zauneyete | KENOS IC CONTACT

[ Slowly, ] I can understand it. Yes.

[ You know, if he uses his imagination. Which he's willing to do even for Silco. It's not like withholding his empathy will hurt Silco's feelings, but Matt suspects it might hurt him. He tried to brush past his paranoia in the alley, and look where that got him. ]

I'd like to be guaranteed safety in your establishment, as long as I'm doing like, normal patron activities. Safe exit and entrance. And maybe get a tiny bit of grace if I get turned around.

[ A pause. Matt should have thought to submerge the part of his brain currently pointing out that this is a bad idea. ]

And I'll give you blood.

Coming to Draumahol is that important to you?

[ To be fair, he thinks, he knows who frequents amongst the population. ]

As long as you are not snooping, I see no reason to allow you passage. Certainly as long as you decide to... donate.

You should stick to where there are people — patrons and not staff — if you wish to stay where you are welcome.

[ Perhaps he should hesitate, but Silco is still a fledgling vampire, and without Sebastian's steady supply of blood... it is difficult. ]

[ On one level, Matt's surprised to get agreement so fast. But on another level--the level of sharp, sharp pain and sharper hunger--he isn't surprised at all. ]

It seems less awkward for both of us to work something out than explain to people why I can't go. [ Matt's mental voice is a bit dry. And though it may sound insane, this kind of byzantine avoidance is not unheard of for someone raised by WASPs and housekeepers. Death before kicking up a fuss. ]

That sounds fair as phrased. I can agree to that.

Hm. Very well then.

Frequency is the next point of negotiation.

[ A thoughtful pause, as if he's tapping something — a cigar — into an ashtray. ]

How often can you... donate?

[ Sighs. ]

And not suffer ill effects for our goals.

[ A touch dry, ] Depends how much you take. Past experience suggests once a week.

[ Sense memory filters through the Communion, though it's muted--like it's coming from inside a locked box. Its shape is fangs stabbing into his wrist, fear and fascination clutching his heart. ]

But that's an estimate on my end. Vampires where I'm from seem to do things a little differently.

[ ... In Matt's defense, he'll tell anybody who asks that healing isn't his strong suit. And for all the bruising impact Vincent made on him, they didn't date long enough for him to have a solid sense of how regular blood loss might affect him.

In Matt's lack-of-defense, matt pls. ]

Oh? Some here do it differently as well.

[ He said, with an idle tone. ]

Too bad you are not bartering with them for access to a club, hm?

[ Silco doesn't even question it. After all, most of his prey had been killed soon after, or they had been Sebastian. There's a grand gap between a demon with an unending blood supply, and the weak individuals Silco had found in the interim.

This was good for him, and Matt did not seem inclined to share. Unlike other things. ]

Once a week will be sufficient. And then, you can use that blood loss to your advantage to imbibe for next to nothing.

[ Was that.

A joke? ]

[ Matt huffs, something too uncertain to sound like a laugh. He's already a pretty cheap date, but he has to admit ... he probably would do that. Even with a plot at Greenwood Yards enabling him to save some money on spell components, every bit of savings counts. ]

Great.

And ... you didn't ask. [ Which means maybe he shouldn't even bring it up?? ] But that sharing thing I did before, the like, experience swap--I won't do that.

[ Of all the things he did in that alley, opening a channel probably comes the closest to the definition of "spying." ]

Good.

[ He didn't think he had to, and Silco was careful. He had pointedly not addressed it, because he does not want to attach any significance to it. Lest someone figure out that there was someone important to him. Silco did not want that weakness found, excised, or even worse: exploited. ]

I didn't ask because I figured it went without saying.

[ Pointedly, of course. Just to drive it home. ]

[ A hint of sheepishness comes through Communion. Silco's hypervigilance may have taken Matt from zero to "there must be something up in this alley," but now it has the desired effect: Matt's a touch embarrassed he raised the issue.

Don't offer concessions nobody asked for, his father would've said. But this entire venture is a concession nobody asked for, so how about that. ]

Great, [ Matt concludes. ]

Well. Let me know when and where, and ... I'll come donate.

[ Might as well call Matt Silco's new personal concession stand

ba dump tsh ]

Draumahol. My office. Let us say once a week. Scheduled. Late afternoon, before the patrons become too... interested.

Late afternoon, your office in Draumahol, [ Matt confirms. Good thing he's repressing his memories of being called compliant so hard. ] Got it.

[ And, with nothing else he can think to say, he concludes, ] Later.

[ "Later" finds him in Kowloon once again, mercifully not lost this time. If Matt were a little more fanciful than he is, he might imagine it's Silco's hunger keeping him on course--that the alleyways and crowded streets are in some secret agreement with him, and they expand, contract, and unspool themselves according to his whims. All in the name of ensnaring and exhausting his prey.

