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The air smells of blood and piss before they even reach her. The stench is rancid; it spreads rapidly, corroding and infecting every part of the building's halls. Benjamin covers his face with a sleeve, the color draining from his cheeks before they even find the first body.
He's not ready for what they'll find. Of course he isn't. For all his loyalty, he's never had the stomach to deal with such atrocities personally. Still, Ayin notes, he manages to keep himself collected as they walk through the facility. Even as the bodies begin to pile up, human and abnormality alike hacked and torn to shreds, he doesn't falter. His boots track blood and viscera through the hall, new sets of footprints left in red with each step.
And then he opens the door at the end of the hallway, and the smell finally reaches them - really reaches them, no sealed doors or secured locks to hide it away. Benjamin gags, coughing and heaving against his makeshift mask as he averts his eyes. Ayin doesn't bother to look back at him. There's nothing to see.
"Get Kali into storage," he says. "I'll take care of the visitor."
Benjamin doesn't speak at first, choosing instead to stare in silence. At him? At the carnage before them? At Kali's limp corpse? Ayin can't bring himself to care right now. Finally, he nods, his frown visible even through the fabric. "Of course. If that's what's necessary." He doesn't wait for reassurance or details - a smart choice. He just forces himself into the room, gathering what remains of Kali into his arms before staggering back out.
Ayin is left alone with the Arbiter's corpse. No, that isn't right; she still breathes, shallow noises barely audible even in this silent room. Pinned to a wall by Kali's E.G.O., unconscious, but still breathing. Unblinking and unmoving - the sword must have severed her spinal cord. And even with all that, she refuses to die. Perhaps she can't. A monster of the City's creation, cruel and unyielding, sent to destroy everything that might-
"So you've arrived," she says.
He takes a step back on instinct alone; he looks her over, careful to examine each movement and twitch beneath that cloak. A dead or unconscious Arbiter is one thing, after all. A living, breathing agent of the Head... Even like this, he can afford no mistakes. A single sign of weakness, a single step too close, a single arm that still works...
But she doesn't try to get any closer. Her cloak stays still, moved only by her labored breath; her head lolls to one side, barely supported by the straining muscle of her neck. Even when she looks directly at him, it is only her eyes that turn his way. He is safe; unnerved, fearful, and barely staving off the despair of the situation, but safe.
"The warrior of the Backstreets... Kali. Already laid to rest, I take it." She sighs. The sound catches, rattles in her throat; a tinge of blood runs from the corner of her mouth. "A pity. I had hoped to see her once more while I waited."
Seconds pass, and Ayin says nothing. This woman, this... thing deserves no elaboration. But the same cannot be said for Kali, and he finally grunts noncommittally. "She deserved better," he settles for. "All of them did."
"Perhaps." Her agreement is no kindness - he knows that much. He grits his teeth. "And yet her end arrived all the same, just as all the others. A star's fleeting light, extinguished under the guidance of a mad prophet."
Don't call her that. He stays silent, of course. He knows better than to take her bait. Instead, he kneels before her, reaching forward and laying his hand on her throat. His thumb bends, stroking at her windpipe, then digs forward into her larynx; her expression darkens, a sickening gurgle escaping her lips, but she does not struggle or protest. He presses in, keenly aware of each second that passes; he cannot afford to kill her, after all. This is a statement of intent. Nothing more.
When he finally pulls his thumb back, she draws in air with a hollow wheeze, looking up at him with that unreadable gaze.
"More will come, soon." His lips are dry; even now, with his hand on her throat, with the knowledge that he could easily end her life if needed, he still can hardly bear to look at her. "Tell me how to escape them."
She draws in air once more, a sudden pressure against his thumb - and then she breathes out through her nose, lips pursed tight. It takes him a moment to realize she's laughing at him. "Look around you, child. All your works lie in the gutter, strewn aside like so many unwanted playthings. Your nursemaids have abandoned you. Even the woman who birthed your very wish has laid down to slumber." His thumb tightens - a warning. She doesn't flinch. "You are alone. What can you possibly do to stand against the City?"
He digs his thumb in again, harder this time. She makes no sound, though her brow furls with effort. She looks up at him, letting her head fall back against the wall, and smirks. Even as he chokes her. Even as her eyes start to lose focus. That soulless, smug smile... He hates it. That empty pleasure, that disease of the soul. He wants to tear it out of her, to burn away her smile in the light until only nothingness remains-
His hands are trembling. Pathetic. He lets her go, taking some distant satisfaction in the way she coughs and shakes - but it's still not enough. She hasn't suffered enough for what she's done. She hasn't suffered enough for who she is. He rises to his feet, absently noting the bloodstains marking his slacks. He readjusts his coat. And then he reaches forward, wraps his fingers around Kali's E.G.O.-
and he pulls.
This time, she doesn't remain silent. She draws a sharp breath through her teeth as the sword is pulled free, slumping back against the wall and sliding down it. A cold approval stirs within Ayin as he watches; Arbiter though she might be, she is only human, after all. Whatever Singularities she has hidden away can't keep her from pain. As long as she's still human - even only barely, even on a technicality - she can still suffer.
