( the gilt opulence and the well-stocked tidiness of the resort isn’t something that stands out as strange to him, or at least not for what it is—what it’s presenting itself to be. he isn’t sure how deep the illusion goes. makoto is in possession of a mirror which he has been told is a window into what was called the “other” Golden Peacock; a rambling wreck in poor repair, with grimy tiles, chipped paint, splintering and rotten wood, and long-time guests who appear more as shambling and desiccated ghouls than the contented individuals that one might see milling around the casino normally. how much the two realms are the same or separate is something he doesn’t really understand yet, but it, of course, gives him pause.
not enough to actually impede his day-to-day life here. it wouldn’t be worth it. he isn’t sure why he was given this mirror upon his arrival at the resort, but he’s not going to allow it to turn him into some sort of paranoid wreck. other people might want to try to tear down the glittering facade to reveal the skeletons beneath, but makoto? if it would end up making him less comfortable in the meantime, he’d rather not. to him, this place and its game is just a tool he’s using; a means to an end.
just like how this little exchange is, in and of itself, a means to a different end.
the young demon watches charlie with obvious dubiousness. that he’s lying is just about as apparent, though what he’s trying to puzzle out is… why? would this information be considered sensitive, where he’s from? he understands wanting to keep certain things close to the chest, but he’s already agreed to give it to him… his own logic tells him that, since no one’s really cared to proposition him for his blood prior to this point, it’s either of value to him or someone else that he knows—someone else new, probably. he considers laying this out to him, delivering a jarring riposte to the dismissive mendacity, but… well, he’s not stupid. he can hear the dead stillness in the words that brokers no further explanation or discussion. he also doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like being treated like this.
his lips press into a thin line; there’s another world where he keeps pressing, intent on the satisfaction of curiosity, but… no. here, he just sighs and shrugs, a little irritated at the obfuscation but under the impression that it ultimately doesn’t change all that much. )
Sure, whatever. It’s not like I care what you do with it.
( there’s a sudden edge of brusqueness to his movements when he moves forward to plop down on the foot of the bed right next to him; that, and also how he doesn’t delay in tearing into one of the packaged syringes and undoing the buttons at his cuff so he can roll back the sleeve to bare his forearm, the skin so deathly-pale that it was easy to find the blueish veins beneath.
typically he would be the type to take his time, make a little more conversation, but… well, now he’s in a bit of a mood, as evidenced by the thunderclouds in his expression. )
[The source of a vampire's power is many things, as varied as each undead possessed by their cursed blood. Uncharitable interpretations call their flesh a simple husk, worn by a parasitic monster burrowed into its veins. Free will is a tool for this creature's survival, revoked at will. Arrogant kindred portray themselves as the nearest thing to God, creation and damnation all subject to their whim. Charlie takes the standardized approach - a magnanimous one, he thinks.
A vampire is only as powerful as the secrets he keeps.
Influence, but do not reveal what you are. A brutally enforced rule back home, and not one Charlie has ever been tempted to break. He doesn't need to see a wild kindred be torn to pulp to keep his cards close to his chest, but he's been witness to the display nonetheless.
There are other inhuman haunts in Chicago, but he's encountered an astounding volume of them in this place. A demi-plane, he's heard it called, and he's inclined to agree.
Makoto is obviously among them; his eyes make Charlie's look fucking normal. The boy's distinctive quality is why Charlie had offered his ability to weather more abuse than a human's so forwardly. An unspoken connection. Neither of us mortal.
But the rule hasn't changed. Strength comes from being on the knowing end of information. Makoto is right to feel impressed upon, even if the source of the feeling is nebulous. Nearly every interaction of Charlie's is a power struggle.
He leans forward in his seat, watching silently as he lets the moment of obvious discomfort soak into the boy's blood. A pinprick of metal elicits a tinge of iron, the scent threatens to shock his features alight. With a sigh, Charlie shakes his head and shifts back in his chair.]
Eh, let's not sit in silence - let's talk. You're curious, understandably. I am too. We can make this easy- [A framework of reciprocity, instead of transaction.]
Your eyes got a look to 'em. Mine- [He points to the sunken dark landscape.] -they uh, always looked like this. I was a terrible ugly little kid. [Delivered with good humor, almost as if he's proud of the fact. Charlie chats as if there's never been any unease between them.]
( it’s a distinction makoto would struggle to see as he had never had the opportunity to try to hide what he was available to him. even if rumors hadn’t spread with virulent alacrity throughout the upper crust of hell’s hierarchy that archduke J had taken in another stray, and this time a former human, even, it’s not as though his appearance would have allowed him to fool anyone. demons that look as human as even J are rare in hell—typically a mark of power, beauty, and influence. it’s a bit less so for a creature like makoto, who had largely had it grandfathered in from his previous mortal existence. a bottom-rung demon underling whose name scarcely any demon would have trouble forming the syllables for, he’d had no power to speak of, and whatever influence he’d only received transferred by his tangential relationship to J. and as for beauty, well. he wasn’t fool enough to take any of the honeyed words of silver-tongued demons to heart (not again, anyway); that he was physically human was novelty to them, and that he was technically a possession of J’s even more of an incentive. he tends to leave it at that.
so here in the resort, he’d never bothered in trying to hide what he was currently or what he had been previously because it didn’t really seem to benefit him. there were plenty of other secrets within that story, however, that he is fiercely defensive of. it’s strange how few seem interested in the “how’s” and “why’s.”
it doesn’t stop makoto from finding it annoying, how obvious the shape of the truth feels in the weighty attention he senses from charlie as he finds a vein with the tip of the needle, wincing ever-so-faintly as he pushes it through skin to tap into the flow of blood. his hand trembles a bit as he makes certain that it’s all right, but, sure enough, the vial slowly begins to fill with dark red. though he’s gotten fairly accustomed to ghoulish things like re-suturing his head onto the stump of his neck, this is actually new to him—there’s just a level of detachment from it which he would need some time to fully unpack. it’s something in how all the events since his becoming a demon has taught him that this body of his is a commodity, and that’s literal—it’s not even the one he’d been born with, instead one ordered by J. it gives him a complex relationship to it, but he at the very least figures that if it’s going to be of some use to him, he might as well use it as he must.
a line of tension snakes its way through the muscles of makoto’s neck and shoulders at the shift in conversation; he sends a narrowed look over his shoulder to charlie, just a little venomous that he doesn’t get any of his questions answered, so why should he return the favor? sure, it’s not as though it had been part of the contract to begin with, but it’s just the principle of the thing at this point.
it’s a crackling heat of vexation that lasts for just a few heartbeats before dying down. it’s not as though it’s sensitive information for makoto to divulge. he’s just going to have to trust that’s not the case for charlie—a rather generous good faith read, in his opinion. he had offered some information, makoto supposes. even if it’s not what he’d originally been angling towards.
he hesitates, mentally compartmentalizing the stinging pain in his arm before replying, ) No… They changed to look like this after I died. I think. ( his mouth presses into a small, thin line—due to extenuating circumstances, he hadn’t really been able to look in a mirror for a few days after J had taken him into hell, but he has to assume they changed either before that point or during. )
But they’re the only thing that really changed. ( it sounds like a grousing complaint because it is. he still can’t keep the disappointment out of his tone, one that adds on an unspoken “unfortunately.”)
