myersin:

        He was fine with the aniticipation, a signature move by now. Let the suspense build up until it was ready to BURST, and then he would be there to pop that sacred little bubble, let them have their little tears float down cheeks as they begged and pleaded for their lives—but he would never listen, the suspense having filled him with a sense of excitement and, with their FEAR, he thrived just like a flower flourished with sunlight.

        The man infront of him, riddled with scars new and old alike portrayed an aura that felt both TRAGIC and blessed at the same time; if he himself was blooming from the blood he had spilled then this man was like a withered blossom who had died and then came back. There was no other way to describe it—lost and found. Head tilted as fingers tightened around hilt, knuckles GHASTLY white and a small ‘ Pop ! ’ escaping the working bones ( What those hands couldn’t do to harm a neck ).

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        Questions, questions; many of them with so few answers. One could say ichor clogged Michael’s throat, filling it up with black goop and red bile, stopping ANY words from ever leaving his silent being. Many would be thankful that he couldn’t speak– Why give an animal a VOICE? Beasts did not deserve to speak, and from the words of everyone who had ever met him and lived they’d say that what’d come out of his throat would be the VOICE of the Devil, clear and rough and so truly terrible that it’d be better if his lips were figuratively sewn shut forever. Silent as a grave; his knife would SPEAK for him, singing once falling from raised heights.

        Circling until he was right behind the slightly smaller man, staring holes into the back of the hood, and hand with knife lifted, tilting wrist until the very TIP of the blade dug into flesh between shoulder blades ( The one place where HANDS could not reach ! ).

        Michael breathed, heavy and loud and almost wet, the air pushing against inside of mask until it bounced back towards his own skin, uncomfortable and clammy. It was the only answer the man would get. Silence from the CREATURE with no voice.

             On the prowl, feral predator against seemingly defenseless prey.  But, oh, how foolish the assumptive approach truly was. His silence was noted; a preference, or something more tragic? A mouth forbidden to open, a voice starved and withered into submission, where volume is barely above a hushed, rasped whisper.  A killer needs not to speak; That would service only to give away their position, their intent. His silence, in fact, was a product of BRILLIANCE. Admiration, though, is but a short-lived sentiment.  Eyes simply flutter closed, hearing attuned to those steps that circle, circle him.  

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          It takes such LITTLE time for the tip of blade to press against cloth and skin, the feeling akin to the prick of a small pin. A smart man, to keep his instrument honed and sharpened. It, no doubt, made the slaughter of mere PIGS a quick, easy process.  Yet, does he not recognize a wolf when he sees one? Can he not see those FANGS, so poised and ready to tear out the throats of those who oppose it? A shame that such promise be squandered on the likes of the BLIND and the foolish.  
        He was clearly elated. Excited. A little lamb beneath the tip of the blade. But, was Ruvik truly? Body begins to turn to static, a game, a game!  This could be quite the lively game of the cat and the mouse; but, oh, the mouse would be victorious! The mouse would catch the cat, skin it raw, SKIN IT RAW! His head turns only so slightly, a smile ‘pon those burned, scarred lips. 

                                                                      ‘ That won’t harm me.’   

        Words are succinct. For what reason was there for lengthy, drawn out speeches? This creature, this BEING would not understand eloquence, not if he were met with it properly. Hands cannot reach, but body can easily turn, pivot on heels as hand does find grip ‘pon blade of knife. A river of red does flow over that palm,  iridescent eyes meeting those VOID eyes embedded in mask. It appears to be an injury, yet, the robed scientist has yet to flinch, yet to react. Eyes hardly linger to observe crimson that travels to stain already dirtied sleeve. What move would be made next? What could he possibly do, move could be made  next? Would he attempt to push that blade further into scarred chest, to find and pop the beating heart that lies within?

 
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YOU'RE MINE.


IND. PVT. SEL.
RUBEN 'RUVIK' VICTORIANO of Tango Gameworks' The Evil Within
As told by mortis