Animal [Clover]

[Jesse Fforde]

A N I M A L
_______________________________

OOC: Backdated to February 27th

<Clover> [T] You know, Vic thinks he knows me. Or he knew me. He doesn't know ****. He has some nerve.

[T] Kae brought this up...


<Jesse Fforde> [t] I don't think Vic even knows himself? He's in no position to try to lord it over anyone else.


<Clover> [T] That's true.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] You think I should talk to him?


<Clover> [T] No. I don't know why I sent the text…

[T] I was irritated. I get that way when Kae talks about her relationship for too long.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] I mean generally. Vic is my responsibility and he keeps talking about how he wants to kill himself. And why?


<Clover> [T] Oh. You should talk to him. Don't let him walk on you though! I don't like it.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] I am not a mat. I know this.


<Clover> [T] I like to remind you. Just in case. :)


<Jesse Fforde> [t] I'd pet you if you were beside me. And then remind you how fragile I'm not. ;)


<Clover> [T] I do need reminding. A lot of reminding. ;)


<Jesse Fforde> [t] Uhuh. It's a date.


<Clover> [T] I'll bring dinner.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] Now there's intrigue. How fresh?


<Clover> [T] You'll have to wait and see.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] I'm not sure how I ever lived without you.


<Clover> [T] I don't think you did, and it's mutual.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] You know if you keep texting me like this, I'm never going to get any work done. Ever. I keep coming home early.


<Clover> [T] I should feel bad, but I love it when you leave work early for me. I don't even have to send you naked pictures!


<Jesse Fforde> [t] No. I have a very active imagination. But seriously - I have a client. I can't. I'll see you in two hours.


<Clover> [T] I'm going to be nice. Enjoy your client.


<Jesse Fforde> [t] Money, babe. Work. Need it. Also - be angry all you like. It'll just make the reminders later all the more enjoyable. ;)


<Clover> [T] And now I'm reminded why I love you. The first part meant nothing, but the second meant a lot... Later, Clyde!


<Clover> Clo captured her lower lip between her teeth. Staring down at the darkened screen on her phone, she wondered why she suggested getting dinner. And in two hours. The time constraint alone had her mind sorting through multiple possibilities, each one leading to the same conclusion. She had so little time. Her hunting involved time spent stalking; she had a specific set of qualifications her prey had to meet, and it took time, time Jesse hadn’t given her, and time she hadn’t given herself. Lost in thought, Clover had bitten down on her lower lip until she drew blood, black blood that dispersed as quickly as it had appeared. Her tongue darted out to lick at the closing wound, as if she were trying to taste the layers of shadows that made her flesh whole.

Her bat swooped down from the ceiling and circled around, creating little figures in the air. She waved her hands, motioning for Batman to return to his place, but the animal refused. When she went toward the Limbo apartment, the bat followed. The creature led the way through the door of the apartment and then found a spot on the couch, perched on the back of the piece of furniture as if he were part of the decor. “You ruin that couch and I’m ruining you,” she threatened, moving right past the couch to go to the bedroom. The bat didn’t make a move to follow, instead flapping his wings and settling.

Clover changed out of her pajamas, exchanging plain leggings for ones with a design, and slid her feet into a pair of heels. Both the date and the hunt required she look more presentable. Being presentable meant not wearing mismatched socks and a stolen shirt. When she left the apartment, Batman followed, trailing after her as if he knew exactly how to get back outside. They parted ways right outside of Circle, Clover going one way and Batman going another. Despite her earlier tone, Clo looked over her shoulder to watch her pet take off into the night. She listened to the sound of flapping wings until she couldn’t decipher the sound from the other night sounds.

The moment she passed the docks, Clo began to pay more attention to faces of passersby. The sleeves of her black leather jacket went down to cover most of her hands, concealing the motion of her wiggling fingers. For the first time, she’d been given a deadline, and the thought irritated her and thrilled her. The city served as a buffet, where any human she encountered looked like a delicacy. Men. Women. Children. No, teenagers. Her usual prey involved couples or men, but she’d been swayed by women, by just the right kind of women. When a leggy blonde walked by, Clover stiffened. The woman’s scent acted like a trail, like a dozen tiny breadcrumbs.

