Welcome to the Haunt {{Mihai&Hamish // DONE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

The passages of the Underground arena were always confusing. If it were meant to be built like a maze, Mihai wouldn't be surprised since it would almost inevitably stop anyone from getting out. Perhaps the government should also consider investing in a half-man, half-bull mutant to stick around at the center of the prison. Yet, snide internal monologue aside, he found himself just the slightest bit disoriented by the twisting hallways of the building. He'd earlier assured a guard that he would be able to find his way out—not even a human guard could force him out without incurring disapproval—but what must have been a wrong turn had left him curious, and he now found himself half-wandering, half-exploring the facility.

The part he was in seemed deserted at the moment, the cells sitting empty, and that was a relief. The passages he'd crossed earlier had been unpleasant, with a few of the prisoners thinking it appropriate to make some dirty comments as he passed by. He supposed that came with walking around alone in a place notorious for keeping the mutants no one else wanted, and even though the facility made him exceedingly anxious (too many dark corners and aggressive prisoners), he didn't feel like he could turn back now without having gone just a little bit further.

It wasn't as though he were totally unfamiliar with the Underground. He'd never lived there himself, but he'd descended into the debauched hive on more than a couple of occasions to pay a few visits to people—friends or acquaintances whom he'd known beforehand from his stay at Weeds of Tomorrow. So far, what he'd encountered down there made him almost grateful that the government had taken him in right after graduation. Almost. As it were, he imagined himself a bit more fortunate to be afforded at least a certain degree of freedom and luxury, even though the price he paid for those things was a hefty one. Seeing his friends down here made for some unhappy and occasionally awkward reunifications. At times he wished that he could do something for them, but the most he could do was sneak down chocolates and alcohol every once in awhile, maybe a spare blanket, then leave them to their next misfortune.

Stopping in his steps as he was met with a brick wall at the end of the hallway, he turned around and started back towards the center of the facility. He would find the arena, and from there he knew the way out. The air down in this particular passageway smelt of damp and mold, and his footsteps echoed ominously in the silence. One of the lightbulbs overhead had burned out, and from what he could see, the cots in the cells were stripped down to their metal skeleton. It seemed like this part of the Underground was used rarely, if at all. He was quite all right with it though—he always enjoyed abandoned places a great deal better than crowds. Judging by his experiences, it would be fit to say that a crowd of humans were capable of doing much more damage than the imagined demons who lurked in the shadows of abandoned places.

It took him several minutes and yet another foray through an unpleasant company of prisoners that he began to hear the roar of the arena. This was the part that likely made him the sickest of all—pitting mutants against one another for entertainment, watching them kill each other without the slightest reservation or concern for humanity. There could not have been a lower display cruelty and depravity. That wasn't the worst though. The worst was the thought that a little mistake of his could land him in the arena as well, to be gutted and jeered at while he was taken apart. If he were to be honest and compare the benefits of his current situation as opposed to what it could be, he would say that one good thing about working for the government was that at least he didn't have an audience. And perhaps he should, but he felt no guilt nor shame in playing the role they wanted him to play in order to stay out of the cells.

He was closer to the arena now. He could hear the cheers of the crowd and feel the heaviness in the air that smelt of adrenaline and blood. Just being so close to it all made him anxious—nauseous—and he wanted to leave as quickly as he could. He always made sure to avoid the arena when he came down here. He couldn't bear it, as though the sounds and sights and smells pierced into his mind with a need to tear it apart. The sensation was much closer than he would like to be to a real experience in the arena.

He swallowed thickly and made towards the right, but was stopped by a procession of a couple guards and their prisoner. A mutant, probably. Mihai didn't bother to decide if this mutant in question were being lead into the arena, away from it, or if he were just being transferred to another room; he just wanted to leave. He suddenly realized his mouth was dry and that his breaths were coming short. A dull throb was beginning just behind his temples, and each sound he heard and each breath he took made him feel like he was breathing in the filth of the entire disgusting place. He supposed staying back down there had been a bad idea—he'd never reacted this strongly before. He had to get out before he broke down right then and there.

In his haste, vision obstructed by panic and the dim lighting of the hallway, he brushed past the guards and the redheaded mutant. "Excuse me," he muttered quickly, but he didn't stop nor look back. He just wanted to reach open air—he couldn't stand it minute longer in this hellhole. His steps accelerated as he approached the end of the hallway, but he didn't quite make it.

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

Word Count: 1015

Notes: I hope this is all right.

[Hamish A. Stuart]

Word Count: 1040

Tags: Mihai

Through the twisting, endless maze there didn’t seem to be a single nook and cranny that the putrid scent of the underground didn’t defile. Despite popular believe the filth caked walls didn’t produce the vile fragrance, the scent wafting throughout underground’s source was the arena and the cells that held the mutants from each battle. Dried blood from the most recent battle and the corpse of a mutant whose battle didn’t cease until only the victor stood heaving as they tore into their opponent, the thought of food only on their mind. The rotting form had yet to be discarded as the trash it were viewed as. Within the champers of the underground the sickness was smelt more than it appeared in the dark cells. After the battles if not fortunate enough to be given treatment the wounds would begin to fester only adding to the layer of filth assaulting the senses.

