( OPEN )

[miscreant]

CHARACTERS: Seviilia and you
WHERE: The Station
WHEN: D049
SUMMARY: Downtiiiime
WARNINGS: We've entered "perpetually hungry" mode. Escalating Seviilia's negative emotions could incite violence. PM me if you want a choking thread! (Seviilia will coma before she can do any real damage)

( WARM )

Being at least half of a magical construct, the concept of 'conditioning' was more of a 'warming up' process for Seviilia. Her muscles fed on the magic that kept her walking among the living long after her expiration date. There was nothing to tone when the simple act of feeding was what kept her in fighting form. All of that said, there was nothing to stop the itch in the Station -- nothing but other hosts, which she had already learned twice over were a poor substitute.

Slowly but surely, she is starving.

She's taken a pair of practice swords, as her own runeblades would likely tarnish communal training equipment. Its not very helpful -- they're much lighter than what she is used to. But just hitting something might take her mind of the urge to hunt the heartbeats echoing in the honeycomb chambers of the Station. The succession of the clacks of contact can be heard echoing through the hall --she's not being particularly gentle.

Seviilia doesn't sweat, doesn't tire. Occasionally, ice on her blades cushions her blows to keep from shattering them with her brute force, leaving shards and small melted spatters around the floor. She appears focused, but she does pause after someone stops long enough to make it clear that they are watching her.

"You could make yourself useful and pick up another weapon."

( NEST )

There is no necropolis to watch over, no soldiers to guide, so she continues to find solstice in the silence of the Nesting Pods. The sides of it are frosted, much like everything she touches. In her hands is a journal of sorts, accompanied by an inkwell on the outside of the pod and the quill of a strange alien bird between black fingertips. A few droplets of red run down the side of the pod from where it has dripped on its way back to her.

On the pages is a series of scribbles, notes, and small sketches, all in the same red ink. Some of birds, some of bone constructs, some of faces she remembers -- all are in a hyper realistic style, easily recognizable even from a distance. Occasionally, she pauses to think, her fingers pinching her quill just a bit tighter than she ought to be until--

Snap.

Her sigh echoes off the walls, head lolling back until it hits the wall with a clunk.

[Feel free to wildcard!]

Comments

[miscreant]

( Why? )

[More insistent, this time. Wanting to help was one thing, but helping a stranger? Who wanted to maim him? It doesn't add up with any living creature she's ever met -- except one.

There is only one other logical explanation she can think of:]

( Are you a masochist? )

[deployed]

[ Surprise, then amusement washes down the line. Maybe he is. Bellamy wouldn't say so, but it doesn't feel like an unreasonable conclusion to come to considering what he's offering. ]

( No. )

[ Somewhere, Lexa and Murphy are rolling their eyes. ]

( I want to help you. ) [ But sensing that might not be enough, he tacks on: ] ( I don't like feeling you be hungry. )

[ As if he thinks it's somehow more palatable if he frames it as self-serving. ]

[miscreant]

[Ah yes, that makes far more sense. She takes his explanation at face value, seeing as she doesn't like being very hungry either. It isn't hard for her to imagine how another living creature must feel dealing with it.

But she is equally sure that Bellamy doesn't understand what he is agreeing to.]

( As you wish. )

[While she waits for him to find her, she moves over to replace the weapons on the rack. It would be unfair of her to use them or any other makeshift weapon on someone without enhanced strength.]

murphy is gonna crash this party at some point also

[deployed]

[ There's a short delay. Bellamy has to find Noctis, or another willing volunteer to let their little ooze baby to latch onto them. It takes a fair amount of coaxing. Bellamy always mentally compares it to Octavia, and then feels vaguely bad about the comparison.

So he turns up, ink-blot stained but still willing. She's correct though, in her assumption that Bellamy doesn't wholly understand what he's volunteered to do. What little he knows of Seviilia has been gleaned from stray thoughts passing through Murphy's mind. Apprehension has started prickling in the back of his head, exacerbated by the gnawing, phantom hunger, but his resolve hasn't wavered. ]

How does this work?

[ This isn't exactly like normal fights Bellamy's had. He can't tell what's expected of him, or how they begin. His gaze skips from the weapons rack to her hands, sizing her up. ]

[miscreant]

[She gives his state of ink a once-over before deciding she doesn't want to know. His question births a small, sardonic chuckle. Instead, she gestures to the weapon rack.]

Come now. There is no pleasure in peeling apart a defenseless boy. Arm yourself.

[And she will wait until he does, moving away to roll up her torn sleeves until they will roll no further over her muscles. She's already endured a few scrapes that have appeared to healed over, the runic markings glowing ominously on top.]

