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tampered2006-10-24 12:00 am
bitingnightmare.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-24 12:00 am
Log; Complete
When; Oct. 19-22 (evening of to morning of)
Rating; R (language and violence)
Characters; John Constantine (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare), Pestilence (igotadisease), Castile (splatterdoc)
Summary; having left the safety of the wards, both Conj and Cori are targeted by the mastermind
Log;
Constantine had been doing godawful.
He only wished that were a new thought, but no, with all the things that had been going on as of late, that little blurb might as well have been the fucking norm. He was hot and cold and shitting puddles of slime and blood into the street. How he managed to offer his neighbors the courtesy of taking it a few doors down near the gutter was beyond him. Walking was a struggle, much as it had been when he initially changed, but blood in his shit? Could the EMT Cori rushed him to next door fix that little bit? He was no veterinarian, that's for sure.
This was like the cancer all over again, he thought. Dehydration and diarrhea. What a bloody embarrassing way to die. Should someone have seen him, they too could have easily seen the sickly, weakly thing his lupine body had withered away into. Already his ribs were beginning to stab out from his sides, his hair brittle and eyes dull.
He wasn't going to change back. Oh no, he was simply going to fucking die. Anything else would have been a false, stupid optimism he could have used to placate any fears of death, especially here. He was worried about Cori; all his efforts would have been in vain, the biggest slap in both of their faces of all.
-----
The EMT was no vet that was for certain, the man had provided only the bare essentials to help stabilize the wolf should he fall out of consciousness again. John was certainly awake now, though the way he walked along, the appearance of his ribs, one might wonder if the Englishman's mind was there at all. Every time the dog coughed, sneezed, wheezed, shat, the Corinthian felt a chill that only the kind lady could deliver. This shouldn't be his way to die, he thought to himself, still conflicted if he should even believe John was dying in the first place. One, fucking embarrassing, two, fucking unfair. All the nightmare could do was stay with the man, make sure he didn't flop over in the street and rot away.
He followed John a few paces behind, quiet, concerned, the word he wanted to avoid was 'helpless'. "You need to drink something," he said to the blonde wolf, aware that the more fluids he lost the faster he would weaken.
-----
John, trembling, a familiarity to the nightmare perhaps, craned his shaggy head back, having finished squeezing out what little of what was inside him left, ready to head back inside, or linger around to see if something else was late for the train but insisted on getting out of the fucking station of his sore arsehole anyway. Somehow, it felt, that his body always had something to throw away. He was wasted but his body insisted on continuing to purge. If he drank, it would probably come up again. Nothing had wanted to stay down. His stomach was an aching, hot, red sac; it accepted nothing.
Cori, I'm fucked either way.
-----
There were other people on the street, some continuing on their way, others trying not to stare at the poor animal losing its guts to the gutter. Most of them were unaware that the wolf was a man, unaware that the white horror trailing behind it couldn't just take him to a vet. The damn city didn't even have an ER. There was Castile, a last resort should John trip muzzle-first into the grating. He ran his fingers through white-blonde hair, unable to understand the other's thoughts but still somewhat capable of reading his body language.
"You're not giving up," the Corinthian declared more so than asked. The last slap to the face would be to not put up a fight till the very end. "I'll take you to--"
A figure of white stood in the center of the crosshairs. The sound was heavy and soft at once, sharp in aim but unclear of direction. It forced the nightmare back, like a massive blow to the head, and indeed that's what it was. He hit the floor, sunglasses clattering to the side as blood started to pool from under his hair.
-----
The shot rang in Constantine's ears with a thundering bellow. How hunting dogs, sometimes police dogs, dogs that regularly dealt with guns could tolerate it was beyond him; his head rang and all the inner demons within it were having one fuck of a party to commemorate the moment of pleasurable chaos.
A thump. Slowly, John struggled, hobbled around, the faded blue eyes falling wide.