Flickering or burnt out lights helped mask the appearance of the cells, the darkness blinded any visitors to the atrocities hidden from public view. Visitors who dared to approach the cells were often greeted with a view of what their government actually viewed the so called mutants. If they were unable to receive a home during their first auction or were of use to the government the mutants were deemed useful but for those who didn’t fare as well they were viewed on the same level as common stray that wasted away the government resources.
These mutants who failed to accept the position as pet even giving them the bare essentials was too much to ask for without the government receiving something in return. The mutants began to be forced into the arena with a promise of a decent meal if they managed to be granted the title of victor. Arena battles made even the most stubborn of mutants slash down their opponent in the hopes of not feeling overwhelmed with hunger. The feeling of blood against their skin began to be associated with the food that would follow.

Today the life of the underground didn’t follow a different order, the mutants weren’t being primped for the latest auction. Finger nails still have dried blood beneath them from the fight taking place days prior. After the latest auction the conditions almost seemed to have worsen but it only seemed that way as the mutants were groomed for their show the night before and often allowed more freedom to be shown off to the potential consumers. If the mutant has failed to be contracted they once more are viewed as a waste of resources. The cycle never seemed to cease.

Perhaps it was due to many mutants leaving with the resent auction but Hamish found himself in the arena more often than he had previously. The lacking of time between the fights put the mutant on edge, he wasn’t able to relax as he was unsure when he would be called into the arena once more. His mutation made him fortunate enough to be able to attack from a distance. Exhaustion was something he did have to face due to the endless line of battles waiting for him. The ability to avoid damage seemed to be the only blessing he received. When entering the arena he could always create shadow armor to protect his fragile form from any attack as he urged forth his anger. Countless fights seemed to make him more in tune to the shadows around. After each match the feeling of rage didn’t leave immediately, instead he could feel any shadows in the room quiver with his emotional strain.

Awakening to the sound of the heavy metal door being pulled pried open. It seemed the ordeal had yet to come to a close, the curtains raise for the next act as he would dragged from the cell. Struggling against the guards’ hold Hamish attempted to balance him and move without his body being dragged by the strong men. Finding his footing he carried his weight toward the arena knowing the crowd waited there chanting for the beast to appear.
The chanting crowd begging for his the red head to enter the arena almost created a smug sense to the ginger. Despite hating being forced to fight fans made him feel he had a purpose. Without a contract he was able to prove himself to be above them. No one from the crowd would dare to challenge the mutant but instead craved to be in his presence.

Closing in on the arena a shiver traveled down his spine, excitement began to course through his veins and anger began to take control of the red head. Whatever crossed his path would soon be the victim of his wrath. Before he could make his way into the arena a boy forced passed him separating him from the guard’s bruising grip. Shadows wrapped around the red head stabilizing him before turning to spines threatening to pierce through the guards if they dared to touch him.
Senses in a state of shock he followed after the feet he heard trailing down the hall. This was a mutant he was chasing, he knew it had to be the rat, the traitor among mutants.

Guards spoke of a mutant scouted by the government, given freedoms only he could dream of while he wasted away in the underground. In the idea of mutants he was nothing special, not a prize or anything to brag of. A feeling of jealousy for the mutant developed, he knew not a name nor face of the mutant but a hatred already built from the idea alone.

Following down the hall his shadows crawled the walls circling his form, feeding from his anger. Soon the gape was closed and he found himself on the tail of the government pet. Thin fingers grabbed hold of the young mutant throwing him upon the wall. Shadows wrapped around the small form threatening to bite the skin with barbs. Green eyes were swallowed by black shadows that encased his eyes but didn’t blind him. “If it isnae th' rat. Whit dae ye think ye'r daein' 'ere? Ye dinnae belong 'ere.” The low hiss was warning to not waste time, he wanted an answer.

template made by MISSO for use only by DEE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

It looked like the shadows were eating away at the walls of the prison. He wasn't sure if that was actually happening as he walked (was he really still only walking?) towards the exit—he couldn't concentrate on anything but the pounding of his heart and the panic that pulsed at the back of his mind, nerves screaming at him to getoutgetout. He would have been running by now, if he weren't so painfully conscious of the audience behind him. But every second he was underground felt more as though he were being engulfed by the stench of sweat and blood like a miasma, like it could perforate his skin just by being there and worm its toxin into his veins. He was suffocating.

So consumed in the illogical was he that he didn't notice the rebellion down the hallway. Any other time and he might have, an ingrained suspicion driving him to side-eye anyone he passed on the streets (or in this case, in the Underground), and he would've felt the hostility, would've seen the sinister movement of the shadows if he were... normal (or as normal as he could be). As it were, he didn't notice the encroaching darkness until it was all right upon him.