[deployed]

[ None of the weapons on the rack are options Bellamy is proficient in. With the moniker of boy rankling in the back of his head, he inspects each weapon before eventually and reluctantly choosing a sword. Octavia's face is clear in his mind, though Bellamy has never properly watched her fight with a blade. He'd always been occupied, and right now he can't let his thoughts stray too far. Even if he's willingly stepping into a fight that's going to cause him a considerable amount of pain, he doesn't want to make it too easy for her if the option to spar is there.

This can be a learning experience, as ridiculous as it seems.

When Bellamy turns back to her, he hefts the sword, grip tightening on the hilt. His gaze flicks over the glowing runs apprehensively before he nods. ]

Let's get started.

[ Famous last words. ]

[miscreant]

[She paces back and forth while Bellamy finds his feet. Once he gives her the sign that he is ready, she darts in to strike and seeks to take advantage of his lack of skill on the first swing, an attempt to disarm at his wrist to test his grip strength. Sure, she was a monstrous thing, but there was no cause to underestimate someone who had clearly given Murphy a run for his money once upon a time.

She thirsts to know more of him, half out of pure curiosity, and half out of an urge to be prepared to defend her brood, should the time call for it. He wears no armor -- any skin she can strike will result in something pleasant for her.]

[deployed]

[ She's stronger than he is. Bellamy was expecting it, but feeling it is whole other scenario. He can't keep his grip on the hilt of the sword, and it's wrenched out of his hands. It clatters to the ground, and Bellamy's grunt of pain is stifled as he immediately kicks at her knees. Whatever brief thought he'd had towards pulling his punches evaporates. There's no need.

All he can do is make this interesting for as long as he can. This isn't a fight that Bellamy's going to win. ]

[miscreant]

[She doesn't need him to cry out to feel it, given the way she smirks when he glances back in her direction. There is a noticeable undercurrent of delight to the way she moves. Seviilia holds her ground, buckling only slightly when his foot collides with her knee. She catches herself on one hand, and quickly observes that he is more focused on trying to incapacitate her, rather than go for his weapon again.

To even the playing field, she casts aside one sword and sweeps her leg out to try and put him on the ground.]

[deployed]

[ He nearly dodges. But Seviilia still has his wrist, and it limits his motion. He hits the ground, then kicks out again at her ankle before he flips over to scrabble for any of the discarded swords.

The weapon is an afterthought. Fighting with nothing but his hands isn't unfamiliar. If he were more ruthless he'd have gone for her throat, but something in him flinches away from the idea of causing serious injury. That's what he's here to engage in, but the entire fight doesn't manage to inspire him to strive to cause real damage. ]

if this doesn't work for you, lmk

[miscreant]

[His kick encourages her to release him, but she catches her balance without much trouble. Instead, she follows him toward the swords. Rather than allow him the courtesy of picking any of them up, she allows her necrotic power to yank on what little control she has. The drain on her energy summons a strong tendril of shadow magic to drag him back to her, neck into her waiting hand.

And then, manic grin barely concealed, she begins to crush his windpipe.]

You have not been trained in melee weapons. Pity, that.

this is so rude

[deployed]

[ Maybe if it had just been her strength, Bellamy could have drawn this out longer. That thought flashes wildly through his mind as something pulls on him. The phantom grip of her will can't be broken. It reels him back in, lifts him as if he were nothing into the waiting clutch of her palms.

All he's done is struck at her legs. It's instinct to repeat that now as his hands scrabble at her wrist. He isn't going to die. She can't kill him. All he has to do is suffer until one of them passes out, but Bellamy's been plunged into too many life or death situations to curb the urge to struggle.

With her hands on his neck, he can't get words out. But he sinks bodily into the link between their minds, yanking and hammering for acknowledgement as he thrashes in her grip. ]

this is more rude

[miscreant]

[She adjusts her grip once she has him in her palm, sliding her tongue across her lips as he thrashes bodily and mentally. Her fingers creep toward the top of his spine and apply the faintest bit of pressure to show him they are there -- that she could pinch, and twist, and that would be the end of him. The thought makes her nauseous as much as it delights her.

Seviilia taps into the link he desperately seeks to establish to feel struggle of his lungs and heart, a strange mixture of warning and delight settling deep in her bones. To that, she offers him a pleased smile.]

Struggle all you like.

[An encouraging purr, as she lifts to brush the hair off his face past his clawing hands.]

barges in rudely

[wrackful]

[Seviilia's hunger is something Murphy has had to learn to live with. It's a constant, like she is, connected to him - a part of him - and he's had no choice but to make space for that. And to learn to look the other way when she finds someone to ease it. It's a necessity, and he can't deny the relief of it abating even a little, however temporary.