[Change is an odd concept for vampires. Perpetually bound to the bodies they possessed when their blood began to run cold, there's a popular stigma that Charlie's kind don't ever actually change. Wounds heal, cut hair regrows fully over one day's rest, and each new era a kindred faces feels more and more foreign to them.
Charlie is still within a human's lifespan - he understands the idea of stasis conceptually, but the man dedicates as little thought to the abstract 'nature of being' as he can. There's too much in front of him: the lives of humans and the things his peers continue to cling to - the intersection of the two.
The place where he finds the most power.
He's sizing Makoto up with that same curiosity in mind. What has remained the same and what has changed? The boy must be freshly dead to have such little by way of transformation, even if that shift is only in perspective rather than corporeal.
If only he'd met Makoto in his city proper - he could introduce the boy to the subsect of Kindred who delight in molding bodies like clay to fantastical, horrific visages. Those changes do stick.
Oh well. There will be more opportunities to offer - Charlie's always been adept at picking them out. He'll connect the way Makoto's muscles seem to contract in discomfort from the needle with the need for a gentler syringe. One little accommodation at a time is a pace he's comfortable with.]
Yeah? The only thing? [There's a mote of incredulity in Charlie's voice. His head cranes forward, as if searching the boy's mercuric eyes was going to reveal the answer to his vague question.] So you're tellin me the whole eh... damning preference you have wasn't something you picked up with all this? ['All this' being a pointed gesture at Makoto's face.
His hand falls, a glance spared to the nearly full tube of blood before his eyes dart back to Makoto. It's fortunate this is their first meeting - Charlie usually asserts uncannily consistent eye contact. The dart of his eye to the blood would be quite telling in contrast.]
I'm not tryin to shame you. [He adds quickly - Makoto seemed to clam up quickly when his desires were mentioned over text.] I'm not a good guy, you're not gonna make me think any kind of way about you no matter what you like.
I've played cards with some pretty disgusting bastards. And, they've played cards with me. [Implicit vile predilections are the most he's willing to offer, but he turns them back on himself with a congenial double palmed gesture. Body language, a language even beasts can understand - the soft underside of the hand is a sign of trust.]
( if makoto took the time to consider it, he would realize that, combining the time he spent in hell and the time he spent here in the Golden Peacock, he’s coming up on a year now—a year since J ripped his head off of his shoulders and took him home with him, rather than claim his soul as the gold nuggets that it would form at the conclusion of their contract. it’s hard to conceptualize the vastness of a potentially limitless existence with so little of it lived; one could just as well wrap their head around the enormity of the ocean while standing in place on one random beach. he doesn’t particularly want to think about it. he doesn’t like thinking about it. he hadn’t asked for this second life to live, and though he’s gradually grown to target things that he desires from it, the risks that it poses to him frighten him enough to be wary. he doesn’t entirely understand the full technicality of it yet, but the kind of demon he is embodies a concept: it’s a concept shared by both the creature themself and how everyone else aware of that creature views them and believes them to be. he hasn’t changed much because he still sees himself as human, or as formerly human—he doesn’t feel different enough to think otherwise. and since he projects that to others, they trap him in a cage he himself rankles at.
what this means, however, is that demons as they exist in makoto’s own hell do so in stark contrast to the kindred as charlie might be aware of them—their entire existence is change, or perhaps either the promise or the threat of it. makoto holds within him a dreadful potential, one that J had glimpsed when he was still raw and mortal, the very same that had convinced him to take him home as a promising prospect for his own ends. meanwhile, much of the upper crust in hell do everything they can to prevent their position from eroding, being certain to present a flawless image of their own unassailability as to convince others of its truth.
when makoto had complained to J about the terrible normalcy of this body of his, he had simply been told he would be able to have whatever features he wanted when he learned how to obtain them himself. this had neither been mocking nor chiding—this had been the truth. eventually, makoto would have learned just how literal that truth was. ah, but it was less like building someone up from clay and far more like playing both the roles of doctor frankenstein and his monster…
he notes the incredulity, but he misreads it. ) Well… ( what he thinks to point out is that he supposes this body isn’t the same. it’s not his; the body he’d been born and grown into a teenager in was likely cremated and buried. this body had been a gift from J, and it paradoxically felt just as much not his own as it did. but, no, he doesn’t get the opportunity to point this out. he freezes up, neglecting even to breathe, at the insight. it’s something most people don’t even bother to ask; it’s most common that they assume it has to do with him being a demon…
given that makoto’s skin is already death-pale, it’s hard for him to pale further, but he manages it. as open a book as he can be, with his wild expressiveness, charlie doesn’t have to look deep or far to find the truth. really, makoto isn’t noticing much with the eye contact, though there is a drop in the magnetism of it when charlie’s gaze darts to the vial of blood; released from it, makoto’s own falls to stare at the same, though he looks at it without seeing. he seems to retreat within himself for a moment, defensive, like an animal backed into a corner. it does help that the other claims to not want to judge him or shame him, but assuaging statements like that never fully wear down makoto’s guard. no matter how much anyone says they might, they never, ever really get it. not even J had understood. not really.
he’s quiet for a long moment, and it might seem that he’s been scared off entirely, enough to disengage from the conversation as a whole. but… there’s enough there, in what’s offered about charlie and the type of person he asserts himself to be, that slowly tempts him back. with one of the vials entirely filled, makoto speaks as he slowly and cautiously goes through the motions of removing it, making sure it’s properly sealed, and replacing it with a new one. )
Those—“preferences” are the reason why I’m like this. Not the other way around.