He gasped in surprise as he was roughly grabbed and shoved against the wall, but the sound was cut short as the air was forced from his lungs. All he managed was a choked cough as the images before him spun into a confusing whirl. He tried to process what had happened. It was doubtless that someone had grabbed him. But why, and who?

As much as he struggled to grasp these strands of thought, all that came to the surface was the feeling nausea, compounded by the sharp throbbing at the back of his head where it had connected against the wall. He tried to will away the vestiges of the panic attack, drawing in a gulp of air to compensate for the collision and squeezing his eyes shut until he was certain the world was stilled. He swallowed past the knot in his throat. Out of all times, why did it have to be now that someone decided they had beef with him?

After a moment (which he hoped wasn't long enough to cue the other to his weakness), he forced his eyes open and returned his attacker's glare with as much steadiness as he could muster.

He almost recoiled, the surprise hitting him like a blow to the stomach. His aggressor, the mutant who'd just passed him moments before—his eyes were pitch-black. Nothing Mihai couldn't handle under normal circumstances, but for the fact that this man currently had him pinned to the wall with what appeared to be shadows poised to skewer him. Disgust welled in the pit of his stomach, something primal in reaction to an appearance that was all too strange. Not a wonder that anyone who wanted to create a monster would write a creature with black eyes.

Mihai kept his face carefully neutral, only the slightest bit of contempt betrayed by the tilt in his eyebrows and the grimace on his lips. He hoped it would conceal the dryness in his mouth, the cold sweat on his temples, the tremor in his hands, the too-fast beat of his heart. He hated being constrained. It was always a reminder of knives on his skin, of his submission, of violence he was powerless to retaliate against. Not against his human captors, and not against this mutant. All he could do was swallow his urge to struggle, to make more futile, desperate attempts that would at most be a cause for mockery. But even so, the panic lingered, kept in check only by his obstinacy in keeping a prideful front, even as his position was triggering of a barely-contained hysteria.

He licked his lips, trying to gather his scattered nerves, and kept his glare steady. "What are you doing?" he asked, voice level. His tone was cold, and the question was more of a demand for the other to reflect on the bare foolishness of his aggression than an actual inquiry. He hoped the falter he felt couldn't be heard in his words.

It was clear that his attacker knew who he was, though that came as a bit of a surprise to Mihai. He hadn't before really considered the possibility that information of his existence would be spread beyond the realm of government elites, much less to be able to reach the Underground. But he supposed that talk always found some way to spread, and somehow information about him had reached hostile ears. Well, it wasn't a huge surprise. He might very well have regarded himself in the same way if he were in their position. But wouldn't they act the same way in his?

He had no desire to explain himself to this stranger. Their anger was the same, their hatred both directed towards those who oppressed and tortured and made living entertainment of them. Yet, there was one significant difference. The other man had chosen to rebel, chosen suffering and a slow life rotting away in the Underground cells. It was obvious that he was powerful, could be of great use to some rich patron or another, but his hair was long and his clothing unkempt, indicative of someone who'd grown so familiar with the maze-like passageways that he had since become a part of them.

Mihai was different. He would pass his life as comfortably as possible, under the wealthy, protective wing of the government by playing to their expectations of obedience. But it wasn't for free, as most seemed to assume. It wasn't for some paltry fee of kissing ass or washing dishes or playing bodyguard. It meant giving himself over to them—the enemy—each and every limb and letting them do as they pleased. It meant being a tool against any insurgent who fought for their liberation. It meant crushing any shred of pride or dignity he had left so that they couldn't starve him in addition to dismembering him or gutting him or blinding him.

But it wasn't like he had a choice. Whether he went willingly or not, they could force him, and the end result would be the same. He would not feel shame for capitalizing on what benefits he could, not like the fools who thought their pitiful resistance would hamper the humans any. If anything, they only became entertainment, trash that no one wanted but for watching them die.

Mihai smirked. This man was clearly of the sort who foolishly made life for himself miserable under some misguided sense of pride, and yet he thought he could address Mihai with such a sense of superiority? As the panic began to recede to the corner of his mind where it always lurked, it was replaced by a biting sense of anger and derision for the other. The ugly emotions forced an even uglier hand, and he found himself speaking words that might have been better left unsaid. "Oh?" he said testily. "I didn't know I had a reputation down here."

He suspected he had already dug a hole for himself. If he were pitiful enough, there were the scornful ones who would let him go after a good slap or two. He thought this man seemed like one of them, and Mihai would've gotten off easily if he groveled for him, but Mihai had done enough groveling in his lifetime. This was someone he didn't have to lower his head to, and he'd be damned if he did so in this lowly, rotting place.

"It's none of your business what I'm doing here," he spat. "Let me go."

