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cradle me in your crooked heart
This was a kind of parody, the worse kind of parody. This was a mockery of life and everything that was sacred -- touch and taste, companionship and friendship, love and hate, even. This was a mockery of the blood Tsunami had spilled in the past under the razor edge of the real Laruku's claws or teeth. It was a mockery of every single word they had ever shared. Good, bad and ugly. This was spitting in the face of Jesus Christ, this was committing adultery in God's house under his disapproving eyes, this was just plain disrespect. This was the most tasteless joke life and the great Earth Mother had ever thrown his way. oh, but it's not a joke, baby. The storm was approaching, and Tsunami felt thoroughly disgusted; he could almost taste the vomit in the back of his throat. Laruku was dead. He might as well have been dead. Vaguely, the one-eyed warrior-wolf hoped against hope that this... creature... this body thief, didn't have access to Laruku's memories. Everything they had ever shared, all those moments under the sky, hidden away together and trying to figure out another way to apologise, it was sacred, it was theirs, and only theirs.
you're dreamin', sunshine. suck it up and get to the fight.
This was the body of the motherfucker who had hurt Phasma. No regret, no remorse. he's just like malachi, isn't he? More laughter. This was the body of the motherfucker who had killed his son. and dear old daddy. Pitching himself forward, the battlescarred werewolf shoved himself roughly to his feet, that one eye, bright as the sun as burning with the same internal energy, staring down at the hybrid some ways away. He approached, arms hanging limply at his sides. just like salvaged -- and he's running a pack. he killed your baby boy and he's a menace to society, don't you think, sunshine? I'm sure at this point Laruku would want to die anyway, Tsunami replied with a voice that was neither angry nor calm -- it hovered somewhere between, a strained tone of voice that quivered with some unspoken emotion. And he believed it because Laruku had been a good person, and Tsunami believed that if he were still in there -- if any of him were still in existance after all -- that he would regret everything he'd likely done, from having his own kids to killing someone else's. Not that that made it alright. Kinda made it worse. Just fucked things up more, really. But his death would better the world. Tsunami knew he never would be able to look at Laruku the same again.
Time to say goodbye.
And as for me dying, he continued, musing a silent answer, as if his words had been a question. They kind of were. Dying seemed impossible. He had been in too many fights to count. He had been mauled by a bear, almost drowned, and torn apart from the inside-out by a Russian dominatrix, whip and chains and all. He had almost died too many times to lose to some... ex-lover? He hadn't lost to Malachi, the one-eyed wonder. His attack was as sudden as the blink of an eye, teeth and claws out, ready to deal out the pain Ire had received before death. Rip out his stomach and burn his insides to cleanse the stain of cannibalism, to give his son freedom in the afterlife. Perhaps he could have used a knife, but this walking mockery of all that was holy wasn't good enough for a fast death. He didn't go for the throat, not immediately. His hands reached for the shoulders, but were ready to grab onto any inch of flesh available and tear it apart before the motherfucker with his ex-lover's eyes had a chance to feel the pain.
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