( his mouth forms a thin line for a moment as he tries to figure out the best way to put it. it’s just… kind of an embarrassing, shameful sort of thing to try to admit to other people? that he’d sold his soul because no one else wanted it? that he’d essentially summoned a demon as a way to kill himself? )
…I tried for a long time to try to stop wanting it or make it go away. But I couldn’t. I was terrified that I’d end up hurting someone, one day, ( and the reason is somewhat complex: yes, makoto doesn’t want to hurt innocent, unwilling people, but the reason is just as much him not wanting to become the monster they’d already started to see him as as it was his overly-kind heart, ) so I tried summoning a demon instead. I’d get what I wanted from him, and he’d… take my soul, in return.
( he looks back up, still looking wan, his expression strained. ) Making me into a demon wasn’t part of the original arrangement.
[The debate is this: Do kindred hang, suspended in the amber of the moment between their life and unlife? Or do many cling to that reasoning because the only other option is degredation? It's a debate Charlie is wholly uninterested in. He is nothing but a firm reality, meeting the abstract with hostile indifference. What he is right now is a man sitting on a medical bed, watching a boy bleed for him.
But, a marriage between the real and the metaphysical isn't impossible. He has a wife in the strange space between things, often unseen but made body & flesh by his demand. Lester hasn't accompanied him here, but if he indulged her theory-laden perspective, he'd see her with him in how the tangible and intangible coalescence to make up the world.
Another amalgam occupies his thoughts. Desire. Want. This feeling that both precedes and outlasts every other thought. Hoping such a thing will cease is more of a risk than pursuing it, even in the face of a contradiction. You want to do something that hurts people, but you don't want it to hurt people. Charlie recognizes the inherent strife of this mindset. Denial is the most acute source of self-contradiction.
He doesn't feel it, believing himself a consistently amoral being. He's simply a changeable man. I want to hurt you. Now I don't. Both isolated and easy to achieve.
In the silence, Charlie reaches over Makoto's upturned arm to pluck the filled vial from his hands. He's acquiesced to this quiet, but he can't settle with a complete lack of communication. Bodies talk when voices don't.
A source of comfort in the tumult between reality and thought.]
Well, now that you're a demon, are you getting everything you want? [Genial, Charlie speaks to guide the conversation's focus, hoping it will continue to focus on Makoto. He uses the present tense - because he understands the perpetuity of want. Hunger.
His eyes rake over the boy's hands with a spark of that very desire. Bony knuckles, skin stretched a bit too tightly over hands that don't seem to possess much strength. Shaken and pale now, he appears even more fragile. A boy sick with himself.
Maybe Makoto needs a villain. Someone to torment him and erode that kindness. If his heart can't be swayed, he'll at least have the consolation of a universal expectation to retaliate. Revenge is revenge, whether emotionally driven or a simple matter of course. Both equally acceptable excuses to desecrate someone...
But Charlie isn't willing play that part. He's capable, yes, but he'd rather make a connection between two people. Either he stumbles upon a truly vile person, or he'll concoct a particular image of someone in this boy. That he'd prefer the first does nothing to abate the wickedness of being willing to do the second.]
Edited (i swear i proofread) 2024-08-29 04:25 (UTC)
( how much of one’s intrinsic nature is inherent or elastic? how much of it belongs to them, or how much of it belongs to their family and their environment? what is more true of a person: the ugliness at their core, or the goodness in their heart that tries to keep that ugliness from inflicting its dark will on the world? all of these have been thoughts to plague makoto in his more quiet, sleepless moments as he continues to slowly come to terms with his new existence and what it means to him. when J had offered to take him into hell as a demon underling underneath his own wing, he had allowed himself to be swept away by a romantic idealization of what that promise could be. he had thought that it could be so easy. but it wasn’t. more and more, he has to wonder… was this just an added torment? he had spent so many years stifling and suppressing wide swathes of himself from everyone around him, terrified that he might become exactly the kind of monster they all assumed he would. but as a demon, either in hell or here at this accursed resort, what other choice does he have…? trying to cling to his now-nonexistent humanity and fully deny himself only made things messier—he thinks there’s only so long he would be able to do something like that before giving in, perhaps in the worst possible way. on the other hand, fully giving in feels like it makes the sacrifice of summoning a demon and selling his soul feel moot. if he was going to end up preying on people here, maybe he should have just kept living and become that monster anyway?
no, this is the answer that he tries to find to this complicated, thorny question, even if it is in and of itself messy and imperfect. he tries to find the blurry, intangible line between. he tries to find what few individuals who can satisfy him without great personal sacrifice and sequester those darker, hungrier desires to them—so long as he keeps them occasionally sated, he feels more free to be more… normal, the rest of the time. he knows that the balance is precarious; he often worries that it’s not a feasible long-term solution, especially for someone who might live for hundred years… potentially forever. what then?
J had once told him that contradiction is only something that lives in the hearts of humans. these thoughts, then, are pathetically “human”—a demon would have no problem living and breathing in their contradiction, fearless of being considered hypocritical, for they pursued their natures freely and earnestly, regardless of their depravity. that’s why continuing to live on as a demon feels like a curse, given his reason for summoning J in the first place. with endless time before him, it feels like an inevitability that he would one day fully embody being a “demon,” rather than foolishly clinging to the trappings of humanity as he did. either that, or he might suffer a fate far worse than the simple cessation of death.
he lets charlie take the first vial. it is his, after all, well and traded for. the attention that remains fixated to the second, which slowly fills with blood, is tugged toward the other man in a venomous, narrowed glare. his lips press into a thin, bloodless line. he wasn’t sure how to interpret the amiable tone—unfortunately, makoto tends to default toward reads in bad faith (he’s suffered sleights far more often than he’s been granted honesty). )
I’m here, aren’t I?
( the golden peacock? here, in this room, his heart working to pump three vials of blood from his body? the answer could be either, really. it didn’t matter. it would be the same, even if he were still in hell. )
Since becoming a demon, I’ve learned two lessons. The first is that no one is just going to give me something that I want—I’m going to have to figure out how to get it myself. The second is that a goal like that doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have the power to achieve it.
( he breathes out a short, aggrieved sigh. the blood loss isn’t bad enough to affect him too badly, but he can sense a faint shimmer to the edges of his vision. and he’s still got one more after this one is full… )
The rules are different here than they were in Hell. But, I’m trying to adjust. If I just get the strength, then I’ll have the ability to do just that. Get whatever I want.
