[RP] Who is the fly in your champagne? Who's got the body and who's got the brain?

[certainproclivity]

[OOC: The following takes place from 11:00 PM on Monster Day to 12:00 AM on Shapeshifter Day.]

Some things really ought to be simpler than they are in Chicago. Things like walking the two blocks between the Kashtta and your flat, for example. Sark waited until the very last minute, in the hopes that perhaps the monsters that have taken over Chicago would have either been killed or tired out, while still giving himself enough time before the next plague hit (although he's not really sure what that one's likely to be- there aren't exactly any livestock around Chicago).

Chicago doesn't believe in simplicity. Sark's known this for a long time, but he's still insane enough to try to give it the benefit of the doubt and even at this late hour when everything has gone silent around the city and monster corpses line the streets to be dealt with by the city officials when they feel capable of dealing with such things, he has a feeling that he's going to be punished for that line of thinking.

He's almost a block away from his flat when he hears a howl, something horrific that sounds like a mix of animal and human screams.

All he can do, at this point, is stop, sigh and look up at the sky with eyes heavy-lidded with annoyance. "....Of course."

Comments

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

Den Varlis is--

Well, no, he's actually quite amused.

It figures, really.

There are four of the creatures, circling him with the intensity of wolves on the hunt. That's the only comparison one could make; they look vaguely like wolves, trebled in size and given long thread-fine spines in place of fur. The spines along the animals' backs rise and fall at intervals, flicking and rattling in a complex pseudo-language. The leader shrieks again, impossible jaw packed with impossible teeth dropping open far more than it should to release the sound.

The others take up the call and Den spreads his hands. "Come on, then," he hisses. His eyes are bright and unafraid. "What are you waiting for?"

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

...This is either the best day ever or the worst.

Here he has his hated enemy, surrounded by wolves... Things that look vaguely like wolves, whatever. They're clearly not interested in him, specifically. At the moment, anyway. Maybe if he backtracks, no one will actually know he was here.

Sark never claimed he wasn't an unbearable coward, and, anyway, leaving Clark to be eaten by wolfish things is a perfect end to his problems. He smirks and turns to sneak away, only to find himself staring down the fifth member of the pack, which shrieks, as if telling the rest his location.

Lovely.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

Den's laughter cuts through the answering calls of the pack.

"Julian! How perfectly delightful. How are you this evening?"

Death. Death death death. The nearness of it makes Den feel--

Something. He's not sure what. Whatever it might be, he finds it thrilling.

"They're called, loosely translated, abyssal or stygian hounds. Not normally so vocal or so bold."

His voice drives one of the nearer beasts to snap at him. He jerks his hand out of the way, contemplates the animal, and then turns his attentions back to Sark. "Cave dwellers. Those who don't know better call them the guardians of the mountains, keeping out foreigners and keeping what's left of the gods' realm safe."

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Sark backtracks a bit as his wolf continues to advance, pushing him closer to Clark and the other hounds and he's really not sure which of the two evils he'd rather take. Not that he has much choice.

He might have known these beasts would be familiar to him. Even now, he can't even seem to get Clark on uneven ground. Imagine not even being able to have someone just as disoriented as you when it comes to dealing with monsters.

He digs his feet into the pavement, stopping just short of the ring-around-the-Clark created by the other wolves and digs his gun out of his pocket.

"How well do they fare against bullets?" He asks, somewhat dryly, before popping the one advancing on him in the head.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

Not well. The animal goes down mid-lunge, its head snapping groundward before it plows into the pavement at Sark's feet.

The remaining creatures burst into blue flame, howling in outrage and rounding on Sark. Den is not having any of that. He lifts one hand and the animal Sark killed gets to its feet, eyes full of what appear to be silver cobwebs.

Should Sark glance back, the same filigree is glowing in Den's eyes, the pupils of them huge now in the dark. The veins of his arms almost shimmer; threads like drifting spider silk trail a few inches from his fingers.

"Bad dogs," he growls.

The dead one lunges past Sark, its mouth flapping open and then snapping shut on the throat of its companion.

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Before, Sark assumed he was dealing with someone who was a little bit too talented in craft- another former spy, a skilled manipulator, something of that nature. He never imagined how much more it could be.

When he looks back, he knows, however. Nothing in Chicago can really be simple.

He swallows hard, considering shooting Clark where he stands and risking the remainder of the hounds. Maybe they'll be distracted and won't come after him... Right, because that's likely.

Running would be a good option. It's a risk, but it's less of one than trying to execute Clark right now, and it's just enough of one to be worth taking. He takes a deep breath and starts running in the opposite direction.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

Oh no you don't, Mr. Sark.

The newly-dead, still-smoldering corpse wrenches to its feet and plows after him. It's fast. It runs on three legs, on two, rolls and trips and shambles its way between Sark and escape. Its mouth flaps as it moves, its limbs, when not in motion, sag against their new master's control. One of the legs breaks when it stumbles and flails through the air, spattering oily blood across the pavement.

