open; underneath it all

[bloodyuseless]

Who: Mary and his dinner YOU
When: Backdated to 6/23
Where: In the nightmare
What: Mary touches him some Minotaur bones.
Warnings: Dream murder and people eating. However, no threads in this log will end in death unless you also comment on this plotting post!

The labyrinth seems almost fun at first, a large-scale recreation of the cutesy hedge mazes from earlier. Mary dives in the same way he always does: head first. It's in this same fashion that he bulldozes his way to the center even with his shoddy sense of direction. The pay off, however, leaves a great deal to be desired. Wading through murky waters, navigating the dim lighting, tripping over a stranger's rib cage, all just so he can catch a glimpse of a stripped and soaking skeleton. He can barely make out the shape of the Minotaur's bones through the darkness, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go either. Mary moves in, feeling the shapes with his palms and shoving his face at the discolored portions.

He remembers waiting for someone else to show up, feeling bored enough to play around with the smaller bones a bit. He thinks he talked to them at one point. Eventually, it occurs to him that the uncomfortable feeling rising in his gut is hunger. But he hasn't had to drink blood since he got here. He's even been able to eat other foods! He shouldn't be hungry, not like this. It must just be this place, he concludes as he stands, ready to leave.

By the time he accidentally stumbles right back to that skeleton, his hands are as dark as his surroundings, and his throat burns in a way it hasn't since he'd been literally set aflame. Thought is increasingly difficult. It's so much easier to feel - the heavy water, the burning pain, the desperate hunger....

Oh, yeah. He knows how to fix that, doesn't he? How stupid. If he's hungry, then all he has to do is eat.

Comments

sorry for how late this is;

[bloodyuseless]

Mary? What's that? He knows he's heard that name before, but he doesn't get far enough to actually question where. Instead, he turns to face the man who's called out in this desolate maze.

Though the lighting in the labyrinth is dim at best, Mary's face is illuminated by his one glowing white eye. Dried, caking blood stains the side of his mouth, and his fangs are slick with red, glinting for just a moment before Mary's lips tighten into a thin line. This guy smells familiar. He also smells delicious. Mary's whole body tenses, sending a ripple through the water.

"I'm hungry."

It's a warning. He can't - won't - feed from anyone else. What's left of his mind utterly rejects it, even as his body terrorizes him for it. But it's also a statement of intent. He can reject it all he wants, but that doesn't change the fact he needs to eat. That's all he needs now.

There's no escape.

no worries <3

[digiorno]

I'm hungry.

The hair on the back of Giorno's neck stands up. This — this isn't Mary. Not the Mary who was so excited to try new things before — sushi or soba? Not the Mary he met the first night who made him smile despite himself.

This is the other side of Mary. And himself, he realizes. Here he is, all alone, staring down dripping fangs that could just as easily be his own. No Stand, no power but the one given to him by the moons that he's stubbornly refused to learn.

They're both the same sort of Monster. Except Mary is much, much better at being a vampire than Giorno is.

"I won't taste good," Giorno murmurs, dropping the handle of the knife from his sleeve into his palm, fingers going tight around it. "I'm the same thing you are."

He wishes he could just leave. But even in a dream, if someone's going to be hurt, it has to be him. No more civilians getting hurt in his place. Never again.

[bloodyuseless]

Mary never has fed from another vampire, that much is true. Giorno's probably right. Mary doesn't give a shit.

He smells so damn good that it's nauseating. Mary can't think about anything else. He doesn't even notice Giorno's knife. He's too busy contemplating flesh, muscle, organs, nerves, blood. It's all moving, pumping, dancing together in one conveniently Giorno-shaped package. All Mary has to do is get inside.

He takes a deep breath, in then out, savoring the scent one last time. Then he charges. Inky black limbs carry him through the murky waters, sending up splashes with every stomp, until he's taking a swing at his latest prey's neck. This isn't play time. He's aiming for vitals; he's aiming for the kill.

[digiorno]

He misses Gold Experience. With Gold Experience, he could be impervious: a rapid-fire growth of vines up and out, surrounding him, cocooning him, causing damage to any who dared come close — but Gold Experience is gone. There is a choked, fearful thought that strikes him now, at the worst possible time: Is Gold Experience dead?

But there's no time to think about it. Gold Experience isn't here, and he is alone, left to live or die on his own merit. Mary is serious and experienced and hungry, and death is death, no matter where it happens.