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

Word Count: 1292

Notes: N/A

[Hamish A. Stuart]

Word Count: 1500

Tags: Mihai

After years of living in the underground the labyrinth of cages and corridors had become nothing but child’s play. During his first few year whenever given the chance he would cause the guards to lose hold of him and begin to wonder the maze making sure to memorize each step, turn, and dead end. It had only taken a few times of eluding the guards to map out the underground, each time he avoided severe punishment by returning to his cell as if nothing has happened. Escaping wasn’t the reason he wished to understand each twist and turn. No, the reason he wished to know was so he could provide help to those called the Freedom Fighters. He didn’t wish for them to rescue him but other mutants, Feliciano and Mathias, deserved a life better than the underground provided. Some sort of moral code told him if he escaped without them he would be a traitor so instead he stayed where he was told and accepted his own personal hell.

The underground did manage to teach mutants things as they stayed becoming toys to the guards. Hamish realized he was not a favorite due to his poor listening skills and refusal to feel any regret for action leading to punishment. When Mihai had graduated from The Weeds of Tomorrow the name reached his ears soon after. He knew the name and knew what the mutant was to the government when the guards began to use that to show him how worthless he was. Frequently they would tell him how spoiled the mutant had to have been while he sat there rotting.
During one of the many sessions of taunting the redhead, trapped in a room of light he had no way to strike out at the words spoken to him. The guards saying they felt pity for the mutant explained how even if he behaved he would never have been able to be more than he was. Anything he once deemed as pleasing about himself was cut down by these guards. He was nothing special after all.

Due to the constant reminder that he would never be more than a waste of space he wondered what made Mihai’s better than him but never could find an answer. Hatred for the unknown mutant began to grow over time. The government mutant was soon viewed as a traitor in his eyes, they had avoided the underground and now served at a figure that would be rubbed in their faces until they managed to find a home or met death’s sweet kiss.

Five years of the name and yet he felt this mutant did nothing for those who suffered. Some of the mutants here didn’t belong, they deserved a family and someone to love them for who they were and what they were. Not all of them were a demon trapped in a flesh suit like him. Whatever he had done to deserve this he would have been glad to suffer a lone as the only monstrosity of this world. No one else should have to suffer this time but those that do had to stick together didn’t they? Humans were the ones who turned against them so in the end all they could trust was each other and yet he believed Mihai to have abandoned those he now could have helped.
Difficult to say because he had not lived the life of the Romania mutant but Hamish found himself believing that put in that spot he would have opted to live in the underground or never let their methods break him. Deciding that he could have done things better was rather egotistical but yet Hamish believed the mutant had sold out instead of fought and now was granted a cushy life while the other mutants suffered in the underground or as slaves to the human race.

As twisted as it sounded he almost could saw it was beautiful seeing the black rose vines wrap around his victim and hold them against the wall making it almost impossible to escape. Any movement would cause thorns to tear the pale skin and dye the shadows red. Color would suit the rose vines but Hamish resisted the urge to command the vines to constrict the small mutant and draw blood from him. From the vines black roses began to bloom making the eerie slight have a touch of beauty to it. A single vine slithered up and wrapped around the neck of the government pet.

Removing his hands Hamish stepped back and admired the trap that now held onto his prey making sure they would not escape him. A glare didn’t shake him or make him question if he had been mistake by using this method to hold the mutant captive. Mihai’s powers had never been explained to him but he didn’t fear being attacked. The room had shadows covering most the arena giving him plenty to work with and stretch to the limit before they were caught. Who knew how long he had to finish his job before those guards would find him and put an end to his attack?

Black eyes moved studying every inch of the form as if seeing pass the shadows but with the lack of contrast knowing where his eyes were focused seemed almost impossible. As he moved closer he was sure the black pits his eyes appeared had Mihai’s reflection clear in them allowing the other to see as he had been.

The question was unexpected but earned a throaty chuckle. Did he owe any answers to his victim? He thought not and didn’t think twice about the question or his own actions. There was no reason he owed anything to the Romania unless he decided it would make his game all the more fun. Some part of him knew he wasn’t being asked what he was doing, that was obvious to the two of them so it did have another meaning but that meaning didn’t seem to guide him to question his own actions as the other had tried to persuade him to do.

The two mutants were both the same and yet nothing about them appeared to be the same. One had been trained to hate himself and believe he was better off dead and the other was given a purpose to serve the government. Looking between the two the lives they lived were clear by the bags under Hamish eyes down to his hair that appeared to be untreated for years it was clear that he had been rotting away and would probably never be anything more while the Mihai appeared to be well take care of as if he bathed daily living among the upper class. One refused to serve anyone and the other appeared to fit into the system like a piece of the puzzle. They were mutant but they were opposite on any level you chose to look at.