( ironically, charlie has stumbled across J’s entire reason in bringing makoto into hell to become a demon in the first place. the archduke would become that very villain, inflicting such injuries upon the young man’s heart that there was no other recourse for him but to stoke it as an engine that would churn and burn tirelessly for one, all-encompassing goal: revenge. as the most powerful demon in hell, fettered by his own immortality and the rules that bound all of them, attempting to foster a rival that would grow to eclipse even his own power was J’s only potential option for escape. he had sensed a shard of potential in makoto, when he was still human. one day, he would prove its veracity: he would become an archduke to replace his master.
but, for now, he has not suffered the emotional wounds that would push him past that point of no return. he exists in a soft and nascent state, the sharp glint of his potential embedded deep within vestigial sentimentality. )
[From the earliest days Charlie can remember, there were bad men in the world. No one talked about it around him, a child on the boundary between decency and depravity, but he knew about it anyway. Eavesdropping on a conversation about how a former friend had to be chopped to bits and hidden away had been habit before he even knew what the men had been discussing.
They spoke in vagaries, or in sentences halted with silence taking up the space of an indicting word. He'd been hearing this kind of talk since before he knew what any of it meant.
All the while, those men would pat him on the head. Pinch his cheek. Tell him he looked like hell. Brusque affection with the same hands that dealt in blood and money. People have always been both monsters and family at the same time.
When Charlie stepped into the world of kindred, it felt like crossing the street in a familiar neighborhood. There was nothing for him to cling to, no sense of humanity that a demon like what he'd become couldn't possibly possess. Because there's no sense of evil that a human like he'd been couldn't possibly possess, either.
Facts he reminds himself of when he does feel the odd twinge. He hasn't gone so far as to put a word to that emotion: regret, grief, frustration, or something so simple as hurt. The world he's in now is the same world he's always been in. He's the same damned man he's always been.
Even in this resort.
First vial in hand, Charlie toys with the glass between his fingers. It rolls from tip to palm, thumb brushing over it to flick it up between pointer and middle finger. The way one idly flashes a knife.
Despite, or perhaps enticed by, Makoto's narrowed glare, Charlie is rapt in Makoto's words. He's satisfied with himself that he's kept the boy talking this long.
Charlie's lips purse at the assertion of strength. He tilts his head to one side, then back - he agrees.] Power's a rule anywhere you go.
[So is generosity, Charlie finds. Just because there aren't altruists on every street corner doesn't mean that everything has a price tag attached to it. Sure, he's the first guy to strike a deal, but he knows the joy of simply giving to whoever he likes. It's a show of that same power Makoto is desperate for.
He makes a note to give the kid something for free, sometime.] Like you said, the more you have, the easier it is to take what you want.
But you don't seem the type to pin someone down and force it out of them. You've been eh... nothing but cooperative!
Think that'll change? [Who can say, really? Some people think a moral code is a privilege won by blood. In Charlie's experience, the people who fight for something like that stop wanting it soon after they get it.]
( makoto couldn’t even claim that his upbringing had been “good” in the sort of way that only highlighted in contrast how very “bad” he was. he could perhaps say that his upbringing had been mundane. his parents had been functional in their roles, though he didn’t have any particularly strong memories of them being particularly affectionate or sentimental with him. they had provided opportunities and expectations—the first they cast as a gift, and the second always seemed to be its cost. makoto had struggled to see the point of even trying to please them when his older brother had already cemented himself as a golden, unattainable point of comparison long before he’d even gotten a chance to fight back. charming, sociable, brilliant, and involved, he’d been everything makoto wasn’t. he’d grown up feeling like a shadow, even before his more morbid tendencies started to make themselves known in him. he’d never thought they were a result of anything he’d experienced growing up. how could they be? he hadn’t been coddled, but he also had never been treated harshly; he’d only ever been comfortable and provided-for. how could he ever try to blame the ugliness inside of him on anything else when his brother had grown up under the same roof, from the same parents?
no, he’d known that he was wrong to his very core long, long before anyone else had noticed. it had been a seed present within him at birth, and it had already germinated and taken root enough for him to begin to see the differences between himself and others and how they saw things, how they felt about things, how they reacted to things. makoto is not heartless or without empathy, but he is strange. a lot of the things other kids around him thought of as essential, that every kid should want or have, he didn’t really see the point of. the things he decided to say always seemed the wrong things.
by the time he’d gotten old enough for puberty to intertwine that darkness with his desires, he’d come to realize that he was not only wrong but criminal. he’d read about others. he’d read books and watched programs on cannibals and serial killers, haunted by what he perceived as an inevitable future for himself. he hadn’t wanted it, but how long can one keep an innate, intrinsic darkness within them at bay? he’d tried to satiate it. he’d tried to feed it bits and pieces of what it wanted, bringing home roadkill to cut apart, indulging in personal fantasy, but it had never been enough. it only made it hungrier. if placation or denial weren’t options, then what was left? wait for his father to finally kill him, convinced of the stain he would produce on his reputation? no, when he had drawn that circle in blood on his floor, he had seen it as taking the matter into his own hands.
in hindsight, sometimes it felt foolish. desperate. but he doesn’t think he would change what he’d done, if he went back. his life since becoming a demon was hard, but at least he felt as though he had options. he saw more paths ahead of himself than just those that led to either an early grave or incarceration and execution.
he doesn’t think charlie is wrong, but he feels compelled to add, ) But the definition of “power” changes depending on where you are.
( hell’s rules were drastically different from earth’s, drastically different from those here. that’s what really bothers makoto; to know that something he could suffer to gain somewhere might be worthless wherever he might be brought next.
his shoulders grow tense at the question, but, fortunately, the second vial has slowly filled with blood. it gives him time to mull over his thoughts as he goes through the mechanical process of replacing it with the final vial and handing the second one over to charlie. he blinks, sniffing. he doesn’t think it’ll be enough blood to affect him much, but there is an odd wooziness that goes through the mind at seeing so much of it leave your body.
after a long moment, he replies in a smaller voice, ) I don’t want it to.
(I hope it doesn’t. but he feels he can never be sure. it’s the same thing that had haunted him when he was alive—a worry that he couldn’t deny himself if he was given the chance, the power, the opportunity. he’d been terrified he might one day find himself a murderer, because as much as the thought horrified him, he knew he wanted every thing that led to it just as much, if not more. ) I’ve—had to deal with a lot, because of others forcing me to be what they want me to be, or do what they want me to do. I… don’t want to become someone like that. I’d rather make a deal that we can both be happy with.
[With a shrug, Charlie acquiesces to Makoto's stipulation: power changes forms in different locales, among different beings, under different circumstances. This is a reality Charlie ardently believes in - due to his existence outside of it. He stays in Chicago for a reason.
Affection plays a part. He knows the place better than the raised veins on the back of his hands; its importance to his makeup is more significant even than his twining dead arteries. One doesn't strike up porch-light conversations with generations of everymen without a mote of love for the populace.