There was Cori, on the ground, his head blown open. His toothy jaw fell, the stilt-like limbs on their last reserves. This sight, even if the nightmare were immortal, made him want to finally give out and collapse. Jesus, there was nothing left to give, his furry husk dryly gasped, and if someone wanted him, he had absolutely no fight left. The most he could do was shit.
Metal and sour fingers. Metal and sour fingers and smoke far away that he could do little, nothing about.
-----
Immediately the crowds scattered, frightened that they might be the sniper's next targets. But there were good people here, samaritans who darted into the danger zone to help drag the wolf aside. The white horror was a lost cause, the side of his head partially split crimson by the bullet. To the others he was as good as dead, but the wolf, that one could be saved. A man and a woman pulled the collapsed Constantine towards the safety of the building walls. He called for help, and she, the woman with sickly pale skin just smiled.
----
Day 1:
The Corinthian had dreamt of red sunsets on an arid landscape. Heat, sand, heat, glass, pain. There were things inside him, fingers probing his soft flesh, weaving through his hair, long thin prick, and metal bits. Bone, glass, drill, break. It hurt.
He woke to a light pin pointing at his face, a laser refracted by something in front of him, all around him, glass walls. He felt cold cement under his feet, where was he? His body was sore, cramped as if it hadn’t moved in days. Glasses, where were his glasses. Something covered the left half of his vision; the Corinthian tried to touch his face and learned that his wrists were bound behind his back, old-fashioned manacles and chain. The chain ended at his feet, linked to a hook drilled into the floor. Prisoner.
“You’re awake, splendid,” said a voice behind the light source. The pinpoint flicked shut.
Now he could see he was in a dimly lit room, walled concrete gray like the floor beneath him. And the voice, slightly distorted… but he recognized it. That doctor, the little shit. He managed to make out the red hair and white coat as soon as his vision adjusted.
“What did you do to me,” the nightmare asked, still recovering.
“I sewed you back up, creature, in mere hours” Castile grinned, meeting him eye to eye.
His eyes… They noted the blood splatter patterned over the other’s right. No nightmares. Something was strapped to his face, blocking his left eye. His right eye… it was not his eye.
“You were a challenge. Your body regenerates at a remarkable speed. I’ve already removed the stitches, and your hair on that side’s beginning to grow back,” the doctor nodded.
“Where’s John,” demanded the Corinthian as he attempted to stand. He noticed he wasn’t clothed.
Castile’s expression became serious, unamused. “Don’t concern yourself with the mage, the lady must be having her way with him about now,” he then smiled again, “concern yourself with me.”
“What did you do to me,” growled the nightmare. He pulled against the chains but could not reach the other wall. His eye appeared to display normally, but with lack of clarity. He could not feel teeth in one and the nightmares did not come through the other.
“Consider it a charitable upgrade, nightmare,” the doctor gestured a bow, “I’m surprised it even worked. I analyzed your DNA sample, quartz silica mostly. I couldn’t just leave your face like that,” he shrugged once.
“She’s only going to turn on you.”
“No, you misunderstand, I want something from you.”
Castile walked to the side of the tank and turned a steel wheel, allowing the ceiling pipes to fill the tank with chilling water.
“I know how your kind work. If you can’t kill them, drown them. This will be a divine experiment,” said the redhead, fingertips to his chin.
“I can drown all day before you get what you want,” said the Corinthian, his voice as cold as the water that spilled over his skin, matting white hair to his face.
“I theorize you’ll give in sooner.”
Day 2:
How many times had he died, three, four, ten, more? The nightmare hadn’t bothered to count; it wouldn’t have given him a sense of time past anyway. All he caught were glimpses of the room, clear water, a light, sometimes that one-eyed face, during his times of consciousness. Then the fire took over his lungs and his body struggled against the chains. Life did not flash in retrograde for an immortal; there wasn’t much time for it to do so before death. There wasn’t even time to create a breach.