He doesn't quite believe it.

Matt reaches Draumahol without incident, slipping his invisibility charm into his pocket. His shirt is buttoned to the throat, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He's been trying to take relaxing breaths the whole way down here. ]

[ The longer that they get from the incident — the dual assassinations of leaders — the more Kowloon fades back to what it had been before. Before the attacks. Yura's enforcement of those who frequented Ryad had returned. One warning was what they got, and the next time... they were eradicated. Did it matter, that they had been so crucial in Zenith's play? No, not in the long run. There would be more. The appetites of those whom fed on humans, or beasts, or had insatiable bloodlust were unending.

They always seemed to multiply, no matter Yura's efforts.

The people of Kowloon don't truly seem to part for Matt, but it's easy to read it in the vibrant bustle that is the narrow alleyways that would be called streets here. When he arrives at Draumahol, the security knows to escort him straight up to the boss's office, which is unique by Kowloon's standards. It has a large window, and the shelves are filled with trinkets that seem oddly placed. A doll, an artificial arm, the remains of Quetzalcoatl's shard, a few others. Like they were on display. The desk, too, is fine wood, opulent for Kowloon, and an ashtray was (mostly) empty, scribbled all over with what looks like a child's art.

Silco was behind the desk, his eyes fixated on what were probably supply reports. Although the man was a crime lord, he was good at running an establishment too, oddly enough. ]

Is it that time already?

[ With time to prepare, there are a few things Matt's had the opportunity to do this time around. Get a good night's sleep, hydrate. Most importantly, apply himself to those steadying breaths. When Matt finds his focus, meditation can feel almost like magic to him--in the depth of its sinking, the smoothness of his emotions and thoughts. It'd be better if he could sit still someplace instead of walking around and interacting with people, but spending half an hour or so on it while he headed down to Draumahol is a huge improvement over last time's panicked seconds.

What it means as he enters Silco's office is that his posture is light and easy, his heartbeat steady. It ticks up slightly when he spots Silco, then spikes when he notices the fragments of a Shard. But Matt's able to pause. And breathe, breathe through it, slowing his pulse and his breath again. ]

By my watch, [ he affirms.

Silco's being awfully casual about this, he notes. But why wouldn't he be? On his end, this is just room service. ]

[ It truly is simply food delivered, and given Silco's general... size, it's easy to assume that the man probably didn't exactly grow up eating much, and certainly had never gotten into the habit as an adult. Food was fuel, but it was something he did not frequently think about or prioritize, so it's almost with a disinterested air that he turned his mismatched eyes to Matt.

The office was bleak, a touch too-cold, and while there was a lounging area, two couches set in another section for deals and the like, a few paintings and sparse local plants were all that tried to infuse a personality into it. Things that were selected to look right, half like the room were staged for company, more than it was staged for Silco. The man was pretense mostly, after all, and what artwork he did like, he kept very hidden.

Well, except for that ashtray, maybe.

He stood, and stamped out that foul, vile smelling cigar into it, and tipped his head toward the area that was clearly set up for deals or negotiations. Another, glass, ashtray was pristine, clearly he'd entertained nobody today. ]

Just in time, then. Sit. It will be easier if you do not pass out.

[ He stood for the moment, however, eyeing him. ]

[ Matt's nose wrinkles as he catches a whiff of the cigar. He spent so much time thinking about pain--how Silco's bite had felt, how to mitigate the feeling--that he totally forgot about the acrid smell of those things.

A minor inconvenience, really, in the grand scheme.

Matt eyes up the couches, picking the one he thinks is more likely to be comfortable. And he sits. Spine straight, shoulders hanging loose. Matt draws in a breath, holds it for a short count. Lets it out. ]

On that subject ... or a related one, I guess. [ His gaze flicks to Silco. ] I would like to cast a little spell on myself. Localized anesthetic, effectively.

[ Relaxation techniques are well and good, but even the quasi-magical ones don't have much on actual magic. ]

[ Silco's single eye narrows, and he looked at Matt with the gaze of someone suspicious. It could be poison, or something intended to kill him. He had heard of the weaknesses of his kind. Garlic, crosses, and the like, and he'd planned accordingly, but what if there was something deep in the tomes, a book that could reveal something new? Or a spell to make it so. He wants to use magic, but Silco is untrusting, and cautious. ]

I can take care of it.

[ He said, shortly. He even started to pull off a glove, to reveal a graying, almost desiccated appearing hand. One that had been lost, and replaced with something that performed just fine, but it certainly didn't look healthy. The stringy gaps in it — it looked in places like his face, patches of skin missing, to reveal corrupted muscle underneath — seemed to shimmer in dim light, as if shimmer ran in its veins. ]

Shimmer can do that, without the nasty little side-effects of the drug we serve downstairs.

