Snippet #1522255

The Father turned his back on the suffocating light, fell back into his staccato rhythm that dispersed around him like a gloomy veil. His cadence resounded with the baritone clicks of his heels slapping against linoleum floors; click clack click clack. Crocodile skin—but oh, how he'd like to replace them with that Shark's skin, decorated with the Snake's scales—they shimmered and shined just as brightly as Nike's sickening aura. Her voice still created a racket in his head, colliding with his subconscious with such force he had to shake his head. It did nothing to free his thoughts. Nike was the festering thorn in his side, reminding him that he was just a powerless lion at the mercy of the snickering mouse. Sure, it might have been him who'd started the war. It might've been him that raked his metaphorical fingers across the Earth, sweeping pain and agony across the seas, skies and lands; all for humanity, wasn't it? The God's had asked for equality and balance, an equilibrium that he couldn't quite grasp. His former best friend, confidant, and companion had left him empty-handed. She offered no comfort. She rose above him in all of her righteousness and claimed to be a charitable woman; devoted to bringing the greater good to humanity, and in doing so, leaving him gasping like a blundering child. Back when he might've welcomed her soothing touches, he felt like he was clinging to her skirt tails, chasing after a future that he could no possible attain. God had chosen him for another role. God had dealt him the rawest cards, and they hadn't even asked him.

No, they hadn't even asked.

His slender fingers tightened on Vincent's strong shoulder, giving one final squeeze before releasing him. The Father's eyes did not meet his ardent servants'. “She deceives you with her whispers,” He rasped quietly, staring distantly ahead of them. What truths had Nike planted in the boy? He couldn't be sure. Sometimes, as much as they were connected, their whispers were only hushed undertones. Hardly discernible, and wholly important. He felt no need to question Vincent. For now, there were no threats of betrayal. Those colourful annotations would soon disappear; the longer one lingered in his company, the sooner they were prone to forgetting anything that once mattered to them. It was an unfortunate gift that had been handed to him, a certain ability he wasn't afraid of abusing. The Father frowned, his mouth numb with unease, swallowing his own past with every breath. Vincent was a lost sheep, wadding through empty fields—he would make sure that's where he remained. If it meant severing his ties with Katrina, the Father would target the young girl. Though he might've argued otherwise, the indifferent man was in-disposable. “Katrina. We will discuss that later, if you wish.”

Whether or not they discussed it was entirely up to Vincent, and even that was unlikely. Vincent never seemed interested in conversation. He followed orders as obediently as a well-trained hound, asking for nothing in return and only giving what was asked. The Father couldn't have asked for a better vessel, but felt nothing for the blonde. Whereas mortal men might've felt a benevolent pride, the Father only saw an empty cup, filled with his own desires and goals. He could fill it with whatever he wished, and empty it whenever it served it's purpose. Nothing more, nothing less. Vincent seemed to understand this concept, and took it in apathetic strides. To build such a supercilious figure would normally take years of harsh conditions and reprogramming, but with his adulterate abilities he was able to shorten that time considerably and mould him into the perfect neophyte. No questions were asked, and no tears were shed—at least, not anymore. Any amount of curiosity died along with Vincent's ten-year-old self; any danger the Father might've felt, died along with it.

Sofia paraded ahead of them, matching his own electric cadence with her own. The Father watched her with modest interest, watched as her hips swayed with each step, and her bleeding fingers linger steadily near the hilt of her gleaming blade. It was always kept sharp, he'd often awoken to see her sharpening the blade against whet stones. He would have argued if anyone had told him it was as sharp as her tongue—she was always sharper, and more clever, than the blade she wielded. He wanted to devour her rekindled energy, and infect her mind with catastrophic songs. Nothing like the lustrous righteousness poisoning his mind. He resisted the urge to clasp his head, to push that feeble woman out. It was all for naught. Even if Nike was huddled at her beside, blind and fatigued and dying, he would still be hounded with her wilful thoughts. Her steely determination was something he couldn't simply ignore, because he'd tried it before. To sever their ties, he'd have to end his own life. The Father was far too selfish and greedy to turn to such drastic measures, but he'd threaten the Descendants with such threats if it came down to that. With two long strides, the Father was sweeping beside Sofia. His fingers wrapped around her bleeding hand, covering the gash across her palm.

“You—I promise—will receive the honour of bringing Mother Nature to her knees.” The Father whispered, bringing her palm to his face. He guided her warm fingers against the underside of his jaw, smearing crimson blood beneath his chin and across his jawline. It was a ghastly gesture, but he seemed to make it so alluring, so captivating. Anyone witnessing the action might have dismissed it was affectionate, even if their subconscious was screaming: something's wrong, something's wrong. The Father made even the most horrific gestures, actions, or decisions plausible—he made them acceptable.

The Cruzzola group entered the elevator, which seemed far more cramped than it was before. The Father's silence hung heavy in the air, providing little room to breathe and little room for small talk. Thankfully, no one seemed particularly interested in speaking. Even Delaney seemed unusually quiet. A small smile played across his feminine features, and his high dimples stapled his cheeks. He could smell Sofia's metallic blood; sweet and sultry, a perfect concoction. With a lazy wheeze, the elevator doors hissed open and he lead them out. However, he paused near the doorway and allowed the elevator to close behind them. “A gift, my old friend,” The Father finally spoke, a hint of bitterness underlying his normally tranquil words.

His deft fingers slipped across Sofia's hip, catching hold of the hilt of her dagger, and throwing it skillfully in the air. The Father caught it between two fingers, with a solemn frown playing on his features. “Wesley awaits near the curb,” He added, never taking his eyes off of the elevator door. Without another word, the Father sliced a fine stroke across both of his palms. He dipped two fingers across his left palm, marking his forehead with balletic motions. An artist at work; creating something far more sinister than a fanciful painting. From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity. He placed his hands flat against the chilled metal, forming two smeared hand prints and began writing Hebrew letters above and below them, stopping every now and again to dip his fingers. His mismatched eyes closed tightly, and he seemed to be whispering something under his breath. When he was finished, the Father kissed his fingers and swiped them across the middle of his depiction.

“I have nothing I can give... I remember you saying that once.” The Father lilted, hacking and coughing against his bleeding fist. His throat was beginning to irritate him. He turned away from the elevator and stalked past them, heading directly towards the parked black Sedan lingering beneath the lamp lights. He'd placed a moderate curse on the building; something more like an allocated blasphemy; without the plague, sky raining frogs and locusts devouring the land. With the Descendants doubting and curious, it was the perfect thing to afflict them—deep sorrows, and past lives. It would resurface their greatest fears, nightmares, and failures and integrate them with the present situation. It would make their subconscious doubt Nike, veil them with dark clouds and fill their dreams with agony. If only for awhile.

It would make them hurt.