ataraxionlogs | Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

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Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason (plus demon) and OTA
LOCATION: the oxygen garden, the kitchen, or just strolling the corridors looking for... stuff
WARNINGS: bad manners, bad language, and possible violence (prearranged she is not going to attack anyone)
SUMMARY: Heather hasn't been out and about much this jump, and when she has she's been with Tillman and probably engaged in what looked like pretty intense conversation ~~or trying to hold his hand under the table at breakfast without anyone noticing~~. Now it's what passes for the wee small hours and she's out unattended for the first time since the jump.
NOTES: Please feel free to grab any of the locations I mentioned or throw in your own! I promised a few people demon interaction, so this is for anyone who wants some :D I'm also cool with prose or action so pick your favourite and I'll follow.

It's been a rough couple of months. That's probably why Heather's been acting a little out of sorts. She's made and lost a dear friend in the space of a jump. Perhaps it's missing Kitten's fashion advice that means she's ditched her own clothes for the Tranquility jumpsuit again, although why she's accessorizing with dogtags instead of her usual ever-present locket is anyone's guess.

But now it's late – or early, depending on your perspective – and she's out and messing with things. Wandering the corridors looking for something to do. In the kitchens with a slight curl to her lip, poking packets of alleged food. In the garden, staring at a patch of dark red flowers she'd been tending near obsessively and looking like she's contemplating ripping them up.

She's obviously bored. Why not say hi?

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Whoa - something about that snarl makes him take a step back, sends all of his alarms blaring, get out, get out, get the fuck out.

Even through the alarm, he's surprised by how fast as she is, and has no time to block it. Her punch hits home, sends his head straight back and makes him stumble a few steps, but he's quick to get his bearings again, mostly because he has to.

He's clearly shocked, and it delights her. Please her to the point of recklessness, and instead of darting back like she ought to or trying to land another blow as he stumbles, she pauses to sneer.

"Where's all your chivalry now? Your courtly graces? Shall we dance, or would you like to throw me into another wall first?"

He's not about to bother with banter - she's dangerous enough to leave him tasting blood, and he doubts she'll let him turn around and stroll away at this point. But mostly, he's pissed.

She's no lady, and his answer comes in the form of a fist.

She's not fast enough to dodge it - barely has time to turn her head so the blow lands at the side of her head where she can hide it instead of making a big, difficult-to-explain mess of her face. She is, however, a little more prepared. Instead of puddling to the floor unconscious like she certainly should she staggers briefly under the force of it and simply turns her face back to glare at him. Not as effective as she'd wanted it to be, having intended to just stand her ground, but the challenge is still in her face.

"Still trying to help me into Medbay?" They're well past that now, and she does wonder if he's still kidding himself. "That's about to get tricky to explain, don't you think?"

That punch isn't nearly as effective as it should be, damn. This could get ugly. But apparently she underestimates his penchant for idiotic, pigheaded stubbornness if she thinks he won't try to drag her ass to Medbay the second he has an opportunity. Which would happen to be while she's standing there blabbing and glaring.

"Not help," he grunts, and shoots a hand out for her wrist, like he's gonna drag her there like she's an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum and not an overpowered psycho bitch.

"To what end, precisely?"

When his hand closes on her wrist she jerks it back, trying to pull him in. He wants to get all touchy and up close? Fine. It'll make up for her shorter reach.

"I'm healthy, I'm lucid. In fact, all they'll find wrong with me is that somebody just hit me in the head hard enough to give me a concussion. And if you think for a moment I can't turn on the tears and tell them I don't know why you did it but I'm just so scared you're a bigger fool than you look."

Dumb, but he lets her pull him closer, frowning down at her and trying to decide whether she's bluffing or not. And then he decides that even if she isn't, he doesn't really care - so he continues with the plan of trying to drag her ass down the hallway.

"So they'll throw me in the brig."

Yeah, like he'll give any fucks about that. It's a jail, not a motherfucking Waterhuis.

"You'd better hope they do," she says. Her voice is suddenly soft, intimate, suited to their physical proximity and completely at odds with everything else.

"If by some stroke of freakish good luck you get me to Medbay, I will cry and snivel and let them shine a light in my eyes, and then I will come and kill you in your sleep."

Well, if that doesn't pause the proceedings, just brings everything he's doing right to an abrupt halt.

"You're kiddin'."

