12-26-2017, 08:38 PM
The women were in various states of decomposition. But they all had the same look. The same build. They all wore the brutal slashes and stabs. Their torsos and inner thighs were covered in blood.
He made an orb od light and used a thread of water to clean the blood away from one leg. No bruising. He examined further. Definite tearing and trauma but little blood.
His eyebrows furrowed. He had what forensic knowledge came from television, movies or whatever books he read. Which was to say quite possibly none. Then again, he could be right. He had an idea of what was going on.
Malik felt a squirm in his stomach. Not nausea. Never that. Surprise. And then surprise at his surprise.
Why should he be surprised at the ways people found to degrade others. It was power, he knew. The power to take a person and turn them into nothing but an extension of your will.
Whether as a little boy locked in a dog cage out in the cold or a man who kept and systematically tortured women, bit by bit, until they depended on and worshipped him because the mind had broken. Or this. It was all the same.
And Darth Malik was the perfect mirror the world had created. He would face these people and reflect bacl on them exactly what they were. As Justice made flesh.
He was ready. The women were the key to this man. Or a single woman, rather. Who was she? What did she mean to him? Should he make him tell where she was and bring her to him, expose him to her as the weakest of men, able to find potency and arousal only after the life had been cut out, after the flesh had cooled? The ultimate humiliation for a man such as this? He wanted this woman to see her would be tormentor for the pathetic man he was.
The idea made his heart leap with joy. The butterflies bounded in earnest, now, at the potential here. He turned, his cloak of shadow billowing about him, threads of Force woven and ready, and went in search of the man and his victim.
Partway through his searh his Force enhanced hearing caught the sounds of breathing and moaning. He paused, listening. Animal noises. He carefully moved forward until he came to a corner. The noises on the otherside were louder. And there were two people. He could hear that much.
He felt confusion. Had he been wrong? He ran his projection of the facts again. There should be only one person.
Carefully, oh so carefully, he peered around the cornor....
...and stood transfixed in horror at what he saw. It wasn't the dead body, the powerful scent of iron thick in the air. It wasn't the sheer act lf sexual collison, bodies so intertwined it was hard to see where one left off and one began. It was not the man in his open dress shirt covered in blood, naked and proudly standing from the waist down. It was not the woman, shirt torn open to reveal breasts, pants unzipped.
None of that horrified him. He'd seen death. He' d seen blood. He'd seen sex.
No. Her face. It was her face. The betrayal overwhelmed him. Rage overwhelmed him as he processed what he saw. There was no woman to rescue. There was no ultimate victim. She was part of it. Somehow. Someway. Acid coursed through his veins and then, somehow, it became liquified iron.
He recognized her. The huntress. The Atharim. Aria.
Darth Malik exploded and he channeled the force in a twist of pure anger made living. Lightning flew from his finger tips even as he roared, the walls shaking, dust filling the air.
Their bodies seemed to blow apart, away from each other, stunned by the blast. Darth Malik strode forward, the cloak of shadow whirling around his boots, death made flesh.
He made an orb od light and used a thread of water to clean the blood away from one leg. No bruising. He examined further. Definite tearing and trauma but little blood.
His eyebrows furrowed. He had what forensic knowledge came from television, movies or whatever books he read. Which was to say quite possibly none. Then again, he could be right. He had an idea of what was going on.
Malik felt a squirm in his stomach. Not nausea. Never that. Surprise. And then surprise at his surprise.
Why should he be surprised at the ways people found to degrade others. It was power, he knew. The power to take a person and turn them into nothing but an extension of your will.
Whether as a little boy locked in a dog cage out in the cold or a man who kept and systematically tortured women, bit by bit, until they depended on and worshipped him because the mind had broken. Or this. It was all the same.
And Darth Malik was the perfect mirror the world had created. He would face these people and reflect bacl on them exactly what they were. As Justice made flesh.
He was ready. The women were the key to this man. Or a single woman, rather. Who was she? What did she mean to him? Should he make him tell where she was and bring her to him, expose him to her as the weakest of men, able to find potency and arousal only after the life had been cut out, after the flesh had cooled? The ultimate humiliation for a man such as this? He wanted this woman to see her would be tormentor for the pathetic man he was.
The idea made his heart leap with joy. The butterflies bounded in earnest, now, at the potential here. He turned, his cloak of shadow billowing about him, threads of Force woven and ready, and went in search of the man and his victim.
Partway through his searh his Force enhanced hearing caught the sounds of breathing and moaning. He paused, listening. Animal noises. He carefully moved forward until he came to a corner. The noises on the otherside were louder. And there were two people. He could hear that much.
He felt confusion. Had he been wrong? He ran his projection of the facts again. There should be only one person.
Carefully, oh so carefully, he peered around the cornor....
...and stood transfixed in horror at what he saw. It wasn't the dead body, the powerful scent of iron thick in the air. It wasn't the sheer act lf sexual collison, bodies so intertwined it was hard to see where one left off and one began. It was not the man in his open dress shirt covered in blood, naked and proudly standing from the waist down. It was not the woman, shirt torn open to reveal breasts, pants unzipped.
None of that horrified him. He'd seen death. He' d seen blood. He'd seen sex.
No. Her face. It was her face. The betrayal overwhelmed him. Rage overwhelmed him as he processed what he saw. There was no woman to rescue. There was no ultimate victim. She was part of it. Somehow. Someway. Acid coursed through his veins and then, somehow, it became liquified iron.
He recognized her. The huntress. The Atharim. Aria.
Darth Malik exploded and he channeled the force in a twist of pure anger made living. Lightning flew from his finger tips even as he roared, the walls shaking, dust filling the air.
Their bodies seemed to blow apart, away from each other, stunned by the blast. Darth Malik strode forward, the cloak of shadow whirling around his boots, death made flesh.