But this delight is built atop of the framework of a singular place. He, unlike Makoto, was raised in a tight-knit community. Immigrants finding the solace of home with one another in their yards while those who dipped into crime performed iron-tight loyalty.
He wasn't one of the 'other.'
And he isn't now, either. Tucked comfortably into the largest coalition of vampires, Charlie enjoys the same place, the same undead companions, with only circumstance as a wildcard. Cities are ever changing - that cannot be avoided - so Charlie makes himself a part of their transformations. With only one fault-line, picking up a reverberation that shifts the 'norm' is more easily made into opportunity.
Lingering discomfort, the type that seeps beneath the skin and sickens the body like lead, is so unfamiliar to Charlie that he never even knows what to name it when he does feel it.
He can see it, though.
Frustration piques Charlie's focus the way an experienced hunter reads the sway of underbrush. Or, to put it in terms he'd prefer, the way a retired old lady can tell a one-day sale is coming at her local department store by the placement of the marquee.
Makoto's seems to have tempered into something more akin to worry, but that the agitation is turned inwards is obvious.
Charlie wraps his fingers around the second syringe and tips the pair in thankful acknowledgement towards his donor.]
Being able to make that kind'a deal is a good advantage. [He offers affirmation easily not because it compliments his own approach, but because he truly believes in the strength of bartering. That he also believes skill in brokering agreements can overstep into the very approach Makoto has balked against is a point he keeps to himself.
Sometimes, to make a good deal, you have to force a party to want something they wouldn't otherwise desire - whether through a twist of words or a heavier hand.] And, it's one that stays with you no matter where you are. Or who you're with!
Here, home, under a rock - it doesn't matter. People will always want something. [He speaks like he's imparting some kind of wisdom to encourage the boy, as if Makoto had picked the right answer on some unannounced test.]
( the vast majority of people that makoto has spoken to here in the Golden Peacock seemed to prescribe to the same concept: that the essence of strength and power was that which allowed someone to kill (or threaten to kill) others, or to otherwise defend themself from similar mortal attack. it’s strange to him. having died himself, it’s not as though he doesn’t understand the mortal coil, but things had been so different in hell. high-ranking demons had spoken in haughty and contemptuous tones to him in confidence of how boorish and low-brow others seemed when they flaunted their physical strength or magical prowess—violence was seen as something low-class. only no-name demons, whose reputation was so negligent that they had to wildly shout their names into the crowd to force others to recognize their existence, even for a moment, would act so uncouth and brazen. not to say, of course, that high-ranking demons were gentle… violence simply had a different place in their society. it was a plaything—a coddled and beloved pet. it nestled even more inextricably into their desires and lusts than it did for humans (or perhaps they were just less ashamed about it?), particularly since a demon couldn’t be permanently killed by way of violence. makoto had seen other demons employed by datenshou torn to shreds and consumed in the process of entertaining and satisfying their guests, but they would just be back and walking around the brothel days later, as if nothing had happened.
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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not enough to actually impede his day-to-day life here. it wouldn’t be worth it. he isn’t sure why he was given this mirror upon his arrival at the resort, but he’s not going to allow it to turn him into some sort of paranoid wreck. other people might want to try to tear down the glittering facade to reveal the skeletons beneath, but makoto? if it would end up making him less comfortable in the meantime, he’d rather not. to him, this place and its game is just a tool he’s using; a means to an end.
just like how this little exchange is, in and of itself, a means to a different end.
the young demon watches charlie with obvious dubiousness. that he’s lying is just about as apparent, though what he’s trying to puzzle out is… why? would this information be considered sensitive, where he’s from? he understands wanting to keep certain things close to the chest, but he’s already agreed to give it to him… his own logic tells him that, since no one’s really cared to proposition him for his blood prior to this point, it’s either of value to him or someone else that he knows—someone else new, probably. he considers laying this out to him, delivering a jarring riposte to the dismissive mendacity, but… well, he’s not stupid. he can hear the dead stillness in the words that brokers no further explanation or discussion. he also doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like being treated like this.
his lips press into a thin line; there’s another world where he keeps pressing, intent on the satisfaction of curiosity, but… no. here, he just sighs and shrugs, a little irritated at the obfuscation but under the impression that it ultimately doesn’t change all that much. )
Sure, whatever. It’s not like I care what you do with it.
( there’s a sudden edge of brusqueness to his movements when he moves forward to plop down on the foot of the bed right next to him; that, and also how he doesn’t delay in tearing into one of the packaged syringes and undoing the buttons at his cuff so he can roll back the sleeve to bare his forearm, the skin so deathly-pale that it was easy to find the blueish veins beneath.
typically he would be the type to take his time, make a little more conversation, but… well, now he’s in a bit of a mood, as evidenced by the thunderclouds in his expression. )
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A vampire is only as powerful as the secrets he keeps.
Influence, but do not reveal what you are. A brutally enforced rule back home, and not one Charlie has ever been tempted to break. He doesn't need to see a wild kindred be torn to pulp to keep his cards close to his chest, but he's been witness to the display nonetheless.
There are other inhuman haunts in Chicago, but he's encountered an astounding volume of them in this place. A demi-plane, he's heard it called, and he's inclined to agree.
Makoto is obviously among them; his eyes make Charlie's look fucking normal. The boy's distinctive quality is why Charlie had offered his ability to weather more abuse than a human's so forwardly. An unspoken connection. Neither of us mortal.
But the rule hasn't changed. Strength comes from being on the knowing end of information. Makoto is right to feel impressed upon, even if the source of the feeling is nebulous. Nearly every interaction of Charlie's is a power struggle.
He leans forward in his seat, watching silently as he lets the moment of obvious discomfort soak into the boy's blood. A pinprick of metal elicits a tinge of iron, the scent threatens to shock his features alight. With a sigh, Charlie shakes his head and shifts back in his chair.]
Eh, let's not sit in silence - let's talk. You're curious, understandably. I am too. We can make this easy- [A framework of reciprocity, instead of transaction.]
Your eyes got a look to 'em. Mine- [He points to the sunken dark landscape.] -they uh, always looked like this. I was a terrible ugly little kid. [Delivered with good humor, almost as if he's proud of the fact. Charlie chats as if there's never been any unease between them.]
Yours always been that way?