"Now, now, Julian," Den says. He's trying to and for the most part succeeding in hiding the strain of manipulating two complex bodies at once. The other is on limp patrol between him and the remaining three hounds. "One might think you didn't enjoy my company."

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Sark skids to a stop and whirls, now thoroughly panicked, but, per usual, trying to remain cool and collected, even though this is not a situation he can handle.

...Oh but he can handle it. There's still three of them, but if he's fast...

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Clark, I really don't." He raises his gun and fires off four shots at Den and prepares to make a run for it and hope he can get somewhere safe before the rest of the hounds come after him.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

He sweeps one arm upward and his dead guardian leaps at the same time as Den himself drops to the ground. It takes two of the shots; one ricochets bits of gravel into the air and the other stamps a hole through his arm and into the ground as he goes down.

That shatters his control of his defending monster; as pain tears through his focus, he twists his wrist and sends the other leaping at Sark to pin the man to the ground.

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Sark tries to bolt, but he winds up skidding, dropping his gun in the process, so when the thing hits him, it strikes him in the back, the spines digging painfully into his flesh and only managing to dig deeper and tear at him when he tries to get out from under it. He grits his teeth and breathes heavily, pressing his face against the concrete and willing something to happen, anything.

Nothing like an incredible pain to both make you forget and remind you just how terrified you are.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

The remaining three creatures run, leaving Den bleeding and Sark under a monster.

Den presses his other hand against the wound and winces. "Well. Turned into quite an interesting evening."

He lifts his hand to look at the wound. "You're not a bad shot."

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Interesting is a good word for it. Sark hisses and tries see if he can sit up again and lets out a cry of pain when that proves to be an exercise in fail.

"Any better and we wouldn't be having this conversation," he mutters in response, the sarcasm apparent even as he's clinching his teeth in pain.

There is about three hundred pounds of spiked wolf on him and Clark has to go and comment on his shooting... And all he can think is that he did promise Suzie that he wouldn't die before she did.

Not that death is in the cards. Death would be too much of a mercy. Clark's not going to leave him here to be crushed to death by this thing, although it might be preferable.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

Den reaches out and the corpse shifts, gets to its feet and staggers away from Sark before dropping to the ground again. It probably leaves quite a few spines embedded in Sark's back.

"Be nice," he grunts. Den sits up slowly. "I have been."

At least it's a through-and-through shot. He sighs. Another trip to the healing angel's pen.

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

"Yes, you're a paragon of kindness, Mr. Clark." Sark gasps and scrambles to his knees, reaching back to pull some of the spines out of his back, hissing in pain.

He gets the majority of them out before he remembers that he dropped his gun and makes a mad dive for it.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

The dead hound reaches it first and goes crashing down on top of the weapon. Den is on his feet now. The cobweb shimmer twists in his eyes. "If you think you can move three hundred pounds of spike-riddled dead weight," he whispers. "Please, be my guest."

The other corpse is back on its feet again. "Or you could attempt civility. Either one."

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Sark swears in three different languages and staggers to his feet. This is just too much and it would be too much even if he wasn't currently bleeding from several dozen needlemarks in his back.

"Civility," he says, his tone eerily civil for what he's saying- two can play that game, after all. "That is certainly a tall order coming from a man who seems to delight in trying to destroy me. I'm curious, Mr. Clark, how much of a fool do you take me for?"

He is so tired of this game, so tired of being trained, so tired of being afraid of this man. All he wants is for him to either get this over with or leave him alone.

He stares at the corpse on its feet, anywhere but directly at Clark, lest he have to look the man in the eye when he's in this state.

"Are you going to kill me?" He finally asks, sounding exasperated. "If you're planning on it, I would make it quick. I wager I have about four more days left to live anyway."

That's one thing he can be happy about. In four days, if the plagues continue unabated and every firstborn dies, he won't have to worry about becoming Clark's new favorite pet.

[silkandstone.livejournal.com]

"I'm not going to kill you," he says. "Though I have to say, it's a disappointing end to my stay here--death by firstborn plague."

He smiles, the literal light in his eyes casting patterns over his cheekbones like a flashlight held at an odd angle. "Perhaps we'll die together. Fill the end with a bit more romance."

He might be joking. He probably is. But the way he says it couldn't be more sincere. "Two firstborn schemers, locked in the game until their last moments."

[sarkraticmethod.livejournal.com]

Sark grits his teeth, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his fists clenched at his sides. He can't think of a single thing to do- all he has is his mouth, once again.

He's about to shoot something back when a clock somewhere hits midnight. At that point, all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled, suppressed groan as a shift takes hold of him. It's the same violent, involuntary shift that happens when you've been tasered, but this actually hurts more. He tries to stop it, but it won't stop, and he settles for willing himself into tiger shape. At least as a tiger, he has some defense...

It's a white tiger that collapses into a heap when the bone-crunching shift concludes. Sark trips over his tattered clothes, trying to get up onto his feet, but he stumbles and collapses. The world's spinning and he's suddenly really ill and he can't think of a reason why. He staggers to his feet, his legs shaky and takes a step closer to Clark, growling.

He falls over onto his side a few seconds later, the very picture of pathetic tiger.