That cold neutrality is back before he's even tossed the sword aside, though she can't hide the way she pants and swallows down blood. A good start, but still not enough. He grabs her feet, yanks her back until she's supine in a pool of her own blood; her limp head cracks against the concrete, a sickening, satisfying sound. Still not enough. It's only when he tears her shirt open that she deigns to look down at him again, her expression as inscrutable as ever.
"Do you intend to defile me?"
Even now, there is no fear in her gaze, no pain in her eyes. He grits his teeth and continues without a word. Like this, she is defenseless, unable to stop him in any way that matters. He pulls her shirt open, tearing through the fabric where necessary; he slips his fingers under her blood-soaked bindings, pulling up and tearing until her stained chest lays bare. She finally makes a sound - a small, short sigh of distaste - but says nothing past it. It's motivation enough for Ayin regardless. He grabs her breasts with inexpert cruelty; he squeezes, hard, hard enough for his fingers to leave small marks where they dig into her flesh. He grabs at a nipple and pulls, pulls, pulls, until the areole turns white and the skin around it shrivels.
"Like a hungry child," she murmurs. He draws his hand back as if shot; bile rises in his throat, searing all it touches. It's not enough. It's not enough. It's not enough.
He only notices his slacks are undone when he's already finished unbuckling them. His hands flip her skirt up and out of the way; his fingers tear at her underclothes, pulling and ripping until there is nothing left to protect her. His hand grips his cock, firmly, pressing against her. One last unspoken threat; one last desperate attempt at intimidation that goes unnoticed. His hips buck forward, pushing him fully inside her in a single motion, and he gasps. She is lukewarm to the touch, her body already losing the heat of life with each passing moment.
"Congratulations," she says, without a hint of guile. He spits at her, draws his hips back and drives himself back into her- once, twice, three times. An unsteady rhythm unfolds. Fast, brutal, harsh, and then slow, slow enough for him to catch his breath, and then rough, cruel, quick. He uses her body like a toy, and she makes no move to stop him. He ruts against her, and he bites at her bleeding breasts, and he sucks at her bruised nipples. And when he makes the mistake of looking back up to her, of making eye contact-
-she's smiling.
"Look at me, child." The command is effortless, hypnotic. He looks up, stares into those black eyes. He feels that he might drown if he looks too deep. He feels as though he might crumble into dust if he disobeys. "Look at you. Her finest creation, the first disciple of a mad preacher... And yet even that spark of zeal has begun to fade away. What is it you feel, in this moment? What do you desire? What is it you seek to tear from my body?"
He doesn't know. Of course he doesn't know. But he can't stop now - it's too late, it's far too late to stop. He finally breaks away, staring down to her chest. Don't listen. Don't listen. Don't listen.
"Her light fades away within you. Soon, nothing but an echo will remain-"
Don't listen. Don't listen.
"-and soon, even that echo will be laid to rest."
There is a feeling, an all-too-familiar feeling, building within him. His breath grows short, rapid; his eyes lose focus. One hand desperately gropes at her chest, not even bothering to pretend at hurting her any longer. Why should he? She hasn't felt a single thing he's done to her.
"What is it you cling to? Just what did that girl from the Backstreets set aflame in you?"
don't say it don't say her name don't remind me don't remind me
"This Carmen..."
don’t you dare speak of Carmen-
don't remind me of Carmen-
Carmen-
Carmen-
"Would she be proud, seeing what you've become?"
He comes with a strangled cry. His hips jerk, give shallow little thrusts. His hands scrabble against blood and viscera and concrete, trying desperately to find safe purchase. And his eyes try to look away, try to cover themselves for fear of what they will see when they look down at her-
-those sickened, glassy, empty red eyes.
"Let it out," she whispers, and his hips jerk wildly with the aftershock it sends through him. Her voice alone sends reverberations throughout his body; he feels as if his heart might pound out of his chest. "You have earned this much for your service. One last bit of entertainment for a dying woman."
He pulls himself from her. Cum drips, mixes with the blood and discharge. He can't stomach this any longer. He can't look at her. He can't be near her. He stumbles away, falls to his knees, and pukes. And then again. He coughs and it tears and it singes. And then again. The bile runs red now. And then again. And then again. And then-
It’s over. Nothing remains. He stands up. He turns. He faces her.
She looks up at him, into his eyes. She sees something - something only she knows to look for, something she is all too familiar with. And she smiles, evidently satisfied, as she closes her eyes and drifts away.
He watches her breathing slow. What has he accomplished? Nothing. He has done nothing. He will not break her.
(He never could have.)
He kneels down, wraps her cloak around her mangled body. And he picks her up into his arms. Gentle. Careful to avoid improper touches.
He cannot wait any longer. Any longer and her brain will atrophy. Any longer and the encephalon will be choked away. Any longer and she will not be saved.
He owes her this much.