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so here in the resort, he’d never bothered in trying to hide what he was currently or what he had been previously because it didn’t really seem to benefit him. there were plenty of other secrets within that story, however, that he is fiercely defensive of. it’s strange how few seem interested in the “how’s” and “why’s.”
it doesn’t stop makoto from finding it annoying, how obvious the shape of the truth feels in the weighty attention he senses from charlie as he finds a vein with the tip of the needle, wincing ever-so-faintly as he pushes it through skin to tap into the flow of blood. his hand trembles a bit as he makes certain that it’s all right, but, sure enough, the vial slowly begins to fill with dark red. though he’s gotten fairly accustomed to ghoulish things like re-suturing his head onto the stump of his neck, this is actually new to him—there’s just a level of detachment from it which he would need some time to fully unpack. it’s something in how all the events since his becoming a demon has taught him that this body of his is a commodity, and that’s literal—it’s not even the one he’d been born with, instead one ordered by J. it gives him a complex relationship to it, but he at the very least figures that if it’s going to be of some use to him, he might as well use it as he must.
a line of tension snakes its way through the muscles of makoto’s neck and shoulders at the shift in conversation; he sends a narrowed look over his shoulder to charlie, just a little venomous that he doesn’t get any of his questions answered, so why should he return the favor? sure, it’s not as though it had been part of the contract to begin with, but it’s just the principle of the thing at this point.
it’s a crackling heat of vexation that lasts for just a few heartbeats before dying down. it’s not as though it’s sensitive information for makoto to divulge. he’s just going to have to trust that’s not the case for charlie—a rather generous good faith read, in his opinion. he had offered some information, makoto supposes. even if it’s not what he’d originally been angling towards.
he hesitates, mentally compartmentalizing the stinging pain in his arm before replying, ) No… They changed to look like this after I died. I think. ( his mouth presses into a small, thin line—due to extenuating circumstances, he hadn’t really been able to look in a mirror for a few days after J had taken him into hell, but he has to assume they changed either before that point or during. )
But they’re the only thing that really changed. ( it sounds like a grousing complaint because it is. he still can’t keep the disappointment out of his tone, one that adds on an unspoken “unfortunately.” )
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Charlie is still within a human's lifespan - he understands the idea of stasis conceptually, but the man dedicates as little thought to the abstract 'nature of being' as he can. There's too much in front of him: the lives of humans and the things his peers continue to cling to - the intersection of the two.
The place where he finds the most power.
He's sizing Makoto up with that same curiosity in mind. What has remained the same and what has changed? The boy must be freshly dead to have such little by way of transformation, even if that shift is only in perspective rather than corporeal.
If only he'd met Makoto in his city proper - he could introduce the boy to the subsect of Kindred who delight in molding bodies like clay to fantastical, horrific visages. Those changes do stick.
Oh well. There will be more opportunities to offer - Charlie's always been adept at picking them out. He'll connect the way Makoto's muscles seem to contract in discomfort from the needle with the need for a gentler syringe. One little accommodation at a time is a pace he's comfortable with.]
Yeah? The only thing? [There's a mote of incredulity in Charlie's voice. His head cranes forward, as if searching the boy's mercuric eyes was going to reveal the answer to his vague question.] So you're tellin me the whole eh... damning preference you have wasn't something you picked up with all this? ['All this' being a pointed gesture at Makoto's face.
His hand falls, a glance spared to the nearly full tube of blood before his eyes dart back to Makoto. It's fortunate this is their first meeting - Charlie usually asserts uncannily consistent eye contact. The dart of his eye to the blood would be quite telling in contrast.]
I'm not tryin to shame you. [He adds quickly - Makoto seemed to clam up quickly when his desires were mentioned over text.] I'm not a good guy, you're not gonna make me think any kind of way about you no matter what you like.
I've played cards with some pretty disgusting bastards. And, they've played cards with me. [Implicit vile predilections are the most he's willing to offer, but he turns them back on himself with a congenial double palmed gesture. Body language, a language even beasts can understand - the soft underside of the hand is a sign of trust.]
cw: suicide mention
what this means, however, is that demons as they exist in makoto’s own hell do so in stark contrast to the kindred as charlie might be aware of them—their entire existence is change, or perhaps either the promise or the threat of it. makoto holds within him a dreadful potential, one that J had glimpsed when he was still raw and mortal, the very same that had convinced him to take him home as a promising prospect for his own ends. meanwhile, much of the upper crust in hell do everything they can to prevent their position from eroding, being certain to present a flawless image of their own unassailability as to convince others of its truth.
when makoto had complained to J about the terrible normalcy of this body of his, he had simply been told he would be able to have whatever features he wanted when he learned how to obtain them himself. this had neither been mocking nor chiding—this had been the truth. eventually, makoto would have learned just how literal that truth was. ah, but it was less like building someone up from clay and far more like playing both the roles of doctor frankenstein and his monster…
he notes the incredulity, but he misreads it. ) Well… ( what he thinks to point out is that he supposes this body isn’t the same. it’s not his; the body he’d been born and grown into a teenager in was likely cremated and buried. this body had been a gift from J, and it paradoxically felt just as much not his own as it did. but, no, he doesn’t get the opportunity to point this out. he freezes up, neglecting even to breathe, at the insight. it’s something most people don’t even bother to ask; it’s most common that they assume it has to do with him being a demon…
given that makoto’s skin is already death-pale, it’s hard for him to pale further, but he manages it. as open a book as he can be, with his wild expressiveness, charlie doesn’t have to look deep or far to find the truth. really, makoto isn’t noticing much with the eye contact, though there is a drop in the magnetism of it when charlie’s gaze darts to the vial of blood; released from it, makoto’s own falls to stare at the same, though he looks at it without seeing. he seems to retreat within himself for a moment, defensive, like an animal backed into a corner. it does help that the other claims to not want to judge him or shame him, but assuaging statements like that never fully wear down makoto’s guard. no matter how much anyone says they might, they never, ever really get it. not even J had understood. not really.
he’s quiet for a long moment, and it might seem that he’s been scared off entirely, enough to disengage from the conversation as a whole. but… there’s enough there, in what’s offered about charlie and the type of person he asserts himself to be, that slowly tempts him back. with one of the vials entirely filled, makoto speaks as he slowly and cautiously goes through the motions of removing it, making sure it’s properly sealed, and replacing it with a new one. )
Those—“preferences” are the reason why I’m like this. Not the other way around.
( his mouth forms a thin line for a moment as he tries to figure out the best way to put it. it’s just… kind of an embarrassing, shameful sort of thing to try to admit to other people? that he’d sold his soul because no one else wanted it? that he’d essentially summoned a demon as a way to kill himself? )
…I tried for a long time to try to stop wanting it or make it go away. But I couldn’t. I was terrified that I’d end up hurting someone, one day, ( and the reason is somewhat complex: yes, makoto doesn’t want to hurt innocent, unwilling people, but the reason is just as much him not wanting to become the monster they’d already started to see him as as it was his overly-kind heart, ) so I tried summoning a demon instead. I’d get what I wanted from him, and he’d… take my soul, in return.