[ A tight, sarcastic smile. ] No offense, but spells in my vicinity put me on edge.

[ Matt anticipated there might be pushback on the magic front. He just hadn't thought there'd be an option for anything other than "white-knuckle through it, try not to scream this time."

In the meditative frame of mind he's cultivated, information can reach him without the pain or clinging he might experience normally. He notices his feelings and lets them go. So as Silco removes one glove, revealing the hand underneath--with its gaps and withering, its fungal glimmer--Matt's eyebrows arch. And he thinks, This doesn't seem like a good idea.

It just doesn't sink in the way it normally might. The facts exist independently of him. That's Silco's hand. This is a bad idea. ]

Whatever this is ... doesn't exactly comfort me, [ Matt notes. ] But if it works to dull pain, and side effects are limited ...

Is it addictive?

[ This is what happens, when a god cuts off your hand, and then a bunch of poor Kowloosians try to curry favor. They come up with both the worst option, and yet the best they have available. Silco had not started to pursue the possibility of prosthetics, so when the opportunity presented itself... he had taken it. And embraced it wholeheartedly. After all, the loss of his hand had been inconvenient at best, and more importantly: a severe debilitation, given the nature of their time as shard-bearers had involved battle.

Silco wasn't exactly a master fighter as it was. He needed everything he had. ]

It can be.

[ He admitted, bluntly. ] I control the dosage, the effects, and generally with Shard-bearers, I have not sought to make them addicted. An addicted individual with powers is... messy.

And I have plenty of those downstairs.

[ He admitted.

He didn't exactly want Matt to be addicted to his touch (help) as it was. ] It will also not give you the rest of the effects. The strength, the speed, the... mental additions.

Simply the adrenaline rush necessary to weather the pain.

[ Silco didn't say "trust me", but he thought that Matt might understand: he's simply being up front with his conditions. Iff Matt didn't like it, he certainly didn't have to feed him. ]

[ Matt hasn't historically had the world's greatest track record when it comes to due diligence around drugs. He knows for a fact he put things in his body at high school parties that were absolutely unverifiable. And he hasn't exactly grilled Tezcatlipoca on the drugs he's offered him.

Maybe it's stupid to feel better when Silco admits that he could create something addictive. There's a lack of salesmanship in the gesture that makes everything that follows feel more believable. Matt supposes a savvy person could wield exactly that psychological effect for the purposes of deception, but at a certain point, you have to make an educated leap. ]

Okay. [ A nod. ] What you're describing sounds acceptable to me. [ Matt takes another slow breath, steady. He may be getting pharmacological aid here, but he's still going to try to pull his weight. ] Whenever you're ready, then.

[ He was honestly surprised it was that easy. Silco had plenty of tools under his coat, but straightforward had always worked so well for him in the past, but in Kenos... less so. Other than Kowloon, he supposed. These people spoke the language that Silco did, the coercion that came from power, and bullying, and saccharine words that was silk over a dagger.

Silco's methods weren't meant to work for people who did not speak his language, and he had none of the fear or need to make peace that he did with the Pilties, to change. He was all of his worst qualities here, so it's always surprising when someone actually responds to it properly.

His lips twitched, and he reached out with that graying, corrupted hand. ]

Very well.

[ Matt will feel it, the moment he makes contact. Silco wears gloves for several reasons — less than he had before Sebastian had tried to eat his soul — but when his skin makes contact with Matt, he will feel it, that electric jolt, like placing his hand on the third rail, and feeling all of the power, none of the pain. He'll jerk, because your body must when infused with so much Adrenaline, but Silco's hand grasps Matt's wrist, and holds it still.

That's it. There's no bulking of his body, but Matt, if he looks to the window, will notice violet in his eyes. No haze, no strength, no speed. But the tightening of Silco's hand on his wrist will feel...distant. As if it's through batting, instead of desiccated flesh on flesh. ]

[ It feels like the first step off a ledge--the moment where gravity takes over from weightlessness. Matt's breath hitches, his heart starting to race. He's cognizant of trying to jerk away, pure unconscious movement on his part, and of Silco holding him in place with that uncanny strength. But the touch, for once, feels removed from him.

He draws in another deep breath. His eyes skitter off Silco's face rather than meeting his gaze, landing on the objects arranged on his shelves. The artificial arm grabs his attention this time; it seems to echo his own physical detachment, his high-flying mental precision. He wonders if Nebula's okay.