Two hours had turned to minutes. The exact time had escaped her. She refused to go home without dinner, and dinner had only just presented itself. The blonde looked absolutely perfect, and she smelled divine, like a mixture of wildflowers and something sweeter, some type of baked good. Clover fell in step behind the blonde, following the woman for three blocks before slowly closing the distance between them. Unlike the last time that she’d tailed a woman, Clover took greater care, taking advantage of the fact that the blonde seemed glued to a phone. When the streets around them cleared, Clover made her move. She went up from behind and planted one hand directly over the woman’s mouth, while the other held the handle of a knife. The point of the blade pressed against the blonde’s side.

“If you struggle, I’m going to shove this blade into your side and we’ll see how long it takes for you to bleed to death,” Clover said, applying a little more pressure to poke the tip of the blade through the woman’s coat. “Now, I’m having a dinner date tonight, and I’d really like it if you could come. Do you want to come to dinner with me?” Clover felt the woman shuddering, followed by the salty tears. She waited patiently for the nod, the agreement that they would spend a lovely evening together. “Good!”

Clover dug her knee into the woman’s backside, a silent motion to take the first steps. Even though she stood behind the blonde, Clo led the way. Silent nudges, pinches, and slaps kept the woman navigating the streets. It was only when they were back at Circle, safely on Cerberus, did Clover finally remove her hand from the woman’s mouth. Immediately, a scream followed, a scream that was quickly cut off by a sharp slap to the face. “Be quiet.”


<Jesse Fforde> The texts had amused Jesse. They normally do. Normally, he’d pack up. Normally, he wouldn’t have any clients, or bookings, and he was perfectly able to go home early. Except this time, he actually had a client. Lately, work had been picking up. More people wanted tattoos - and he supposed consistency helped. He’d lost a lot of his old clients, and regulars, because of his notable absence. And, of course, the shop had burnt down. They’d been forced to go elsewhere. It hadn’t been professional - but all Jesse could do was polish everything, put it all back where it belonged, and work. Slowly, but surely, the clients started to come back. Not the same ones - but new ones. And he didn’t want to lose them again.

[Clover]

<Jesse Fforde> In the parlour, he had to put on his best mask. Clover probably would have hated it - that beaming, gleaming, good-natured smile that didn’t look like it belonged on the Necromancer’s face. A cordial smile, a welcoming one to try to offset the unnatural aura that he exuded. Most of his clients were garnered through social media, emails, online messages, phone calls. Most of them had no choice but to stick around once they arrived, once the appointment had been made. Jesse made sure of that. He made it seem as if business was booming; made them make non-refundable deposits before they came for their first session. It worked like a charm, to keep them in their chair. People didn’t like to waste their money.

When the job was done and the tattoos were finished, Jesse had done such a good and thorough job that they had to try to ignore the creepy feeling he gave them. They had to come back. It was inherent in the majority of the human race; people liked to be noticed. The liked to be praised. If they got a lot of compliments on their fresh ink, of course they were going to come back to the guy who’d given it to them. They wanted more compliments. They wanted boosts to their ego. And why the **** not? Jesse wouldn’t judge them for it.

The blood was sometimes a problem. Sometimes. If Jesse was thinking too much about something else; if he was angry, or if he hadn’t fed before work. Sometimes, he had to really struggle through the frenzy. Only once had he fed on a client. He had to tell them they’d passed out from the pain, and to come back another night. Except that he’d followed them. He’d finished the job. They never came back because they were dead - burnt so thoroughly that they were reduced to ash. From that night on, he’d made sure to be really careful; to not lose his focus.

What most people wouldn’t know about Jesse was that he was a tiny bit OCD. Not generally - not when he was at home or out on the town. But at work? The OCD was so severe that he couldn’t **** up. It wouldn’t allow him to **** up. So entranced was he in the art that the blood, most of the time, only inspired him to do better. It was a colour that had a scent; all of them smelled a little different. He infused it into the work, somehow allowing the piece to be brighter, more vibrant. At least to him, anyway.

It was why he would not blow of his client to go home and have ‘dinner’ with Clover. The thought of a later meal was enough to get Jesse through, anyway; he didn’t have to eat his client. There’d be food waiting for him when he got home.

