Scorpion: I don't know where this chapter is going, but it's going there regardless. I wanted a change of scene again…
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( next day – approximately 4:35 pm )
The Hip-Hog was packed, as usual, although the crowd parted before him as he slipped through the door and made his way to a vacant booth in the dirtiest, dingiest corner of the entire place. The light was fizzing and flickering, but the half-light suited him just fine.
With a sigh he slid onto the seat and leant back, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the noises around him and ease the thumping in his head.
His uniform still retained traces of ash and the odd splatter of blood – his gloves were caked with the filth and he stank of death. Suiting. Erol slid further in the shadows, placing his fingers to his temples and moving them in a circular fashion.
It was early morning and he had no idea why the place was so full, but now he was here he certainly couldn't leave.
The chill was getting to him, and his skin was pale, his lips blue. The tattoos stood out strongly against such a light backdrop of flesh.
It was wheezing breath that brought him out of his reverie – those eyes flare open but do not move to take in the bulge of the man nearby.
He knew who it was.
And he liked to keep Krew waiting.
Although eventually he allows him to feel the full force of his gaze.
"Morning Erol" he wheezed, drawing in a sharp breath. His oddly slim legs dangled uselessly below his hover chair, over which his fat had oozed.
Erol gave a lazy laugh and a flash of teeth, thin lips curling into a sneer as he rested his booted feet upon the table. His dark eyes moved from the repulsive tub of lard to admire the caps on his boots – but there was something all too intense in the way he surveyed the flash of bloodstained steel.
"Krew, long time no talk. I thought you had forgotten about me." His voice is soft, the smile that followed charming and almost innocent.
Almost.
The commander leaned further into the padded backrest of the booth, regarding the owner of the bar with something like sneering contempt plastered on his face.
"Listen, I've been having some trouble lately with a few of your…" There was another sharp intake of breath before he carried on. "Guards. Got to close an eye on my shipments, you turn their gaze and I throw in a little reward for your troubles, ey? What do you say?"
Erol pulled off his gloves and inspected his nails for a moment, before crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.
"Bring me a drink and then maybe we'll talk," he hissed, breathing deeply, eyes fixed on some point behind the blackness of his eyelids.
"You better, I need my shipments," Krew wheezed, fanning himself as he moved away towards the bar.
"Idiot," muttered Erol under his breath, before turning his thoughts inwards.
How do you feel? He asked himself, repeating an all too familiar conversation in his mind.
Angry…It was always the same reply, acidic and harsh.
And why are you angry?Because I don't have what I want.
And what do you want?
Power. Blood. Revenge. Love. Hate. Pity. Fury. Death. War. Jak. Kiera. Torn. The carnal passions of the flesh – take your pick.
You know it isn't good to talk to yourself like that. You have issues Erol. Here he uttered a soft laugh, breaking the silence that surrounded his lips and making a nearby customer throw him a questioning glance.
No I don't…
Yes you do, you just don't know it yet…
Once again he was torn from his thoughts by a breath, soft and quick. There was a thump as something, probably a glass, was deposited by his feet, and the thump of heavy boots receding into the crowds.
His eyelids come up slowly, lazily, and he reaches for the alcohol mechanically. As he sipped the liquid his eyes landed upon an old picture hung on the opposite wall, and he leaned forwards slightly to make out in the face behind the cracked and dirty glass.
When he did recognize the face he couldn't resist a sly smirk, leaning back again and chewing on an ice-cube he had just fished out of his drink.
It was Caliban.
The man had very nearly been made commander ahead of him, but on the night before the ceremony he had been found dead on the steps of the palace.
Erol had been the only one with him when the bullet ripped out his heart.
His bullet…
Erol didn't like to come second to anyone.
The thought made him smile.
You have issues Erol.
That's a filthy lie…
I don't lie Erol. I'm not like you…
It was Krew who drew Erol from his thoughts the third time that morning – maybe the lack of sleep was starting to play with his head.
Whatever it was, it had put him in a very foul mood.
Krew maneuvered himself as close to the commander as the booths confines would allow, and Erol's lips twisted into a snarl as the sight and smell of the man so close to him.
"I just need you to distract em for a few seconds. What do you say?"
Erol sighed and slipped back on his gloves, removing his feet from the table and standing – this greatly shortened the amount of room between them.
"Forget it."
And then he pushed past Krew and slipped through the crowd, stepping out into the darkness of an incoming dawn.
Outside it was silent but for the crack of boots on the sidewalk, and Erol glared down at the murky water of the ports as he made his way back towards the soaring heights of the palace.
A few of the commoners still ambled aimlessly along the streets, and Erol prowled among them, drifting from one sickly patch of light to the next.
He would go back to the palace and get some sleep…
He would get clean…
And then he would find himself a nice bunch of prisoners…
And rip them apart.
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Erol: Can you write without making me a trigger-happy maniac?
Scorpion: Nope. Ohh, and by the way, I'm hurrying the plot along a little bit. I think we've got the gist of what Erol does in his spare time, don't you?
Erol: Ohh, I don't know. Maybe you should kill a few more people just to make sure…
Scorpion: Maybe I will, and maybe I won't…
Erol: Make some sense woman!