So he isn't paying attention, really. Just like how he isn't paying attention to the feeling of Bellamy sparring, dimmer through the forged connection between them, but present, and practically an everyday. He's halfway though another recipe from his stolen cookbooks, griddling thick piles of batter until they hold in stable cakes, flipping them out still hot to toss in a fine white-purple powder he'd ground himself. Nothing else to think of except the rhythm of pour, heat, flip. Until the feelings at the edges of his mind peak, come together in a terrible, unmistakeable harmony: Seviilia's satisfaction and delight rising at exactly the same moment as Bellamy's pain and fear. Suffering.

Murphy drops the pan. The clang of it hitting the floor rings out like a bell behind him as he runs, not thinking, not considering that using the lines strung between their minds would be faster. He runs, and whether it's the station hearing his need, or his own lack of thought for the passing of time, it seems like only seconds before he's turning the corner into the training hall, almost skidding between the curve and his suddenly paused momentum. It's a split second. Just enough to see the shape of the scene in front of him. Then he's surging in to shove between them, pushing at Seviilia, hands smearing white on her front.]

Let go of him.

[It bursts aloud and in their minds, a blunt, heavy blow bearing down. Fire burns white at the edges of him, the desperate anger in his core and in his eyes as he pushes, means to drive her back.]

[miscreant]

[Her smile evaporates almost instantly when Murphy rushes to get between her and Bellamy, his anger rising like bile in her throat and washing away her brief delight. Her grip remains iron only for a moment before his mental assault forces her to drop the other boy unceremoniously, a look of distaste being passed in her broodmate's direction.

Her hunger claws furiously at the back of both of their minds, furious by the loss of its meal, while the front of her mind swims in mixed panic from the symbiote's distress.]

Why?

[It is more of a demand than a question, spoken through gritted teeth as now empty hand curls to a shaking fist.]

[deployed]

[ Murphy's awareness and panic spark distantly in the back of Bellamy's head as Seviilia's grip on his throat tightens. She's terrifying in a wholly different way than Bellamy could have expected. He's never fought anyone who relished the pain they'd caused the way she does. The edges of his vision go black as he tries to pry her fingers from his throat, desperate, forgetting that she can't kill him and he won't die like this.

When she drops him, Bellamy doesn't understand why for a moment. He crumples, coughing, one hand braced on the floor. It takes a long moment to realize that Murphy is in the room with them, not just pinging through the bonds loudly enough to hear.

There's going to be bruises on his throat. Bellamy can't get words out, but he doesn't have any answer to Seviilia's question and it's thankfully not aimed at him. ]

[wrackful]

[The impact of her hunger doesn't faze him, the danger of it, of her. He pushes again, relentless in putting space between her and Bellamy. Putting himself between her and Bellamy.]

Not him. [It's not an answer, not really, but it's the one that comes out of him in the urgency, the fury of the moment.] You can do this with anyone else, you don't do it to him.

[He doesn't stop to look back at Bellamy. He's coughing, conscious, and that's all Murphy needs. His focus stays on Seviilia.]

[miscreant]

Why?

[Its a snarl as it is a wicked shriek, spittle flying from her teeth. Her weight rests stubbornly on her front foot with one half a step backward in compliance with his suggestion. A dog stubbornly tugging forward on its lead, planting its weight, a wall of muscle.

She doesn't understand, and her confusion does not mix well with her hunger.]

Is this not the worm who came for your life? And you would stay my hand for him?

[Her hungry glare looks past Murphy and at Bellamy, and it becomes clear that his stubbornness and determination are the only things keeping her from rushing him again.]

[wrackful]

[Surprise is only a flicker before anger spikes, harder and sharper than before for her words. There's no relent in him, no give. He holds his ground. She snarls and he bares his teeth right back.]

One snapshot out of my head and you think you know everything?

[The idea of her thinking she was defending him means nothing against the assumption of it. It cracks against him like an insult, making out like she knows and he's the fool, when she has no idea how complicated everything between him and Bellamy had been.]

We both paid. I've hurt him enough.

[He doesn't mean in measure, in weight balanced, debt cleared. He means an end. No more. Never again.]

[miscreant]

[He is a child, she could crush him for daring to spit in her face as if she were a peasant, and in any other situation she might have -- her snapping teeth would close around his arm, her hunger would be slaked, and he would know better than to dare treat her as if he had dominion over her decisions.

But the symbiote writhes against the urge, the snap of his voice feels physical, an unhinging of her jaw. She shifts it, grits her teeth and fights to calm herself down -- an impossible task, with her meal robbed.]

Then perhaps you should seek to more freely offer such information to me in the future, instead of waiting for that maggot to do it for you.