( he looks back up, still looking wan, his expression strained. ) Making me into a demon wasn’t part of the original arrangement.
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But, a marriage between the real and the metaphysical isn't impossible. He has a wife in the strange space between things, often unseen but made body & flesh by his demand. Lester hasn't accompanied him here, but if he indulged her theory-laden perspective, he'd see her with him in how the tangible and intangible coalescence to make up the world.
Another amalgam occupies his thoughts. Desire. Want. This feeling that both precedes and outlasts every other thought. Hoping such a thing will cease is more of a risk than pursuing it, even in the face of a contradiction. You want to do something that hurts people, but you don't want it to hurt people. Charlie recognizes the inherent strife of this mindset. Denial is the most acute source of self-contradiction.
He doesn't feel it, believing himself a consistently amoral being. He's simply a changeable man. I want to hurt you. Now I don't. Both isolated and easy to achieve.
In the silence, Charlie reaches over Makoto's upturned arm to pluck the filled vial from his hands. He's acquiesced to this quiet, but he can't settle with a complete lack of communication. Bodies talk when voices don't.
A source of comfort in the tumult between reality and thought.]
Well, now that you're a demon, are you getting everything you want? [Genial, Charlie speaks to guide the conversation's focus, hoping it will continue to focus on Makoto. He uses the present tense - because he understands the perpetuity of want. Hunger.
His eyes rake over the boy's hands with a spark of that very desire. Bony knuckles, skin stretched a bit too tightly over hands that don't seem to possess much strength. Shaken and pale now, he appears even more fragile. A boy sick with himself.
Maybe Makoto needs a villain. Someone to torment him and erode that kindness. If his heart can't be swayed, he'll at least have the consolation of a universal expectation to retaliate. Revenge is revenge, whether emotionally driven or a simple matter of course. Both equally acceptable excuses to desecrate someone...
But Charlie isn't willing play that part. He's capable, yes, but he'd rather make a connection between two people. Either he stumbles upon a truly vile person, or he'll concoct a particular image of someone in this boy. That he'd prefer the first does nothing to abate the wickedness of being willing to do the second.]
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( how much of one’s intrinsic nature is inherent or elastic? how much of it belongs to them, or how much of it belongs to their family and their environment? what is more true of a person: the ugliness at their core, or the goodness in their heart that tries to keep that ugliness from inflicting its dark will on the world? all of these have been thoughts to plague makoto in his more quiet, sleepless moments as he continues to slowly come to terms with his new existence and what it means to him. when J had offered to take him into hell as a demon underling underneath his own wing, he had allowed himself to be swept away by a romantic idealization of what that promise could be. he had thought that it could be so easy. but it wasn’t. more and more, he has to wonder… was this just an added torment? he had spent so many years stifling and suppressing wide swathes of himself from everyone around him, terrified that he might become exactly the kind of monster they all assumed he would. but as a demon, either in hell or here at this accursed resort, what other choice does he have…? trying to cling to his now-nonexistent humanity and fully deny himself only made things messier—he thinks there’s only so long he would be able to do something like that before giving in, perhaps in the worst possible way. on the other hand, fully giving in feels like it makes the sacrifice of summoning a demon and selling his soul feel moot. if he was going to end up preying on people here, maybe he should have just kept living and become that monster anyway?
no, this is the answer that he tries to find to this complicated, thorny question, even if it is in and of itself messy and imperfect. he tries to find the blurry, intangible line between. he tries to find what few individuals who can satisfy him without great personal sacrifice and sequester those darker, hungrier desires to them—so long as he keeps them occasionally sated, he feels more free to be more… normal, the rest of the time. he knows that the balance is precarious; he often worries that it’s not a feasible long-term solution, especially for someone who might live for hundred years… potentially forever. what then?
J had once told him that contradiction is only something that lives in the hearts of humans. these thoughts, then, are pathetically “human”—a demon would have no problem living and breathing in their contradiction, fearless of being considered hypocritical, for they pursued their natures freely and earnestly, regardless of their depravity. that’s why continuing to live on as a demon feels like a curse, given his reason for summoning J in the first place. with endless time before him, it feels like an inevitability that he would one day fully embody being a “demon,” rather than foolishly clinging to the trappings of humanity as he did. either that, or he might suffer a fate far worse than the simple cessation of death.
he lets charlie take the first vial. it is his, after all, well and traded for. the attention that remains fixated to the second, which slowly fills with blood, is tugged toward the other man in a venomous, narrowed glare. his lips press into a thin, bloodless line. he wasn’t sure how to interpret the amiable tone—unfortunately, makoto tends to default toward reads in bad faith (he’s suffered sleights far more often than he’s been granted honesty). )
I’m here, aren’t I?
( the golden peacock? here, in this room, his heart working to pump three vials of blood from his body? the answer could be either, really. it didn’t matter. it would be the same, even if he were still in hell. )
Since becoming a demon, I’ve learned two lessons. The first is that no one is just going to give me something that I want—I’m going to have to figure out how to get it myself. The second is that a goal like that doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have the power to achieve it.
( he breathes out a short, aggrieved sigh. the blood loss isn’t bad enough to affect him too badly, but he can sense a faint shimmer to the edges of his vision. and he’s still got one more after this one is full… )
The rules are different here than they were in Hell. But, I’m trying to adjust. If I just get the strength, then I’ll have the ability to do just that. Get whatever I want.
( ironically, charlie has stumbled across J’s entire reason in bringing makoto into hell to become a demon in the first place. the archduke would become that very villain, inflicting such injuries upon the young man’s heart that there was no other recourse for him but to stoke it as an engine that would churn and burn tirelessly for one, all-encompassing goal: revenge. as the most powerful demon in hell, fettered by his own immortality and the rules that bound all of them, attempting to foster a rival that would grow to eclipse even his own power was J’s only potential option for escape. he had sensed a shard of potential in makoto, when he was still human. one day, he would prove its veracity: he would become an archduke to replace his master.
but, for now, he has not suffered the emotional wounds that would push him past that point of no return. he exists in a soft and nascent state, the sharp glint of his potential embedded deep within vestigial sentimentality. )
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[From the earliest days Charlie can remember, there were bad men in the world. No one talked about it around him, a child on the boundary between decency and depravity, but he knew about it anyway. Eavesdropping on a conversation about how a former friend had to be chopped to bits and hidden away had been habit before he even knew what the men had been discussing.
