Deathknell Chronicles IC, Chapter 1: Eyes Open

[Worlok]

Back in the shower, Faruq had had a revelation visited upon him, he was sure of it. Reconsidering his battles of the day, and all what had come of it, he had recognised a certain, repeating pattern interspesed throughout it all: When he had planned and thought in advance, struggled to keep his self-control, he had been beaten, every time:

I trieda' push her out da window, she jus' up an' noticed dat. Even though I'd been all sneaky-like an' distractin'. How? When I woke up, I trieda' play at stupid, like, I don't even know who I am anymore, and it di'n't even get recognised. Why? Even dis Kirsch-ass ponce-o looked at me all knowin'-like, and all dis time, dem's both been frontin' threats. Why'd they do that to a guy dey's killed? A guy who's like fully aware dey got super-powers? 'cause, ob-vi-ous-ly, they can read mah mind. Like dat. Everytime I trieda' outsmart 'em, I... well... I did it, eventually. But still, they seemed so outta it all, like there's not even anything new to that. Like it ain't even worth nah respect when a guy goes up against a whole -room- fulla living dead without even a shirt on - and he makes 'em jump! The hell was that all about?

But when he had acted on instinct and impulse, he had typically gotten what passed for successes out of it:

I mean, I went up against her with a cheap-ass age-old lighter, just like that. She hadda strength an'a speed an'a teeth and I? I was already down for the count 'n' bleedin'. And den I come up wi' mah hands on mah lighter, and I swear, she up friggin' -jumped-. Thinking back to that moment of obvious fear in Melanie's eyes, a predatorial smirk had graced his features once more, and the water pouring down upon and all around him had shortly reflected scenes of carnage in the pale, red dribble it had still been washing off his maltreated skin. And I promised her I would see her suffer. Coat myself in her blood and speak prayers atop her corpse one day. And I -meant- it. Every word. And dis thing inside me? Jus' kept roarin', I should wait for her snapping, catch her in rage, bite down on the fist that would strike me and rip and tear. Until I got the blood. And suddenly, I's all calm, and in time for their little whatsit with Uncle Ahmad's voice there.

And only then had he remembered what exactly it had been that he had thought:

So, obviously, they can read my mind, somehow. I told her to read my plans in my thoughts, and she did, 'parently. Next mistake she'd make there. Braggin' 'bout it, like a goddamn punk. Tol' me she can read it, see it, hear it, jus' by lookin' at me once. She tipped her hand. They jus' keep betrayin' themselves all over, nothin' for me to do. And all a' dat means that I can't jus' plan my crap. Thinkin' means that I level the field in their favor, and that is tha last thing I'd want. Dey's terrified a' me packin' my instincts, though. And that's how I gotta roll. They laid me in heavy chains, and tol' me it's for my protection, like I'm a retard. But they were afraid a' me, no two ways about it. And so, I gotta keep on rollin', winning, but I can't just plan. I gotta act on instinct, hella sudden, hella cool. And inbetween two boutsa sudden cool, I gotta weasel. Lion-blooded Ferret, bitches. I am just too good for you.

He had felt a lot like an animal, in a good way, all the way here to this place. Like something you'd keep in the back of your car, afraid to sit next to it, like Melanie had obviously been. After he had stepped out of the shower, having considered and deliberated like many a time when watching the rain, and nursing his bong on his knee while eating, he had felt relieved. He had gotten the chance to remove all the waste from his system, to think, to take stock, and to regain focus. In a way, it almost seemed to have done more for him than all the blood, but it was blood for which he lusted, hungered, now. And the absence of the rain, as well as Melanie's implying silence, had left him room to ponder his new outlook, to get used to this new suit, and to ultimately clean his mind and very pointedly think about nothing (which here meant "various colorful parrots using various colorful cursewords in rapid succession in front of his inner eye").

Yes, Faruq al-Assad had tried to be in control. The nagging questions Miss Forrest's repeated comments about hatred and wanting to make things pleasant had instilled within him, he had done his best to force aside. He would not, could not allow himself to love her, forgive her, respect anything about her - except her superior strength. What he had sought to do was to remain in control of himself, and of his surroundings, and yes, a series of most unfortunate overreactions had eventually been his end. But he had gotten his second chance, and his god-given mission, and proof and a cause and a conscience to go along. So maybe he would be expected to try and act less out-for-power this time around? To less persistently strive for control? Perhaps what all this implied was the need for him to act purely on instinct from time to time, to leave the Lion out only where all the Ferret's feints had faltered?

At any rate, the Ferret in question had chosen to go with that.

Yet as for questions for Donovon, he had too many to ask.

The first, and most obvious one, had naturally been "Damn, lady, what kinda freak-show they pulled ya out from? You a goblin or somethin'? Crap. Seriously, get outta my hair like now!", but he had kept his mouth shut in front of her, partially because she seemed to actually be important, and partially because she was certainly not the only one of such... captivating looks currently in the room. The other one would appear to be in a rather similar position to him and his own, of course - But still, he preferred to not overtly delve into appearances at this point.

Really, they simply were so ugly. But then, that one kid there was drinking her blood right out of a jug, where they'd been given glasses (I miss my glasses, still!) - and what would it matter, then? Appearances, where they mattered, lay in style as much as looks. Thus, Hussain would always tell him, and as such he kept his cool.

Instead, he would sit, drink, bask in his own greatness, study the other five people and the thing in front, or four people with one thing among them and another one in front, hope for a refill, and hear the other's questions out before asking his own - which would probably be for a refill, after all.

Really though, about thirty? And we's supposed to cow-tow to them 'n' what? Can't say I like this whole thing one bit. And, feeling like it couldn't hurt him to make allies, he tried to project his relaxation all over the room, trying to take the edge out of this whole situation, waiting for his turn to speak.

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Tl;dr: Keeps mouth shut for now, will ask last, if possible. And not actually about a refill, I guess it bears pointing out.