[Then, she takes another small step back -- barely restrained, but the best concession he'll get from her when her anger boils so high.]

He volunteered.

[deployed]

[ The adrenaline is harder to shake than the bruises Seviilia had gouged into his throat. His memories are a mess, walls shattered and mind open. Kane's face bleeds out, overlaying Seviilia even as Bellamy looks up to catch a look at her face past Murphy's defensive position. ]

Murphy.

[ Bellamy doesn't tell him to move. He knows Murphy won't. The stubborn set of his body is painfully familiar. Bellamy recognizes it from the dropship and the selfish, self-serving realization that he needed that quality. He feels faintly sick that it's shielding him now. ]

She's right. I offered.

[ Without understanding, maybe, but he had still been sincere. Seviilia's confused anger tangles in Bellamy's gut even as he protests, voice hoarse, at Murphy's intervention. ]

[wrackful]

Shut up, Bellamy.

[If there was any idea that Murphy's anger was directed solely at Seviilia, it's completely destroyed by the snap in his voice. Of course Bellamy had volunteered. That was what he did: the heroic, self-sacrificing, stupid thing. There was no arguing him out of that, no way to make sure it didn't happen again. Murphy doesn't even turn to look at him. He keeps his attention on Seviilia, the one who matters on this, the one who needs to understand.]

I'm telling you now.

[Ignoring the bullshit, hypocritical idea like he should've just opened his head up to her. As if he'd need to. They were brood, the only ones left, the bond between them more like a channel than the threads tying them to the rest of the Nest. He doesn't advance on her. She's taken one step back, and he accepts that, the space she's given. But he doesn't back off.]

I don't care if he comes begging for it. We don't hurt him. We don't feed off him.

[If he realises he's slipped into plural, there's no sign of it.]

[miscreant]

[Even begging, as if resisting such a call wouldn't be torture in its own right. Seviilia can do nothing but stand and seethe, either also unclear on the distinction of 'we' or just too frustrated to care. Her teeth grit, her eyes moving to Bellamy, waiting for the joke to collapse on itself so she can resume what she had been doing. But it doesn't. Bellamy's last bit of discomfort is starting to fade, and she can feel the last dredges of her meal slip out of her fingers.

She still doesn't understand, why this boy is more important than their need to ease their own pain, why they would waste energy or time protecting someone who had tried to kill them.

But Seviilia clamps down on her jealousy when she recognizes it and finally casts her gaze past both of them like they were not even in the room. Her stiffness accentuates her unliving status -- no room for breath, no blinking, and the only movement being an occasional muscle spasm when the hunger claws at something soft.

A message, strained and choked off, filters through to Murphy. Even if she's managed to stem the tide of jealousy, there's nothing to cap off the pain in her tone.]

( You are incorrigible. )

[deployed]

[ The anger crackling between the pair of them sparks and heightens the adrenaline left over from the fight. Bellamy's pain might be fading, but it's harder to let go of the way his body had responded to the immediate threat Seviilia had provided.

He owes her an apology. That certainty crystallizes in Bellamy's mind even as she goes still and silent. There's a momentary, glancing contact as a tendril of awareness reaches for her and withdraws at the flare of her anger and the more complex sense of jealousy. The apology Bellamy's carrying is nothing in the face of that combination. ]

Murphy.

[ Bellamy repeats it, tone rising insistently. His voice raspy, still scraped raw, but swallowing doesn't dampen the effect. ]

That's enough.

[ At any other point, Bellamy would be irritated about it spoiling any future attempts. But there's been a shift between all three of them. Or between Bellamy and Murphy, and Seviilia has been dragged unfortunately along with them. ]

[wrackful]

[Her answer's there in her stillness, the withdrawal in her mind more than her physically moving off. It hurts. Murphy feels every second of her pain, and it's so much harder to hold against than her anger, but he doesn't relent, change his mind. She calls him incorrigible and she's right. Guilt still rises for it, what he's done to her, to them, but relief blooms larger, unfiltered, gratitude an almost cautious offering in its wake.

This isn't an easy acceptance. He knows Seviilia still doesn't understand. But staying to explain is just going to be pouring salt in her wounds. Pouring it in his own, slowly feeling raw at the edges from the fear for Bellamy, fighting against her, how totally exposed he is between the two of them and in what he's just done.

Anger's so much easier, and Bellamy's voice - Bellamy talking like he can tell him what to do - drops him back into the cling of it immediately.]

Get up.

[As he finally turns from Seviilia, looks at Bellamy on the floor, gaze hard. He doesn't offer a hand. Bellamy can get to his feet on his own.]

I'll take you to medical.