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[slicing]

[Arm held over an empty glass, he slides the blade across his skin and watches the blood slowly pour, looking up to arch his brows and announce,] It's ten bucks a drop.

Comments

[slicing]

[Well. That makes no sense.

But people have different meanings for the word human, don't they. To consider Kaena anything resembling humane was fatally generous.]

Witch?

[He sounds uncertain, one step away from sympathetic.]

[hailjan]

She was drained.

[And witch is not the word he would use to describe the one who did it.]

[slicing]

[he scratches his chin, idly. The tattoo on his hand is one of two wings, and half of an hourglass. (Freedom that he lost, time that was taken from him.) The remaining marks on his arm are shortcuts to spells, given to him by Kaena and her sisters. He is not thankful for them, but he wouldn't try to rid himself of their power. Maybe there's some addiction in their ink, too.]

Sorry to hear it.

[hailjan]

It was a long time ago.

[But it was a warning. A meaningless one, Sotiro was captive to the same creature that drank her dry, but a warning nonetheless.]

[slicing]

How old were you?

[hailjan]

[His brows pinch. He doesn't remember, not immediately.]

...Ten, maybe.

[Almost twenty years ago.]

[slicing]

Old enough to remember.

[hailjan]

[He's silent for a moment, considering just what it is he 'remembers.']

All of my memories are of watching her die. It was slow. A little more each time.

[slicing]

[He wouldn't be the first man with a tragic childhood. Vicious stories follow those who have crossed paths with Hyperion, whether they're willing to share them or not.]

Is that why you do this?

[hailjan]

I don't know.

[He was going to die the same way as his mother. He wasn't protecting himself. He wasn't really protecting anyone else either.]

[slicing]

No one would blame you. [He wouldn't. People had lousier reasons to be horrid to one another. And here this man was, offering him life.]

[hailjan]

[He looks down at his feet. He would blame himself.]

No.

[slicing]

[He can't help but smile, small and... empathetic, perhaps. He doesn't feel sorry for the other man, even though he should. It's a different sentiment, one he doesn't quite care enough to identify.]

I'll take good care of these.

[hailjan]

Good.

[He tugs at his jacket nervously.]

[slicing]

[That's all he can do.]

Hyperion. That's my name.

[hailjan]

[In a way, Sotiro hadn't really wanted to know. And he ducks his head down.]

...Sotiro.

[slicing]

Pleasure, Sotiro. [A brief nod.] Take care of yourself, yeah?

[hailjan]

[Unlikely, but it's the thought that counts.]