Pride had been held onto mostly with Hamish and he only relinquished it at a few given times. The underground was not a loving place, it was lonely and mutants often couldn’t become attached knowing they would part before anything more could come to them. Losing someone he fell for wasn’t a onetime occurrence with redhead. He grew attached and soon they would be snatched from him when he convinced himself that he had something to treasure. Humans began to offer the redhead money if he gave himself to them for a single night and in turn he was able to bribe the guards and buy things to make his suffer a bit easier. Each time he found himself in the arms of a human his pride was torn from him but he refused to see it as anything more than a way to survive or help those he cared for. There wasn’t much farther he could have fallen anyway.

The smug voice caused his anger to once more be fueled and directed only at the other living being in the area. Thorns dug into the skin and he knee collided with the other’s gut. He would make them suffer! Thought of making them sorry didn’t leave his mine and it was as if his vision disappeared making him not sure if he was hitting the wall or his victim. Wishing not to hear the voice anymore he grabbed hold of the blonde’s throat and allowed the vines to dissolve back into the shadows of the room. Carelessly he tossed the mutant to the floor before sending a shadow aimed to pierce where shoulder connected to the body. He’d rip apart the joints slowly.

“Ithers micht respect ye bit ah dinnae. Yer orders mean nothing.”
Walking over his foot collided with the side of the government pet. Any pity he might feel would come later as he thought over these actions. By that time guilt might hit there would be no way to apologize but that was only if he felt such guilt.

template made by MISSO for use only by DEE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

Composure was the single most important thing that could be maintained. He'd grown good at feigning composure (under… most circumstances), and he could throw up the fake bravado in the face of the harshest words or the gravest threats. It usually worked, and sometimes it wasn't even faked anymore. He'd simply grown good at swallowing the abuse they liked to hurl at him, become desensitized to all the angry, shouted words, even as he bowed his head and pretended to be intimidated. But it was good that way. He could think, that way, he could calculate the ins and outs and what words to say next to flatter them into silence. It gave him a sense of power when he had none.

It was a very good thing to fake at the present. He could do nothing but choke back the nausea as the other mutant's shadows crept up his form. He hated being restrained—feared it—and the feeling of the tendrils holding him in place made him sick. The single vine that snaked upwards and around his neck was enough to send the panic spiraling into consciousness again. It was all much too similar, reminded him too much of the sensation of being under bright lights and the smell of cleaning chemicals and his wrists and ankles restrained to the table and blades—

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find something to latch onto, anything that would erase the overwhelming sense of realness that wasn't supposed to be—

The smell. The unpleasant smell of must and mildew and stones that hadn't seen the sun in too long. He breathed in deep and tried to ground himself, and it brought him, slowly, back to the present. It was disgusting, sure, nauseating even, but it was distinctive from the smell of antiseptic and chemicals that threatened to overflow from his memory. He opened his eyes as soon as he thought himself able, slipping composure once again over his features. Though his throat felt tight and his heart was beating at a rabbit's pace, his eyes fell resolutely back to meet the other male's gaze. He wouldn't cower—he wouldn't run. This wasn't someone he had to bow his head to, so he would hold his ground as he had always done.

Being confronted by a mutant was not a new thing. He'd thought that his days of being in such a position had ended, but it seemed that wasn't the case anymore. Back at Weeds, he'd been targeted by other children before; he never had any powers worth bragging about (at least not for awhile, and even afterwards he was forbidden to speak of them), and they were useless in fights anyway. They knew he had no way to defend himself, no way to attack them—he was, essentially, just as powerless as a human. All he ever could do was fight back as best as he could with nails and fists and teeth, but he never emerged the victor. He expected no other result here, but if he didn't admit defeat, then at least he wouldn't have lost.

Words. Those he always had at his disposal. His mind and his words were his only weapons, and it was to them he turned to now, when he was so utterly helpless with anything else. The sentences flowed easily from his lips, as well-practiced in insults as flattery, and he could see the anger they inspired. Even if those words made his situation worse, at least they sparked something in the other mutant. At least then, from the rage simmering on the stranger, he knew he was returning the blows somehow, dealing a little bit of damage. A fight, in the loosest of definitions, and unfair as it might be.

Pinpoints of pain arose on his body as the vines tightened suddenly. An ire-roused reaction, perhaps to his words that were a little too sharp, a little too gloating. But Mihai bit down firmly on his lip, allowing no sound of discomfort to escape him; yet, he couldn't stop a strangled groan as the other man's knee collided against his gut. Giving him no time to recover, the other mutant wrenched the thorns from his body and threw him against the ground. It hurt, but nothing like he was used to. Nothing nearly as intense. A hoarse sound—something like laughter—escaped him. "What are you trying to do?" he asked. More falsely-ringing confidence, more words to distract and confuse. "Hurt me? You're going to have to do much better—"

His retort was cut off by a cry. The other had sent a shadow straight through his shoulder, sending a flash of pain through his body. He panted raggedly, trying to get a grip on the searing sensation, gather enough control so that his being wouldn't shatter and spiral into pieces beyond his control. Pressing a hand to the wound, he glared at the man from beneath his sweat-soaked bangs. His defiance wasn't so easily quenched through pain. Not anymore. "You're going to have to do much better than that," he finished through gritted teeth. He was silenced again by another kick to the stomach, the movement sending another jolt of agony to the wound on his shoulder. His blood was already beginning to seep through the cloth of his clothing, and somewhere in the back of his mind, the trivial thought was had that the stain would be impossible to remove.

