tampered | Log; Completed

Log; Completed

When; Jan. 11 (night)
Rating; PG-13 (violence, language)
Characters; Farfarello

bloodyfarfie, the Corinthian

bitingnightmare, John Constantine

silkcutremix
Summary; lighting the first match for a set of experiments
Log;

One name only and it sounded like the title for a hit single from some band buried in a pile of obscurity, or so the Corinthian and Constantine had agreed. The former had cleaned up and donned his regular attire of boots, jeans, a simple t-shirt, and leather jacket. The last of these two were black with good reason, but his short white hair was hard to miss, kind of similar to his quarry wasn't it?

He spotted the Temple from a block down, noting its perimeter. The Corinthian wanted this to be a quick job, and he did not want Greed involved.

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Farfarello left the temple, picking a direction seemingly at random and walking. He was going out almost daily, getting himself used to the city, until he'd be able to walk around with his eyes practically closed.

A hand lifted to run through his white cropped hair, single golden eye looking around as he walked with barely any interest. No one had attacked him so far in the city and he had no reason to believe they would now. He was wearing clothing almost identical to his stalker, unaware that someone looking far too similar to himself was watching.

Definitely couldn't trade his shades for an eyepatch though. The nightmare pushed them up, their smokey color easily hiding his teeth and better so at night. It was almost ironic that the next on the list had to be a man who resembled himself. Rather than take the stalker's approach he continued in Farfarello's opposite direction, settled at the mouth of a darkened alley way to fish a cigarette from his pack. He stuck the thing between his lips then looked towards the other pale haired man.

"Hey chum, you got a light on you," the Corinthian asked, seemingly casual in demeanor.

Farfarello's eyebrow lifted and a smirk curled his lip. "No. Don't smoke. Bad for ye're health and all." Of course, with his ability he didn't have to worry about it. His profession was far more dangerous to him than cigarette smoke.

He waved a hand slightly to the man and continued on his walk, senses keen to hear the man. Assassin instinct and general mistrust to the population of the city left him wary.

"Come on, there ain't no cancer around here, Irish," he said with a one-shouldered shrug, having picked up on the other's accent immediately. His right hand remained in his back pocket.

There, the wave of dismissal. The Corinthian reached out to grab Farfarello's wrist lightning quick, though whether he would manage to pull the one-eyed man into the shadows of the alley was yet to be determined.

Farfarello's wrist would be grabbed, but he twisted it quickly to grab the other's wrist in turn, feet separating to brace himself so he couldn't be pulled easily.

That single, unnerving yellow eye was narrowed as he looked at the other man. He didn't know who in the hell this guy was, but he was definitely finding he didn't like him much.

If he were a smart-ass like Schuldig, he'd probably make a comment about really not having a lighter, or about the other man being the cancer, but he just wanted to get his damn wrist free.

A stalemate? Impressive. The nightmare couldn't help but smirk to express that sentiment now that they were locked together. A part of him wanted to continue this confrontation, prolong it to see how much one could bleed out of the other. One golden eye from a handsomely scarred face, if only he could bring himself to wedge it out deftly. That hunger rumbled, but he remembered the plan, he remembered himself.

"What's your name," the Corinthian asked him coolly, even though he knew. His grip didn't tighten more or relax.

His name? He somehow didn't think that the other man was here for pleasant conversation.

"None of ye're business." He tried to think of a way to get the man to let go, but since he didn't know his intentions just then, he couldn't come up with anything viable. This definitely could get...interesting.

Not very forthcoming was he? Not that the Corinthian should even have expected much else after his less-than-friendly greeting. He slowly pulled his right hand from his backpocket, palm empty because he left the balisong blade where it was. The gesture may have appeared even neutral, or it was just a ruse. He pinched the side of his shades and removed them, revealing the rows of teeth for eyes. They smirked accordingly then parted for a peek of two tongues licking at the ridges.

Smile, they hissed together.