Matt counts as he breathes, words rising from the depths of his brain: As Day and Night are not afraid, nor ever suffer loss or harm--

He can't tell if it's some distorting quality of the glass here. But in the window, he sees his pupils blown wide, an unfamiliar purple coloring his irises. ]

Good.

[ He says, and it's firm, but soft. Spoken into the soft silence of his office, where the only sounds shared between them are breaths, and Matt's gasps. His hand is a manacle of iron around his wrist, but as soon as Silco sees that the shimmer has taken hold — he does not waste time. He does not hesitate, he only leaned forward, and twisted the wrist to offer veins to his mouth.

It does not hurt this time, well — as much — as Matt will still feel the pinpricks, against his wrist, and the puncture does ache, but it is distant. Like the delayed reaction between when pain starts, and when it blossoms never seems to complete itself, and Silco drinks.

Because as dismissive as he was, he is hungry, and he had not attended to those needs as well as he should have. Losing Sebastian's servitude came with more disadvantages than just his safety. It came with a disadvantage to his meal plan too. This is a welcome change, to have someone willing to donate, and in exchange for entering his club as the price?

It's a hell of a cover charge, but he accepts it. ]

[ Matt doesn't resist this time. Nor does he cry out. There's just a small groan of pain, easy enough to bite down on (literally, his teeth worrying at his lower lip). The word good sinks past his conscious awareness and lodges in some inconvenient corner of his brain.

He has his reasons for offering what he's offering. Not that he was lying about what he told Silco. But it represents perhaps the tip of the iceberg of motivation. Just underneath "be able to visit Draumahol without getting randomly attacked" is fear--of the pain, of not knowing when it'll come, of all the predatory men Matt's proven powerless to stop. At least this way, he has some control over the manner in which he gets eaten.

A layer down, there's a more altruistic concern. A starving vampire is a dangerous one, for himself and the people around him. Matt didn't think Silco would want to hear you're clearly out of control, so he kept that one to himself.

Past that point ... things get hard to explain. A piece of Matt can't help believing that all wants are worth honoring, especially one as unvarnished as hunger. What could be more honest than communicating on this level? He cherishes a faint, stupid hope that his blood will prove persuasive, infusing some leniency or kindness into Silco that he currently lacks.

And at last, bone-deepest-down, he thinks Quetzalcoatl would approve of this. Of the sacrifice, the spilling of lifeblood for the person who least deserves it. If gods are made by their believers, maybe an act like this will plant the seed of another her, someplace. He hopes. ]

[ Matt should probably never mention his thoughts about Quetzalcoatl to Silco, the person who hated her for the crime of — checks notes — being nice and understanding to him.

Nor really any of the rest, because Silco would have refuted each and every one of them in order, with careful, modulated anger, because he was always angry, but who could blame him, given the circumstances he was in, the hatred he felt, and the reasons for it? Well, most could, but he would have been seen as slightly more likable if he'd been open and honest with such reasons. No, though, Silco was a creature whose secrets and obfuscations would and always did end in his own downfall, and would have, were his world to continue.

The blood flooded into his mouth, and he drank. There was no sound from him, no pleasure, no hunger. It was eerily silent, two eyes remained open — one blinked occasionally — the other eerily still, not searching for every exit like a hunted animal like he usually did. It was fixed on the prey in front of him, on the food.

It hung for several minutes in the air, Silco's eerie silence, not even the sound of a beast feasting, just a silent, cruel creature that took what he could, especially when it was easy, and offered.

Finally, he let go, and pulled a kerchief from his pocket, using it on his own mouth, before pocketing it. He didn't offer Matt one. (Rude.) ]

Not too much, I hope. I'd prefer to leave you to be able to stand and walk out of here on your own.

[ For better or worse, Matt has decided that someone like Silco is uniquely dangerous to someone like him. So he's inclined to hold back where he can. It can't be physically, that ship has sailed, but in terms of information--even just the personal information of his thoughts and feelings--he can try to keep some of that to himself.

Apart from Communion misfires.

The time that passes doesn't feel silent to Matt. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears, the dim pulse of pain too compelling, his breathing too much hollow rush. He can't remember if Silco was this quiet last time. Then Silco's pulling away, dabbing at his mouth, and Matt considers his bleeding wrist. Why didn't he think to bring something to bandage himself with?

Something to consider for next time.

He breathes in, lets it out. Flexes his fingers. Turns his head to the left and then the right, attentive to signs of dizziness. ]

I think I'm good, [ he concludes after a moment. He's not not in pain. He's colder than he was a few minutes ago. And he has a strange feeling of guilt, or perhaps emptiness--but on the whole, this is much better than this time. He rises from the couch, a touch unsteady. ] Can I grab some water downstairs?

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