The memory opens in an unfamiliar place. Aradia is standing in an alleyway late at night, dressed for bed. The boy, her friend, her familiar, brought her out here; he stands behind her with his back half-turned, an unlit cigarette between his lips, gaze following her own as it traces up to the dim sky, dulled by clouds and the city lights, down the alley walls, and onto the ground. There’s a man there, hastily bound and gagged, hidden off in a corner, and Aradia leans to reach out and touch his shoulder - she remarks, dully, that there’s rope in his mouth.
There is. Her familiar preens a bit, saying that tying guys up is a skill of his, but it falls on deaf ears as she shuts her eyes, murmuring an incantation under her breath. Heat rushes through her arm, down to her hand, invisible - but a few motes of light, small and bright and iridescent, shine in the darkness before disappearing, indicating the spell’s success.
She crushes the man’s throat. The tissues and cartilage give like putty in her augmented hand, and she turns her head - “Rather than binding their mouths through the use of rope, to silence them in this manner would be more efficient, certainly…” she remarks to the boy in her usual tone, completely placid, as if correcting a mistake on a piece of homework. Without meeting her eyes he shuffles his feet and grunts in reply, noncommittal, as the cigarette trembles in his mouth.
And then, with that seen to, she pauses, grip freed from the man’s throat to hold onto the back of his head, onto his hair. The first time was a mistake, an accident, but when the man that died then fell, it was the head wound that was responsible. That means - that if she wants to make sure, she should hew close to that idea. She should hew close to that idea, so she lifts his head, augmentation still running through her arm. His skull cracks against the wall, spilling and smearing flesh and brain and bone along the surface as she drags it against the stones, up and down. Idle, thoughtful. Hard whites and a strange red and pink yolk, chunkier than anything she’s ever seen. No, it’s more like a scramble than anything else, she thinks, but this man’s died, so there’s no way of asking him.
“[xxx],” she murmurs, no differently than before, “Would you say that these contents are somewhat akin to a scramble?”
A tense “Haha, wow,” is all he manages to reply after a few moments of silence, expression a deep grimace.
Another incantation has the body disappear, in those same motes of iridescent light - gone is the corpse and the scramble that fell out, and he takes her home - more than an hour’s ride, then back to her bedroom through the window - where she washes up and heads to bed.
When they return the following week, he’s gotten a different man. This one is quiet. She treats him the same.
Two weeks later, there’s another. She treats him the same.
By the fourth time, she’s decided that it might not be enough to replicate the original death, so she uses magic. The fist of Yog-Sothoth consumes the man piece by piece, corroding his body with the same light as before, erasing him.
And so, on the fifth attempt, she determines that the physicality might be important. She peels at his skin. She breaks his fingers joint by joint. She twists them off. She erases a few. She sets a few aflame. The extremities are convenient because there are so many of them, because there are lots of different attempts available within them, but she’s genuinely stumped.
It isn’t scary. It isn’t fun.
It isn’t disgusting. It isn’t arousing.
All that her expression betrays - all she feels - is the vague ennui of a child holding a magnifying glass to ants on the sidewalk.
SUMMARY: - Dia commits some murders, cannot be fucked to feel any kind of way about it, is confused about that, while her friend looks concerned in the background. It’s a montage. - She definitely has always had these problems.
NOTES: - Dia as we know her. - That’s real magic! - Her friend, despite being thought of as a boy, is actually a good head or so taller than her now that you can see them both standing. Physically, at least, they are decidedly around the same age.
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7
The memory opens in an unfamiliar place. Aradia is standing in an alleyway late at night, dressed for bed. The boy, her friend, her familiar, brought her out here; he stands behind her with his back half-turned, an unlit cigarette between his lips, gaze following her own as it traces up to the dim sky, dulled by clouds and the city lights, down the alley walls, and onto the ground. There’s a man there, hastily bound and gagged, hidden off in a corner, and Aradia leans to reach out and touch his shoulder - she remarks, dully, that there’s rope in his mouth.
There is. Her familiar preens a bit, saying that tying guys up is a skill of his, but it falls on deaf ears as she shuts her eyes, murmuring an incantation under her breath. Heat rushes through her arm, down to her hand, invisible - but a few motes of light, small and bright and iridescent, shine in the darkness before disappearing, indicating the spell’s success.
She crushes the man’s throat. The tissues and cartilage give like putty in her augmented hand, and she turns her head - “Rather than binding their mouths through the use of rope, to silence them in this manner would be more efficient, certainly…” she remarks to the boy in her usual tone, completely placid, as if correcting a mistake on a piece of homework. Without meeting her eyes he shuffles his feet and grunts in reply, noncommittal, as the cigarette trembles in his mouth.
And then, with that seen to, she pauses, grip freed from the man’s throat to hold onto the back of his head, onto his hair. The first time was a mistake, an accident, but when the man that died then fell, it was the head wound that was responsible. That means - that if she wants to make sure, she should hew close to that idea. She should hew close to that idea, so she lifts his head, augmentation still running through her arm. His skull cracks against the wall, spilling and smearing flesh and brain and bone along the surface as she drags it against the stones, up and down. Idle, thoughtful. Hard whites and a strange red and pink yolk, chunkier than anything she’s ever seen. No, it’s more like a scramble than anything else, she thinks, but this man’s died, so there’s no way of asking him.
“[xxx],” she murmurs, no differently than before, “Would you say that these contents are somewhat akin to a scramble?”
A tense “Haha, wow,” is all he manages to reply after a few moments of silence, expression a deep grimace.
Another incantation has the body disappear, in those same motes of iridescent light - gone is the corpse and the scramble that fell out, and he takes her home - more than an hour’s ride, then back to her bedroom through the window - where she washes up and heads to bed.
When they return the following week, he’s gotten a different man. This one is quiet. She treats him the same.
Two weeks later, there’s another. She treats him the same.
By the fourth time, she’s decided that it might not be enough to replicate the original death, so she uses magic. The fist of Yog-Sothoth consumes the man piece by piece, corroding his body with the same light as before, erasing him.
And so, on the fifth attempt, she determines that the physicality might be important. She peels at his skin. She breaks his fingers joint by joint. She twists them off. She erases a few. She sets a few aflame. The extremities are convenient because there are so many of them, because there are lots of different attempts available within them, but she’s genuinely stumped.
It isn’t scary.
It isn’t fun.
It isn’t disgusting.
It isn’t arousing.
All that her expression betrays - all she feels - is the vague ennui of a child holding a magnifying glass to ants on the sidewalk.
SUMMARY:
- Dia commits some murders, cannot be fucked to feel any kind of way about it, is confused about that, while her friend looks concerned in the background. It’s a montage.
- She definitely has always had these problems.
NOTES:
- Dia as we know her.
- That’s real magic!
- Her friend, despite being thought of as a boy, is actually a good head or so taller than her now that you can see them both standing. Physically, at least, they are decidedly around the same age.