"What the-.." Farf was cut off as he was assailed with images, most of them memories. He doubled-over as some of them came to him, eye wide as he choked on his own breath.

His parents, his sister, the knife in his hand, then suddenly Ruth grabbing the knife with her own hands. Oh god, Ruth...

"Mother..." His hand went completely slack on the Corinthian's wrist as he gasped raggedly, barely staying on his feet.

The Corinthian expressed no sympathy for the man, he couldn't even if he wanted to, they had something more at stake here. He kept the glasses off, a signal for any partners in crime to keep their distance until he was... through. But what on earth could that entail? The dream rot loosened his own grip on the Irishman's wrist, the better to haul him into the shadows of the alley by the back of his collar. He needed to get to work during this window of opportunity, before the whirlwind nightmare could end. Those teetheyes remained focused on the single golden one.

"Are you feeling guilty now, Jei," he pulled from the images they shared.

When Farfarello was back to himself he was sure to try and kill the Corinthian for this, but in the meantime he was too lost in memories. He stared up into those eyes, the back of his mind swearing he'd take one out when he could, and he trembled slightly.

Guilty? Oh yes, he was definitely feeling guilty. The things he had done to his family.. He had no regrets afterward, as an adult, as an assassin. It was his childhood faults that were his regrets and his weakness.

Tremble. How sweet. The Corinthian purred low in his throat, from one predator to another, then cupped Farfarello's face. Where was his family now? The other psionics included, though he was not aware of who these other men were, caught their faces only in glimpses. Secretly the nightmare was glad the one codenamed Mastermind was not around, something about that smirk (and he knew telepaths when he saw them, smelled them). That was when he drew his knife, the six inch blade sheathed between its hinged handles. Farfarello was a killer, the instinct ingrained in him and nurtured by a vicious upbringing and an even more vicious profession. The Corinthian couldn't take chances with him.

He took his teetheyes off the man only to swiftly aim the blade for his liver.

With an eager cry of rage, Farfarello's own balisong came from where it was tucked at the small of his back. He parried the other's blade with the metal handles and jumped back quickly, single eye nearly glowing with madness and blood-thirst.

The eyes. He would go first for the other man's eyes.. He quickly darted forward, blade expertly moving in his hand so the blade was unsheathed. His gaze was smartly not on the Corinthian's face, but on his neck now instead as he pounced, knife ready.

Oh tooth and nail, that was exhilerating. Still a surprise as well when their edges clashed, maybe even nicking the razor sharp steel. It wouldn't be the first for his balisong. The Corinthian shook his head, bad move he would have said, but the challenge alone was so... good. He beckoned for Farfarello to attack first with a twitch of his finger. Good dog.

As soon as the berserker moved in he lunged forward with his shoulder, to meet the man halfway as his own knife swung inward to slide between the Irishman's ribs. The nightmare clamped his mouths shut, not a moment too soon or too late. Whether that trick worked or not, whether the attack on his organs was successful, the nightmare shuffled back, not about to risk having his face slashed instead.

Farfarello stared dumbly at his broken blade, not noticing that the Corinthian's knife was in him just then. His gaze flicked upward to the man's eyes and were frozen there as his mind once again was brought back to his memories. He pulled quickly away though, stumbling and falling back while still locking eyes with the other man.

He grit his teeth against the flow of bad memories, trying to push past them, to ignore them, to do anything to fight it off and failing. He soon was overwhelmed by the nightmare's power, lost in his memories again.

Blood flicked off the tip as it came away from Farfarello's body. It was hardly a fatal blow, not for the likes of the berserker, but it served its purpose. He flipped the blade without bothering to clean it, making that characteristic click of steel as the hinges swung shut in his hand, never a cut to his knuckles. The Corinthian kept his eyes locked on Farfarello's golden one, like an amber jewel ripe for the picking... No, he restrained his hunger and stood above the Irishman despite the anger practically radiating from him.

The Marked are your enemy, the Corinthian's teeth hissed.

Farfarello watched the Corinthian, his bitten knife clutched tight in his hand as he kept trying to fight the memories and the guilt rising up in him.

His hand tightened on the handle of his knife and he suddenly lurched forward, driving the dulled tip of the blade as hard as he could into the side of the other's leg, and then he fell back a bit. Clearly he'd given up, at least for the moment, trembling slightly as his single eye unfocused. His mind was once again completely lost to what the Corinthian was doing to him.

How long was one to be lost in embracing tendrils of dream and horror?

Didn't matter; a figure emerged from the shadows to reply to the victim's last hurrah with a crowbar to the side of the head. A very anti-enigmatic introduction for someone that supposidly embodied the mystery and shroud of London along with its ancient history, but who was he to care? This wanker was going down before the Cult got their greasy hooks on him instead. A mercy the two offered, although at their own whim rather than Farfarello's will, if one would.

Besides, if the faithful crowbar was effective with a werehyena, who said it wouldn't be on what appeared to be a normal human man?

If any of it actually hit, for fighting was not John's forte, by fist or by blunt or sharp object alike.

He snarled through his eyes when that knife stuck his leg, just above the knee where a non-tapered sharp object was likely to cause some mobility problems. As expected the nightmare hit the ground on his wounded leg, hands catching himself against the grimey floor. Fuck that hurt, fuck he was going to take that Irish cunt's eye out now, Marked or not, for the greater good or not. He barely noticed the flash of trenchcoat that emerged from the shadows to silence Farfarello. Why? Let the man growl, let the man convulse while his teeth chewed his golden eye away. Ahh yes, his teeth.

The Corinthian covered his eyes despite the blood spreading across his jeans quickly. He fumbled for those glasses, lost somewhere in his jacket pocket--there. He put them on his face then reached to pull the weapon from his leg, letting it clatter at Farfarello's side.

Farfarello was still staring up at the Corinthian, some part of him registering that he could sense someone else nearby, but he was too lost in his memories. That is, at least, until the crowbar came to the side of his head. His eye slid back into his head and he fell, only conscious thought being that his day just seemed to be getting worse and worse.

As he lay there, his body started to take over its healing processes, the healing speeding up so that the blood flow from the knife wound he'd been given soon stopped entirely. The tissue began to repair itself, quickly for a normal human, though for him it seemed slow, and soon there would be no hint that he'd been stabbed save for a thin red line.

John curled his lip. Another fast healer? Didn't matter. See how fast this poor sod can heal when he had to deal with the wrath of the crowbar.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Bone, muscle, blood. John was content to beat the man to a pulp, to the very brink of death...

... but not quite. He was no stranger to murder, sometimes considered amoral, but he steadied himself, stopped the beatings. The man at his feet was possibly in there, possibly hanging by a diminishing thread of consciousness. Time would be short. The magus kneeled.

"Farfarello," Constantine said. A finger touched his forehead, cold as the rusty iron that had its fair taste of him. "You never had seen us, heard of us. We're figments, dreams, monsters.

"You won't remember a thing."

The crowbar clattered. Constantine tended to the Corinthian, grabbing his arm and slinging it over his shoulder as a support. They would check the extent of the damage far from the scene of the crime. "No time to fuck around," he huffed. "We're done."

The beating the magus gave to the poor Irishman threatened to stir an erection. Perhaps a different approach was in order for next time, or the Corinthian could ask to come alone... or simply regain his mind and self-control. Fortunately his shades hid the slick tongue that wet his eyelids. Farfarello wouldn't remember a thing would he, only a blur of a face, the motion of a blunt object, that is unless his telepath friend managed to rearrange the memory blocks in his head. Too bad that wasn't any of their concern.

After a silent moment he managed to push himself up, aided by Constantine's hand. The nightmare's arm draped over his shoulders after being pulled upright. That leg needed a little healing itself, his body was not as quick.

"Take off," he agreed with John, nodded for the two to get out of dodge as soon as possible.

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Log; Completed

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