11-21-2019, 07:11 PM
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Retribution was always quick, once something crossed hell's radar. Mind, it could take a while for anyone to realize. Hell wasn't quick on the uptake, mind -- too much to do, too much to keep track of. No need to keep an eye on their field agent.
Crowley has been trying not to think about it. They may be quick, but the, frankly, brutal way that Aurum had taken Hastur and Ligur out had him thinking it might take just .. a touch longer. Regardless, he was on edge. Jumping at every noise, every sudden movement. He doesn't think he'd done it in public much yet, thankfully. Crowley's not sure he could take his paranoia just being .. public knowledge.
It'd only been a few days. He wonders what they'd been doing in all that time -- was he the main focus, or not? Crowley thinks it'd be rather delightful if he was, he'd rather like to go out with a bang. Yes, chances are it'd be an undignfied death, but he'd die content that he caused a minor uproar in hell.
This, of course, implies Crowley will die. Crowley isn't sure he is, because he'd thought he was going to last time, too.
In any case. While this is the point, it's not the point.
Crowley's been doing some wandering, lately. He doesn't go far, but he doesn't want to constantly be in the thick of it, either. It's just .. hard to deal with, somehow. The point is, Crowley is wandering. He still aches, just a little. His shoulder and wing are still stiff, but he's been .. trying to deal with it, the more .. human, in a manner of speech, way.
Somehow, when it finally happens, Crowley's paranoia doesn't fail him. It just could've done .. a little better. A snap of a twig. Crowley whirls, half-expecting nothing important, and finds -- a fucking cheetah.
"Interesting choice," Crowley says, edging back. The idea that it may not be a regular, random passerby doesn't even cross his mind, and for good reason. Seriously, how much more ominous can you get? Turn around, and there's this random, edgy cheetah, trying and failing to lurk. For that matter -- they have something strapped to their side.
It was almost like they were making up for their lack of experience by making themselves big, and scary. Crowley isn't impressed, but he's afraid nonetheless.
"I was so close," The cheetah, for their part, looks affronted as they lift a paw to investigate the snap. They promptly wobble, however, and have to put it off. Crowley's ears flatten back, and he shuffles just a little farther back. He can't place who it is directly, but he knows he knows them. They're probably a fucking asshole. Like, even in terms of demons.
"So close, yet so far. Try again another day," Crowley deadpans. He's experiencing a strange mix of emotions -- a weird sort of apathy overlayed over the fucking hurricane of emotions he always seems to have to deal with. It's different, now, but Crowley wouldn't be able to tell you precisely what changed.
Crowley, knowing full well it's inadvisable, turns tail and runs. If he's lucky, the fucker will just trip. Crowley knows at least some of the territory like the back of his hand ... paw .. He's fine. It's fine. Absolutely fucking fine. He can just ... find somewhere to lie low for a bit. Just has to .. vanish.
Unfortunately, this does not happen. There's a strange moment of hesitation, and then the fucker is running after him. They don't trip, but they do catch up, and rather promptly. This is, unfortunately, fairly easy to predict -- servals were fast, but cheetahs were .. what, some two dozen kilometers faster? The serval grunts as the cheetah practically trips over him, both of them tumbling to the ground -- it just so happens that Crowley's being fucking crushed.
"Fffuck," He snarls, wriggling, digging his claws in purposefully as he tries to push himself out from under the bastard.
God dammit. He's so fucking stupid. What the hell. There was a multitude of things he could've done to prevent this, but no, he just had to keep running off, and he just had to take the least sneaky option with a fucking cheetah. A cheetah that was very bad at being a cheetah, but a cheetah nonetheless. The demon doesn't seem phased by this, just reaches for something they'd dropped. It glints gold. Its handle is covered in .. something. Presumably whatever it'd been wrapped in when it'd been strapped to the cheetah's side. A nauseating sense of dread is starting to sink in.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
The demon turns. Paws very carefully and inefficiently grasped around the protected handle. Gold, goldgoldgold, wings carefully etched into the ceremonial knife. In closer view, Crowley can see the aged, rotting burn wounds covering their paws and face.