The words that followed from the other mutant seemed like a joke. For a brief moment, Mihai paused, frozen in wonder. Did this man believe, did he really believe, what had just come from his mouth? "Respect?" Mihai repeated, disbelieving. "Is that what you think it is?" A confusing emotion swept through him, something between bewilderment and amusement and hysteria. He started to laugh in spite of the pain in his shoulder, the aching of his ribs. The sound was a hysterical one, ripped from him like shards of glass, and it cut in the same way as it rose from his throat. "You think it's fuckin' respect?"

What an illusion this stranger must have of him, if he thought that Mihai was respected. The last time he'd been shown any damn respect was at the airport security check, with his parents, fourteen years ago, when he'd handed his passport to the guard and the guard had smiled and told him 'thank you.' That was the last time any human had thought him deserving of any respect, and now, it seemed like not even mutants thought him worthy. Well, maybe there were those who thought otherwise. Maybe there were, but what the other was calling respect was no more than a show of bowed heads. What for? Out of fear? To garner his favor in hopes of improving their own condition? He didn't blame them for that, but to call it respect would be a lie. It was the same act he offered humans, fake humility and fake reverence, with eyes always on the prize.

How oblivious this man was, how willfully ignorant, if he thought that Mihai was treated with any modicum of respect at all! Because the truth was that he was no more than a tool, just like the rest of them. A tool with regular meals and a warm room to go back to, but still a tool nonetheless. Humans thought of him no better than the other mutants, except in terms of how he could serve their interests better. Mutants saw him as the representation of what a government contract could offer, investing in him false authority and admiration, neither of which he had ever wanted. If that was the respect this man dreamt of, then he was better off dreaming.

The laughter finally died out, petering out along the walls of the hallway, and when it finally faded altogether Mihai felt like crying. What he would give to even believe that there was respect for him out there, to believe that he was more than a sum of his usefulness. His eyes flitted back to meet the other's, but the amusement had faded, leaving him feeling drained. But the image of that man standing before him, so tall and so sure of himself, brought bitterness to his tongue. His eyes narrowed into a glare. "You don't know anything."

Word Count: 1390

Notes: Hamish A. Stuart. Sorry that took awhile. ;w;

by worldie on iof

[Hamish A. Stuart]

Word Count: 1072

Tags: Mihai

Words stopped holding the bite they once did. Insults were nothing more than words that held no water to the Scot. What did it matter anymore if someone thought him idiotic or barbaric? There were only two people he cared what they fought of him anymore and this small mutant wasn’t one that he had ever wished to have the opinion of. Humans’ words meant more than what might have been spit from the traitor before him. Every word cruel or not spoken from the traitor’s lips only caused Hamish to growl and wish to rip the teeth from the lying mouth one by one. What a beautiful sight it would make to have the government se their pet returned as nothing more than a bloodied mess of what used to be the same mutant they paraded around. If only he’d be able to catch a glimpse of such a wonderful sight as it unfolded but it was probably safer if he didn’t return the mutant to his masters. Guards could carry the injured traitor home and dump him at his master’s feet. Maybe they would see the blonde was nothing better than a footrest.

Words of spite only helped fuel the range making thorns dig farther into the skin before he through the male to the floor. His thin form didn’t lack strength as most guards assumed it did. Indeed he was more fragile than during his youth but his powers weren’t needed in order to survive. Hamish spent most of his time developing his powers so he could survive despite his worsening condition but if he was able to do acts for himself the ginger would.

Some might have been upset by the laughter but Hamish didn’t believe it, the laughter was a pathetic sound to his ears showing the male was only trying to challenge him and make him give in. The cry of pain was more pleasant than hearing the challenges and hateful words spit at him. What did Mihai believe these challenges would do?

Shadows stabbed into the shoulder again this time making sure to shift around ripping the entrance of the wound, shredding any of the flesh it came in contact with. The pained cries were music to his ears and he would work to draw each one out before delivering the next shot of pain. The challenge was starting to just annoy him more than anything. Was Mihai wanting to be killed and have the torture ended? If this was this was his goal it wouldn’t work. Hamish would soil his hands with the filthy blood but he wouldn’t take the mutants life and cut his suffering short. No one offered him this easy way out so there wasn’t any way he’d offer this option to someone he believe to be an enemy. Deciding the one stab wound wasn’t enough after delivering a strike to the abdomen of his victim another shadow sank into Mihai, this time piercing the through his knee. Slowly he’d stab each of the joints leaving the mutant helpless against any attacks.