Mary charges, swings at his neck, and his arm is up; Mary catches him, but not at the throat, claws dragging gauges down the outside of his arm near his elbow. Still braced against Mary's forearm, he twists, punches down as hard as he can to slash down Mary's shoulder before ducking away, sliding in the slick mud. Faster than he's used to, as fast as this body can go for now. It's life or death, after all.

[bloodyuseless]

Fighting is supposed to be about survival, about winning rights and protecting what one has. That's why people put so much emphasis on guarding their vitals, predicting their opponents, and even resorting to cheap tricks. Mary, on the other hand, taught himself to fight while lacking any semblance of self-preservation. The habits ingrained in him are all motivated by a desire for death rather than triumph. Even though he no longer wants to end his life, those habits are all he has to fall back on.

When Giorno guards against his violent slash, Mary just moves to strike again with his opposite arm. He neither expects nor blocks the punishing blow to his shoulder. Something definitely cracks in his joint. He can hear the snapping sound echo through the labyrinthian corridors, followed by his own hoarse cry. He leaps back at the same time Giorno ducks away, low and alert, allowing his injured arm to splash uselessly in the mud.

But not for long.

It's surprise that catches him off guard, not pain. The throbbing of his dislocated or broken shoulder (he has no idea which, doesn't care either way) isn't enough to outweigh the intoxicating scent of Giorno's blood dripping down his arm. After a hasty shake of his head, Mary takes chase, and this time he stays low. He kicks off the labyrinth wall to gain momentum, aiming to trip Giorno and stop his escape.

cw eye gore

[digiorno]

Mary's fast. He's fast, too, but less used to the advantages of this body, less willing to use teeth and claws instead of weapons. And he cares when he's hurt, it matters to him. Pain hurts, the trickle of blood down his elbow sparking fear in his gut.

But there's no time. Mary doesn't care about his own injuries, that much is clear — so Giorno can't rely on him to act defensively. Aggression is the only way, then; aggression and evasion, or that's it, he'll die. He has to incapacitate Mary completely—

Or kill him.

This time, when Mary lunges, once he gets close enough Giorno holds his knife up — out, at arms' length — lets both his and Mary's momentum carry the knife at full strength into Mary's eye — twists it, drags it sideways, and out.

But he stumbles, the thrust and weight propelling him backwards, falling and unable to catch himself. All he can do is hold the knife out in front of him, the tiniest barrier between Mary and himself.

[bloodyuseless]

This time Mary doesn't just cry out, he screeches. It's an unearthly, high-pitched razor of a sound that struggles in time with Giorno's twisting forearm. Blindly, Mary flails for the knife, but it's all in vain. Giorno snaps the last few strands connecting Mary's eye to his nervous system, and that cacophonous screech climaxes, bubbling over and fizzing out into erratic, liquid breaths. Blood pools from the now dark and empty socket before Mary throws his only working hand over top to cover it. Only the eerie, inhuman white eye remains, and it is laser focused on the blood-soaked knife in Giorno's hand.

Pain is one thing. Damage is another. With one arm out of commission and now a freely bleeding eye socket to contend with, Mary has no way of winning. Still, a vampire can't pretend to be anything else. The more blood he loses, the more blood he needs. His fear of death is overwhelming, but his instinct is even more so. Amidst the chaos of shock, pain, and fear, a new contender arises in Mary's mind.

Rage.

Gnarling, gnashing teeth growl as he launches himself face first at Giorno and sinks his fangs in just below the knee. Half of his face is covered in blood by now, and he splatters it all over Giorno as well. He must be losing more than he can drink. That won't stop him.

[digiorno]

The pain is so sudden, so unbelievably sharp. It's like two fistfuls of knives being shoved into his leg, meeting in the middle, wedging his flesh apart little by little. He has felt worse pain, but not by much and not in quite some time.

Even so, strangely, he doesn't cry out. Barely makes any noise, a low, hissing hum that he quickly stifles with tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, tears springing to the corners of his eyes with the pain — but he doesn't cry out. He freezes, going rigid with pain on his back in the mud as the first wave of agony crashes over him. Then adrenaline hits, and he's reaching out, the claws of one hand reaching out to dig into Mary's shoulder, to hold him still, while the other shaking hand drives the knife as close to Mary's spine as he can manage.

It's okay, he thinks dizzily, I can grow a new leg— except, of course, he can't. Not anymore.