"A, Ah," Crowleys says, realizing, trying to sound like those action movie heroes he'd looked up to since they came out. He fails miserably, but he gives himself points for trying. "You're the smug one, aren't you? The one everyone hates," They'd made a hobby of stealing angelic weapons. Most of them were pretty shit, not everyone had a flaming sword, but they were certainly effective against demons in some way or another. The bastard was smug about it though -- barely shut up about it. Would make sense to employ them for what basically accounted for a fucking hit.
Fucking Greg.*
*crowley wouldn't be able to tell you if greg was ACTUALLY their name, because crowley didn't care, but that's certainly what he was called in some circles.
Shit. Fuck. This sucked -- quick and efficient, right? Less time for anybody to show up to help. Smart, but .. maybe not enough.
He needed the knife. He needed to get the knife. They'd probably hesitate to try again if he had a knife? Right?? Right???? Oh fuck.
"I'd say they're jealous, but yes," Ah, yes, bastard syndrome. Greg has mostly gotten off of him, absolutely not in position to stab him from where he is. They both know that Crowley can't run -- the serval's tail lashes, eyes flickering over the cheetah's face, reading.
Think about it. Think about it. He ran away, he was always evasive. He's always evasive. All except for his first attack on Hastur, or Ligur, who was it? Except for that, he was just responding. He thinks -- he can barely remember the whole thing. They wouldn't expect him to just go for it, would they? He's not sure.
Try anyways. What's the worst thing that could happen, he gets fucking stabbed? Crowley might've laughed at this, but it's, unfortunately, not particularly funny.
The cheetah has switched the knife to their mouth. Apparently, they'd realized that there's no strength in their paws. This is a problem, but he can work with it. Knock it out. Distract them. Break for it. Deep breaths -- he doesn't need them, but it makes it easier to focus when his mind is going at a hundred miles an hour.
He wriggles, subtly getting into position while the cheetah struggles to figure out how one stabs with their head. It kind of ruins the vibe of the whole murder, to be honest, but Crowley's not complaining. Deep breaths. Go.
He pushes off, immediately going for the shoulder -- sink his claws in, hang on. Loop his legs around the neck, hang on, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall. This is not a particularly ideal position for knife-stealing, but it's something. The cheetah, startled and infuriated, tightens their grip around the knife, trying to back up.
They can't just shake him off, or even shove him. They don't have the balance to do so. They'd wobbled just lifting a paw up. They're stumbling under the extra weight even now. Crowley might've considered grinning, but he can't.
Deep breaths. This might hurt if he slips up, it's going to hurt a lot. He can take it, it's fine, it's fine.
The metal is practically creaking under the tension of the cheetah's teeth. It's not, not really, but it would be.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
They're headed for a tree. No problem. Not at all. This is fine. Absolutely fine. Crowley, with all the grace of a plummeting dog, practically falls over the cheetah's face, claws scrabbling over what knife he could reach until -- there. He barely notices the hellish** burning until he hits the ground. Don't focus on it. Don't focus on it. Please don't.
It feels sort of like the color white does. There's probably a phrase for that that he can't remember.
**heavenly?
"Smarter than you look," The cheetah says, recovering faster than Crowley did. To be fair, they hadn't gotten burned. Or fallen to the ground. Hadn't gotten his eye scratched up from broken sunglasses, either. The handle-cover on the knife is loose, but still fastened.
"How dare you accuse me of being smart," Crowley says, dazed and struggling to pull himself together. It hadn't been that smart of a plan -- spectacularly stupid, in fact, so he has no fucking idea why the guy is saying that.
"I'm going to enjoy this," They're grinning. Crowley really doesn't appreciate this, but before he can get up, there's a paw crushing him to the ground. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where's Aurum when you need him, huh? Greg is still struggling to figure out how knives work without hands. "I haven't actually used this one yet, y'know?" They might've seemed genuine, maybe even friendly, if there weren't a certain glint in their eyes. And also the fact that they're pick up a knife.