Hearing a spiteful repeat of the word respect only played more on Hamish’s nerves. The mutant didn’t even seem to understand how many of the bait and other mutants respected him for being able to serve the government, for being of use. Many mutants would be willing to jump through hoops to please the government pet if that meant they would even get a glance from the man. Most were jealous that he was able to be what the government needed while they were nothing more than trash.

“You’re th' yin wha doesn’t ken anythin'!” Shadows formed barbed wire and wrapped around the pale throat of Mihai. The sharp edges dug into the skin and threatened to cut off all supply of oxygen. Shadows began to go wild whipping across the skin and piercing flesh at random. His anger now made him blind and the shadows no longer worked slowly trying to destroy the flesh but tried to carve up the skin leaving nothing more than a mess of blood. “Na ye don’t ken anythin'. Mutants trapped 'ere ur beaten fur nae knowing howfur tae rammy 'n' starved fur losing against destructive beings.” Speaking on the destructive creates Hamish couldn’t help but think of himself as disgusting for ripping into the innocence in the same manner how now attacked the mutant he labeled a traitor. The underground had robbed him of most traces of humanity leaving him nothing but a cruel monster that fought to survive and causing others to suffer around him. Shadows reached out slashing across the pale cheek and began to run over the mutant’s pink lips. The thought of ripping out the teeth came to mind once more. Perhaps he should just cut out the man’s tongue and watch him choke on his own blood, as he died in the cold underground.

A growl ripped through the air and anger only seemed to grow and transfer to the shadows that began to tear at the lips trying to get to his teeth and rip them from his cheating mouth. “Ye ken whit if feels tae hae sunlight titch ye skin!” This was something Hamish didn’t know anymore. He hadn’t felt the feeling since his fourth birthday. During his youth the caretakers noticed he was too dangerous to allow outside. If he were outside they had no control over the amount of shadows at his disposal so instead he was locked inside and only able to watch as children played in the sun. Everyone knew that the school hid things from them but if Hamish couldn’t discover the information in a book he often was deprived of the knowledge. The school didn’t want him knowing the simplest of things in hopes of being able to keep his destructive behavior controlled.

Lost in his range Hamish missed the sound of footsteps heading their direction as his shadows continue to rip away fabric to attack the skin hidden beneath. By the time the ginger knew the guards had arrived it was too late to escape the punishment he knew would be waiting for him. Lights engulfed the area making his shadows dissolve and disappear as if they never existed. Left unable to defend himself the large mutant stood in place snarling and panting not even willing to look down at his prey and see what he had done.

template made by MISSO for use only by DEE

[Mihai C. Eliade]

Mirror on the wall

Frame the picture

Reflect this kiss to wish us all

Goodnight

Pain. He was used to this. The feeling of skin breaking, flesh tearing under too-sharp edges and the fire that tore, screaming, through him with each deep cut. This was nothing he hadn't faced before. He knew how to deal with this, or at least that was what he told himself. He'd gone through this enough times, endured this enough times… But there was nothing about pain that you could get used to. It wasn't like the musty smell of a room, or the darkness in the streets. There was no adjusting to pain, no getting used to it—each time was new. All you could do was to try not to feel it.

There was an easy enough way to put a stop to this, perhaps. If only Mihai stopped talking and begged instead, asked for forgiveness for whatever sins the other imagined (or knew) him to have committed, but the possibility was as quickly laughed off as it arose. Grovel for this wretched mutt in a place like this? Someone so self-righteous, so deluded as to what one had to do to survive in a godforsaken place like this? Truly, to admit guilt for acting in his own self-interest, it was never an option to begin with. He'd done what he'd had to, and he didn't care if there were people who blamed him for it. It wasn't as though his success came without a price, and he paid it, every year, at least six times. He didn't regret the choices he made—he couldn't regret them, not if he wanted to be able to live with himself. In the end, he never was really able to crush his pride for the sake of his own well-being, was he?

His words were having an effect on the redhead. The tightening of the thorns around him, their small pinpricks drawing blood, was the only warning he had before he was abruptly thrown to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, the roughness of the stone scraping his hands as he tried to lessen the brutality of the fall. Recovering his breath, he turned to glare at the stranger. He couldn't fight against a power like his attacker's, but neither would he turn his eyes away, as though he were intimidated, as though the violence inflicted on him were unbearable. He tried to push himself up, eyes still locked on the other's (eyes that were all black), feeling the slow trickle of blood from where the dark thorns had punctured. They would soon heal, the more superficial ones within the minute, and he wondered if the other would notice the closing wounds.