They spoke in vagaries, or in sentences halted with silence taking up the space of an indicting word. He'd been hearing this kind of talk since before he knew what any of it meant.
All the while, those men would pat him on the head. Pinch his cheek. Tell him he looked like hell. Brusque affection with the same hands that dealt in blood and money. People have always been both monsters and family at the same time.
When Charlie stepped into the world of kindred, it felt like crossing the street in a familiar neighborhood. There was nothing for him to cling to, no sense of humanity that a demon like what he'd become couldn't possibly possess. Because there's no sense of evil that a human like he'd been couldn't possibly possess, either.
Facts he reminds himself of when he does feel the odd twinge. He hasn't gone so far as to put a word to that emotion: regret, grief, frustration, or something so simple as hurt. The world he's in now is the same world he's always been in. He's the same damned man he's always been.
Even in this resort.
First vial in hand, Charlie toys with the glass between his fingers. It rolls from tip to palm, thumb brushing over it to flick it up between pointer and middle finger. The way one idly flashes a knife.
Despite, or perhaps enticed by, Makoto's narrowed glare, Charlie is rapt in Makoto's words. He's satisfied with himself that he's kept the boy talking this long.
Charlie's lips purse at the assertion of strength. He tilts his head to one side, then back - he agrees.] Power's a rule anywhere you go.
[So is generosity, Charlie finds. Just because there aren't altruists on every street corner doesn't mean that everything has a price tag attached to it. Sure, he's the first guy to strike a deal, but he knows the joy of simply giving to whoever he likes. It's a show of that same power Makoto is desperate for.
He makes a note to give the kid something for free, sometime.] Like you said, the more you have, the easier it is to take what you want.
But you don't seem the type to pin someone down and force it out of them. You've been eh... nothing but cooperative!
Think that'll change? [Who can say, really? Some people think a moral code is a privilege won by blood. In Charlie's experience, the people who fight for something like that stop wanting it soon after they get it.]
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no, he’d known that he was wrong to his very core long, long before anyone else had noticed. it had been a seed present within him at birth, and it had already germinated and taken root enough for him to begin to see the differences between himself and others and how they saw things, how they felt about things, how they reacted to things. makoto is not heartless or without empathy, but he is strange. a lot of the things other kids around him thought of as essential, that every kid should want or have, he didn’t really see the point of. the things he decided to say always seemed the wrong things.
by the time he’d gotten old enough for puberty to intertwine that darkness with his desires, he’d come to realize that he was not only wrong but criminal. he’d read about others. he’d read books and watched programs on cannibals and serial killers, haunted by what he perceived as an inevitable future for himself. he hadn’t wanted it, but how long can one keep an innate, intrinsic darkness within them at bay? he’d tried to satiate it. he’d tried to feed it bits and pieces of what it wanted, bringing home roadkill to cut apart, indulging in personal fantasy, but it had never been enough. it only made it hungrier. if placation or denial weren’t options, then what was left? wait for his father to finally kill him, convinced of the stain he would produce on his reputation? no, when he had drawn that circle in blood on his floor, he had seen it as taking the matter into his own hands.
in hindsight, sometimes it felt foolish. desperate. but he doesn’t think he would change what he’d done, if he went back. his life since becoming a demon was hard, but at least he felt as though he had options. he saw more paths ahead of himself than just those that led to either an early grave or incarceration and execution.
he doesn’t think charlie is wrong, but he feels compelled to add, ) But the definition of “power” changes depending on where you are.
( hell’s rules were drastically different from earth’s, drastically different from those here. that’s what really bothers makoto; to know that something he could suffer to gain somewhere might be worthless wherever he might be brought next.
his shoulders grow tense at the question, but, fortunately, the second vial has slowly filled with blood. it gives him time to mull over his thoughts as he goes through the mechanical process of replacing it with the final vial and handing the second one over to charlie. he blinks, sniffing. he doesn’t think it’ll be enough blood to affect him much, but there is an odd wooziness that goes through the mind at seeing so much of it leave your body.
after a long moment, he replies in a smaller voice, ) I don’t want it to.
( I hope it doesn’t. but he feels he can never be sure. it’s the same thing that had haunted him when he was alive—a worry that he couldn’t deny himself if he was given the chance, the power, the opportunity. he’d been terrified he might one day find himself a murderer, because as much as the thought horrified him, he knew he wanted every thing that led to it just as much, if not more. ) I’ve—had to deal with a lot, because of others forcing me to be what they want me to be, or do what they want me to do. I… don’t want to become someone like that. I’d rather make a deal that we can both be happy with.
sorry, getting back from mini hiatus!
Affection plays a part. He knows the place better than the raised veins on the back of his hands; its importance to his makeup is more significant even than his twining dead arteries. One doesn't strike up porch-light conversations with generations of everymen without a mote of love for the populace.
But this delight is built atop of the framework of a singular place. He, unlike Makoto, was raised in a tight-knit community. Immigrants finding the solace of home with one another in their yards while those who dipped into crime performed iron-tight loyalty.
He wasn't one of the 'other.'
And he isn't now, either. Tucked comfortably into the largest coalition of vampires, Charlie enjoys the same place, the same undead companions, with only circumstance as a wildcard. Cities are ever changing - that cannot be avoided - so Charlie makes himself a part of their transformations. With only one fault-line, picking up a reverberation that shifts the 'norm' is more easily made into opportunity.
Lingering discomfort, the type that seeps beneath the skin and sickens the body like lead, is so unfamiliar to Charlie that he never even knows what to name it when he does feel it.
He can see it, though.
Frustration piques Charlie's focus the way an experienced hunter reads the sway of underbrush. Or, to put it in terms he'd prefer, the way a retired old lady can tell a one-day sale is coming at her local department store by the placement of the marquee.
Makoto's seems to have tempered into something more akin to worry, but that the agitation is turned inwards is obvious.
Charlie wraps his fingers around the second syringe and tips the pair in thankful acknowledgement towards his donor.]
Being able to make that kind'a deal is a good advantage. [He offers affirmation easily not because it compliments his own approach, but because he truly believes in the strength of bartering. That he also believes skill in brokering agreements can overstep into the very approach Makoto has balked against is a point he keeps to himself.
Sometimes, to make a good deal, you have to force a party to want something they wouldn't otherwise desire - whether through a twist of words or a heavier hand.] And, it's one that stays with you no matter where you are. Or who you're with!
Here, home, under a rock - it doesn't matter. People will always want something. [He speaks like he's imparting some kind of wisdom to encourage the boy, as if Makoto had picked the right answer on some unannounced test.]
👍 all good
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )