhat... Still I am rather fond of this Myles. He's... fun

[Myles]

Ha, dangerous things are always fun, therein lies half the appeal. I wonder folks, how deep do you all get into the character process? Or perhaps a better question, how do you about formulating your charries.

[Mariana]

Ah, yes, the characters... Well, I tend to get very into my characters, right from the point where I start creating them. Just ask my family - I'll spend hours looking for the perfect name. But, as for how I come up with them... As a rule I'll see something or hear something that sparks an idea in my head, just this little flicker, and then I take it and build it up into a person I know better than me. Hell, sometimes my characters come out more real than me... It scares me really...

[Myles]

Ha, I think that's a constant concern of a good writer. It is of course, rather unsettling, when you the author feel the story should go in one direction, and your character disagrees, and the character wins....