There is blood running it’s way down your face and electricity crackling from your pores. You are a monster made of meat and viscera and magick of the worst kind- human and so much less as you stand bleeding over the bodies of your friends.
You’ve become this for them. So open your eyes and take a stand and do what you died for.
There is a person made of starstuff and hatred standing before you, there is a person of cosmic power and pain and the hard weight of chains, and xe is g l o r i u s in a chorus of tears and- and- xe is here for you, for all you are made of meat.
There’s scales edging their way down xir neck, metal plates lining xir vulnerable joints, winking light in the abyss of xir pupil, and yet xe smiles and plays human. Plays kindness. Plays personhood.
Odd that monsters can be better people than people can.
There are only a few rules to this game. The first is: Never. Ever. Talk about it.
There’s demons in the sewers calling out to cats and lost children, mermaids swimming in muck with song like grief and hatred, angels over by the bus stations offering peace to the ill and eating the fever warmed marrow.
There are those who can see, the young and curious and old and unlucky, those who know, but you must never talk about it.
The second rule is: There are a lot of things worse than death. Be ready to get it over with if one of those things turns it’s eyes on you.
It’s not as fancy as war spies with their false teeth- knives hidden in the folds of your jeans or a syringe of contaminate drugs in the lining of your bra will do just as well, really. It’s better. And if you’re in the know, you should be beyond fear, anyway.
The third is: that kid over on fifth street should not exist.
There’s blood in the bathtub, full to the brim with dark redblack liquid. It’s hard to tell if it’s all blood or if it’s been watered down somehow- probably, so it doesn’t coagulate- but the point is. There’s a bathtub full of blood and something sharp smiling behind you and you are not getting in.
The witch has got a face like a nightmare, all sharp edges and too many openings, stuttering like static where there should be substance. Xir mouth seems to be filled with rows of jagged rock and and eyes that wink cautiously.
Maybe making this wish is not a good idea.
You’ve got starstuff in your veins and hatred in your mouth and you are, of course, a monster. But you are fierce and vibrant and you have people you love and so you will protect them with everything you are and everything the gods have given you.
The magick pulses sickly like over xir skin, inky fingers webbing across the expanse of xir body in dark fingers of rot and ruin.
Xe grins, kindly, shucking on clothes and pulling up gloves so it can’t spread. Hidden like a secret desperate to be told.
You can always, of course, run. But only you. You are fast and clever and quick, and you know how to hide and find safety in even the darkest part of a city. But your friends, your siblings, family of bond and not blood- they will not survive the chase. So you pull yourself to your feet and lock eyes with the monster-man and prepare to fight. Or die.
The complex network of tattoos and scars spelled out a sigil array- one entire body for one entire array. Xe was a living spell, a grimoire that could run, a person with magick burned into xir circulatory system and across xir eyes. Xe was a horrible, eerie mess, and the sigil-scars glowed with malevolent intent.
Xe grinned, wide and pleasant. Xe hadn’t chosen this. Xe would be kind.