marcato | (no subject)

[Behind the computer screen, he cracks a smile. He likes it when people trust his taste.]

Very well.

[The address he sends belongs to an elegant bar, the type frequented by well-to-do Bavanites and wealthy tourists. In this bar, people know Aunamee by sight, and they treat him with the reverence he deserves -- or at least, the reverence he thinks he deserves. Any friend of his is a friend of theirs, and so when Dennis enters, he's tended to immediately. Someone offers to take his coat. Another person compliments his hair.

Aunamee is waiting for him in the far corner of the bar. He's chosen his fext form today, which means that he looks more like a pale human than a pile of bones. His smile is bright.]

Good evening, Dennis.

[This is the type of place Dennis wished his bar could have been, before his dumbass white trash friends dragged it into being the divey shithole it became. Somewhere for classy people to mingle with other classy people, for people to silently judge each other on the styles of their lapels, for discreet prostitution and casual stacks of cash.

"I could give you tips if you want," he says to the person complimenting his hair. He settles down at the bar, going for simplicity over anything else and ordering a G&T.

Dennis is a work of art. That's not just his ego; his attention to detail with his makeup and tailoring does incredible work to hide his fragility. It took care and skill to blend the dark circles away, to design the curly, striped locks of hair and fur into something to make his cheekbones look fashionable instead of just gaunt. His watches matches his golden eyes. His tall, twisted spires of antlers are polished.]

It's been too long, buddy. I feel like we never see each other at our best.

[Dennis' antlers are so perfectly polished that he's almost tempted to reach out and -- not touch them, exactly, but cradle the empty space between his fingers and the bone, like a man warming his hands over a fire.

Parts of Dennis are sloppy and undignified. And parts of him are perfect. ]

We're always at our best.

[It's a murmur, reverent and false. He tips his glass in a mimed toast.]

You look magnificent, Dennis. Like always. Your transformation is coming along nicely.

[Dennis toasts back. He doesn't need to ask what they're toasting to. It's always them, comfy in the knowledge that they could always use a little more recognition and fanfare.]

I have to admit I got a little nervous when I realized what I was turning into, since, you know, some of those poor fucks turn into pigs and warthogs. But the powers that be knew what they were doing. I feel a little less bad for my victims that this is the last thing they see. [Spoilers: Dennis doesn't feel bad at all, and the fact that his targets are without exception eighteen year-old girls and tall skinny long-haired blonde women exactly his age are completely unremarkable facts about his newfound bloodlust.] Now I just feel like I'm doing them a favor.

You are.

[The response is matter of fact, obvious, and the fact that he can say it fills his chest with warmth. He thinks back to when their were children, how Dennis suggested they kill an animal together. Intoxicating relief washed over his body when he heard those words, as though the unspoken urges inside his head were finally given a voice.]

Life is miserable for the humans in this place. You're giving them one last gift.

[He sips the wine. Even before he swallows it, he feels drunk. Giddy.]

Some people would call that noble.

[Oh, Dennis likes that. Some words, when spoken, are not just sound. They're tactile, visual: warm, radiant, casting the world in rose and amber. 'Noble' is one of those words.

Aunamee's full of words like that. Almost as many as Dennis is when he talks to himself in the mirror, hiding the criminal acts of time with foundation, blush, concealer, color correcter, moisturizer, gloss.

He sips his gin and tonic, tilting his head a little to decide whether it meets his bartender standards. The truth is it's way better than any G-and-T Dennis could make, but Dennis is going to admit that. They're probably just working with more expensive gin.]

That brings me to my proposition, actually.

[He thinks of his sister, of their shared secrets and covert smiles when they'd done something- no, not evil, just misunderstood by people too dim and small-minded to understand that there's an art to cruelty and selfishness. Her absence is like a gaping wound and Aunamee is the tissue he's trying to stuff into the hole. Dennis is a human being wired for collusion, for partnership, for symbiosis and parasitism.]

If it's an honor for someone to be killed by one of us, imagine the, ah, the splendor of being killed by both of us.

[He leans forward.

Most of the time, Aunamee's eyes -- when he has them -- are dull like burnt out light bulbs, two emotionless orbs that focus on the world a little too closely. But sometimes, there's a certain electricity inside them, a buzzing energy that jolts and jumps and beckons, and that's what they look like right now. He takes in Dennis' face with quick, hungry saccades. His lips curl into a smile.]

When?

[Every molecule of air between them seems to tense up and shudder with this strange excitement.]

How does during the Fog sound? I haven't had a chance to see what my complete transformation will look like- [he bites his lower lip; his upper lip is just starting to show a hint of a cleft-] and you'd be a great audience for the unveiling.

[Sculpted like a Roman statue. That's how Dennis sees himself.]

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, SATURNSCHILD. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 001.00.653.90 * SATURNSCHILD has joined 001.00.653.90 <saturnschild> Hello. <saturnschild>** I'm listening.