Crowley braces himself. He's like, what, half of the guy's size? That's enough, isn't it? He just .. he just has to make a bit of a sacrifice, that's all. His breath shudders. Take it. Take it. His paws are burning, white hot. He subtly shifts his weight, subtly positions his paws.
Their face draws near. Carefully positioned at Crowley's .. eye. Was this torture, or was he going to slice through Crowley's head like fucking butter? Very, very carefully, the cheetah positions the knife. His fur is singeing, skin burning as the fur gives way. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Very carefully, Crowley does not close his eyes, meets the cheetah's eyes. One, two, three.
Crowley shoves his paws against the cheetah's upper leg. Greg gives an embarrassing squeak, concentration broken. They hadn't been focusing on their balance. They tumble sideways. Crowley doesn't even notice when their weight clips him -- it's agonizing. White-hot, in the way lava must feel. He can't see, he can't see, it's all black, but it feels white, and gold, and it's dizzying. He can't think. He can't think, it hurts.
He doesn't know if he cried out or not.
So don't think. Don't cry. Get out of there, get out of there -- he needed something. He needed something. He chokes on his own breath, stumbles to his paws. Something, something, something -- think. There's something sliding down from his cheek.
The knife. The knife -- it's hard to register, but Greg is hissing in pain, too. A flash of blood around their cheek, a spreading burn. They'd fallen on it. It's lying on the ground.
The knife. Get the knife. Don't think. He doesn't need to.
Crowley lunges for it. The demon's head whirls around, sees him moments too late. His breath comes in gasps, but he grabs it.
"Dont," He wheezes around the knife. It hurts. It hurts. He's been through it all, but it hasn't hurt like this. "Don't, don't, don't --" He's not sobbing. There's no tears, he's not sobbing. It hurts. Part of him wants to hurt Greg, or whatever the fuck their name is, too. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.
So he does. The cheetah's reflexes are slowed, half of their cheek taken out. Crowley only does it because they'll follow him. They can't. They won't. A threat. So he nicks them on the shoulder, following a line to their chest. Greg howls.
It wasn't even that deep. Crowley wheezes, and kicks them for effect. It's not strong in the least, but Greg wobbles anyways.
Crowley runs. He stumbles, for the first few steps, before righting himself -- he has to go somewhere. Where's he going? He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe. It hurts.
Aurum? Crowley doesn't know where Aurum is. There's a cold press of metal against his cheek, white-hot, slowly spreading. Crowley barely registers it. What happened to his eye? It got cut. It got cut, he knows, but it hurts.
To be entirely honest, the very concept of finding any of the medics barely occurs to him. Crowley had barely even met any of them in his goddamn life, and it doesn't know, when he's panicked and it hurts. Like a blight on his entirely fucking being. His immortal goddamn soul. Fuck. Fuck.
So he keeps running. He's not safe, and he might never be, but he -- needs to get home. Is it home? It's somewhere. He didn't go far. .. He's not leading the bastard there, is he? ... It's fine. It's fine. Distracted -- hurt. Could probably handle it anyways. Not Crowley specifically, but .. somebody.
He barely notices when he's almost arrived. Crowley stumbles to a halt as buildings come into sight -- and he goes no farther. How close are they? Hard to tell, but not far. He's lost momentum. He's tired. He's tired.
He drops the knife. His breath catches. It burns, he burns, he's fine. Absolutely fine. His right cheek is fucking soaking with whatever is dripping, too thick for proper blood, and it hurts. He's fine. Just needs to rest. He can just .. leave it here, right? He can walk there?
Crowley doesn't. He wheezes, half-falling into the mud as he sits down heavily. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's fine. He's fine. He's not fine, but he will be.
//part 2! just one more to go! (though act 3 is a bit redundant at this point shfkjsdf)
UH. BASICALLY. crowley got Actually hurt this time. hes just sorta, chillin somewhere outside the town with a goddamn Knife. his left paw is burnt, along w a bunch of his left check, and his right eye is like,, fuckdt. basically turned to Goo. the area around it is also burnt pretty badly. worth noting, no you Cant stop the eye bleeding its like this Forever now.
Crowley has been trying not to think about it. They may be quick, but the, frankly, brutal way that Aurum had taken Hastur and Ligur out had him thinking it might take just .. a touch longer. Regardless, he was on edge. Jumping at every noise, every sudden movement. He doesn't think he'd done it in public much yet, thankfully. Crowley's not sure he could take his paranoia just being .. public knowledge.
It'd only been a few days. He wonders what they'd been doing in all that time -- was he the main focus, or not? Crowley thinks it'd be rather delightful if he was, he'd rather like to go out with a bang. Yes, chances are it'd be an undignfied death, but he'd die content that he caused a minor uproar in hell.
This, of course, implies Crowley will die. Crowley isn't sure he is, because he'd thought he was going to last time, too.
In any case. While this is the point, it's not the point.
Crowley's been doing some wandering, lately. He doesn't go far, but he doesn't want to constantly be in the thick of it, either. It's just .. hard to deal with, somehow. The point is, Crowley is wandering. He still aches, just a little. His shoulder and wing are still stiff, but he's been .. trying to deal with it, the more .. human, in a manner of speech, way.
Somehow, when it finally happens, Crowley's paranoia doesn't fail him. It just could've done .. a little better. A snap of a twig. Crowley whirls, half-expecting nothing important, and finds -- a fucking cheetah.
"Interesting choice," Crowley says, edging back. The idea that it may not be a regular, random passerby doesn't even cross his mind, and for good reason. Seriously, how much more ominous can you get? Turn around, and there's this random, edgy cheetah, trying and failing to lurk. For that matter -- they have something strapped to their side.
It was almost like they were making up for their lack of experience by making themselves big, and scary. Crowley isn't impressed, but he's afraid nonetheless.
"I was so close," The cheetah, for their part, looks affronted as they lift a paw to investigate the snap. They promptly wobble, however, and have to put it off. Crowley's ears flatten back, and he shuffles just a little farther back. He can't place who it is directly, but he knows he knows them. They're probably a fucking asshole. Like, even in terms of demons.
"So close, yet so far. Try again another day," Crowley deadpans. He's experiencing a strange mix of emotions -- a weird sort of apathy overlayed over the fucking hurricane of emotions he always seems to have to deal with. It's different, now, but Crowley wouldn't be able to tell you precisely what changed.
Crowley, knowing full well it's inadvisable, turns tail and runs. If he's lucky, the fucker will just trip. Crowley knows at least some of the territory like the back of his hand ... paw .. He's fine. It's fine. Absolutely fucking fine. He can just ... find somewhere to lie low for a bit. Just has to .. vanish.
Unfortunately, this does not happen. There's a strange moment of hesitation, and then the fucker is running after him. They don't trip, but they do catch up, and rather promptly. This is, unfortunately, fairly easy to predict -- servals were fast, but cheetahs were .. what, some two dozen kilometers faster? The serval grunts as the cheetah practically trips over him, both of them tumbling to the ground -- it just so happens that Crowley's being fucking crushed.
"Fffuck," He snarls, wriggling, digging his claws in purposefully as he tries to push himself out from under the bastard.
God dammit. He's so fucking stupid. What the hell. There was a multitude of things he could've done to prevent this, but no, he just had to keep running off, and he just had to take the least sneaky option with a fucking cheetah. A cheetah that was very bad at being a cheetah, but a cheetah nonetheless. The demon doesn't seem phased by this, just reaches for something they'd dropped. It glints gold. Its handle is covered in .. something. Presumably whatever it'd been wrapped in when it'd been strapped to the cheetah's side. A nauseating sense of dread is starting to sink in.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
The demon turns. Paws very carefully and inefficiently grasped around the protected handle. Gold, goldgoldgold, wings carefully etched into the ceremonial knife. In closer view, Crowley can see the aged, rotting burn wounds covering their paws and face.
"A, Ah," Crowleys says, realizing, trying to sound like those action movie heroes he'd looked up to since they came out. He fails miserably, but he gives himself points for trying. "You're the smug one, aren't you? The one everyone hates," They'd made a hobby of stealing angelic weapons. Most of them were pretty shit, not everyone had a flaming sword, but they were certainly effective against demons in some way or another. The bastard was smug about it though -- barely shut up about it. Would make sense to employ them for what basically accounted for a fucking hit.
Fucking Greg.*
*crowley wouldn't be able to tell you if greg was ACTUALLY their name, because crowley didn't care, but that's certainly what he was called in some circles.
Shit. Fuck. This sucked -- quick and efficient, right? Less time for anybody to show up to help. Smart, but .. maybe not enough.
He needed the knife. He needed to get the knife. They'd probably hesitate to try again if he had a knife? Right?? Right???? Oh fuck.
"I'd say they're jealous, but yes," Ah, yes, bastard syndrome. Greg has mostly gotten off of him, absolutely not in position to stab him from where he is. They both know that Crowley can't run -- the serval's tail lashes, eyes flickering over the cheetah's face, reading.
Think about it. Think about it. He ran away, he was always evasive. He's always evasive. All except for his first attack on Hastur, or Ligur, who was it? Except for that, he was just responding. He thinks -- he can barely remember the whole thing. They wouldn't expect him to just go for it, would they? He's not sure.
Try anyways. What's the worst thing that could happen, he gets fucking stabbed? Crowley might've laughed at this, but it's, unfortunately, not particularly funny.
The cheetah has switched the knife to their mouth. Apparently, they'd realized that there's no strength in their paws. This is a problem, but he can work with it. Knock it out. Distract them. Break for it. Deep breaths -- he doesn't need them, but it makes it easier to focus when his mind is going at a hundred miles an hour.
He wriggles, subtly getting into position while the cheetah struggles to figure out how one stabs with their head. It kind of ruins the vibe of the whole murder, to be honest, but Crowley's not complaining. Deep breaths. Go.
He pushes off, immediately going for the shoulder -- sink his claws in, hang on. Loop his legs around the neck, hang on, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall. This is not a particularly ideal position for knife-stealing, but it's something. The cheetah, startled and infuriated, tightens their grip around the knife, trying to back up.
They can't just shake him off, or even shove him. They don't have the balance to do so. They'd wobbled just lifting a paw up. They're stumbling under the extra weight even now. Crowley might've considered grinning, but he can't.
Deep breaths. This might hurt if he slips up, it's going to hurt a lot. He can take it, it's fine, it's fine.
The metal is practically creaking under the tension of the cheetah's teeth. It's not, not really, but it would be.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
They're headed for a tree. No problem. Not at all. This is fine. Absolutely fine. Crowley, with all the grace of a plummeting dog, practically falls over the cheetah's face, claws scrabbling over what knife he could reach until -- there. He barely notices the hellish** burning until he hits the ground. Don't focus on it. Don't focus on it. Please don't.
It feels sort of like the color white does. There's probably a phrase for that that he can't remember.
**heavenly?
"Smarter than you look," The cheetah says, recovering faster than Crowley did. To be fair, they hadn't gotten burned. Or fallen to the ground. Hadn't gotten his eye scratched up from broken sunglasses, either. The handle-cover on the knife is loose, but still fastened.
"How dare you accuse me of being smart," Crowley says, dazed and struggling to pull himself together. It hadn't been that smart of a plan -- spectacularly stupid, in fact, so he has no fucking idea why the guy is saying that.
"I'm going to enjoy this," They're grinning. Crowley really doesn't appreciate this, but before he can get up, there's a paw crushing him to the ground. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where's Aurum when you need him, huh? Greg is still struggling to figure out how knives work without hands. "I haven't actually used this one yet, y'know?" They might've seemed genuine, maybe even friendly, if there weren't a certain glint in their eyes. And also the fact that they're pick up a knife.