She's not, he knows she's not. He's not even looking at her and he knows it. But it's still so bizarre.

"I'd kill you just to see if it stuck if there weren't so many... potential complications." Her laughter is low and warm, and her smile is utterly cold. "You might want to think twice about giving me any semblance of an excuse."

She twists her hand to grip his wrist, mirroring his stance, her free hand clenching into a fist.

"What are you planning on telling them, exactly? Help, the girl I've been fucking isn't in awe of me anymore, there must be something terribly wrong with her? I imagine that will earn you an appointment with Crane to discuss your narcissistic tendencies."

Okay, he does look at her again, as much as he hates to. He'd rather live without the image of that damn smile committed to memory, but it's too risky not to keep his eye on her. And he can't decide if what she says means that she would or wouldn't do her worst...

Either way, he's stuck for now, even if he leans away a bit on instinct, lips thinning as he considers her words. Why the hell would he tell her what he's planning on saying? It'd only give her more time to think up something, a counterargument.

"I dunno," he mutters, and it's a half-truth - he doesn't know exactly - then tries to continue dragging her on along. He hates wasting time just as much as he hates being trapped, and this is close to both.

She steps back slightly, inclines her head before looking up at him.

"Would you like some more time to consider?"

And with that, she aims a kick at his knee, clearly intending to jar it and give herself enough of a headstart to get out of his reach.

As soon as he feels resistance he lets out a huff, right down at her upturned face. What.

He's about to spit out some version of "no" when she kicks him. And yeah, it hurts like hell. It also brings forth that strange, nasty combo of a threatened, vengeful nation and a pissy football player that only shows itself during personal confrontations between Nations and the odd World Cup.

She barely gets the chance to react - his gaze goes cold at exactly the same moment his snarl meets the air and he rams his entire self against her, shoulder first, not caring if he slams himself into the wall so long as she gets it worse than he does.

There's a heartbeat or less in which she's pleased, intrigued by the look on his face and wanting to comment on it, but then she's slammed into the wall and there's a distinct pop and crack of breaking ribs, and she screams in rage. It hurts, and that's not something she's endured for going on a hundred years now.

"You filthy, crawling stain! You putrid little scab!" She struggles against his superior mass, furious at both his actions and her surprise. "I'll tear your guts out!" And she means to make good on that, but for now she's twisting and trying to sink her teeth into the flesh of his upper arm.

Teeth and claws don't mean a damn thing right now. He's pissed. Pissed. His face might be a little bloody at this point, split lip already dribbled and dried between his teeth, but he's made good on his deal and she's done nothing but act like the shitstain she claims he is.

All the reason - the humanity - he usually has? Right out the window. This is the ruthless, awful shit that empires are built out of, and it's all too easy to sink back into those habits, when push comes to shove. Normally he'd be horrified with himself. At the moment, he's just trying to make it out of this hallway on top.

He backs up only long enough to jab his good knee right into her stomach, with his full weight and full force behind it.

The knee knocks the wind right out of her - sadly for him, she doesn't need to breathe. She coughs, an involuntary quirk of the shell she resides in, and reaches up to close her hands around his throat. She's trying to climb him, a foot planted on that injured knee for sheer spite as she hikes the other leg up to catch around his waist.

No, no no no no nonononono, the choking makes him panic enough to send both hands up in an attempt to rip her arm away from his neck - except as soon as she puts weight on his knee, it buckles and the both of them topple to the floor, the back of his head hitting with a disturbingly loud crack.

As soon as they're down she's off him, using the crash to the floor to skitter away and wishing for Heather's knife.

"Back off, boy," she hisses, walking backwards, eyes fixed on him. "We can both walk away from this."

For now. She must- must - keep the body intact, or all her work is for nothing, and as much as it pains her to admit it he's far too strong for her to end this and walk away without it being painfully obvious.

He hauls himself up to his elbows almost before he realizes that she's off, but he comes up pissy and ready to rip something to shreds, before seeing that she's too far away and too interested in self-preservation to bother.

She's the one backing off, so he feels no need to tack on a smartass comment. He waves her off - good enough.

And then he's dismissing her, waving her off like an irritation, and it's all she can do not to launch herself back at him and try to tear his throat out. Her eyes narrow and she points at him, teeth bared.

"I'll come for you. When this is done, you and I are going to have it out. And I warn you, I won't have a reason to hold off."

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Her Majesty's tears and the pauper's blood

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