Again he woke within the morbid bath, single eye flashing open as his mouth chewed on the water that had settled inside him. He convulsed. Something groaned, the turn of a few cogs and a side drain. The water level decreased, slowly till the surface passed his nose and mouth. His chest expanded, inhaling as much air as his body would allow. His feet touched the floor, then his knees, and his shoulder. The Corinthian wretched day old water. He didn’t stop till every last drop fell from his tongue.
“Awake? Maybe you feel more like talking now,” Castile beamed from the other side of the glass.
The nightmare rolled onto his back, certain he’d done more heaving than necessary. The chains clinked with every move. Still he couldn’t ignore the taunt in the doctor’s words. If his hands were free… He just stared at the man with his single eye.
“All I want is one task, creature, something only you can develop. I did my homework you know, well Lady Cremona or whatever she goes by today helped,” the redhead said thoughtfully, “I have an eye, I want you to develop it.”
That explained why his eyes were altered, shielded. He didn’t reply.
“Don’t be shy, I know how you lust for these things, consider it a treat,” Castile smirked, “develop for me and I’ll let you go.”
Liar. He didn’t need his teeth eyes to determine that. He said nothing.
The doctor’s expression flattened. “Develop for me and I might consider letting you run to the mage’s aide,” he offered, or perhaps threatened.
This time the Corinthian looked upwards, eye narrowed.
“Yes, I thought that’d get your attention,” Castile nodded as he approached the side of the tank.
His fingertips flew over a keypad that deactivated the seal on a sheet of glass. It slid to one side, opening a 2ft wide space for entry, but he knew better than to join the white horror in the chamber. He slid a small square of folded wax paper along the wet floor, towards the nightmare’s feet. Then with another punch of numbers, the panel of glass slid shut, sealed again.
A water cell, speakers and drains built into the walls, code-activated sliding doors, probably a few cameras installed somewhere, and a special delivery from a quack. It happened only in the movies, thought the nightmare, the irony. He managed to sit up but only stared at the wrapped item.
“Oh forgive me, how can you do your trick without your little mouth,” the doctor chortled.
Castile turned his back to the prisoner and moved to the makeshift surveillance station. There were indeed two cameras fixed on the cell. With the push of a button, whatever had been strapped to the Corinthian’s head hissed and released its grasp. The metal and rubber ‘patch’ fell to the wet floor, he could see with his natural eye, the real one now. What had happened to his other he didn’t know yet. Didn’t care.
“Eat it,” Castile ordered from the station, placing glass, electronic frequencies, and monitors between him and the nightmare’s deadly gaze.
He stared at his captor’s back then down at the package again. He kicked the eye shield away and bent over to unwrap the wax paper, like a dog snuffling through the garbage. The paper stuck with blood and other fluids, smelled of chemicals that kept it from decomposing outside the human body. It was an older eye, he could tell, old and still beautifully hazel. His cheek touched the cool cement as teeth hungrily snapped for the white sphere of flesh. Red and yellow trickled down his wet cheek.
The Corinthian saw everything. This one was cut out while its owner was still alive. His lips parted, even tainted old eyes satiated that hunger.
Castile watched this with anticipation, pink tongue licking at his lips. “Talk,” he spoke into his collar mic.
His prisoner smirked, filled with the eye’s secrets. He remained silent.
“… You insolent little shit,” the doctor said coolly, “no matter, in time.” He went to the cell, head low and pointed away from the nightmare’s face. He turned the wheel, filling the chamber once more.
The water washed the blood from his face. He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight. Morpheus had endured this for eighty years, the Corinthian could do better.
Day 3:
Castile had removed the eye shield and paper during one of the nightmare’s death phases. He thought leaving the eyeteeth unguarded might prove to make his drowning more interesting. Still the Corinthian did not speak, did not give up the hazel secrets. He knew the doctor would not stop at a single eye, knew this wasn’t the first the man had cut out either. No one ever stopped at one. He would not become this man’s tool.
He worried for John but could do nothing within the brief moments he lived and died. He could only believe the magus would not go down, and if he did he would not go down without a fight.
Rating; R (language and violence)
Characters; John Constantine (
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare), Pestilence (igotadisease), Castile (splatterdoc)Summary; having left the safety of the wards, both Conj and Cori are targeted by the mastermind
Log;
Constantine had been doing godawful.
He only wished that were a new thought, but no, with all the things that had been going on as of late, that little blurb might as well have been the fucking norm. He was hot and cold and shitting puddles of slime and blood into the street. How he managed to offer his neighbors the courtesy of taking it a few doors down near the gutter was beyond him. Walking was a struggle, much as it had been when he initially changed, but blood in his shit? Could the EMT Cori rushed him to next door fix that little bit? He was no veterinarian, that's for sure.
This was like the cancer all over again, he thought. Dehydration and diarrhea. What a bloody embarrassing way to die. Should someone have seen him, they too could have easily seen the sickly, weakly thing his lupine body had withered away into. Already his ribs were beginning to stab out from his sides, his hair brittle and eyes dull.
He wasn't going to change back. Oh no, he was simply going to fucking die. Anything else would have been a false, stupid optimism he could have used to placate any fears of death, especially here. He was worried about Cori; all his efforts would have been in vain, the biggest slap in both of their faces of all.
-----
The EMT was no vet that was for certain, the man had provided only the bare essentials to help stabilize the wolf should he fall out of consciousness again. John was certainly awake now, though the way he walked along, the appearance of his ribs, one might wonder if the Englishman's mind was there at all. Every time the dog coughed, sneezed, wheezed, shat, the Corinthian felt a chill that only the kind lady could deliver. This shouldn't be his way to die, he thought to himself, still conflicted if he should even believe John was dying in the first place. One, fucking embarrassing, two, fucking unfair. All the nightmare could do was stay with the man, make sure he didn't flop over in the street and rot away.
He followed John a few paces behind, quiet, concerned, the word he wanted to avoid was 'helpless'. "You need to drink something," he said to the blonde wolf, aware that the more fluids he lost the faster he would weaken.
-----
John, trembling, a familiarity to the nightmare perhaps, craned his shaggy head back, having finished squeezing out what little of what was inside him left, ready to head back inside, or linger around to see if something else was late for the train but insisted on getting out of the fucking station of his sore arsehole anyway. Somehow, it felt, that his body always had something to throw away. He was wasted but his body insisted on continuing to purge. If he drank, it would probably come up again. Nothing had wanted to stay down. His stomach was an aching, hot, red sac; it accepted nothing.
Cori, I'm fucked either way.
-----
There were other people on the street, some continuing on their way, others trying not to stare at the poor animal losing its guts to the gutter. Most of them were unaware that the wolf was a man, unaware that the white horror trailing behind it couldn't just take him to a vet. The damn city didn't even have an ER. There was Castile, a last resort should John trip muzzle-first into the grating. He ran his fingers through white-blonde hair, unable to understand the other's thoughts but still somewhat capable of reading his body language.
"You're not giving up," the Corinthian declared more so than asked. The last slap to the face would be to not put up a fight till the very end. "I'll take you to--"
A figure of white stood in the center of the crosshairs. The sound was heavy and soft at once, sharp in aim but unclear of direction. It forced the nightmare back, like a massive blow to the head, and indeed that's what it was. He hit the floor, sunglasses clattering to the side as blood started to pool from under his hair.
-----
The shot rang in Constantine's ears with a thundering bellow. How hunting dogs, sometimes police dogs, dogs that regularly dealt with guns could tolerate it was beyond him; his head rang and all the inner demons within it were having one fuck of a party to commemorate the moment of pleasurable chaos.
A thump. Slowly, John struggled, hobbled around, the faded blue eyes falling wide.
There was Cori, on the ground, his head blown open. His toothy jaw fell, the stilt-like limbs on their last reserves. This sight, even if the nightmare were immortal, made him want to finally give out and collapse. Jesus, there was nothing left to give, his furry husk dryly gasped, and if someone wanted him, he had absolutely no fight left. The most he could do was shit.
Metal and sour fingers. Metal and sour fingers and smoke far away that he could do little, nothing about.
-----
Immediately the crowds scattered, frightened that they might be the sniper's next targets. But there were good people here, samaritans who darted into the danger zone to help drag the wolf aside. The white horror was a lost cause, the side of his head partially split crimson by the bullet. To the others he was as good as dead, but the wolf, that one could be saved. A man and a woman pulled the collapsed Constantine towards the safety of the building walls. He called for help, and she, the woman with sickly pale skin just smiled.
----
Day 1:
The Corinthian had dreamt of red sunsets on an arid landscape. Heat, sand, heat, glass, pain. There were things inside him, fingers probing his soft flesh, weaving through his hair, long thin prick, and metal bits. Bone, glass, drill, break. It hurt.
He woke to a light pin pointing at his face, a laser refracted by something in front of him, all around him, glass walls. He felt cold cement under his feet, where was he? His body was sore, cramped as if it hadn’t moved in days. Glasses, where were his glasses. Something covered the left half of his vision; the Corinthian tried to touch his face and learned that his wrists were bound behind his back, old-fashioned manacles and chain. The chain ended at his feet, linked to a hook drilled into the floor. Prisoner.
“You’re awake, splendid,” said a voice behind the light source. The pinpoint flicked shut.
Now he could see he was in a dimly lit room, walled concrete gray like the floor beneath him. And the voice, slightly distorted… but he recognized it. That doctor, the little shit. He managed to make out the red hair and white coat as soon as his vision adjusted.
“What did you do to me,” the nightmare asked, still recovering.
“I sewed you back up, creature, in mere hours” Castile grinned, meeting him eye to eye.
His eyes… They noted the blood splatter patterned over the other’s right. No nightmares. Something was strapped to his face, blocking his left eye. His right eye… it was not his eye.
“You were a challenge. Your body regenerates at a remarkable speed. I’ve already removed the stitches, and your hair on that side’s beginning to grow back,” the doctor nodded.
“Where’s John,” demanded the Corinthian as he attempted to stand. He noticed he wasn’t clothed.
Castile’s expression became serious, unamused. “Don’t concern yourself with the mage, the lady must be having her way with him about now,” he then smiled again, “concern yourself with me.”
“What did you do to me,” growled the nightmare. He pulled against the chains but could not reach the other wall. His eye appeared to display normally, but with lack of clarity. He could not feel teeth in one and the nightmares did not come through the other.
“Consider it a charitable upgrade, nightmare,” the doctor gestured a bow, “I’m surprised it even worked. I analyzed your DNA sample, quartz silica mostly. I couldn’t just leave your face like that,” he shrugged once.
“She’s only going to turn on you.”
“No, you misunderstand, I want something from you.”
Castile walked to the side of the tank and turned a steel wheel, allowing the ceiling pipes to fill the tank with chilling water.
“I know how your kind work. If you can’t kill them, drown them. This will be a divine experiment,” said the redhead, fingertips to his chin.
“I can drown all day before you get what you want,” said the Corinthian, his voice as cold as the water that spilled over his skin, matting white hair to his face.
“I theorize you’ll give in sooner.”
Day 2:
How many times had he died, three, four, ten, more? The nightmare hadn’t bothered to count; it wouldn’t have given him a sense of time past anyway. All he caught were glimpses of the room, clear water, a light, sometimes that one-eyed face, during his times of consciousness. Then the fire took over his lungs and his body struggled against the chains. Life did not flash in retrograde for an immortal; there wasn’t much time for it to do so before death. There wasn’t even time to create a breach.
Again he woke within the morbid bath, single eye flashing open as his mouth chewed on the water that had settled inside him. He convulsed. Something groaned, the turn of a few cogs and a side drain. The water level decreased, slowly till the surface passed his nose and mouth. His chest expanded, inhaling as much air as his body would allow. His feet touched the floor, then his knees, and his shoulder. The Corinthian wretched day old water. He didn’t stop till every last drop fell from his tongue.
“Awake? Maybe you feel more like talking now,” Castile beamed from the other side of the glass.
The nightmare rolled onto his back, certain he’d done more heaving than necessary. The chains clinked with every move. Still he couldn’t ignore the taunt in the doctor’s words. If his hands were free… He just stared at the man with his single eye.
“All I want is one task, creature, something only you can develop. I did my homework you know, well Lady Cremona or whatever she goes by today helped,” the redhead said thoughtfully, “I have an eye, I want you to develop it.”
That explained why his eyes were altered, shielded. He didn’t reply.
“Don’t be shy, I know how you lust for these things, consider it a treat,” Castile smirked, “develop for me and I’ll let you go.”
Liar. He didn’t need his teeth eyes to determine that. He said nothing.
The doctor’s expression flattened. “Develop for me and I might consider letting you run to the mage’s aide,” he offered, or perhaps threatened.
This time the Corinthian looked upwards, eye narrowed.
“Yes, I thought that’d get your attention,” Castile nodded as he approached the side of the tank.
His fingertips flew over a keypad that deactivated the seal on a sheet of glass. It slid to one side, opening a 2ft wide space for entry, but he knew better than to join the white horror in the chamber. He slid a small square of folded wax paper along the wet floor, towards the nightmare’s feet. Then with another punch of numbers, the panel of glass slid shut, sealed again.
A water cell, speakers and drains built into the walls, code-activated sliding doors, probably a few cameras installed somewhere, and a special delivery from a quack. It happened only in the movies, thought the nightmare, the irony. He managed to sit up but only stared at the wrapped item.
“Oh forgive me, how can you do your trick without your little mouth,” the doctor chortled.
Castile turned his back to the prisoner and moved to the makeshift surveillance station. There were indeed two cameras fixed on the cell. With the push of a button, whatever had been strapped to the Corinthian’s head hissed and released its grasp. The metal and rubber ‘patch’ fell to the wet floor, he could see with his natural eye, the real one now. What had happened to his other he didn’t know yet. Didn’t care.
“Eat it,” Castile ordered from the station, placing glass, electronic frequencies, and monitors between him and the nightmare’s deadly gaze.
He stared at his captor’s back then down at the package again. He kicked the eye shield away and bent over to unwrap the wax paper, like a dog snuffling through the garbage. The paper stuck with blood and other fluids, smelled of chemicals that kept it from decomposing outside the human body. It was an older eye, he could tell, old and still beautifully hazel. His cheek touched the cool cement as teeth hungrily snapped for the white sphere of flesh. Red and yellow trickled down his wet cheek.
The Corinthian saw everything. This one was cut out while its owner was still alive. His lips parted, even tainted old eyes satiated that hunger.
Castile watched this with anticipation, pink tongue licking at his lips. “Talk,” he spoke into his collar mic.
His prisoner smirked, filled with the eye’s secrets. He remained silent.
“… You insolent little shit,” the doctor said coolly, “no matter, in time.” He went to the cell, head low and pointed away from the nightmare’s face. He turned the wheel, filling the chamber once more.
The water washed the blood from his face. He didn’t struggle, didn’t fight. Morpheus had endured this for eighty years, the Corinthian could do better.
Day 3:
Castile had removed the eye shield and paper during one of the nightmare’s death phases. He thought leaving the eyeteeth unguarded might prove to make his drowning more interesting. Still the Corinthian did not speak, did not give up the hazel secrets. He knew the doctor would not stop at a single eye, knew this wasn’t the first the man had cut out either. No one ever stopped at one. He would not become this man’s tool.
He worried for John but could do nothing within the brief moments he lived and died. He could only believe the magus would not go down, and if he did he would not go down without a fight.