Crowley braces himself. He's like, what, half of the guy's size? That's enough, isn't it? He just .. he just has to make a bit of a sacrifice, that's all. His breath shudders. Take it. Take it. His paws are burning, white hot. He subtly shifts his weight, subtly positions his paws.
Their face draws near. Carefully positioned at Crowley's .. eye. Was this torture, or was he going to slice through Crowley's head like fucking butter? Very, very carefully, the cheetah positions the knife. His fur is singeing, skin burning as the fur gives way. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Very carefully, Crowley does not close his eyes, meets the cheetah's eyes. One, two, three.
Crowley shoves his paws against the cheetah's upper leg. Greg gives an embarrassing squeak, concentration broken. They hadn't been focusing on their balance. They tumble sideways. Crowley doesn't even notice when their weight clips him -- it's agonizing. White-hot, in the way lava must feel. He can't see, he can't see, it's all black, but it feels white, and gold, and it's dizzying. He can't think. He can't think, it hurts.
He doesn't know if he cried out or not.
So don't think. Don't cry. Get out of there, get out of there -- he needed something. He needed something. He chokes on his own breath, stumbles to his paws. Something, something, something -- think. There's something sliding down from his cheek.
The knife. The knife -- it's hard to register, but Greg is hissing in pain, too. A flash of blood around their cheek, a spreading burn. They'd fallen on it. It's lying on the ground.
The knife. Get the knife. Don't think. He doesn't need to.
Crowley lunges for it. The demon's head whirls around, sees him moments too late. His breath comes in gasps, but he grabs it.
"Dont," He wheezes around the knife. It hurts. It hurts. He's been through it all, but it hasn't hurt like this. "Don't, don't, don't --" He's not sobbing. There's no tears, he's not sobbing. It hurts. Part of him wants to hurt Greg, or whatever the fuck their name is, too. He doesn't know what he's trying to say.
So he does. The cheetah's reflexes are slowed, half of their cheek taken out. Crowley only does it because they'll follow him. They can't. They won't. A threat. So he nicks them on the shoulder, following a line to their chest. Greg howls.
It wasn't even that deep. Crowley wheezes, and kicks them for effect. It's not strong in the least, but Greg wobbles anyways.
Crowley runs. He stumbles, for the first few steps, before righting himself -- he has to go somewhere. Where's he going? He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe. It hurts.
Aurum? Crowley doesn't know where Aurum is. There's a cold press of metal against his cheek, white-hot, slowly spreading. Crowley barely registers it. What happened to his eye? It got cut. It got cut, he knows, but it hurts.
To be entirely honest, the very concept of finding any of the medics barely occurs to him. Crowley had barely even met any of them in his goddamn life, and it doesn't know, when he's panicked and it hurts. Like a blight on his entirely fucking being. His immortal goddamn soul. Fuck. Fuck.
So he keeps running. He's not safe, and he might never be, but he -- needs to get home. Is it home? It's somewhere. He didn't go far. .. He's not leading the bastard there, is he? ... It's fine. It's fine. Distracted -- hurt. Could probably handle it anyways. Not Crowley specifically, but .. somebody.
He barely notices when he's almost arrived. Crowley stumbles to a halt as buildings come into sight -- and he goes no farther. How close are they? Hard to tell, but not far. He's lost momentum. He's tired. He's tired.
He drops the knife. His breath catches. It burns, he burns, he's fine. Absolutely fine. His right cheek is fucking soaking with whatever is dripping, too thick for proper blood, and it hurts. He's fine. Just needs to rest. He can just .. leave it here, right? He can walk there?
Crowley doesn't. He wheezes, half-falling into the mud as he sits down heavily. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's fine. He's fine. He's not fine, but he will be.
//part 2! just one more to go! (though act 3 is a bit redundant at this point shfkjsdf)
UH. BASICALLY. crowley got Actually hurt this time. hes just sorta, chillin somewhere outside the town with a goddamn Knife. his left paw is burnt, along w a bunch of his left check, and his right eye is like,, fuckdt. basically turned to Goo. the area around it is also burnt pretty badly. worth noting, no you Cant stop the eye bleeding its like this Forever now.
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