I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
It half-heartedly answers behind an intense, green stare. "Hurrican," it repeats in a throaty growl before glancing away to the miles of tundra that expands from their point. Memories rush back in a storm and play over and over again.
(Blood. Gore. Crowns. Anger.)
Texas was dead and Infection was pronounced king. Such a simple feat it was, but it reaped the benefits for as long as it could. It held two thrones, two towers of responsibility, and it thrived. Beqanna understood then what monster had been borne into this world. They began to see that it couldn't be swept under the rug any longer. They all wanted to destroy it, to send it into ruins after having ruined so many lives, but it survived.
It always survives.
When its head turns back to Hurricane it considers him more carefully as though his years of service make him so much more valuable. "Loyal," how cute, it almost adds but instead purses its lips shut. Once, Infection was loyal, too. The years spent in solitude has made its perspective of loyalty rust and wither. It has forgotten what it's like to sign its life into servitude. Then again, it doesn't feel that it needs to be refreshed. Years of having been a steadfast kingdom member, and king, have their memories and lessons that are quickly trickling back into its reborn mind. Every mistake, every murder, every feat. The sense of accomplishment stems through its body for a fleeting moment as it placidly replies to Hurricane. "I was king," it pauses to recollect its brief reign, "a very long time ago." The deathcrawler doesn't look its age. It looks young but deep in its demented gaze there are stories to be told and hauntings to be relived.
A jagged smile pulls apart its lips. "With ease, we could bring the Tundra from this slump." It wants his loyalty, his servitude, his graces. It needs him to thrive and to guide it from the shadows that have masked it for so long. It needs Hurricane.
infection