He tried to avoid the other's attack when it came again, but he couldn't shift far with his injured shoulder. His attacker seemed to be perfectly aware of that, and when the shadows reared forward once more, they went again into the wound. A cry escaped him before he could stop himself, but he grit his teeth against the pain as the blade slowly tore through flesh. Not a direct cut—the other was shifting the blade to make it as messy (as painful) as possible. His hand, slippery with his own blood, curled around the shaft of the shadow, but the weapon was not limited by human strength and he realized it would be futile to try to force it out of his shoulder. All he could do was choke back his pained sounds as blood dripped down his skin in steady streams, staining his clothing and the stones of the Underground red. Mihai muffled a sob into those very stones as another attack came, spearing through his knee. He would not give his attacker the satisfaction of knowing his pain, and he wanted to deny—even to himself—that he was just as vulnerable to this suffering as he had always been. The only thing he'd gotten better at was concealing it.

His attacker launched his accusations again as barbed shadows wrapped themselves around Mihai's throat and tightened. His breathing shortened as they constricted, their edges digging into his skin and drawing out new drops of blood. On instinct, his fingers flew to the shadows—his injured shoulder screaming in protest—trying to lessen their hold around his neck though realizing it would be futile. Instead of loosening, the darkness merely cut open his hands as he tried to tug it away. As the other grew more agitated, so did his attacks. The shadows began to stir into a frenzy, lashing out at random, striking irrationally, wherever they pleased. Mihai tried to pull away from the fray but couldn't, each attempt at moving backwards seeming to tighten the hold around his throat. Still, he obstinately made no sound of discomfort—these attacks were easier to withstand than calculated incisions, the rage behind them making them blind.

He could barely concentrate on what the other mutant was saying, between his restricted breath, the burning in his worst wounds, the storm of shadows that whipped about him. Yet, enough of the redhead's words reached him to make sense of what he meant. "Th-those are—ah—their misfortunes to… deal with," he rasped out between labored breaths and suppressed pain, still not having lost his front of bravado. "I'm not going to… pretend that—ngh—I'm stupid or selfless… enough… to give a shit… about anyone else… but myself." Talking was an exertion at this point, each word wearing away at his consciousness as his lungs starved for sufficient oxygen. But Mihai would not stop—refused to—because words were his last line of defense left and he wouldn't give up on them. That would be nothing more than defeat.

One of the blades came at his face, slicing along his cheek and blood slowly trailed down, dripping like crimson tears and staining his collar. Another shadow traced over his lips, and he tensed. It was strange—the action would have almost been tender if it he didn't feel a barely-restrained desire for vengeance behind it. He clenched his jaw as he waited for the other's next move, and he didn't have to wait long. A sharp pain at his lips, and then his mouth was flooded with the metallic tang of his own blood. He gasped at the sudden taste of it, trickling down his throat and choking him, but the attacks kept coming, sometimes slipping into his open mouth and cutting his tongue.

He couldn't breathe. The shadow around his neck still held taut, not releasing even as he tried to pull away from the blades that whipped at him. Blood was running down his throat, blocking his windpipe, as he struggled for air. His vision was going a bit black at the corners. Blood loss or oxygen deprivation? Likely both. And yet, regardless of how he struggled, he could not get the shadows to release him, could not make his escape. Yet again, as always, his only option was to wait for it all to be over, until his tormentors were satisfied and released him of their own will. There was no release of his own—not even through death.

Then, suddenly, just as the blackness was about to cloud over his vision altogether, it stopped. There was a sudden stillness—the shadows no longer ripping at his flesh, no longer wrapped around his neck. In that stillness, suddenly his pain seemed amplified, and Mihai keeled over, landing on the hand of his uninjured shoulder, gagging and spitting out the blood in his mouth. He was shaking, feeling the sting of each cut, each painful wound as they started their healing process. On his knees before the other, coated in the slickness of his own blood, he could tell that there another bout of hysteria just beyond the corner, just like all those other times after he finished with a job. He obstinately forced it back. This wasn't over yet. He wouldn't break down before the other mutant was out of sight.

Still trembling with the exertion, the pain of it all, his fingers found the wall and he pushed himself up on it, leaning heavily against the dirty brick. He held one hand to his injured shoulder, blood still trickling out between his fingers. His gaze roved over the hallway, to the guards that were now rushing into the scene. It seemed that they had turned the lights on—was that what had stopped the other's attacks? Whether it was or not, that was the assumption Mihai acted under, as there was no better one to be made. His eyes turned back towards his attacker, seeing him panting, as though the exertion had been mostly his, not even paying a glance in Mihai's direction. Didn't want to see what a piece of work he'd made, did he? Mihai knew he should leave, depart to the safety of the guards (imagine that! Placing his preference for humans over a mutant!), but he couldn't resist a chance to get in a last taunt. "Hey," he said, words slurred from the blood and the wounds in his mouth. "Why don' you go over? Your keepers are callin'."

Word Count: 1532

Notes: Hamish A. Stuart. aack that took forever i'm sorry orz

by worldie on iof