[closed] a little less conversation

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: Ilde & Petre; Kusuma Ming & Fahima Hanne
WHERE: Ming's penthouse
WHEN: Day :051
SUMMARY: Turning the screws on Kusuma Ming.
WARNINGS: Violent ideation, torture, cannibalism (GOD DAMMIT PETRE)

Kusuma Ming has a sure stride. It isn't long - no, her mother taught her better than that -, but she moves in a way that's impressively direct. Hesitation is for amateurs or people with time to waste and she is neither. Even here, at the end of what's been a long day with nothing ahead of her but some light last minute work and an evening home, there's no point in lingering. Ming, along with her small fleet of private security personnel, make their way across the building's lobby directly to the private elevator. It opens to her ID chip and three of her security detail slide in after her.

There's no conversation. She instead spends the exceptionally short ride up to the penthouse picking a straw fleck of grit out from under one of her fingernails. When they arrive at the top level foyer, two of the guards hang back wordlessly just at the landing. Only one follows her along to the penthouse proper. Suffice to say, no one works for Ming because she's a pleasant boss. At the very least, she doesn't ask much of them - she knows some people who treat their bodyguards like servants. That's nonsense. She takes off her own coat the moment she's inside. She hangs it up herself, takes her own earrings out and places them in the small bowl inside the door. Better to treat security as if they're not there at all. It makes the whole concept less obtrusive, doesn't it? Who wants to be aware they're being followed or watched? No one, she tells herself (--that's practice for tomorrow; she has a meeting with investors in the afternoon and none of those cheap suits would know what separates good security from the bad).

Kusuma takes her shoes off, then sweeps down the stairs to the penthouse's main level. It's all sleek dark wood, pale grey furniture. There's a broadcast playing quietly on the holoscreen; Fahima must have decided to stay for the evening. It's too late to expect dinner, but--

There are two people on the elegant sofa at the center of the room, the light off the holo feed flickering idly there. Kusuma pauses, one hand still on the steel stair railing. She'd recognize Fahima from the back of her head, but the other one?

Right. She'd been shopping with a friend.

"If I knew you were expecting to entertain, I would've brought a bottle of wine home." It's a little cutting. Fahima might have at least given her the courtesy of leaving a message to warn her she'd be coming home to a guest.

Comments

[erbier]

She purses her lips. This is not something she wants to be a party to. She has already warped herself into a precarious position as it is, and the only thing holding her together is the utter chill in her heart. That chill wants nothing more than to shrug and tell Petre to do as he pleases. If not Fahima Hanne, then someone else. There is no controlling Petre's demon hunger, Ilde knows that much, there is only... guiding it. Will he think more sweetly on her if she tells him yes? Would he be easier to control later?

She peels off her taser gloves, tucking them back into her shopping bags. It will look best if she leaves with the things she came in with, so she gathers them by the door.

"Don't take long."

Not a yes, not a no.

[howtoget]

He watches Ilde with some expectation, though he's almost certain she will say no. For all the coldness she tries to emanate, there will always be a part of the demon who knows that emotions, and the sins that come attached to them, are a part of every human. With or without the symbiote's powers, that's all Ilde is.

Petre's surprise is concealed. He might even be a little impressed; he will be more so if she actually sticks around while he does it.

The boy reverts back to his original form, teeth growing out like a hundred jaws trying to fit inside one. Black eyes, wide mouth and claws, he rips Fahima's body apart. A young demon would never be careful, but he is particularly gruesome and hasty with how he devours his way through the woman's most tender parts. Once he's done, all the blood and gore are hidden underneath that sticky liquid that takes form and allows him to look like someone else.

Two fingers wipe at the corner of his mouth; his other hand runs through the facsimile of Kusuma's impeccable hair, and he places her heels back on. Her jacket, her bag. He's ready.

"Shall we, Miss Vilmaine."

[erbier]

She does not watch with any particular interest, but neither can she simply turn away from what she has allowed. She is complicit. Maybe it is not the first time she has watched someone die so that she may carry on in her goals. She has assuredly seen this ugly display before, the improbable teeth that defy all biology, the black eyes. The pop-crack of bones coming apart, the wet mushing sounds of human flesh being torn apart, consumed. She absorbs all of it, as she has so many times before, but she feels nothing. Stores it away in the polluted well that is her heart, where she carries her horrors, pumps them into her veins.

She meets Petre's eyes calmly as he turns back towards her. Should she be grateful, that this ugly little monster has helped to bring her back to this part of herself which is familiar? She is in control once more, or that is at least how it feels. With her emotions so carefully boxed away, it is hard to decide. Should she be disgusted with the both of them? Or did their ends justify their means. Why had she done it if it hadn't.

"Let's go," she agrees without another thought or glance at Fahima Hanne's remains.