By the time he did get home, it was close enough to the two hours that he had given Clover; maybe just a little over. The tome dropped him in Limbo; his bag was immediately deposited on the ritual table, along with his jacket, as he went in search of his other half. First, he went to her apartment. Finding no fresh scent, he assumed she must be elsewhere. He could find her nowhere on Limbo, so he got into the elevator and rode it up to the second floor; to Cerberus. As the door opened, he heard the sob. His whole body seemed to perk, eyes wide as he stepped out into the main space. He’d been wondering whether Clover would actually follow through. Now he understood that she would never disappoint.


<Clover> Jesse could have predicted the course of events, given their past hunting. Clover enjoyed talking. She wanted to talk to her victims; she wanted them to see her coming. More than that, Clo wanted to form some kind of fleeing connection with them, just like the temporary connection she achieved whenever she tasted their blood. While Jesse finished up at Serpentine, she thought of ways to make his entrance into something grand. She and Jesse were supposed to have a dinner date, but the woman, the nameless woman plucked from the darkened streets, kept crying. The scent of salty tears eventually made Clo’s stomach churn. And the constant sniffling--the annoying sniffling--drowned out most of Clo’s thoughts.

“Stop,” Clover ground out. “Stop with the crying and the sniffling. You’re getting on my nerves. I invited you to a nice dinner, and all you’re doing is ruining it. He’s not here yet, and I don’t want your face covered in salty tears and snot. We’re going to grab a washcloth, you’re going to clean your face, and you’re going to relax. If you ruin this for me, I’m going to rip your limbs off. Do you want that to happen?”

Those words made the woman cry more. Clover let out a frustrated groan, but she grabbed the woman’s hand and dragged her along. They went toward the bathroom and Clo slammed the door behind them. When Clo released her hold, the disheveled woman slid down the door and collapsed onto the floor, a sobbing mess. Where there should have been compassion, Clover collected a clean washcloth, wet it under the tap, and went back to the woman. She stooped down, the rag extended, but the woman just cried harder. There wasn’t an off switch. They both knew how the story was going to end, so Clover really couldn’t blame the woman.

“What’s your name?” Clover didn’t ask just to pacify the woman. There was some curiosity there, just beneath the surface. Names were powerful things, words that truly defined a person; names added strength and gave life. The woman didn’t answer, so Clo grabbed the woman’s chin and lifted it. They finally made eye contact. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy,” the woman choked out. “Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. I have a family. I can’t just disappear on them. I don’t want to be another missing person,” Tracy cried, her words fueled by the fresh tears cascading down her pale cheeks.

Clo had the washcloth in her other hand, so she kept her left hand on Tracy’s chin and began brushing the cloth over Tracy’s cheeks. The motions seemed to calm Tracy. The tears slowed, replaced by a few hiccups. Perhaps the woman thought she might live, or perhaps she’d reached a level of exhaustion that left her a quivering mess, rather than a sobbing mess. After Clo had cleaned Tracy’s face, Clo tossed the washcloth into the trashcan, got to her feet, and motioned for Tracy to stand. Reluctantly, Tracy followed the silent command.

They went back onto the main part of Cerberus, and Clover set about the next portion of her plan. She collected two chairs, one for herself and one for Jesse, and placed them directly across from one another, as if they had a table between them. Tracy thought that the chair was for her, but Clover knocked the woman back onto the floor. The sobbing started all over again, and Clo left her chair to deliver a few slaps to the woman’s cheeks. There were red handprints all over Tracy’s pale flesh. The woman’s cheeks were swollen and warm beneath Clover’s palms. The sobbing continued even as Clover listened to the familiar noises of the elevator. That was how Jesse found them, and Clover never intended for him to walk in on such a scene.

In her frustration, she slapped Tracy once more, a little too hard. The human flew to the side and cracked the side of her head off the floor. Her sobs turned to pained moans. As if to explain herself, Clo pointed at Tracy. It was a silent way of placing the blame. No, Clover never meant to abuse their dinner, but Tracy had been asking for the abuse, practically begging for the slaps.

“Meet Tracy.”